ONE Pete Thorsen clicked off the lamp and leaned back in his recliner to take a break from reading. He listened with eyes closed as Johnny Cash s gravelly voice drifted softly from the Bose music system, and as one old favorite followed another, he couldn t help but smile. Sometime after the Man in Black went to Jackson to mess around, he nodded off. A couple of hours later, he was wakened by a Thud! that came from somewhere in the darkness. He sat up in the recliner and stared straight ahead, feeling momentarily disoriented. The only light came from the dying embers in the fireplace. Everything was quiet, too. No music, no more strange sounds. Pete listened a while longer and then turned on the light. The book he d been reading about General Patton had slid from his lap and lay on the floor open to a random page. On the end table next to him, the ice cubes in his vodka and tonic, his first of the season even though the weather really wasn t right for that drink yet, had dissolved into a quarterinch of clear liquid in the bottom of his glass. A twist of lime floated lifelessly in the liquid. The clock on his fireplace mantle read 1:37 a.m. 1
ROBERT WANGARD He walked to the window and looked out. Even when he shaded his eyes, all he could see was his reflected image staring back at him. He turned off the light again, and when his eyes had readjusted to the darkness, he felt his way back to the window. Night hung over the area like an inky shroud. Any moon that might have been visible earlier had vanished from the sky and the lake and the trees and bushes around his cottage blended with the blackness. Pete inched back toward the end table, using the embers as his guide, and turned the light on again. It had been ten minutes since the sound like someone had slapped the outside of his cottage with an open hand had disturbed his sleep, and since he heard nothing more, he wrote it off to a dream. He rinsed his glass in the sink and tidied up the kitchen. After checking to make sure the front door was locked, he was about to go up to bed, but the nagging voice inside wouldn t let him. He switched on the porch light and unlocked the door. When he eased it open, he saw a large plastic bag on the stoop with reddish fluid oozing from the opening where the slide closure had popped open. He looked up and scanned the area in front of his cottage, but saw nothing. He bent down to get a closer look at the sheet of paper that lay under the bag. There were words on it, but they were upside down and the bag covered most of them. Most of the fluid had leaked from the bag and the pool was now nearly three feet across. That made hopping over it tricky and he decided to go out the mudroom door so he could see the message and everything else from the other side. The whole thing puzzled him, because in his experience, April wasn t the time when vandals were likely to be cruising around. His outside flood lights illuminated a broader area than the porch light, but before stepping out, he thought about how he d protect himself if the person responsible for the mess were still lurking around. All the cottages near his were shuttered for the winter and he knew no one would be around to hear him if he called for help. After considering 2
STALKED the limited options, he grabbed the nicked-up Louisville Slugger bat he kept in the umbrella stand by the front door. The calendar said April, but damp cold hung in the air like the icy talons of winter hadn t let loose yet. He zipped his jacket tighter and looked around his cottage, casting his flashlight beam on the surrounding trees and bushes and bramble as he went. He continued to watch for signs of movement as he walked out the driveway, but saw nothing. When he came to M-22, he flashed his light up and down the deserted highway. A mausoleum at midnight would have had more activity. He went back to his cottage and examined the front door and stoop from the outside. The door had a splash mark near the top where the bag had hit and the rest of it looked like macabre stalactites had been painted on the wood. The fluid didn t look like paint. Or smell like paint. He sniffed the air again and inhaled the same tinny odor he d noticed before. Maybe it was the way the light hit everything, but the pool of fluid also looked darker than it had when he d first opened the door. He squatted and was able to read the first two words on the paper, Is this... He was tempted to move the bag so he could see the rest of the message, but knew better than to tamper with the scene, whether the incident turned out to be a prank or something more serious. Pete went inside again, and after making sure both doors were locked, called the county sheriff s office. When the dispatcher answered, she mumbled something unintelligible into the phone and punctuated that with a lengthy yawn, signaling that she d been sound asleep when the phone rang. He gave her a moment to collect herself, then identified himself and explained the reason for his call. After assimilating what he d told her, the dispatcher said his situation didn t sound like an emergency. She suggested he wait until morning when all of the deputies would be in. That led to an argument when Pete insisted on having someone come out sooner. The dispatcher finally sighed as though she thought Pete were making a case of good old fun into a biological warfare threat in the heart of Manhattan. She said she d try to get a message to the 3
ROBERT WANGARD night duty deputy and took down Pete s address and contact information. Her parting shot was that she couldn t guarantee the deputy would be able to come out even if she were able to reach him because he might be involved in a matter that was truly pressing. Pete left the outside floods on and went upstairs. He pulled a chair over to one of the windows in his bedroom and waited for someone from the sheriff s office to arrive. Jumbled thoughts bounced around in his head. He saw movement among some of the bushes near the lake. His pulse quickened and his eyes immediately focused on the spot. Minutes passed and he saw nothing else. Then he saw movement again and strained to see what was making it. It wasn t wind because none of the other bushes near the lake were moving. Something finally came into the illuminated area. He breathed out when he saw that it was a deer and chided himself for being so jumpy. It was past 3:00 a.m. when a SUV with red and blue lights flashing pulled into his driveway. Pete exited through the mudroom door and walked to where a reed-thin uniformed deputy was leaning against his vehicle writing in a small spiral notebook. He looked up as Pete approached. Mr. Thorsen? Pete nodded. I understand you called to report an intruder. As Pete got closer, he saw that the deputy was not more than thirty years old. He had a brush cut and a hatchet face that fit the rest of his body. The firearm on his hip looked like it would have been better suited to a man twice his girth. I don t believe I used the word intruder when I talked to the dispatcher, Pete said. That s what she told me, the deputy said owlishly, checking his notes again. Someone threw a plastic bag filled with some kind of fluid against my front door. 4
STALKED Paint? I don t believe it s paint. It looked reddish at first, but now seems to be darker. The deputy shot Pete a look and flipped to a new page in his notebook. He used a stubby yellow pencil to write the words, Reddish fluid that turned darker, repeating them aloud as he wrote. He looked up with a quizzical expression and said, What made you think this event is so important that it couldn t wait until morning? Sounds like gardenvariety vandalism to me, apparently reading from the same play book as the dispatcher. Pete tried to remain patient and smiled. With all respect, I don t think this is just vandalism, Deputy, he said. What else could it be? he persisted. We must get twenty, twentyfive reports like this every year. At 1:30 a.m. in cold spring weather? With a note? What s the note say? I couldn t read it without disturbing the scene, which I didn t want to do. Come around to the front and I ll show you. First, let me get some information, the deputy said. He flipped his spiral notebook to another new page. I m Deputy McGruder, by the way. Pete stewed while McGruder asked him a lot of questions, many of which he must have already had answers to because he d talked to the dispatcher and managed to find Pete s cottage. He spent an inordinate amount of time trying to understand why Pete called the lakeside of his cottage the front and the side facing M-22 the back. When McGruder finally finished, he followed Pete to the front door and shined his flashlight on the mess on the stoop. After studying the scene, he said, Just as I suspected. Vandalism. Probably some delinquents driving around bored out of their noggins looking for chuckles. I ll write up a report. If I were you, I d get some sleep and clean things up in the morning. We ll talk to a few of the bad apples around town and let you know if we come up with anything. 5
ROBERT WANGARD I hate to sound like a broken record, but I don t think we re talking about vandalism here. The deputy s world-weary look made his hang-dog face seem longer. Every time something like this happens, he said, the homeowner thinks he s the victim of the crime of the century. I ask you again, what makes you think this is something other than vandalism? Everything, Pete said. I ve already mentioned two of them the note and the time of the year. The substance also doesn t look like paint to me and I didn t hear anyone peel rubber away from the house after the bag was thrown at my door. McGruder busily recorded what Pete had just said in his small notebook. Pete kept prodding him. Smell the air. Do you smell paint fumes? Paint dries. It doesn t smell after it dries. Aren t you even going to try to check out the fluid? Pete asked, his frustration beginning to show. Look, Mr. Thorsen, I m the only deputy on duty at this time of the night. Our people who do forensics are all sleeping. Do you want me to call them at 3:15 a.m. and get them over here to look at your problem? When he said problem, he raised two fingers of each hand to signify quote marks. I m not asking you to get anyone out of bed, but since you re already here, I thought maybe you d want to satisfy your own curiosity. McGruder rolled his eyes and walked closer to the stoop. He sniffed the air a couple of times, then knelt and reached out with his index finger, obviously intending to take a smear of the fluid. Pete saw what he was planning to do and said, Don t you have a pair of latex gloves in your vehicle? I wouldn t get that stuff on my hands until we know what it is. The deputy seemed unhappy with being told how to do his job by a mere civilian. He scowled and walked to his cruiser and returned with a latex glove. He put it on his left hand and knelt by the pool of fluid again and sniffed a second time. He swiped his protected forefinger along the edge of the pool. He looked at his finger and muttered, This stuff is hard 6