Eyes of a Stalker (3 page)

“Not really,” I said. “But it's not likely that whoever sent it knows either.”

“Well, it's strange, that's for sure. But I'm sure he'll identify himself to you before very long.”

“I guess you're right,” I said. That thought didn't exactly make me feel better. I could picture how awkward it would be having some guy come up and tell me he'd
sent the plant. What would he be expecting? That I'd dump my boyfriend for him because of a plant?

We finished talking and I went back to the TV room.

“So, did Greg explain what the message meant?” Mom asked.

I told her what I'd found out and she turned to my dad right away. “Randall, maybe we should look into this. I don't like it.”

“I doubt it's anything to worry about,” Dad said. “Anyway, what can I do? We don't even know who sent it, but it's a safe bet that it's just some kid with a crush on Shelby.”

Mom wasn't convinced. She went to the kitchen and called the flower shop to see what she could find out about the sender, but when she came back it was without any answers. She still looked worried.

“They said it was a mail-in order, paid for in cash, with no return address or anything. And they didn't even keep the envelope or paper with instructions.”

“Then it mustn't be that unusual for them to get that kind of order from a secret admirer, Darlene,” Dad said. “Just relax. I'm sure there's no real cause for concern.”

Was he ever wrong.

I felt uneasy when I got to school the next morning. The idea that whoever had sent me the plant was probably right there in the building – maybe sitting at a desk near me in some class or other … or standing behind me in line at the cafeteria … or passing me in the hall – really made me nervous.

Discovering that I had a secret admirer might even have been a little flattering if it hadn't been for the message on the card. “
You will always be mine.
” Every time I thought about it, my stomach got a nervous, queasy feeling.

I alternated between wishing this guy would declare himself and hoping he
never
worked up the nerve to say anything. Every time a guy spoke to me or glanced my way I got wondering: could it be him?

One thing is certain: you never know what's going
on inside someone else. A person can look and act perfectly normal, but can be hiding a terrible secret. I've learned that because of some of the things I've been through in the last year or two. It's hard to believe that it was only a little over a year ago that I made up my mind to figure out who was setting the rash of fires that had started springing up here in Little River. Since then, it seems that every time something strange happens, I end up right in the middle of it.

Greg thinks I look for trouble, but that's not exactly true. And he wouldn't mind me getting involved in local mysteries anyway, if it wasn't for the fact that sometimes it can be dangerous.

But this wasn't a mystery, except in the sense that I didn't know who'd sent the plant, and that in itself wasn't exactly ominous.

In any case, the day went by normally, no one came up and blurted out anything about their undying love or anything, and by the time the final bell rang I was starting to relax about the whole thing.

I'd just closed and locked my locker when Greg appeared at my side and announced casually that he was going to walk me home.

“Walk me home?” I echoed. “But why?” He'd never done that before. For one thing, we live in opposite directions. For another, he normally takes a bus, since his place is a couple of kilometres from the school.

“I just feel like it,” he said, hoisting my book bag onto his free shoulder.

“Because someone sent me a plant? You have to be kidding!”

“Yeah, well, we don't know who this guy is yet, so I thought it was a good idea to be on the safe side.”

“This is ridiculous,” I said. I rolled my eyes, too, but I was secretly pleased. “And you're missing your bus.”

“It's not like I haven't walked home from your place before,” he pointed out.

It was true that we'd walked to each other's places lots of times, except this was different. It seemed like a long walk for him to make for nothing.

I didn't argue, though, since his mind was clearly made up. Anyway, I was glad to be able to spend some extra time with him.

As we walked, I told him about the drama club, and Ms. Lubowski agreeing to let the group perform at least one comedy instead of the old classics she'd picked out.

“So, what did she say when you suggested
The Americans are Coming?
” he asked.

“Not much,” I admitted. “She just said she'd think about it. And she said something about getting permission from the author, Herb Curtis, and about adapting it to make it suitable for a school production.”

“It sounds like she's interested, anyway,” he said.

“I guess.” I realized then that Greg was looking around as we walked. It had taken me a few minutes to notice it because he was hardly moving his head at all, but his eyes were moving the whole time, searching ahead and to the sides of us.

“So, you see anything suspicious?” I asked.

He smiled. “Not much gets past you, does it? And no, I haven't noticed anyone around. Not yet, anyway.”

A thought hit me. “So, what if this person doesn't tell me who he is for weeks, or even months? What if he never does? Are you going to walk me home every day for the rest of the year?”

“To make sure you're okay? If I need to, I will.”

“Well, that's really sweet, but I think you're making way too much of this. I mean, it was just a plant.”

“Right. And if the message on the card hadn't been so, well, weird, or if the guy had signed his name, it would be different. The thing is, you don't know who you're dealing with or what might be going on in his head.”

“But this is Little River!” I said, half pleased and half exasperated. “It's not like we have a whole lot of psychos running around town.”

“Psychos, as you call them,” he said with an eyebrow raised, “can be found anywhere. Little River is no exception.”

I blushed a little. Greg's dad is a Doctor of Psychology and I knew Greg had been brought up with
a respectful attitude toward people with psychological problems. They'd
never
be referred to as psychos in the Taylor house.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. Then I changed the subject to the selection we were reading for the book club. The group had decided to read both old and new works, and had chosen an interesting variety, including one book I'd suggested.

It was called
Seventeen
by Booth Tarkington and I'd read it earlier this year, after it had been recommended to me by Ernie's previous owner, Mr. Stanley. It was great, but nearly a hundred years old, so I hadn't really expected anyone else in the room to be familiar with it.

And so, when I'd mentioned the book to the club, it had surprised me to see Webster jump up and shout, “Yes!” and then rave about it with so much enthusiasm that the whole group agreed to put it on our list.

I was curious to know what Greg thought of it. I asked him whether he'd finished it.

“Not yet,” he said. “It's really good, though. I just haven't had much time for reading, with all the homework they're piling on this year.”

“Tell me about it,” I said. “I have so much homework in history and biology that I'll never get through it again before we meet this weekend. It's just lucky for me that I already read
Seventeen
… though I
do
want to read it at least one more time. It's
so
funny!”

“Is it ever,” Greg agreed. “And it really shows what society was like back then — the racial attitudes and the kinds of stereotyping that went on. Some of it's shocking, but it kind of helps you to see prejudice for what it is: pure ignorance and stupidity.

“And the characters!” he continued. He was warming up and I could tell by his tone that he was enjoying the book as much as I had. “I swear, even though the story takes place back in the early 1900s, I know people who are just like some of the characters.”

For the rest of the walk to my house, we chatted and laughed about poor Willie Baxter and his increasingly bizarre behaviours, all brought about because of his wild infatuation with Miss Pratt.

Mom was in the kitchen chopping tomatoes when we got to my place. Small bowls were near the cutting board, filled with diced onion and green pepper, shredded cheese and lettuce, and salsa sauce. The smell of taco seasoning, simmering in hamburger in a frying pan on the stove, filled the air.

She looked up in surprise to see Greg with me, and I could tell by the look on her face that she was trying to remember if I'd mentioned anything about bringing him over for dinner.

“Greg walked me home from school,” I explained. “He's just going to get a glass of water before he goes home.”

“Did something happen? I mean, did anyone bother you today?”

“No, Mom. Nothing like that.”

“I'm just being overly cautious,” Greg said lightly. I knew his tone was deliberate. He knows what a worrier Mom can be.

“Well, did you find out who sent
that plant
?” she asked. The way she said it, you'd have thought the plant itself was vile and disgusting.

“Not yet.”

“Well, I sure appreciate you seeing Shelby home, Greg,” Mom said. “Why don't you stay and have a bite to eat with us? If your dad isn't expecting you, that is.”

“Actually, he's involved with that research focus group in Viander these days, so he gets home pretty late most evenings,” Greg said. “We do a bunch of cooking on the weekend and make up frozen dinners, since our hours are at odds lately. So, I'd love to join you. Thanks.”

We were just settling in at the table a while later when the phone rang.

“I 'll get it,” I said, heading to the kitchen. Behind me I heard Dad tell Greg that I normally only jump for the phone that way if I think it might be him calling.

“Hello?”

Silence. Somehow, it seemed heavy and dark.

“Hello?” I could feel my heartbeat quicken.

“Shelby?” The voice was a thick, rasping whisper.

“Who is this?” The words were automatic, but my throat felt dry and constricted. I realized that I sounded scared.

“Shelby.” He drew my name out this time, a long, flat sound that sent a chill through me. Oddly, it struck me that it almost sounded like an echo.

“If this is supposed to be some kind of joke,” I said, doing my best to keep my voice from shaking, “it isn't one bit funny.”

“Oh, Shelby.” There was a strangely sinister amusement in his tone. “Don't you know that you belong to me?”

Fear ran through me — a cold bolt that paralysed my voice. I told myself I should hang up, but I was frozen in place, the phone pressed to my ear.

“I will make you my queen.”

“Shelby?” Dad called, and for once I was glad about our family rule about no phone interruptions during dinner; Dad would want to know whom I was talking to and why I was on the phone. I heard muffled voices in the next room, and then the sound of a chair being pushed back. Seconds later, Greg came through the kitchen doorway.

“Is everything okay?” he asked. Still unable to speak, I couldn't answer. But he saw my eyes and he knew something was wrong. He stepped toward me.

“Mine for all time,” said the voice on the phone. This came out in a burst and was followed immediately by a click. Within seconds, the dial tone followed.

Greg reached me. He steadied me and took the phone, listening. At the same time, he called to my parents.

“He hung up,” I managed.

“Did you recognize the voice?”

“No. He was whispering the whole time.”

Greg took me to a chair and, once I was in it, he stood behind me with his hands on my shoulders. By then, Mom and Dad were there. They started asking
things at the same time until they realized they were only confusing me. Once everyone calmed down a bit, I was able to get the story out.

I felt ridiculous because tears had started and I couldn't seem to stop sobbing. They were only words. In fact, they were only words over the phone. There were no threatening gestures, and I was in no immediate physical danger, and yet I was as terrified as if this person had just cornered me alone somewhere on a dark night.

My heart eventually went back to beating normally — a relief after the frantic pounding in my chest. Things came back into focus, but even so I still felt oddly suspended.

“Randall, we have to call the police,” Mom insisted, sounding as though Dad was arguing when, in fact, he was already looking up the number.

Greg suggested dialling star fifty-seven before calling the police. If you dial star fifty-seven in our area, the phone company puts a trace on the call. They won't give you the number, but they
will
give it to the police. Before we could do this, though, the phone rang again. Everyone stopped and looked at each other. Was it
him
again? But it was a neighbour, Marilyn Hester, calling for Mom. She must have been startled at Mom's tone, which was uncharacteristically abrupt.

The call from Ms. Hester lasted less than ten seconds, and yet it robbed us of our best shot to find out this guy's
identity. Putting a trace on the last caller now would only produce Ms. Hester's phone number.

A hopeless, sinking feeling washed over me at this realization. We'd just lost an important opportunity, one that could have ended this thing there and then.

“If he calls again, hang up and have the call traced right away,” Dad said. “And I'll call the phone company to arrange for caller ID so that we can see who's calling
before
we answer from now on.”