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?"