Eyes of a Stalker (10 page)

I picked up the notepad I'd been using to write down everything that this guy had done, and drew a line down the centre of one page. It might be a good idea to make a list of the guys in the two clubs. Just in case.

I felt a bit silly once I'd written down the names. I mean, what was a list of names going to tell me? I already knew who was in each group, and that a couple of the guys were in both groups.

Actually, picturing each guy in my head, it seemed less likely that the stalker was one of them. These
were all just regular guys. Nothing strange about any of them.

Well, Betts had mentioned that Eric had asked if I was still going out with Greg, but that was nothing. Even so, I made a note about it on a separate page.

I glanced over the list again, shoved it into my desk drawer, and turned to my computer. I almost opted against going online and checking my e-mails, but the thought that this guy was starting to control an awful lot of things I did really made me angry.

I logged onto my account and only flinched a little when there was a message from an unknown sender. Luckily, it was just junk mail. I relaxed, glad I'd gone ahead.

The less power I give him, the better, I thought. He won't know it, but
I
will.

As you can imagine, when the paper came out with the story about the stalker, it was pretty big news. Little River, like most small towns, is generally peaceful, quiet, and law-abiding. The idea that there was a crime of this sort going on right in their own town was more excitement than most Little River residents have had in a long while.

I, however, was anything but overjoyed to be the focal point of the story. All I could hope was that they'd catch the guy soon, at which time the attention would almost certainly shift over to him.

I'd have preferred to stay home as much as possible, but with Christmas just around the corner I had no choice but to go out quite often. And everywhere I went there were whispers behind my back. Hushed conversations that might have fooled me if it wasn't for
the corresponding fingers that were inevitably pointing in my direction.

“That's her,” I'd hear. Or, “There she is!” as if they'd been out looking for me all day or something.

Then they'd try to pretend they weren't talking about me. Their heads would stop swivelling with every step I took, but I could still feel the eyes following me. And the second I left a store or whatever, I could hear voices rising in excited chatter.

I hated it. And there wasn't a thing I could do about it. But, I have to admit, it got me feeling just a little safer, too. After all, it would be pretty hard for anyone to make a move on me with the whole town's eyes looking on.

In spite of the newspaper's factual reporting (and, as promised, no picture) there were still some wild stories flying around. I even overheard one of them when I was at the library looking for a book on Sir Frederick Banting. The conversation was taking place in the book aisle behind where I was standing, and the elderly ladies who were talking clearly had no idea that I was right there within earshot of their gossip.

“It's hard to believe we have a stalker right here in Little River,” one woman said in a loud whisper. “I've barely been able to sleep at night since I heard about it.”

“I know, I know. A person hardly feels safe in their own home anymore,” the second agreed.

While I wondered what they thought
they
had to be nervous about, I heard the sounds of a book dropping and being retrieved.

“I heard that this fellow's been sending the little Belgarden girl flowers and candy every day, but the police won't say whether or not any of the candy was poisoned.”

“
I
heard the candy was sent to her boyfriend. Supposedly from
her
. And he was just about to eat a piece when his dog bumped him and it dropped. And what do you think but the dog gobbled it down and fell over dead. Saved the boy's life!”

“You don't say!”

“I
do
say! Now, you can't tell me that dog didn't know what it was doing.”

“I like cats myself, though I don't suppose my Whimsy would sacrifice herself for me that way.”

The embarrassment I'd felt when the women began talking had changed to disbelief and then to anger. I took a few quick steps out, around, and into the aisle they occupied. Neither woman was familiar to me.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” I said. I tried to sound pleasant and unperturbed, the way Mom does when she's upset and hiding it.

“Oh, hello,” one answered. Both smiled at me quizzically.

“My name,” I said, smiling back, “is Shelby Belgarden, and I just happened to hear your conversation
… about me. I thought maybe you should know that I've never
received
candy from the person who's been bothering me. Neither has my boyfriend Greg, who, incidentally, does not even
have
a dog.”

Their mouths fell open but neither spoke.

“I don't mean to be rude, but this whole thing is difficult enough for me without people spreading this kind of ridiculous gossip.”

I turned and walked away, and then headed for the section Mom was browsing while she waited for me. You'd think I'd have felt a whole lot better after getting that out, but I didn't. I felt mean and horrid, like I'd just picked on a couple of harmless old ladies for no good reason.

I worried about Webster too, and hoped that no one would connect the visit he'd received from the police to the stalking story. I hadn't heard anything along those lines, at least, and I was thankful for that, because it seemed the poor man already had enough problems without people thinking that of him.

In a lot of ways, school was worse than anything. A lot of kids were sympathetic and supportive, but others seemed to think it was something to joke about. They'd call out to any guy who happened to be walking behind me and ask him moronic things, such as was he stalking me.

But even harder to take were the snide remarks I'd hear — mostly from girls. It wasn't so much
what
they'd say as the
way
they'd say it. Their comments made it sound as though I'd manufactured the entire story for attention — the last thing I'd actually want!

I couldn't do anything but swallow my anger and humiliation and hope they felt like dirt when they found out how wrong they'd been.

And then there was the worst thing of all: whoever the stalker was, he was almost certainly a student at Little River High. The fact that the e-mail had been sent from the school meant he had to have been inside in the daytime and had an opportunity to jimmy the lock on the side door. Any outsider would have been noticed.

He also had to know where the computer lab was and what time the building was deserted in the evenings. And, of course, he had to have been around me in order to have developed this bizarre obsession.

Then something else happened — something horrible — and it removed any hint of doubt I might have had that the stalker was a fellow student.

I'd been so wrapped up in how awful it was for
me
that I'd forgotten something. This jerk had threatened to do something to Greg. I guess none of us had taken that very seriously, which strikes me as odd, looking back on it. But it just seemed, at the time, to be nonsense. And then there was the fact that we didn't know just how sick and dangerous he really was.

My fears centred on being followed, watched, possibly approached by this guy. I never thought of him doing anything really hurtful. The idea that he could be seriously violent seemed melodramatic and totally over-the-top.

It happened on a Tuesday, right after school, when the hallways and locker areas were crowded with kids who were anxious to head out, to breathe outside air after being stuck inside all day.

Like so many other students, I was fishing through my locker, making sure I had the books I needed for my homework, getting my jacket on — just doing what we do every school day.

I wasn't even alarmed when I first heard the screams. It's not that unusual, especially after school when every-one's energy has been pent up all day. It sounded like the shrieks you might hear in reaction to a silly, scary trick.

But the sound changed fast. It swelled with real alarm and panic. I stood frozen with the sudden certainty that, somehow, this had something to do with the stalker.

Everything slowed down, as though sounds and movements had been stretched. I became aware of a heavy thudding in my chest. My brain was struggling to put the surge of thoughts together, and when it did I heard a low, frightened moan, and knew it had come from me.

No one had to tell me — somehow I just knew! Something had happened to Greg!

Getting to Greg's locker felt like one of those slow-motion dreams you have where you're trying to hurry but your whole body feels as though it's weighed down with lead. As I manoeuvred my way down the hallway I felt a wave of nausea, and small dark clouds began to form in my field of vision.

Don't faint! I told myself sternly, but I knew I was going to if I didn't do something to stop it that very second. Those warning signs couldn't be ignored. I paused and squatted, putting my head down and breathing deeply. It was the hardest thing: to stop and do that when everything in me was screaming to hurry up and get to Greg.

I forced myself to stay that way for a good two or three minutes, though every second that ticked past was an agony of waiting. When I stood again I came
face-to-face with Ben Hebert.

“You okay?” he asked. “You look kinda pale.”

“I felt faint, but I think I'm okay now. Thanks,” I said. I nodded toward the sounds of the commotion and began walking that way. “I have to see what's going on.”

“Yeah, I was on my way there when I saw you bent over,” he said, falling in beside me. After a moment or two he said, “You can take my arm if you need to.”

“I'm all right,” I said impatiently. We were almost there by then. Just a few more steps to the next hall where the grade twelve students had their lockers.

The sight that met my eyes when I turned that corner is one I will never be able to forget. Greg stood surrounded by other students, some of who seemed to be holding him up. Blood almost covered his face and I might not even have known for sure that it was him except for the fact that I recognized the shirt he was wearing.

“Greg!” I tried to push my way forward through the growing crowd, but no one was budging.

“Please, keep back! An ambulance is on the way.”

I recognized that voice as Mr. Grimes's and saw that there were several other teachers there as well. Their efforts to keep order weren't meeting with much success.

“Greg!” I called out again, and saw his head turn toward me slightly.

“Shelby?” His right hand lifted in a little wave, which brought tears to my eyes. “Hey, can you let her through, please?”

At least the kids listened to
him
, and I was ushered through the crowd.

“It's nothing,
really
,” he said when I got close enough to touch his arm. “It probably looks bad, but I'm okay.”

My throat was tight and aching so fiercely that I couldn't speak. I stood silently, squeezing his arm and trying not to break down sobbing in front of everyone. Other things began to register, like that a couple of other kids were also bleeding, though not nearly as much as Greg. And there were shards of glass all over the floor.

I tried to ask what had happened but the pandemonium was growing and more and more people were arriving on the scene, creating so much noise that my voice was lost in it all. It seemed that half the people there were talking to Greg — asking him questions, telling him things like “keep pressure on the cuts” and so on.

The ambulance arrived just a moment later and, in spite of his protests that it wasn't necessary, Greg was taken to the hospital. As the ambulance workers strapped him to the stretcher he told me that he'd call me later.

“Don't waste your time coming to the hospital,” he said. “I'll be out before you know it.”

As if! I phoned home and Mom came at once and drove me straight to the emergency department. I hurried in while she parked the car.

A nurse directed me to the examining room he was in and, finding the door open, I stepped inside. Another nurse was there, cleaning the blood away from his face.

“Yes?” she asked, turning to me.

“What did I tell you?” Greg said before I could answer. “That's my girlfriend, Shelby.”

“Oh, yes.” The nurse smiled. “Greg was just saying that you never listen to him, so you should be arriving any minute.”

“She's a walking advertisement for the modern, liberated woman, that Shelby,” he commented.

“How bad is it?” I asked, ignoring his teasing.