Eyes of a Stalker (11 page)

“I'd say he was pretty lucky, considering,” the nurse said. “There are a couple of cuts that will need stitches, but mostly they're superficial wounds.”

“But there was
so
much blood,” I said. “His whole face was covered.”

“Mmm. Scalp wounds are like that. They bleed like crazy. He actually doesn't have any cuts on his face. A few small ones high on the forehead and the deeper ones on the scalp. Could have been worse.”

“What happened?” I asked Greg.

“I don't really know. I opened my locker and the next thing I knew I was bleeding. I felt something
smash into my head but I was looking down at the books I was holding, so I didn't really see anything.” He shrugged, like it was no big deal.

“You have no idea who did this? You didn't see anyone coming at you?”

“No one came at me,” he said. “It came from inside my locker.”

“From inside your locker? But how…?”

“Someone booby-trapped it, I guess. And it had to be spring-loaded because it came out with quite a bit of force. You probably noticed that I wasn't the only one who got cut. My guess is that someone rigged a bunch of broken glass on the shelf so that it would fly out when the door was opened.”

“It's just fortunate he had his head down,” the nurse commented. “If he'd been hit in the face he could have ended up all scarred. And you don't even want to
think
about what it could have done to his eyes.”

I shuddered at that, and I saw that Greg looked pretty solemn too.

“I'd like to know what kind of monster would
do
something like this,” the nurse added. “I suppose it's the one they wrote about in the paper. Well, I hope they catch the guy soon. Bad enough he's making
your
life miserable,” she said with a glance at me, “but this! This is no joke.”

I hadn't thought what the stalker was doing to me was exactly a joke either, but I knew what she meant. Getting phone calls or e-mails or being watched is one thing; actually being injured is something else again.

The doctor came along and sent me out while he stitched up the deep cuts. I found Mom in the waiting area and sat down next to her. While we waited, I told her about how Greg's locker had been booby-trapped. Just as I finished going over the whole thing, Greg came along, smiling and saying he was good to go.

“Oh! Oh my goodness!” Mom said, looking at him in horror. I guess hearing about what had happened hadn't really prepared her for the stitched gashes on his head (clearly visible since they'd shaved those spots) or the sight of the drying blood all over his shirt. I hadn't even realized myself how much blood had run down. It looked pretty bad.

“I'm fine,” Greg told Mom. “Just a few nicks, really.”

“Has anyone called your father?”

“Nah. He's in Viander today and anyway, there's no reason for him to come rushing home or anything.”

“Well, I think he'd want to be told,” Mom said. She looked worried. “I know
I'd
want to be contacted if it was Shelby.”

“I'll call him if you really think I should,” Greg said slowly, “but then he's just going to be worrying driving home.”

“You're right. I don't know what's best now!”

In the end it was decided that Greg would call his dad and tell him he'd gotten cut a bit and had to have stitches, and that we thought he should come over to our place until his dad got him, just to be on the safe side. It went fine until Dr. Taylor asked to speak to Mom.

“Yes, Malcolm, how are you?” she said. “Yes, Greg is fine. I just thought he could stay with us until you get home. Okay then, we'll see you later on.”

“You might as well expect to see my dad in about forty minutes,” Greg said as we piled into the car. “He'll be leaving Viander right about now.”

“But I didn't give anything away,” Mom protested.

“Not in what you said,” Greg smiled, “but your voice wasn't exactly steady. No way Dad missed that. He knows there's more to it than what we told him.”

“In that case,” Mom said, “I'll just make enough dinner to include Malcolm, too.”

Sure enough, Greg's dad pulled into our driveway a little over half an hour after we got home. If the thought that he might be overreacting had ever entered his head, it probably vanished once he saw the police cruiser in the driveway.

It was Dr. Taylor who suggested that I look to see if the stalker had sent any more messages.

“From a professional view of this person,” he said, “I'd say it would be almost impossible for him not to make
sure
you know he's responsible for what happened to Greg.”

“Hey, that's right, you're a shri…er, a psychiatrist, aren't you?” Officer Holt said. He, along with Officer Stanton, had responded to this particular call.

“A psychologist, actually,” Dr. Taylor said. He turned back to me. “Would you like someone to come with you while you check your e-mail?”

“Could Officer Stanton come?” I said quickly, before either of my parents could say anything. I didn't want them, or Greg, to be with me when I opened my e-mail account. It just seemed as if it would be
easier with a stranger there.

Officer Stanton stood behind me while my computer whirred to life, waiting silently as I went online and into my e-mail account. I scanned the new e-mails, most of them stuff friends had forwarded. His was third from the last, sent at 3:24 that afternoon. The entire message was one line long.

Now you see what happens when you trifle with me
.

“Print it,” Stanton said.

I did as she'd asked and watched the sheet feed out into the printer tray. Officer Stanton picked it up and then rested a hand on my shoulder.

“I know this must be rough on you,” she said quietly. “But we
will
catch this guy.”

“Yeah, thanks.” I knew as well as she did that this creep was going to have to make a mistake before they'd ever figure out his identity, and so far he'd been careful. It didn't take much brainpower to guess that today's e-mail would have been sent from the school, just like the last one.

We went back to the other room, where our entrance was met with instant silence. Everyone was looking at me; everyone's face had the same question on it.

“You were right,” I told Dr. Taylor. “He sent a message.”

“It was short,” Officer Stanton said. She lifted the printout and read it. “‘Now you see what happens when you trifle with me.'”

Dr. Taylor nodded. “This person is taking increased risks,” he said. “He went from carefully covering his tracks with the plant delivery to taking a huge chance in setting up a booby trap in Greg's locker. This means he's either becoming more desperate, or he's developing a sense of invincibility.”

“Which do you think it is?” Dad asked.

“I couldn't venture a guess. Either scenario, this is a dangerous person. I don't think either Shelby or Greg should be left alone at any time until this person is in custody.”

He looked at the page again and added, “Something else that suggests this person feels powerful is the name he's chosen for himself.”

“You mean ‘soreros' is a real name?” Stanton asked.

“Not as it appears,” Dr. Taylor said, “but it looks as though he's barely hidden the name of Eros, the Greek God of love and desire, in there. If you start at the centre of the word it reads Eros backward to the start and forward to the end.”

He was about to say something else when the phone rang. Officer Holt went with Mom into the kitchen to answer it. A few seconds later Mom came to the doorway and beckoned for me.

“
It's him
,” she whispered, “but the officer thinks you should talk to him. See if he says anything that might give away his identity.”

I followed her, my stomach clenching as I approached the phone.

“Hello.”

“Shelby.” It was the same whisper as before.

“Who is this?” I demanded, knowing I was letting my anger take over, knowing that was a mistake, and powerless to stop myself.

There was a soft chuckle, like I'd just said something amusing. I guess I had, by asking him who he was as if he might actually tell me. Then I realized it wasn't the question, but the anger behind it, that was giving him such a kick. He'd heard the emotion in my voice and was enjoying it.

“Not so pleasant to look at now, is he?” he said after a second of silence.

“Who? Greg?”

“Yes, Greg. Or,” another horrible chuckle, “maybe we should call him Scarface.”

“Listen. Whoever you are and whatever you want, please leave him alone. He hasn't done anything to you.”

“Ah, Shelby. You still don't understand.
You're
the one who caused this. I told you to break up with him, but you didn't listen. You still haven't seen the truth.”

“And what is the truth?”

“I won't repeat myself.”

A click sounded, startling me. I turned to Officer Holt. “He hung up,” I said. “Sorry.”

“You did fine,” he assured me. “Now, before anything else, write down everything he said the best you can remember it.”

I did that, scribbling quickly before his words faded, though at that moment I suspected I wouldn't be able to get them out of my head if I tried.

“Oh!” I said, pausing for a second. “I forgot to check the phone to see if it said where he was calling from. Or to press star fifty-seven to trace it, if it doesn't show.”

Mom glanced away from me.

“What? What is it?” I knew immediately that there was something she didn't want to tell me.

“The call,” she said heavily, “came from the Taylor house.”

“
What
? From
Greg's
place?”

“Yes. The police radioed for a car to swing by their house, but I imagine he'll be long gone by the time they get there.”

I went into the other room, where Officer Holt was telling Dr. Taylor and Greg that the call had been from the perpetrator and that it had come from inside their house.

“Well,” Dr. Taylor said with a rueful smile, “that answers the question of what's motivating him.”

“How?” Officer Holt asked.

“He has no reason to break into our house to make the call when he could have done it from a public phone with very little risk to himself. Instead, he's chanced being seen by a neighbour entering or leaving our home. Or, we could have walked in at any time and caught him. He's also taken a chance on leaving forensic evidence behind with no way to explain how it got there. Those aren't acts of desperation. They're acts of bravado. He feels invincible, like no one can catch him. Fortunately, it's that very sense of omnipotence that will probably be his downfall.”

I was only half listening to what Dr. Taylor was saying, even though it was about the stalker. Knowing that this guy had been inside their house when he'd called really scared me. I couldn't understand why everyone else wasn't thinking of all the possibilities that went along with that.

For instance, what if he'd done something there, too: set another booby-trap, destroyed things… or even worse?

“How can we be sure that the house is safe for Greg and Dr. Taylor to go back to?” I worried aloud.

“We'll check that out
very
carefully,” Officer Stanton said.

“Can we be in the house while you're looking around?” Dr. Taylor wanted to know.

“It might be best if you aren't, just in case,” Officer Holt said.

“You and Greg will have dinner here, of course,” Mom said to Dr. Taylor. “And the police can let you know when they're through.”

So, the Taylors stayed for dinner, but it wasn't a happy meal. Everyone was trying to act normal, and to pretend that Greg didn't look like Frankenstein with his head shaved and stitched in three places.

I kept thinking that his injuries could have been so much worse if he hadn't happened to have his head down when he opened his locker door. And I wondered what the police would find when they went into the Taylor house, and what this guy had in store next. Would he target Greg again, or me, or maybe my parents?

It all felt like my fault, somehow, though I knew that wasn't true. Then something occurred to me. At first it seemed unthinkable, but after only a few moments I knew it was the best thing to do.

“Greg, I need to speak to you,” I said after we'd all eaten and the table had been cleared.

He followed me to the TV room and waited, sensing the gravity of my mood.

“This has all gotten too heavy for me,” I said, forcing my voice to stay even. “With everything that's going on, I just don't have the energy for a relationship anymore. I'm sorry.”

“You're breaking up with me?” His voice was dis-believing. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“You're giving in to this jerk?” he said.

“No, it's not that.” But it
was
that. It was the only thing I knew to do that would protect Greg.

“You think he'll back off if you aren't going out with me,” he stated. His voice was flat, and I realized he'd been carrying a pretty heavy load himself.

“That's part of it,” I admitted. It would be impossible to persuade him otherwise. “But it's not the
only
reason. Everything that's happened has gotten me thinking about a lot of stuff, and this is one of them.”

“Meaning
us
?”

“Yeah. Us. I'm sorry, but I can see now that this was coming anyway.”

“And by ‘this' you mean us breaking up?” All the time we were talking he kept looking right at me. I wished he'd stop.

“Yes.” The truth was that all I wanted was to throw my arms around him and tell him I
never
wanted to break up. But if I did that, he'd still be in danger. I knew I couldn't live with myself if something happened to Greg because I wasn't strong enough to do what I knew had to be done.