and it won’t. No one can make me feel anything that’s not truly coming from me. I’ve worked too hard and paid too high a price for that to ever happen again. But trust me, someone is trying to get into my head.”
I was glad she couldn’t see my face. I sucked in a deep breath and tried Boots’ advice. Make this a regular job. After all, Lauren was completely serious. “So when you feel followed, it’s not actually a physical stalk?”
Despite my effort Lauren caught my doubt. “You’re humoring me, aren’t you?”
“No, but I’m not big on feelings that really seem ethereal,” I admitted.
“I don’t blame you for your skepticism. But someone is physically out there and watching me. I’m certain of it.”
“Are there people in your life who were involved with your spiritual searchings way back then?”
There was a small pause. “I was really only talking about one individual.” There was another, longer pause. “Why do you ask?”
“Could this person be stalking you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“How can you be sure?”
“He’s been dead for more than a decade. Someone tried to rob him on the street and he resisted. Stabbed to death.”
So much for spiritual power. I’ll stick with a good pair of sneakers. “And you still can’t think of anyone else who might want to hurt you?”
“I can’t imagine anyone disliking me to the degree I’ve experienced. I have no idea who’d spend the time and energy to traipse after me. But I’m telling you, this is absolutely real. And really quite frightening.”
Her fear was communicable. For a moment, my cynicism vanished, the image of her tortured car once again bubbling to the surface. “Okay, Lauren,” I said shaking my head but keeping the resignation from my voice. “I’ll find out if anyone is really out there.”
“That’s very encouraging, but there’s another problem. I can’t afford to pay you. Of course I’ll eventually…
“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not going to charge,” I interrupted. “Couldn’t even if I wanted. Lou would kill me.”
“We won’t tell him. I don’t like charity.”
“I’m not talking charity. I prefer to do this as...” I groped for words, “a friend.”
“That’s very sweet, but we’re not friends. And I’ve already asked you for too many favors.”
“Then think of it as a favor to Lou. There’s just no way I’ll take your money.”
There was enough silence to give me time to work on the aspirin container.
“You know, Matthew,” Lauren began regretfully. “I feel terrible about the timing of all this. I keep wishing we met under different circumstances.”
And right then I wished we’d never met at all. “Me too,” I lied. “What finally happened to your car?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Junked.”
“How are you getting around?”
“I’ve been using my oldest son Stephen’s car. He lent it to me until I get a cheap rental.”
“What does it look like?”
“One of those truck things. A silver and black Cherokee.”
“Well, tell me a couple of places you’ll be going today and roughly when you’ll be there. Same for tomorrow and the day after.”
It took Lauren a couple of minutes to organize and relay the information. “There may be other stops but these are the ones I’m sure about. Do you want to meet somewhere?”
“No. I want you to go about your business and leave the rest to me.”
“You’re familiar with the North Shore?”
“Enough.” Throughout the years I lived in The Hub I’d come to appreciate New England’s craggy coastline. Before the car accident, Chana and I frequented a jazz club in Beverly. We usually managed to get lost, often exploring the surrounding affluent towns under moonlit, marijuana cover. The last I’d heard the club had burned down. Seemed appropriate, somehow.
“I’ll pick you up today and if I do it right you won’t know I’m around. In fact, try to forget I’m doing this at all. I don’t want you to inadvertently scare anyone off.”
“You really don’t mind?”
“Not at all.” It began as a lie but came out true. Despite my mixed feelings about Lauren and Lou’s relationship there were worse things to do than keeping an eye on a beautiful woman. Also, I often forgot how much I liked to work. The smell of a hunt never failed to sneak behind my usual lethargy. Or, in this case, my discomfort.
After we hung up I finally pried the lid off the aspirin and spilled the pills all over the floor.
The glare of the sun didn’t hurt. In fact, the cool sea breeze hit like a first day furlough. I drove to Manuel’s, switched cars, then rode the sedan back to a sub shop where I bought enough bad food to fry my arteries.
I returned to my apartment and studied my notes along with a detailed map of the North Shore. Lauren’s town, hamlet, really, hugged the ocean. If I rushed I could pick her up at home, the Hacienda, but now the distant echo of seventies spiritual yearnings subverted my hunt head. I heard the couch call and felt a channel surfer’s finger-itch. For a moment I rationalized that if I left the house before the itch subsided I might accidentally shoot someone. Hell, I felt like shooting someone. It just wasn’t easy getting right with my father-in-law’s Big Romance.
But I’d promised. Lauren planned to pick up Lou from the commuter station in Magnolia later that afternoon. Plenty of time to amble my way up the coast and find her, them, there. But it wasn’t until I offered myself that languid, stoned amble, that I pulled together a cooler of beer, a small stash, binoculars, smokes, and an old Ross Macdonald mystery.
My mood lightened when I passed the thirty-five foot Madonna blessing the stretch of highway that led to the abandoned horse track. The church always knew who lived where. Here, it was working class and Hispanics—the same for the connecting towns beyond. One of them used to have an oceanfront amusement park, but it was replaced by condos built for urban dwellers ready to have kids. Sadly, the town forgot to throw in a decent school system. They also forgot that the sky overhead was wall-to-wall aircraft stacked to land at Logan. Now, the burg’s oceanfront view translated into available storefronts and rooming houses for the itinerant elderly. An unfortunate example of “location” being nowhere at all.
I lit my joint when I passed Mary Baker Eddy’s birthplace. And felt its kick by the time I drove by her adult home. This was one of the very few times I regretted not having my cell phone on. I’d heard Mary was buried with a telephone and I wondered if she’d take my call. But, by the time I reached the outskirts of Magnolia, I realized Mary probably had an unlisted number.
I
