The Guardian

  When Mike parked on the street in front of his place, she found herself looking over her shoulder and straining to hear anything out of the ordinary. The darkened spaces between the houses didn't do much for her nerves; nor did the rustling, which turned out to be a stray cat poking through the garbage.

  And the questions that plagued her-oh, those were doozies for the nerves, weren't they? What did he want? What was he going to do next? For a moment she imagined herself lying in bed at night with the room black and, when her eyes adjusted to the darkness, realizing he was there, in the room with her. He'd be standing beside the bed, his eyes the only thing visible through the mask, something in his hand as he approached her . . .

  Julie shook that last image from her mind. Let's not get carried away. That's not going to happen. She was not going to let that happen. Mike wasn't going to let that happen. No way. Not a chance.

  But what to do?

  She wished she hadn't deleted the message. In fact, she wished she hadn't deleted any of the messages, since they were the only proof she had that something was actually happening. The police might have been able to do something with them.

  But they could do something anyway, couldn't they?

  Julie thought about that, coming to the same conclusion she'd shared with Emma. Oh, she could try, of course, but even with the new stalking laws, without proof there was nothing the police could do. She'd end up sitting across from some pudgy, overworked officer who would tap his pencil against the pad, waiting for her to provide concrete evidence.

  What did he say on the first messages? Nothing.

  Has he ever threatened you? No.

  Have you ever seen him following you? No, except at the beach.

  But you couldn't be sure it was him. He was too far away.

  If the person was whispering on the last message, how do you know it was Richard? I can't prove it, but I know it was him.

  Long pause. Uh-huh. Well, is there anything else? No. Except that I've got a major case of the willies and I'd like to be able to take a shower without imagining Norman Bates on the other side of the curtain.

  Another tap of the pencil. Uh-huh.

  Even to her, it sounded far-fetched. Thinking it was him didn't make it him. But it was Richard! She was absolutely sure of it.

  Wasn't she?

  At the Clipper, Julie took a seat at the bar alongside a few other men who'd come earlier to watch a baseball game.

  Julie ordered a beer and was nursing it slowly as eight o'clock came and went. The television was turned off and the people at the bar left; after the band had checked the amplifiers and tuned their instruments, they went backstage to relax. Mike joined Julie. They made a point of not talking about what had happened, which was, she thought, a lot like talking about it, when it got right down to it. But Julie could see the anger in Mike's eyes when he finally told her that he was needed on stage.

  "I'll be watching," he said.

  By that point, a few people had wandered up to the bar, others had seated themselves at tables, and still others had congregated in small groups. By nine-thirty, when the music started, even more people had arrived and there was a steady stream coming in the door. People were crowding the bar to order drinks, but Julie ignored them, thankful that the noise and atmosphere were at least partially drowning out the endless questions. Still, she turned reflexively toward the door whenever it opened, afraid of seeing Richard.

  Dozens of people entered, but Richard didn't.

  The hours passed in steady rhythm-first ten, then eleven, then midnight-and for the first time since that afternoon, Julie felt herself regaining a bit of control. And like Mike, with that feeling came anger. More than anything, she wanted to give Richard a verbal lashing in public, the kind of high-volume tirade that included pointed forefingers being poked into his chest. Just who do you think you are? she imagined herself screaming at him. Do you honestly think I'm going to put up with this crap for another minute? (Poke.) I've put up with too much in my life-I've survived too much in my life-to let you get the better of me. I will not, repeat, will not, let you ruin my life. (Poke, poke.) Do you think I'm some patsy? (Poke.) Some wimpy little thing who's gonna sit on the couch and tremble, just waiting for you to make the next move? Hell, no! (Poke, poke.) It's time to get on with your life, Mr. Richard Franklin. The best man won, and so sorry, pal, but you weren't him. As a matter of fact, you'll never be him. (Poke, poke, poke, followed by cheering as dozens of women spontaneously jumped up, applauding.) While she was envisioning her revenge, a group of young men wedged in next to her, ordering drinks for themselves and others in their group who couldn't get close enough. Their order took a few minutes, and when they left, she glanced off to the side.

  Halfway down the bar, she saw a familiar figure leaning toward the bartender to order a drink.

  Richard.

  His image was like a blow to the solar plexus, and all those devastating comebacks were forgotten.

  He was here.

  He'd followed her.

  Again.

  Mike had seen Richard come in a minute earlier and wanted to jump off the stage to head him off, but he forced himself to keep playing.

  Richard had seen Mike as well. He nodded to him with a smirk before making his way to the middle of the bar, pretending not to notice that Julie was there.

  You can shove that nod where the half-moons meet, Mike thought, feeling the adrenaline kick in again. One wrong move and this guitar will be rammed up there as well.

  Julie could see him, she could feel him, the sensation like heavy breaths inside a crowded elevator.

  He did nothing. He neither looked her way nor made any move toward her. Instead, he stood with his back to the bar, scanning the crowd with a drink in hand, looking just like any of the other men in the place. As if he honestly believed she'd think this whole thing were a coincidence.

  Screw you, Julie thought. You can't scare me.

  The band started another song, and she glanced toward Mike. His face was tight, his eyes flashing a warning. He mouthed the words I'm almost done, and she nodded, suddenly in dire need of a drink. A real drink, something served straight up and swallowed in a single motion.

  In the dim light, Richard's profile was shadowed. One leg crossed over the other, and for an instant, she thought she saw his mouth form an amused smile, as if he knew she was watching him. Her mouth, she realized, had gone dry.

  Who am I kidding? she suddenly thought. He scares the hell out of me.

  But it was time to end this.

  Without knowing where she found the guts to do what came next, Julie rose and started toward him. Richard turned when she was close, his expression opening up as if he were pleasantly surprised to see her.

  "Julie," he said, "I didn't know you'd be here. How are you?"

  "What are you doing here, Richard?"

  He shrugged. "Just having a couple of drinks."

  "Cut it out, will you?"

  She said it loud enough for others nearby to turn.

  "Excuse me?" he asked.

  "You know exactly what I'm talking about!"

  "No, I don't. . . ."

  "You followed me here!"

  "What?"

  By now, even more people had turned to watch, and Julie felt the words she'd rehearsed coming back to her. From the stage, Mike was watching with frantic intensity, and the moment the song ended, he started toward them, letting his guitar fall to the stage.

  "You think you can just follow me around and I'm just going to take it?" Julie demanded, her voice rising.

  Richard held up his hands. "Julie . . . hold on. Hold on. I don't know what you're talking about."

  "You picked the wrong girl to try to scare, and if you keep this up, I'll call the police and get a restraining order. I'll have you locked up. You think you can call my house and leave messages like you did-"

  "I didn't leave any messages-"

  Julie was screaming now, and people were looking from her to Richar
d and back again as the words sparked between them. By now, a half-circle had formed around them and they'd moved a step back, as if expecting fists to fly.

  Julie, meanwhile, was on a roll. Living the fantasy, she realized, was even better than imagining it. (That's right! You go, girl!) "-and get away with it? Did you think I wouldn't notice you watching me today?"

  Richard took a step backward. "This is the first time I've seen you. I was at the site all day."

  Lost in her emotions, Julie didn't register his denials.

  "I'm not going to put up with this!"

  "Put up with what?"

  "Just stop! I want you to just stop!"

  Richard looked toward the faces surrounding them, shrugging as if trying to enlist their sympathy.

  "Look-I don't know what's going on here, but maybe I should just leave-"

  "It's over. Do you understand that!"

  Mike pushed his way through the crowd at that moment. Julie's face was red, but she looked scared, and for an instant, Richard's eyes met Mike's. In the briefest of flashes, invisible unless one was looking for it, Mike recognized the same smirk on Richard's face that he'd seen when he'd first walked into the bar-a look of challenge and defiance, as if daring Mike to do something about this.

  That was all it took.

  The fury that had been building since the afternoon exploded. Richard was standing when Mike plowed into him, driving his head into Richard's chest like a football player making an open field tackle. The momentum momentarily lifted Richard from the floor and sent his upper torso crashing onto the bar. Bottles and glasses shattered on the ground, and screams broke out in the crowd.

  Mike grabbed Richard by the collar and cocked his arm, and though Richard's hands went up, he was off balance, which allowed Mike's first punch to connect with his cheek. Richard crashed into the bar again and was holding on to it to keep from falling. When his head came up-more slowly this time-there was a gash beneath his eye. Mike hit him again. Richard's head whipped sideways. It looked almost as if the events were happening in slow motion as Richard hit a stool and bounced off, tumbling until he hit the floor. When he rolled over, blood was streaming from his mouth. Mike was set to lunge again when a few men reached out to restrain him from behind.

  The fight had lasted less than fifteen seconds. Mike struggled to free himself before he realized the people behind him were holding him not so that Richard could have his chance, but because they were worried Richard might be hurt even further. As soon as they let him go, Julie took his hand and led him out the door.

  Even the band members knew enough not to try to stop them.

  Twenty-seven

  Once outside, Mike leaned against the tailgate, trying to collect himself.

  "Give me just a minute," he said.

  "You okay?" Julie asked.

  Mike brought his hands to his face and exhaled, speaking through his fingers. "I'm fine. Just crashing a little."

  Julie moved closer, tugging at his shirt. "That's a side of you that I haven't seen before. But you should know that I was handling it okay on my own."

  "I could see that. But the look he gave me really set me off."

  "What look?"

  Mike described it, and Julie shivered. "I didn't see that," she said.

  "I don't think you were meant to. But I guess it's finally over now."

  For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Behind them, a few people had stepped outside and were staring in their direction. Julie's thoughts, however, were elsewhere. What was it that Richard had said? That he'd been working? That he'd been at the site all day? She hadn't listened when he'd said them, but the words were coming back now.

  "I hope so," she said.

  "It's over," Mike said again.

  Julie smiled briefly, but she was clearly distracted. "He said he wasn't the one watching me today," she said. "Or making the calls. He said he didn't know what I was talking about."

  "You didn't really expect him to admit it, did you?"

  "I don't know. I guess I didn't expect him to say anything."

  "You're still sure it was him, though, aren't you?"

  "Yeah, I'm sure." She paused. "At least I think I'm sure."

  He reached for her hand. "It was him. I saw it in his face."

  Julie stared at the ground. "Okay," she said.

  Mike squeezed her hand. "C'mon, Julie. You don't want me to start worrying that I just beat up a guy for nothing, do you? He's the one. Trust me. And if he does anything else, we'll go to the police and tell them everything that's happened. We'll get a restraining order, we'll press charges. We'll do whatever it takes. Besides, if he wasn't the one, what was he doing there tonight? And why did he get so close without saying hello? You were only a few feet away."

  Julie closed her eyes. He's right, she thought. He's absolutely right. Richard wouldn't have gone there. Hadn't he said he didn't like it? No, he was there because he'd seen them go in. He'd known they would be there because he'd watched them. And of course he would lie about it. If he'd done everything else just this side of pyschoville, why should she expect him to tell the truth?

  But why had he let himself be seen this time? And what did that mean?

  Despite the warmth of the air, Julie felt suddenly chilled.

  "Maybe I should go to the police anyway. Just to get a report filed."

  "It might not be a bad idea."

  "Will you go with me?"

  "Of course." Mike reached up and touched her face. "So, you feeling better?"

  "A little. Still scared, but better now."

  Mike ran his finger over her cheek before leaning in to kiss her.

  "I told you I wasn't going to let anything happen to you, and I'm not. Okay?"

  His touch made her skin tingle. "Okay."

  In the bar, Richard was finally able to get to his feet. Among the first to reach him was Andrea.

  She had seen Mike jump from the stage and begin pushing his way through the crowd. The guy she was dancing with-another winner, she acknowledged, though the neck scar was kind of sexy-grabbed her hand and said, "C'mon . . . fight." They followed the path Mike had taken, and though they were too late to see the fight start or end, she did see Julie leading Mike away by the hand while Richard used the lower rungs of the stool to pull himself up. He was being helped by others, and as spectators rehashed what had happened, she caught the gist of what went on.

  "He just attacked the guy . . ."

  "This guy was minding his own business when this lady started screaming at him, and then this other dude barged in . . ."

  "He wasn't doing anything . . ."

  Andrea saw the gash on his cheek, the blood at the corner of his mouth, and stopped chewing her gum. She couldn't believe it. She'd never heard Mike so much as raise his voice, let alone attack someone. Pout, maybe, head off to stew, maybe, but never something violent like this. But the proof was right here in front of her. Richard was right in front of her, and as he staggered to his feet, her next move registered at once. He's hurt! He needs me! She cast off the guy she'd been dancing with and practically lunged toward Richard.

  "Oh, my God . . . are you okay?"

  Richard looked at her without answering, and when he wobbled, Andrea reached out, slipping her arm around him. Not an ounce of fat on him, she noticed.

  "What happened?" she asked, feeling flushed.

  "He came up and hit me," Richard said.

  "But why?"

  "I don't know."

  He wobbled again, and Andrea felt him lean on her.

  His arm slipped over her shoulder. Muscles there, too, she noted.

  "You need to sit down for a minute. Here-let me help."

  They took a tentative step, and the crowd started to part. Andrea liked that. It seemed almost as if they were in the final scene of a movie, just before the credits roll. She had just begun batting her eyes for effect when Leaning Joe, hobbling on his prosthetic leg, suddenly showed up to help Richard as well.

  "C'm
on," he barked. "I'm the owner here. We need to talk."

  He began leading Richard to the table, and when he suddenly changed direction, Andrea was jostled to the side and forced to let go. A minute later, Leaning Joe and Richard were talking over a small table.

  From across the bar, her moment ruined, Andrea pouted as she watched them. By the time her date came back to her side, she'd already decided what she had to do.

  All in all, it was a day that Julie would rather not relive.

  Sure, it was good to test the engines, so to speak. She'd pretty much gone through every emotion possible since she'd crawled out of bed that morning, and every single one seemed to be in fine working order. Overall, she thought, if she were ranking the days, this one would have been number one in fright (bypassing the first night she'd slept beneath a highway overpass in Daytona), number three in despondency (the day Jim died and the funeral still occupied the first two slots in that sorry category), and number one in overall exhaustion. Throw in a smattering of love, anger, tears, laughter, surprise, relief, and the day-long push and pull of worry when imagining what would come next, and it was definitely a day she'd remember for a long, long time.

  In the kitchen, Mike was tapping decaffeinated coffee grounds into the filter. He'd been quiet in the car and was still quiet now; he'd asked for aspirin as soon as they got home and had chewed four tablets before filling a glass of water to wash them down. Julie sat at the table. Singer chose that moment to lean against her until she gave him the attention that, no doubt in his mind, had been in relatively short supply lately.

  Mike was definitely right. The whole thing must have been planned, and not only that, Richard had anticipated how she would react. He must have. His answers, his lies, had come too quickly, too naturally, too smoothly, for it to be otherwise.