Someone Is Watching

by Joy Fielding

  “You have doubts,” I say, finishing the sentence for her.

  She opens her mouth to speak, but only a sigh escapes.

  The phone rings, and we both jump at the unexpected sound. “Okay. This is definitely no dream,” Claire says, plucking the phone from its stand. “Hello?” Her shoulders stiffen, then relax. “Okay. Thank you. Yes. You can send them up.” She hangs up the phone. I realize I’m holding my breath. “That was Stanley, from the concierge desk. The police are here.”

  “They’re here? What does that mean?”

  “I guess we’re about to find out.”

  The two uniformed policemen notice the smell of marijuana as soon as I open the door, their noses sniffing at the air like dogs after a scent. One officer nods knowingly toward the other as the two men enter my foyer. Immediately I recognize the younger of the two from various cases I’ve worked on, although I can’t for the life of me remember his name.

  “Bailey,” he says in greeting.

  “Sam,” I hear myself say, his name appearing out of the blue and landing on my lips just in the nick of time.

  “I heard about what happened,” he says. “I’m very sorry.”

  It takes me a few moments to realize that he is referring to my rape.

  “This is my partner,” Sam says. “Patrick Llewellyn.”

  “Officer,” my sister and I say at the same time.

  Patrick Llewellyn is several inches taller and at least a decade older than his partner whose last name, I remember now, is Turnbull. He is as white as Sam is black, his hair as fine and red as Sam’s is dark and curly. Both are handsome in that rough, offhand way that cops often possess, their uniforms enhancing their appeal. “You are …?” Sam asks Claire.

  Claire introduces herself as my sister, no halfs or hyphens attached, for which I am beyond grateful. “What can we do for you, officers?”

  “I think you know why we’re here,” Patrick Llewellyn says.

  Sam clears his throat. “Maybe we should sit down.…”

  “Of course.” Claire leads them into the living room, motioning them toward the sofas.

  I follow, the distinct scent of marijuana becoming stronger with each step. I wince as Officer Llewellyn lowers himself into almost the exact spot where Heath lay puffing languorously away a few short hours ago. Sam lowers himself to the seat beside his partner while Claire and I perch on the opposite sofa.

  “Can I get either of you something to drink?” Claire offers, as if it is perfectly normal to have two policemen sitting in your living room at this hour of the night, the lingering smell of weed circling everyone’s heads like a noxious cloud, strong enough to induce light-headedness, even now. “Some water or juice?”

  “Nothing, thank you,” Llewellyn says as his partner nods. “Do you want to tell us what exactly happened tonight? You called the precinct to report a woman being attacked,” he clarifies when I hesitate.

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t leave your name.”

  “No.”

  “Mind my asking why?”

  “I didn’t think it was relevant.”

  “You know better than that,” Sam says, and I feel the sting of his rebuke. “What exactly happened?” he asks again, notepad in hand, pen poised and waiting for my response.

  I describe what I saw take place in Paul Giller’s apartment, careful to keep my eyes on the floor so that I don’t have to see the looks on the officers’ faces.

  “This isn’t the first time you’ve reported Paul Giller’s behavior to the police, I understand,” Llewellyn says, flipping through his notepad, as if making sure of his facts.

  “Did Paul Giller tell you that?”

  “Is it true?”

  “Yes,” I admit.

  “What has that got to do with anything?” Claire asks impatiently. “Surely what’s important here are the events Bailey witnessed tonight.”

  “Which are what, exactly?” Sam asks again.

  “That a woman was beaten and—”

  “Were you here?” Sam interrupts Claire to ask.

  “No. I—”

  “So you didn’t actually see anything?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then, you wouldn’t mind letting your sister answer the question.” Again, more an order than a request.

  Claire sits back in her seat, covering her nose with the back of her hand when the motion results in a fresh current of marijuana-laced air.

  “I saw Paul Giller beat and rape his girlfriend,” I tell the officers.

  “You’re positive about that?”

  I look toward Claire. Am I?

  “How do you know the woman you saw is his girlfriend?” Sam asks.

  I decide it is best not to tell them about my earlier exploits, understanding that I am likely to be viewed as a stalker. “I just assumed …”

  Sam’s attention is suddenly diverted by something on the floor. He bends over and reaches underneath the coffee table. When he straightens up again, he is holding one of Heath’s errant, suspiciously hand-rolled cigarettes between his fingers.

  Claire rolls her eyes and I close mine, picturing the joints flying from Heath’s shoe and watching his mad scramble to retrieve them. Clearly, he missed one.

  “Look, I know you’ve been through a pretty hard time lately, and I understand your needing a little escape, I really do,” Sam says, “but if you were stoned at the time you made that call …”

  “I wasn’t stoned.”

  “You’re saying you hadn’t smoked a little weed—”

  “More than a little, by the smell of things,” Patrick Llewellyn interrupts.

  “Okay, I might have been a little high earlier. But I wasn’t when I saw Paul Giller. You don’t believe me,” I state, unable to ignore the looks on their faces any longer.

  “What we believe isn’t important,” Sam says. “What’s important is what happened.”

  “Which was, apparently, nothing,” Llewellyn says.

  “We went over to Paul Giller’s apartment and questioned both him and his girlfriend,” Sam continues. “The bedroom shows absolutely no signs of any disturbance, and they both vehemently deny an assault of any kind took place.”

  “Well, of course she’d deny it,” Claire says, rushing to my defense. “If he was standing right beside her.…”

  “There wasn’t a bruise on her.”

  I go completely numb, recalling the bruises that covered most of my body in the immediate aftermath of my attack, bruises that have only recently begun to disappear.

  “Look,” Llewellyn says. “There’s not much we can do when both parties insist no assault took place. You want my advice? Stop spying on your neighbors.”

  “I’m not spying.”

  “Really? What would you call it? Using binoculars to check out your neighbors might not technically be a crime, but making false accusations most definitely is.”

  “Please tell me you’re not blaming the victim,” Claire says.

  “Your sister is not the victim here,” he reminds her. “At least not tonight.”

  “You have to look at this from our perspective,” Sam says, interrupting. “A month ago, you suffered a grievous assault. Since then, I understand you’ve made a number of unsubstantiated accusations against not only this Paul Giller but several other men as well, including David Trotter and Jason Harkness.”

  I gasp. So they already know about Jason Harkness.

  “It’s in your file,” Sam says before I have the chance to inquire.

  “Who’s Jason Harkness?” Claire asks.

  “You were also involved in a minor car accident a week ago,” Sam continues, again checking his notes. “And tonight you placed an anonymous call to the police to report an assault that both the alleged assailant and his purported victim swear up and down never happened. Not only that, but we find evidence of marijuana in your apartment.…”

  “Which I don’t have to remind you is still illegal in the state of Florida,” Llewell
yn adds.

  My head is spinning. What are they saying? “Are you going to arrest me?”

  “No. We’re going to pass on that.…”

  “And Paul Giller? He gets a pass, too?” Claire asks.

  “Luckily for your sister, Mr. Giller has declined to press charges,” Llewellyn tells her.

  “Charges? For what?” I ask.

  “Harassment, for starters.”

  “Harassment? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it? I’d say Paul Giller has good reason to be feeling more than a little pissed. He thinks you have some sort of vendetta against him.”

  Claire jumps to her feet. Clearly she’s heard more than enough. “Sorry we wasted your time, gentlemen.”

  “Maybe you should think about getting some help,” Sam whispers to me on their way out.

  “Thank you,” Claire tells them, closing the door before they can offer any more parting advice. “Who the hell is Jason Harkness?” she asks, spinning toward me as soon as they are gone.

  I start walking to the bedroom. “I’m really tired, Claire. Can we do this another time?”

  She is right behind me. “No, we can’t do this another time. Who the hell is Jason Harkness?” she asks again. “What haven’t you been telling me?”

  I sink down on my bed, reluctantly confiding in her everything that happened after I left Elizabeth Gordon’s office this afternoon and watching her expression shift from curiosity to mild alarm to total disbelief, as I knew it would.

  “I don’t understand.…”

  “I just wanted to be doing something … taking control of my life … instead of sitting around, being so damn passive and afraid all the time.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about,” she corrects. “Doing something, taking control, that I understand. What I can’t wrap my head around is why you didn’t tell me. What is it, Bailey? Don’t you trust me?”

  “Of course I trust you.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me what you were planning?”

  “Because there was no plan. Things just … kind of happened.”

  Several seconds pass before she speaks. “Did anything else just kind of happen that I should know about?”

  I shake my head, deciding not to mention my encounter with Colin Lesser. There’s only so much that one rational human being can be expected to understand, only so much sympathy to go around.

  Claire walks to the window and stares toward Paul Giller’s apartment. “So you think that maybe this Jason Harkness could be the man who raped you?”

  I shrug. I don’t know what I think anymore.

  “And Paul Giller?” she asks. “What about him?”

  “I don’t know.” I fall back so that I’m stretched horizontally across my bed, my right arm raised and draped across my eyes. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t think you’re crazy. Well,” Claire demurs, “maybe just a little.” Her voice is soft, even kind. I hear the gentle whir of my bedroom blinds being lowered, and I remove my arm from across my eyes and turn my head toward her. She is getting undressed.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting ready for bed.” She pulls a toothbrush out of the side pocket of her sweatpants. “See? I came prepared.”

  “What? No. You can’t stay here.”

  “You really think you have the strength to kick me out?”

  “What about Jade?”

  “Sleeping like a baby when I left. I wrote her a note and I’ll leave a message on her voice mail.”

  “No. I can’t ask you to do this.”

  “You’re not asking. I’m telling. Now shut up and get ready for bed. I don’t have to be at work until noon.” She walks toward the bathroom.

  “Claire …”

  “You’re welcome,” she says before I can formulate the words to thank her. “Now get some sleep.”

  —

  I’m in the middle of a nightmare in which I’m being chased along the ocean road by a jogger wielding a large butcher knife. Across the street, in front of a small church, I see Heath sharing a joint with Paul Giller. My assailant catches up to me, grabbing my hair and pulling my head back, his knife slicing effortlessly across my throat. I collapse to the sidewalk, my life bleeding onto the hard concrete, as all around me, the sky fills with the sound of laughter and church bells explode in song.

  I know it’s the phone even before I’m fully awake, that its ringing has infiltrated my dream. I sit up and look over at Claire, who is sleeping beside me, undisturbed by either bad dreams or the untimely ringing of the telephone. Is it possible she doesn’t hear it? Is it ringing at all? Am I still dreaming? “Claire,” I say, my hand brushing against her shoulder. “Claire …”

  She stirs, flips over onto her back. “Hmm?”

  “The phone …”

  She twists her head in my direction and opens her eyes. “What?” She pushes herself into a sitting position. “What’s happening?”

  “Do you hear the phone?”

  Her head shoots toward the nightstand. “Somebody phoned?”

  I realize the phone has stopped ringing.

  “Were you having a nightmare?”

  “I guess,” I say, deciding it’s easier this way.

  She takes me in her arms. “Go back to sleep, sweetie,” she says, drawing me back down and laying her head next to mine on the pillow, one arm draped protectively across my hip. “You’re exhausted,” she says, already drifting back toward unconsciousness. “You need your sleep.”

  I feel her breath warm on the nape of my neck as she succumbs to the sleep I know will elude me for the balance of the night. Instead I lie there beside her, afraid to close my eyes, waiting for the phone to ring again.

  —

  It rings at just after eight o’clock the next morning.

  It isn’t really ringing, I tell myself.

  “Aren’t you going to answer that?” Claire asks, rubbing her eyes and sitting up in bed.

  “You can hear that?”

  “Of course I can hear it.”

  I reach for the phone. “Hello?”

  “It’s Jade,” the voice informs me without unnecessary preamble. “Is my mother still there?”

  “Right beside me.” I hand the phone to my sister, then proceed into the bathroom, deciding to forego my usual early morning search of the premises. I don’t want to alarm Claire any more than is absolutely necessary.

  When I return to the bedroom some twenty minutes later, scrubbed clean and wrapped in my voluminous terry cloth robe, Claire is already dressed and waiting for me with a hot cup of freshly brewed coffee. “Everything all right with Jade?” I ask.

  “She’s fine. Just wanted to know how late I’d be getting home tonight. Which means she probably has something devious in mind. Teenagers—what can I tell you?”

  I feel guilty that I have taken Claire away from her daughter.

  “Don’t give me that look,” Claire says. “This has nothing to do with you. How’s your coffee? Strong enough?”

  Claire has become so adept at reading my thoughts. “It’s perfect,” I tell her, even before I’ve taken a sip.

  “So, what are the plans for today?” she asks as the phone rings again. “Want me to get that?” She glances at the caller ID. “Unknown caller,” she remarks, picking up the phone before it can ring again. “Hello?” A slight pause. “No, this is her sister. Who can I say is calling?” Claire holds the phone out for me to take. “It’s a Dr. Lesser,” she whispers, eyebrows raised.

  I feel the color drain from my face. It takes all my willpower to force a smile onto my lips, all my strength to exchange the coffee in my hand for the phone in hers. Why is he calling? What does he want? How did he get my number? “Hello?”

  “Hi, there. Remember me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Sorry to be calling so early, but I wanted to catch you before you went out.”

  Why is he calling? How did he get my number?


  “Look. I’ll get right to the point,” he continues. “I find you … interesting, to say the least, and I’m calling because I was hoping I could persuade you to have dinner with me. I googled you, in case you’re wondering how.…”

  Someone else who can read my mind, I think, aware that Claire is watching me with curious eyes. “I can’t.”

  “Can’t or just don’t find me as interesting as I find you?”

  “Thank you very much for calling,” I tell him. “I’ll make another appointment as soon as I know my schedule.” I disconnect the line before he can say another word. “My dentist,” I lie. “Apparently I missed my last appointment.”

  “And he called you himself?”

  “Must be a slow morning,” I offer as the phone in my hand rings again.

  “Not around here,” Claire says.

  I lift the phone to my ear, a series of disconcerting thoughts swirling through my brain: Why did I lie to Claire? What was Colin’s real motive for calling me? Is it possible he’s exactly as he presents—a man who finds me “interesting” and wants to take me to dinner? “Hello?” I all but shout into the receiver in an effort to send such thoughts scattering.

  I listen to the familiar voice on the other end of the line, my heart moving to my mouth, my breath freezing in my lungs.

  Tell me you love me.

  “Oh, God.” I click off the phone and let it fall to the floor.

  “What is it?” Claire asks. “Who was that, Bailey?”

  “It was Detective Castillo,” I answer when I’m able to find my voice.

  “What did he say? Tell me.”

  “Apparently another woman was raped last night about ten blocks from where I was attacked. They have a man in custody, and they want me to come to the station to see if I can identify him.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  Claire lowers my cup of coffee to the nightstand. “Let’s go.”

  — TWENTY-FIVE —

  Approximately forty minutes later Claire pulls my car into the parking lot of the police station at 400 Northwest 2nd Avenue in the part of downtown Miami known as Little Havana. The sky is threatening rain, and the winds, already blowing at twenty-five miles an hour, are picking up speed. According to the weather report on the all-news radio station we’ve been listening to, a tropical storm is gathering strength somewhere east of Cuba, although there’s still hope it will miss Florida, dying an inauspicious death somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic.