The Guardian (33 page)

"It just doesn't seem fair," Mike said.

"Did the lawyer say anything else?"

Mike shrugged. "Just the usual stuff. That there's no reason to worry just yet."

"Easy for him to say."

Mike let go of Julie and took a deep breath. "Yeah." It came out sounding tired, defeated, and Julie looked up at him.

"You still coming over to my place tonight?"

"If you want me to. If you're not too mad at me."

"I'm not mad at you. But I would be if you didn't come. I really don't want to be alone tonight."

Steven Sides's office was located near the courthouse. Once inside, Mike was led to a paneled room dominated by a large rectangular table and shelves filled with law books. He took a seat as the attorney pushed open the door.Steven Sides was fifty, with a round face and black hair that was turning gray at the temples. His suit was expensive-one of those silk numbers imported from Italy-but it looked rumpled, as if he hadn't hung it up after wearing it last. There was a puffiness to his skin and the tip of his nose that suggested the habit of a few too many after-hours cocktails, but there was a steadiness to his demeanor that gave Mike confidence. Sides spoke slowly, carefully, with every word measured for effect. He let Mike rant for a few minutes, before guiding him into the story with a series of questions. It didn't take long for Mike to tell him everything.

When he was finished, Steven Sides set his pencil on his legal pad and leaned back.

"Like I said on the phone, I wouldn't worry about the altercation on Saturday night right now. For one thing, I'm not sure the district attorney is going to push for prosecution, for various reasons." He began to tick them off, one by one. "Your clean record, your good standing in the community, and the fact that he's well aware that you'd be able to bring in dozens of character witnesses make it unlikely that he'd find a jury who would convict you. And once I tell him what led you to this point makes prosecution that much more doubtful, even if there is no proof of the stalking. It could still play well to a jury, and he knows it."

"But what about the civil case?"

"That's a different matter, but it's not something that would happen right away, if it happens at all. If the district attorney doesn't prosecute, that won't be good for Franklin's case. If the district attorney prosecutes and loses the case, that won't look good, either. In all likelihood, they won't go to court unless he wins at trial, and like I said, I just don't see that happening. You thought Julie was in trouble and you reacted; for better or worse, most people would find that perfectly reasonable. And the restraining order is just for show. I'll assume you have no problem staying away from Richard Franklin."

"Not at all. I never wanted to be around the guy in the first place."

"Good. But let me handle the prosecutor, okay? And don't go talking to the police again. Just refer them to me and I'll handle it."

Mike nodded. "So you really don't think I should worry about this?"

"Not yet, anyway. Let me talk to a few people, and I'll let you know where we are in a couple of days. If you're going to worry about anything, worry about Richard Franklin."

Sides leaned forward, his face serious. "What I'm going to tell you is just for you, okay? And I'm only doing this because you seem like a decent guy. If you say that I'm the one who told you what I'm about to say, I'll deny it."

After a moment, Mike nodded.

The lawyer waited, making sure he had Mike's complete attention.

"There's one thing you should understand about the police. The police are great when there's a burglary or a murder. That's what the system was set up for-to catch people after the fact. Even with the stalking laws on the books, there's still nothing that the police can really do if someone targets you and he's been careful not to leave evidence that gets him locked up first. If a person is hell-bent on doing you harm and he doesn't care about the possible consequences, then you're pretty much on your own. You'll be the one who has to deal with this."

"So you think Richard Franklin might want to hurt Julie?"

"That's not the right question to ask. The question is, do you believe that? If you do, you'll have to be ready to deal with it. Because if it gets worse from here, no one's going to be able to help you."

The conversation left Mike feeling off-kilter. Sides was obviously a smart guy, and though Mike was feeling better about his legal prospects, his relief was offset by Sides's warning.Was it over with Richard now?

Mike paused outside his truck and thought about it. He pictured Richard's face in the bar again. He saw the smirk, and with that, the answer came to him.

This wasn't going to stop, he knew. Richard was just getting started.

And as he crawled into the truck, he heard Sides's voice again.

No one's going to be able to help you.

That evening, Mike and Julie did their best to have as normal a night as possible. They grabbed a pizza on the way home, then watched a movie, but neither bothered to hide the fact that whenever a car drove up the street, they both stiffened until it had passed. They kept the curtains drawn and kept Singer inside. Even Singer picked up on their nervousness. Pacing the house as if on patrol, he neither barked nor growled. When he closed his eyes to doze, he did so with one ear cocked forward.The only thing unusual about the night was that it seemed too quiet. Because Julie's phone had been switched to an unlisted number, it hadn't rung. She had decided to give the number to only a few select people, and she'd told Mabel not to offer it to clients. If Richard can't call, she thought, maybe he'll get the message.

Julie shifted on the couch. Maybe.

After dinner, she'd asked Mike about his meeting with the lawyer, and Mike had told her what Sides had said-namely, that he didn't think Mike had all that much to worry about. But to Julie's vigilant eye, Mike's demeanor suggested that Sides had said a good deal more than that.

Across town, Richard stood above the tray of chemicals in his darkroom, his face glowing red, watching as the image on the photographic paper slowly took form. The process still struck him as mysterious-ghosts and shadows, darkening, becoming real. Becoming Julie.Her eyes shimmered back at him in the shallow pan, shimmered all around him.

Always, he returned to the photography, the single constant in his life. Staring at the beauty of reflected light and shadows on the images brought a sense of purpose, reminding him that he controlled his own destiny.

He was still exhilarated from the other night. Julie's imagination was running wild, no doubt. Even now, she was probably wondering where he was, what he was thinking, what he would do next. As if he were some kind of monster, the bogeyman of childhood nightmares. He wanted to laugh. How could such a terrible thing make him feel so good?

And Mike, charging in like the cavalry at the bar. So utterly predictable. He'd almost wanted to laugh then, too. No challenge with that one. Julie, though . . .

So emotional. So brave.

So alive.

Studying the photograph in front of him, he again took note of the similarities between Julie and Jessica. Same eyes. Same hair. Same air of innocence. From the moment he'd walked into the salon, he'd thought they could be sisters.

Richard shook his head, feeling the memory of Jessica pull at him.

They had rented a house in Bermuda for their honeymoon, not far from large resorts. It was quiet and romantic, with ceiling fans and white wicker furniture and a porch that faced the ocean. There was a private beach where they could spend hours in the sun alone, just the two of them.

Oh, how he'd been looking forward to that! He'd taken dozens of photographs of her during the first couple of days.

He loved her skin; it was soft and unlined, burnished in its coat of oil. By the third day, her skin had darkened to bronze, and in her white cotton dress, she was dazzling. That night, he'd wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and slowly peel the dress from her body and make love to her beneath the sky.

But she'd wanted to go dancing. At the resort.

No, he'd said, let's stay here. It's our honeymoon.

Please, she'd said. For me. Will you do this for me?

They went, and it was loud and filled with drunks, and Jessica was loud and kept on drinking. Her words began to slur, and later she swayed as she made her way to the rest room. She bumped into a young man and nearly spilled his drink. The young man touched her arm and laughed. Jessica laughed with him.

Richard seethed as he watched it happen. It embarrassed him. It angered him. But he would forgive her, he told himself. She was young and immature. He would forgive her, because he was her husband and he loved her. But she would have to promise not to do it again.

But that evening, when they were back at the house, he tried to talk to her and she wouldn't listen.

I was just having fun, she'd said. You could have tried to have fun, too.

How could I, with my new wife flirting with strangers?

I wasn't flirting.

I saw you.

Stop acting crazy.

What did you say to me? What did you say?

Ow . . . let me go . . . you're hurting me. . . .

What did you say?

Ow . . . please . . . Ow!

What did you say?

In the end, she'd disappointed him, Richard thought. And Julie had disappointed him, too. The grocery store, the salon, the way she'd hung up on him. He was beginning to lose faith, but she'd redeemed herself at the bar. She hadn't been able to ignore him, she hadn't been able to simply walk away. No, he thought, she'd had to talk to him, and though her words were spiteful, he knew what she was really feeling. Yes, he knew, she cared for him, for weren't anger and love opposite sides of the same coin? Great anger wasn't possible without great love . . . and she'd been so angry.

The thought made him soar.

Richard left the darkroom and made his way to the bedroom. On the bed, amid the clutter of the cameras and lenses, he reached for the cell phone. His home phone, he knew, would leave a traceable record, but he had to hear her voice tonight, even if it was only on the machine. When he heard her voice, he could see the two of them at the theater again, tears in her eyes, he could hear her breath speed up as the Phantom decided whether to let his lover leave him or whether both of them should die.

He dialed the number, then closed his eyes in anticipation. But instead of Julie's familiar voice, there was a recording from the phone company. He ended the call and dialed again, more carefully this time, but got the same recorded message.

Richard stared at the phone. Oh, Julie, he wondered, why? Why?

After the tumult of the past month, the next week of Julie's life was startlingly quiet. She didn't see Richard anywhere during the week or on the following weekend, Monday had been equally uneventful, and she kept her fingers crossed that today would be no different.It seemed as if it would. Her phone was evidence to the fact that unlisted, unforwarded numbers were an effective way to stop unwanted calls, and though it was a welcome relief not to worry about it, she'd begun thinking that she might as well bury the phone in the backyard, since it was obvious that no one was ever going to give her a ring just to shoot the breeze, ever again, for the rest of her life.

Only four people-Mabel, Mike, Henry, and Emma-knew the number, and since she spent all day with Mabel and all night with Mike, neither one of them had reason to give her a jingle. Henry had never called in all the years she'd known him, which pretty much left Emma as the only person who might even consider calling. But after hearing how the calls had rattled Julie, Emma was apparently giving her a break, not wanting to be responsible for peeling Julie off the ceiling.

Okay, she admitted, it wasn't so bad at first. It was kind of nice being able to cook or shower or thumb through a magazine or cuddle with Mike and know that she wouldn't be disturbed, but after a week, it got kind of irritating. Sure, she could call out and she did, but that wasn't the same. Because no one called, because no one could call, it sort of began to feel as if she'd been transported back to the pioneer days.

Funny what a quiet week will do to a person's perspective.

But it had been quiet, that was the thing. Really quiet. Normally quiet. She hadn't so much as seen anyone who might be Richard, even from a distance, and she was watching for him practically every minute. And so, of course, were Mike and Mabel and Henry. She'd peek out the windows of the salon in both directions a dozen times a day. When she was driving, she would sometimes turn suddenly onto a different road and stop, staring in the rearview mirror to see if anyone was following her. She scanned parking lots with a professional eye and faced the door when she stood in line at the post office or the supermarket. When she got home, Singer would head toward the woods and she would call him back so he could check out the house. She would wait outside, her hand on the container of pepper spray she'd picked up at Wal-Mart, while Singer scoured the rooms. But within minutes, Singer would come back, tail wagging and drool dripping, looking as happy as a kid at a birthday party.

What are you still doing on the porch? he seemed to ask. Don't you want to come in?

Even the dog noticed she was acting a little paranoid. But as the old cliche went, better safe than sorry.