“She was loveable, wasn’t she, but I never had the chance to meet her while she was alive,” I said.
“Neither did I,” he said. “I came to know her through her journal. You see, I was the detective in charge of her homicide.”
I looked at him in amazement! “So we’ve both had the privilege of knowing her intimately… through her thoughts.”
“Yes,” he said. “By the way, I’m Tom,” and he stretched out his hand.
“I’m pleased to meet you Tom. I’m Frances,” and our hands touched for the second time that day.
We talked for an hour. We discussed Lauren, life and coincidence, before hunger pangs invaded our conversation. We found a Thai restaurant and continued now with more personal disclosures, exchanging ideas and considering our similarities. Our compatibility quickly extended beyond words. Our intellectual connection expanded into physical attraction, the depth of which can only be measured by the matching of our pheromones, released, not by accident, but when our genes identify our chosen mate. An all-powerful survival technique instilled in us since the beginning of mankind.
*
The state of joy is exhausting to maintain and after a blissful month together, the inevitable stage of becoming domestic partners was on our agenda. I suggested, we sit down with pen and paper and list the areas in which we formed a connection, and so we did.
“I wrote a book and became a writer which led me to you,” I began.
“I joined the Police Dept which led me to Lauren Carter’s homicide and ultimately, to you,” he said.
“I sold my house in LA to Lauren, where she was murdered.”
“I investigated her murder.”
“I bought her journal so as to write about her life, after her murder.”
“I read her journal after her murder to aid me with the investigation.”
“After she died, I had a metaphysical experience, when she sat with me to write my book.”
“I had a metaphysical experience with her too… in the garden where she was murdered.”
“Neither of us met her while she was alive,” I continued.
“No, we both came to know her through her journal,” Tom agreed.
“The book I wrote was based on her journal.”
“I wrote in her journal.”
“It was you? You wrote the last line in her journal?”
“Yes. In matters of life and death… there are no accidents. This I truly believe.”
We looked at each other and knew that we had met by design and not by chance. The multi-layered effect of our connection was due to perfect timing. We overlapped layer upon layer, like the folding of The Flag, an elaborate restaurant napkin, origami or the peeling of an onion… whichever way we looked at it we realized that we were connected on various levels. It was as if someone had set each of us on a course where we would inevitably collide, resulting in fusion… the act of melting together.
We began our new life as a couple when Tom moved into my house. I dismissed the fleeting feeling of déjà vu as a ghostly memory to be buried in the recesses of my mind. This time, it felt different and I trusted my instincts. Tom had easy access to work, no freeway traffic to fight and I had an office, a desk and no distractions. His hours were erratic and so were mine. I wrote when he worked so that any free time was spent together. We shared everything, our finances, our political views, our taste in food, music and movies. It sounds a little claustrophobic, but we were an extremely compatible pair. My book sales escalated and The Journal climbed the New York bestsellers list, settling at number four. Life was wonderful and I marveled in how far I had come since my days of Paranoia.
Chapter 9
THE CHASE
Three more books and thirteen years later, we found ourselves living south of LA, in a beautiful house overlooking the sea. Tom retired from the police ahead of any grievous bodily injuries. Whether you believe in luck or not, his odds of remaining unhurt were reaching the tipping point. Too many criminals bearing grudges, too many trigger-happy youths and too many ambitious colleagues seeking his job. Enough of LAPD! After years of service he finally took his hard-earned reward and invested his financial gain in his own business as a private investigator. Being his own boss suited his temperament as he had the freedom to choose individual clients and work to his own schedule. Retirement, would have left a void in a lively mind where intellectual stimulation was as necessary as the air he breathed.
*
The Santa Monica central walkway was buzzing with shoppers and street entertainers. The aroma from the open restaurants was enticing and pretty young women were employed to tempt potential customers over their threshold. People crowded the width of the street, some laughing as they shuffled along, some eating hot dogs and some pausing to view my photograph displayed in the bookstore window. My fifth book signing was advertised on the board at the entrance of the largest book store in the town, strategically placed where no one could miss it. My chair and table were set with pens and water and multiple copies of my latest book. I was successful and never complacent, so I was always surprised to see a line of enthusiastic readers, clutching their copies in anticipation of my signature. I smiled and graciously began my work.
I was about halfway through the day, when a man presented his copy for signing. But it was not a copy of my latest book! Instead, he pushed a used copy of The Journal under my nose.
“Sign it… please,” he said impolitely.
“But it’s not the book I’m signing today,” I replied. “This is a used copy of The Journal.”
“Yeah, it’s mine. I’ve read all your books and this is my favorite, so sign it… please.”
I glanced up at his face. He was unsmiling and in earnest. “This is totally irregular." I began to protest but my words were cut short by the intensity of his glare and the haunted look in his eyes that sent a chill right through me.
“What name shall I use?” I asked.
“Gary,” he said.
“Gary who?”
“Just Gary,” he replied. “Same as the guy in your book.” I felt a shiver run down my spine, so I quickly lightened the conversation.
“Read much, do you?” I enquired.
“Yeah, had a lot of time on my hands,” and he smiled insincerely. It was the kind of smile that just turns up the corners of the mouth but leaves the eyes dead in the head. “You could say… I’ve had time to kill,” and he laughed and walked away.
“I need a break,” I called, raising my hand to catch the attention of the manager. He duly responded and paused the next person from coming forward. I walked towards the restroom, trying to keep my pace normal, but couldn’t resist looking over my shoulder as I moved between the crowded shoppers. Once inside, I drew a deep breath, tried to stop shaking and called Tom.
“Tom, I’ve had an awful experience,” and I started to cry.
“Whatever’s happened,” he asked. I told him and as soon as I mentioned the man’s name, he stopped the conversation. “I’ll be right there,” he said in an urgent tone. I threw some cold water at my red eyes, patched up my make-up and apprehensively returned to the signing table.
Tom stayed near me until the last book was signed and then he suggested we go for a stiff drink to discuss this matter.
“Can you describe this man,” he said. I launched into a description and then asked, “Is it him?”
“I’m not sure. Your description fits him, taking into account that it’s thirteen years since I’ve seen him.”
“But I thought he got twenty?”
“He did, but often the sentence is reduced for good behavior after an appeal. I’ll check tomorrow.”
“If it was him, do you think he was just curious?” I asked.
“I don’t know, we’re only guessing. If it is him and if he’s out, it’s me he’ll come after, not you.” Tom said. “I doubt he knows we’re an item. Best keep it that way.”
After a fitful night, Tom and I made an early start. Neither
of us confiding in the other about our concern. I’d always been aware that there were crazy people out there in the world, who focus on celebrities. Often they obsess about the poor actor who portrays a role that signifies an event in the disturbed person’s psyche. I never thought that I’d be a target. My book, The Journal was not controversial.
Tom entered my office and interrupted my thoughts, “I’ve got some news!” he said. “Listen to this.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and read aloud. “The original sentence was twenty years… as we know, but it’s usual to serve only sixteen years six months, even with good behavior,” he looked up at me before continuing. “The sentence was reduced at the judge’s discretion after his appeal, which was based on the fact that part of the condemning evidence, was considered circumstantial and therefore, may have been inadmissible at the time of trial. He served thirteen years three months… he’s out!”
“Oh my God! I actually met him! What now?” I tentatively asked.
“Now we watch and wait. Gary Carter may or may not return.”
“You know Tom, I’ve been thinking about my book, The Journal, it wasn’t controversial. I stuck to the facts when I wrote about his conviction. What more could it be, than curiosity?”
“Yeah, that’s probably it. Don’t worry.” Tom’s words were not convincing.
“What did you mean yesterday, when you said that it’ll be you, not me he’ll come after?”
“Look this happens to all us detectives. These criminals get out and the only thing on their minds is to get even with the bastard who put them away. I was the lead detective investigating this homicide. I arrested Gary Carter on a Murder One charge and he was convicted. If he feels he wants to get even, he’ll come looking for me. He’s had a lot of time to think about it.”
“It sounds dangerous.”
“Don’t worry, this isn’t the first time, I’ll deal with it,” Tom said.
*
Tom walked over and placed his arms around Frances and gently squeezed her. He loved her deeply and desired only to comfort her. The words bursting to be spoken would remain as silent thoughts… at least for now. This was not the moment to divulge a secret which he'd concealed from her. It may frighten her, but worse still, it may lessen her respect for him. They'd vowed to disclose everything, but most couples are discerning when baring their souls. He struggled as to whether he'd be justified or not, in withholding this information, he convinced himself that it was for her own good. He hid his face in their caress, purposely holding her close with his head positioned over her shoulder, but the mirror on the wall reflected his fear.
*
Helen was busy liaising with my publisher and arranging a book signing tour. My next engagement was in the San Fernando Valley, north of Santa Monica. I’d pushed all thoughts of Gary Carter out of my mind, so I was fresh and eager to work. The line was lively as usual and diminished only at 3 p.m. when the school day ended. I waited a while, as a few older women drifted towards the line and when it dwindled down to the last six, I became aware of someone watching me. I turned to look and there was Gary Carter seated to my right. He raised his hand and waved. I froze for several seconds as alarm bells rang inside my head. I knew it would be best to acknowledge him, so I nodded in his direction. Tom was tied up all day at the county courthouse, accompanying a client of his, so I knew I was on my own. My heart raced as I thanked the last person in line and I knew who’d be next. Gary rose from his chair and leisurely strolled over to my table. Then he placed both his hands on the desk and leant towards me.
“He didn’t kill her,” he said, leaning into my space.
“Oh?” I said, purposely saying very little.
“You got it wrong… in that book of yours.” Gary stared directly into my eyes.
“I don’t think so,” I said, averting my gaze and edging back in my chair. “I based the story on fact,” and I began to pack my briefcase.
“You need to rewrite the ending,” he ordered.
“The book is published. I can’t rewrite the ending even if I wanted to, which I don’t. I based the story on fact. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to leave.” Anger is all it took for me to remain strong during this confrontation.
“I say again, he didn’t kill her. Get your facts right or you’ll be sorry you ever wrote it.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m telling you to write the truth,” and he turned and walked away. I felt a surge of panic rise up inside and my eyes began to sting. I fumbled for my phone and called Tom, but he didn’t answer. I sipped some water and remained glued to my seat for a further ten minutes. Waiting, thinking of my next move. I knew that I had to get home, but what if he follows me? Tom would know… he’d instruct me… but he’s not here. I’m on my own now. “Think logically,” I told myself. “If Gary Carter wants me to change the ending of The Journal, he has to give me time to rewrite it, which means that he’s not going to do anything today. I’ll go home, but I’ll be vigilant.”
I left the bookstore and entered the multi-story parking block. My car was on the third level. I was sensible and waited by the entrance until a few people gathered by the elevator. I hoped one of them would ride to the third level with me… I was lucky. An innocuous-looking man alighted with me into the concrete area in which we’d parked our cars. With my cell phone in one hand and my keys in the other, I walked confidently towards my car, not wanting to appear nervous in case he was watching. “Never look like a victim,” I told myself but I quickened my pace faster and faster. I knew not to click the lock too soon and waited until I was almost touching the car, I clicked, it opened and I hurled myself inside, locking the door behind me.
As I drove home I constantly checked the rea- view mirror, looking for any car that followed. When I arrived at my gated entrance, which served a community of two hundred homes, I punched in my security code and once inside I felt safe. I walked straight through the house and into the bedroom, fell on the bed and deflated like an exhaling balloon, releasing all my adrenalin-fueled strength. Memories of Paranoia had revisited me tonight and they were uninvited guests.
*
When Tom heard how Gary had threatened me, he lost no time in dealing with the situation. He firstly arranged for two of his employees to tail me twenty-four seven. I was never to acknowledge them but I had a code to call them for help if necessary. These two PIs, were to stick with her, swapping their trails often, so as not to be discovered. With Tom’s background in the police, and now as a private investigator, he would leave little to chance. Next, Tom called his friends in LAPD. All they could do was organize a restraining order. This was unsatisfactory, but it was the law and the only procedure the police could follow. Gary had not committed any crime… yet!
I felt secure knowing that I had two secret companions. I traveled to the mall and enjoyed the leisurely shopping, but when I returned to my car, there was a note pinned to the windscreen. Write the truth! it said, in black marker pen. I freaked out! He’d been watching me and now he knew my car. I tore the note from the windscreen, jumped inside the car and locked the doors. Then I pressed my alarm code and waited for the call. A man’s voice asked me if I was ok. “I’m shaken up,” I said. He reassured me that he could see me form his position which was a relief. I then told him about the note and he said they had a photo of Gary leaning across the car, but that I had returned too quickly for them to retrieve the note. Now, I was frightened, thinking that Gary was still around, but the man on the phone told me that Gary had left the parking lot and was being tailed. I drove home very carefully, still in shock. I made a decision that day, not to go out unless it was absolutely necessary. I would stay at home and just write behind locked doors, where Gary couldn’t stalk me. Then I got a text… it read, I know where you live. I immediately called Tom.
Tom came straight home and I pounced on him as he walked through the door. “How did he get my number? Even my fans can’t get me on my cell!” I was terrified.
>
“There are ways… look don’t worry I’m onto it. If he contacts you again, you give your phone to me, ok?” Tom said and he went through the whole house, checking every window and door and resetting the security system to remain on twenty-four hours each day. Then he made several calls. “Did you find out where he lives?” Tom asked his guy who was tailing Gary. The answer was negative. Tom then called LAPD and updated them. “I want an officer in front of the house,” he requested. “Day and night, until we catch the bastard.” Then Tom called his special IT-guy and asked for a favor. “I need you to trace a cell phone,” he asked and briefly explained the situation. “I know it’s irregular, but I need this… it was a text message, sent at 2:35 p.m. Thanks, I owe you one.” We tried to stay calm and even found some humor in our short exchanges, but both our minds were preoccupied with this horror. The lack of feedback made it all the more unbearable and a sense of normality was unattainable.
*
My cell sounded loudly, as the ringtone pierced the silence of the night. I sleepily leant over to answer it, an automatic reaction. “Hello,” I said.
“So now you’re sleeping with the enemy. You’re a bad woman Frances. You won’t change your book and now you’re…” Tom snatched the phone as Gary cut off the call.
“Did you hear what he said?” I began to cry. Tom’s arms immediately engulfed me.
“Yeah, I heard. He knows we’re together. Now we have a worse problem.” Tom suddenly held me at arm’s length and said, “There’s something I haven’t told you.”
“What?”
“I know Gary didn’t kill his wife.”
“What?” I said again.
“He was an abusive, amoral man, but he’s not a murderer,” Tom said.
“But I thought… you had the evidence? You’re the one who arrested him?” I was confused.
“The arrest was based on circumstantial evidence. I thought he did it. There were no other suspects, but… well, I knew the evidence was a bit shaky.”
“But he was tried and convicted of her murder… the judge agreed with you,” I said, looking at his tortured face.
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