"And since you're so honest, I should believe you?"
He pretended to wince. "Ouch. The truth is, I've done more watching out for Tamsin than any cop could ever do. In case you hadn't realized it, I bought this house because it backs catty-cornered to Tamsin and Cliff's. I watch. Every moment she's home and I'm not at work, I watch."
"Let me get this straight," I said slowly. "You're stalking her, too?"
His face flushed deeply. He'd never put it that way to himself, I was willing to bet. "I'm observing her," he said.
"No, you're waiting for someone to get her."
I got up and left his house.
"Remember!" he called after me. "If I get to keep my job, you get to keep out of the book!"
I went right to Claude. I was in that period of grace, the time between the moment the bullet hits and the moment you begin to feel the pain; in that period of grace, you actually felt numb, but you knew something dreadful was coming. (At least, that was what some gunshot victims had told me.) If I waited, I would consider Gerry McClanahan's offer. I couldn't let myself hesitate.
The old house, temporary home of the chief of police's office, looked especially forlorn in the renewed rain. I was so wet that getting out again hadn't posed a hardship, and I walked into the station with my hair dripping in streams to the floor, much to the amusement of the desk clerk. She went into Claude's office after I asked for him and ushered me in after a brief consultation. She also handed me a towel.
It was hard to know what to dry first, but after I rubbed my face and hair, I began to work my way down. Then I folded the towel, put it in the uncomfortable chair that faced Claude's desk, and sat on it.
Claude was wearing his work face, serious and hard, and I was wearing mine, blank and equally hard. We were just two tough people, there in that little office, and I was about to tell my friend Claude some tough things. Before I opened my mouth to speak, I found myself wishing I were rich enough to hire someone else to come in here and tell Claude all this unpleasant news. And I was still undecided about whether or not to talk about Alicia Stokes.
In the end, I only broke the news about Gerry McClanahan. If Claude had researched a little more he would've found out about Stokes's obsession. Or maybe he did know. Maybe he needed her more than he cared about her quirks.
At least I told myself that was my reasoning; but actually, I suspect I just didn't want to give Claude so much bad news at one time.
"So," Claude rumbled, when I'd finished, "My newest officer is a famous writer?"
I nodded.
"He's a qualified police officer, right? I mean, his references checked out." These words were mild, giving no hint that Claude was truly and massively angry.
"Yes, he is a qualified police officer."
"He told me he had taken a few years off to travel on some money he'd inherited." Claude swiveled his chair to look out at a dripping world. "He didn't have a record." Claude kept staring out the damn window for a good while. "And he intends to write about the murder of Saralynn Kleinhoff?"
"He's writing a book about the stalking of Tamsin Lynd."
Another shock for Claude, who ran a hand over his seamed face. "So, though she never told us squat and I wouldn't know about it to this day if Detective Stokes hadn't remembered it from her former job, Tamsin Lynd has been stalked for a while. Persistently enough to make it a notable case."
"According to McClanahan, yes. He says she's moved twice."
"And whoever this is, just keeps following her."
"Alicia Stokes has a theory about that."
"Yeah, Alicia said she thinks Lynd is doing all these things herself. She played me a tape about a similar case that occurred a few years ago, the woman was doing it all herself. Smearing manure on her own door, setting off smoke bombs on her porch, sending herself threatening hate mail."
I couldn't help but realize that Tamsin's stay in the conference room while Saralynn was killed and Janet attacked was much more explainable if it had been Tamsin doing the attacking. I tried to imagine Tamsin pinning the body of Saralynn up on the bulletin board, and I just couldn't. But I knew better than anyone did what could be inside someone, unsuspected. However ... I shook my head. I just couldn't see it. I didn't want to see it.
"Lily, what did he threaten you with?"
"What?"
"You told McClanahan you were coming over here?"
"Yes."
"He didn't try to stop you?"
I didn't answer.
"I know he did, Lily. Don't you lie to me. There's been enough of that."
The numbness had worn off by then, and Claude's question drew my attention to the wound. The pain hit me broadside. I realized, fully, that my new life was gone. Possibly Jack's, as well. We would go through the whole thing again, both of us, and I didn't know if we were strong enough to withstand it.
"Lily?"
Looking down at my hands folded in my lap, I told him.
After a moment of silence, Claude said, "Damn him to hell."
"Amen to that," I said.
We sat in silence for a moment.
"What about telling Tamsin?" I asked.
Claude rubbed a finger over the surface of his badge. "Lily, you go home and rest up," he said finally. "That isn't your responsibility. I'm sorry it's mine, but I guess it is. It's someone I employed who's watching her."
"But not illegally," I said, having thought it over. "He stays on his property. He doesn't trespass. He's just. .. observing Tamsin's life. From a safe distance."
"He doesn't communicate with her or try to scare her?" Claude asked, thinking it through.
"No. He just watches and waits for something else to happen to her." I couldn't help it; I shuddered.
"Maybe I should just tell her husband, that Cliff."
"Cliff Eggers, martial medical transcriptionist? I don't think that'd do a lot of good."
"Me, either." Claude reflected for a moment. "Well, Lily, I'm sure Jack will track me down and beat me up if you don't go home to rest."
For whatever reasons, he wanted me to go. There was nothing else I could say or do. I just had to wait, and watch the consequences coming at me. Nothing I could do would stop what was going to happen. I had sworn to myself that I would never again feel helpless in this life; to that end, I had trained myself and remained vigilant. But now, all over again, I was a victim.
I felt very tired. I returned the towel to the receptionist on my way out, and when I got home I was happy to get in a shower, get even wetter, and then put on some dry clothes. I sat in my reclining love seat, began rescreening one of the movies I'd rented, and without a premonitory blink I fell asleep.
Someone had hold of me, and I wrenched my arm away.
"What? Stop!" I mumbled, heavy with sleep.
"Lily! Lily! Wake up!"
"Jack? What are you doing here?" I focused on him with a little difficulty. I wasn't used to napping, and I found it disagreed with me.
"I got a phone call," he said, his voice clipped and hard. "Telling me I better get back fast, that you were in trouble."
"Who would have said that?"
"Someone who didn't want to leave a name."
"I'm okay," I said, a little muddled about all this, but still pretty sure I was basically all right. "I just fell asleep when I left Claude's office. You won't... you're going to be really mad when I tell you what's happened."
"It must have been something, to make you sleep through karate class," Jack said. I peered past him at the clock. It was seven thirty. I'd been asleep about two hours, I realized with a great deal of astonishment. I could count the naps I'd taken as an adult on the fingers of one hand. "How are you feeling?"
"Pretty good," I said. "Let me go clean up a little. My mouth is gummy. I can't believe I feel asleep."
When I came back from the bathroom I was sure I was awake, and I knew I felt much better. I'd washed my face, brushed my teeth, and combed my hair. Jack looked calmer, but he was angry now, the false phone call having upset him badly.
"Did you try calling me before you rushed back from Little Rock?" That would have left the puzzle of who had called him, but relieved his anxiety.
Jack looked guilty. "Once."
"No answer."
"No."
"Did you try my cell phone?"
"Yes."
I took it from the table and looked at it. I'd never turned it on that day. "Okay, let me tell you where I was." I could hardly upbraid Jack because he had rushed back to Shakespeare under the impression I was in deep trouble, either physically or emotionally. "I was at the police station."
Jack's dark brows arched up. "Really?" He was determined not to overreact, now.
"Yes. I was there because of the new patrolman."
"The red-haired guy?" There wasn't much Jack didn't notice.
"The very one. It turns out he's Gerry McClanahan, all right, but he's also the true-crime writer Gibson Banks."
"Oh, no." Jack had been standing by the window looking out at the darkness of the cloudy night. Now he came and sat beside me on the love seat. He closed his eyes for a second as he assessed the damage this would do us. When he opened them, he looked like he was facing a firing squad. "God, Lily. This is going to be so bad. All over again."
"He's not after us. We're only an interesting sidelight to him, something he just happened on. Serendipity." I could not stop my voice from being bitter or my face from being grim.
Jack looked at me as though I better not draw this out. So I told him quickly and succinctly what Gerry McClanahan, aka Gibson Banks, had proposed to me. And what I had done.
"I could kill him," Jack said. I looked at Jack's face, and believed him. "I can't believe the son-of-a-bitch made you that offer." When Jack got mad, he got mad all over; there was no mistaking it. He was furious. "I'm going to go over and talk to him right now."
"No, please, Jack." I took his hands. "You can't go over there mad. Besides, he might be on patrol." I had a flash of an idea, something about Jack and his temper and impulsive nature, but in the urgency of the moment it went by me too fast for me to register it.
"Then I'll find him in his car." Jack shook my hands off. I could see that something about my becoming pregnant had smothered Jack's sure knowledge that I was a woman who could definitely take care of herself. Or maybe it was because our brief life together was being threatened; that was what had shaken me so badly.
"You can come with me if you're afraid I'll kill the bastard," Jack said, reading me correctly. "But I'm going to talk to him tonight." Again, I felt as if I ought to be drawing a conclusion, as if somewhere in my brain a chime was ringing, but I couldn't make the necessary connections.
I didn't feel as though I had enough energy left to walk to the car, much less trail after Jack over to the writer's house. But I had to. "Okay. Let's go," I said, getting to my feet. I pulled my cheap rain slicker from the little closet in the living room, and Jack got his. I grabbed my cell phone. "We need to take the car," I said, trying not to sound as shaky as I felt. "I don't want to walk in the dark."
That didn't fool Jack. I could see he knew I was weak. He shot me a sharp look as he fished his car keys from his pocket, and I saw that even concern for my well-being was not about to divert him from his goal of confronting the writer. Jack waited, barely holding his impatience in check, until I climbed in the passenger's seat, and then we were off. Jack even drove mad.
There were lights on in the small house. Oh, hell, McClanahan was home. No matter how he'd upset me that day, I'd found myself wishing he'd be at the police station, or out on patrol, anything but home alone. I got out of the passenger seat to follow Jack up the sidewalk to the front door. He banged on it like the cop he'd formerly been.
No answer.
The author could have looked out to see who was visiting, and decided to remain silent. But Gerry had struck me as a man who would relish such a confrontation, just so he could write about it afterward.
Jack knocked again.
"Help!" shouted a man's voice, from behind the house. "Help me!"
I vaulted over the railing around the porch and landed with both feet on the ground, giving my innards a jolt that sent them reeling. Oh, God, it hurt. I doubled over gasping while Jack passed me by. He paused for a second, and I waved my hand onward, urging him to go to the help of whoever was yelling.
I was sure I needed to go home to wash myself and change my pad. I felt I was leaking blood at the seams. But the pain abated, and I walked to the voices I was hearing at the back of the house.
I could barely make out Jack and - was that Cliff Eggers? - bent over something huddled in the darkness by the corner of the hedge that separated the rear of this house from the house behind it. I could see the back of Tamsin's house to my right, and its rear light was shining benignly over the back door. There was a bag of garbage abandoned on the ground beside Cliff, who was covered with dark splotches. I'd only seen him dressed for work, but I could make out that Cliff was wearing only a formerly white T-shirt and ancient cutoff shorts.
"Don't come closer, Lily," Jack called. "This is a crime scene."
So I squatted in the high grass next to the house, while I eased the cell phone out of my pocket. I tossed it to Jack, who punched in the numbers.
