Stalking You Now

by Jeff Strand

  First Edition

  Stalking You Now © 2013 by Jeff Strand

  All Rights Reserved.

  A DarkFuse Release

  www.darkfuse.com

  Twitter: @darkfuse

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  Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/jOH5

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Other Books by Author

  Benjamin's Parasite

  Fangboy

  Big-time thanks to my test readers for catching stuff that would make me look most stupid indeed: Tod Clark, Michael McBride, Jim Morey, and Rhonda Wilson.

  “So she sets the steak down in front of me like it’s some kind of prize, and I can see right away that it’s not medium rare. And I’m just livid. She doesn’t even sit down; she just stands there, face all beaming like somebody jammed a flashlight into her skull. So I think, okay, I’ll be nice about this. I cut into this thing, and there’s no juice at all. Not a drop. It’s like every bit of moisture has been burnt out of it.”

  He makes wild gestures with his fork as he tells his story. His three idiot friends are entranced. I tell myself that if there was nobody else in the restaurant, I might go over there and stab each of them in the face, just to change their imbecilic grins into screams. But there are seven other people, not counting cooks or dishwashers in the back, and I wouldn’t do such a reckless thing anyway, so I continue to watch.

  “What am I supposed to do? If I say I want my steak medium rare and she brings it out medium, that’s no big deal. I’ll tell her what she did wrong and she’ll do better next time. But this thing is at least medium well, and when I come home after a hard day at work, I want to eat my dinner instead of gnaw on it, you know? So I say ‘What the hell is this?’ and she acts like I slapped her. I don’t hit women, I know better than that, and if I did, it sure wouldn’t be over a steak, but I swear she practically flinches.”

  I cut into my own steak. It’s rare, just as I ordered it.

  “And she starts getting all teary-eyed and she asks me if she cooked it wrong, and I say, yeah you cooked it wrong, anybody can see that. So then we have this whole deal where she’s telling me that I hurt her feelings, and she’s all boo-hoo-hoo!” He contorts his face and puts his hands to his eyes in a grotesque parody of sobbing and wiping away tears. His friends laugh knowingly, obviously having dealt with a similar annoying problem in their own lives.

  “I’m not the bad guy here. It’s not like she has a job. It’s not like her kids are living with us. The only thing she had to do all day was cook dinner. Does she think I’m going to marry somebody who can’t cook a steak? And the thing is, I’m totally fine with her messing up the steak. Everybody makes mistakes. Just don’t get all weepy when I try to make sure that future steaks aren’t crap. That makes sense, right?”

  His friends assure him that he’s completely in the right. One of the other mouth-breathers starts in with his own attempt at an amusing anecdote, so I try to focus on enjoying my meal. My financial situation isn’t great and I rarely eat out at all, much less at a semi-classy restaurant like this. It’s very good. I wish I could do it more often.

  I eat faster than they do, so I linger over my last couple of bites while I wait for them to finish. After clearing their plates and taking their dessert order, the waiter stops at my table to ask if I would like dessert as well.

  “No, no, I’d explode,” I say. I point to the ruddy-faced piece of garbage, who is laughing at something that I’m sure isn’t very funny. I speak quietly, even though they’re fully engaged in their own conversation and wouldn’t hear me. “Would I be able to send a bottle of wine over to their table?”

  “Of course, sir. What kind would you like?”

  I don’t know wines very well. “Is there a brand that’s cheap, but people don’t think of as cheap? I want to pay the minimum it takes for them not to think they’re getting cheap wine.”

  “The wine they have been enjoying this evening is a merlot, thirty-eight dollars a bottle.”

  “Can I just send over a glass?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s do that. One glass to Terrence, the big guy on the end.”

  The waiter leaves. I glance over at the cherry-covered cheesecake the couple next to me is sharing and wish I’d ordered dessert.

  A few minutes later, the waiter arrives at their table with their gigantic slices of cake and pie. He sets a glass of red wine down in front of Terrence, who looks confused, and when the waiter points to me, he looks even more confused. I smile and raise my water glass as a toast.

  He has no idea who I am.

  He awkwardly toasts me in return, and whispers something to the other guys at the table. None of them try to be subtle about staring at me. I take out my wallet, estimate the amount of the check plus a decent tip, toss a few bills on the table, and walk out of the restaurant. I feel pretty good.

  * * *

  If Terrence goes home, I’ll return to my hotel room, get some sleep, and resume the stalking tomorrow. But he doesn’t. Instead, he and his friends drive to a bar a few blocks away.

  I wait in the parking lot for a few minutes, humming to pass the time, and then I walk inside.

  The place is filled with smoke. Disgusting. I despise smoke. But I despise Terrence even more, so I walk on in. The four of them are seated at the bar. Terrence is on the end and there’s an empty stool next to him, but I don’t want to just plop down next to him. I want him to notice that I’m there on his own. The bar has Ms. Pac-Man, so I walk over to the machine and pretend to play.

  I stand there for about ten minutes, but the drunken bastard doesn’t notice. I can see him in the reflection of the video game screen, so I know he’s not merely being discrete.

  I abandon my original plan and just sit down next to him.

  “Can I buy you another drink?” I ask.

  He looks at me with bloodshot eyes. “Listen, buddy, I’m not a homophobe. If you gays want to get married and be miserable like the rest of us, that’s fine with me. I only have a problem with faggots when they’re hitting on me, so if you could find someplace else to drink, I won’t have to kick your ass.”

  His friends are all watching. I wonder if he’d be talking as tough if he didn’t have backup.

  “I’m hetero,” I say. “Sorry. I thought you were somebody else.”

  “Yeah? Who did you think I was?”

  “A friend.”

  “Well, now you know I’m not.”

  “I apologize for the misunderstanding,” I tell him. But I don’t move from the stool. I gesture for the bartender’s attention and order a beer.

  I pretend I’m not aware that Terrence is staring at me for a few moments, then I glance at him. “What?”

  “I think you should sit someplace else.”

  “I apologize if my mistaken identity made you uncomfortable,” I say, looking him directly in the eye. “But I’m not as young as I used to be, so once I sit down, I’m usually not inclined to get up until I finish my beer. I think you can relate. What are you, about forty-four?”

  He’s exactly forty-four. And I can tell that he’s not sure if it’s a lucky guess or if I know who he is.

  “Do I need to knock you off that seat?” Terrence asks.

  The bartender slams my beer down in front of me. “If you guys are gonna start shit, start it someplace else.”

  “We’re not starting anything,” I say.

  “My rent is so goddamn high I can barely keep the place open as it is,” says the bartender, who apparently was in the mo
od to rant and waiting for something to set him off. “I don’t need to spend extra money paying for whatever damage you apes cause.”

  “We’re not starting anything,” I repeat. I’m unafraid of Terrence, but it’s not in my plan to get punched. I take out my wallet, pull out my last three bills, and toss them on the counter.

  “It’s three fifty,” the bartender says.

  Crap. This is awkward. I don’t have fifty cents. The whole point is to intimidate Terrence, and not being able to pay for my beer isn’t going to help me accomplish that. Fuck.

  I feel myself break into a cold sweat, but it’s dark in here and I’m sure Terrence can’t tell. I look at the bartender, then I look at Terrence. “He’ll pay for the difference,” I say, and then I quickly—but not too quickly—slide off the stool and walk out of the bar.

  I hope the four of them don’t come out after me. Having eavesdropped on their restaurant conversation, I know his friends are creeps, but they don’t deserve to meet the same fate that awaits Terrence. Few people do. When I decide to take my revenge, it’s going to be extremely unpleasant for him.

  Does he have even the slightest idea who I am?

  He’s never seen me. The reprehensible monster probably doesn’t even know he ruined my life twenty-five years ago. Probably thought he was safe. Probably never looks back over his shoulder, or in the closet, or under the bed.

  I’ve spent half my life being afraid because of him.

  But not anymore.

  They don’t come out of the bar. I wonder if one of his friends convinced him it wasn’t worth it, or if they all laughed and went back to their drinking. I wonder if he actually paid the fifty cents.

  I wonder if he’s scared, just a little.

  * * *

  Breaking into his car is easy. Waiting for him to return to it is hard. I’ve got a small backpack with some emergency supplies, like duct tape, but I didn’t bring anything to entertain me while I sit there. After three hours, I start to worry that maybe he’d been responsible enough to call a cab, but finally I see him stumbling back toward the vehicle. Two of his friends are with him. The third left an hour ago.

  I duck down in the backseat. It’s dark in the parking lot, but if he glances in the back, he’ll see me. His drunken staggering is almost cartoonish, so I don’t think he’ll look. If he does, I’ll have to show him the gun I’m holding. I hope he won’t look.

  He doesn’t look. I can hear the clink of metal on metal as his first two attempts to unlock the door fail. This car is last year’s model. He doesn’t need an actual key; he could unlock it by pressing a button. Either he lost the keyless entry button or he’s too drunk to remember he even has it.

  He finally achieves this amazing feat of dexterity and slides into the car. The reek of smoke and beer follows him immediately, and I feel a little sick. How much smoke stench can one body absorb?

  Terrence slams his door shut and starts the engine, getting it right on the first try. We back out of the parking space. I’m not thrilled by the idea of riding in a car with somebody who is drunk off his ass, since having us both die in a grisly car accident would make for an unsatisfying revenge. But I’ll trust his ability to get us to the first traffic light without causing our demise.

  He turns left onto the street.

  I’m right behind you, Terrence, you oblivious waste of human flesh. You have no idea how many times I’ve killed you in my mind, how many ways I have taken you apart, how much of your blood has run between my fingers.

  I could sit up and put a bullet into the back of his intoxicated head right now, but that’s no good. He needs to understand what he’s done to me. And he needs to realize that he most assuredly, most positively, most definitely did not get away with it.

  While he’s suffering, he needs to know why.

  Terrence is either having very good luck with getting green lights or he’s just running the red ones. We go nearly twelve blocks before he finally stops.

  The moment he does, I sit up. He gasps and starts to turn around in his seat. I point my revolver at his face.

  It’s close enough that if he had really good reflexes, he could knock it right out of my hand. But I doubt he has good reflexes even when he’s sober.

  “I’ve got money,” he says.

  “I know,” I tell him. “Did you pay my fifty cents?”

  “No. I mean, yes.”

  “Which is it?”

  “I would have paid. The bartender didn’t ask for it.”

  “All right.”

  “My wallet’s in my back pocket.”

  “I’ll steal it later. When the light’s green, drive. Slowly. No turns. No sudden stops. Do not take your hands off the wheel. Do not look at any other drivers, and do not try to butt-dial your phone, or I will shoot you. I didn’t say kill you. I said shoot you. I’m not looking for this to become a torture situation, but that’s entirely up to you.”

  His disgusting body quivers as he succumbs to tears. “Please, just take the money.”

  “No.”

  “You can even have the car.”

  “I don’t want your car. You’ve been DUI’ing in it.”

  “Please…”

  “Stop the begging. In fact, do not speak. The only way you’re going to live through this is if you stay quiet and follow my instructions.”

  I’m lying. There’s not a chance in hell I’ll let him live through this. But I’m not quite ready for him to know the end is inevitable. I want us to be staring deep into each other’s eyes at his moment of realization.

  “The light’s green,” I say. “Drive.”

  He drives. I really hope he doesn’t swerve or try anything stupid. I’m confident that I’ve got the situation under control, but I’m only human, and a scared, drunk guy like him might try something insane, like plowing into a fire hydrant.

  “Just stay calm,” I tell him, switching from my menacing voice to something more soothing. “We’ll get through this.”

  He’s sobbing. I should be enjoying this, but it’s actually kind of pathetic and off-putting. I almost want to pop a bullet into him right now, but no, I’d regret that.

  We drive for a couple of minutes before he speaks again. “My wife is going to wonder where I am.”

  “You don’t have a wife. You have a live-in girlfriend named Mindy. Are you trying to make yourself sound less expendable?” That’s kind of clever for a drunk guy, but I’m not in the mood to appreciate cleverness. “Do you want me to kill you right now for being a liar?”

  “I got mixed up.”

  “I’m sure you did. Did you tell Mindy you were going out drinking with the boys? Or would that compromise your dominance over her?”

  “Is this about her?”

  It’s not. “Maybe.”

  “It only happened once. I barely touched her.” Now he’s blubbering. “Did she tell you how she was acting? Did she tell you what she said? You would have done the same thing!”

  “Wow. I thought you were a clever drunk, but now you’re blurting out stupid confessions. Stick to soft drinks, asshole. Did you tell her you were on your way home? Don’t lie to me, because I’ll check your call history.”

  “No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”

  “Good.”

  Knowing that Terrence is a wife beater should make me feel even better about what I’m going to do to him, but I honestly don’t care. Wife beater, child molester, pet killer…it doesn’t matter to me. Hell, I don’t even care if he spends every waking moment doing charity work to benefit legless orphans, or if he’s on the verge of curing six or seven major diseases.

  All I care about is what he did to me. I’m a very focused person.

  Fortunately, he doesn’t try anything stupid, and it’s not too long before his sobbing turns into simple weeping. I think a silver car is following me for a couple of minutes, but just as I start to become concerned it makes a right turn.

  After we’ve been driving for about ten minutes, I tell him to
pull into the parking lot of a strip mall. When I checked it out this morning, the mall looked like it had been abandoned for months, and most of the windows have been broken out, so it’s safe to assume that there won’t be any security. Anyway, we won’t be here very long.

  I tap him with the barrel of the gun to make sure he doesn’t forget about it, then I get out of the car. I step far enough away from the driver’s-side door that he can’t fling it open and bash me with it, and tell him to get out.

  He does so without protest.

  “Are you going to kill me?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “You’re riding in the trunk. Unlock it and get in. Do it quick.” The longer he’s driving at gunpoint, the more risk of something going wrong, but he doesn’t need an explanation.

  To his credit, he immediately hurries to the back of the vehicle, unlocks the trunk, and raises the lid. He’s probably desperately hoping this really is about money, and that if he cooperates, he’ll escape with his life.

  He’s not exactly nimble, so it’s difficult for him to climb into the trunk, but he does so without it being too embarrassing of a spectacle and I slam the lid shut.

  Then I realize that Terrence still has the fucking car keys.

  I refuse to panic. I don’t remember either one of us locking the car doors, so I’ll be able to pull the lever from inside and pop it open again. It was a dumb mistake, an unacceptably sloppy moment, but at least I didn’t screw up in a manner that could get me killed.

  The driver’s-side door is indeed unlocked. Thank freaking God. I open the trunk, point the gun at Terrence’s cowering body, and order him to throw me the keys.

  He does.

  I slam the trunk shut again.

  I can’t believe I let something like that happen. But now my concentration is back, one hundred percent, and it certainly won’t happen again.