Ron Ashberry kept his gaze coldly fixed on the figure next to the bush.
It was a cruel irony that this tragedy had happened to Gwen.
Conservative by nature, Ron had always been horrified by the neglect he saw on the part of families in the city to which he commuted every day. Absent fathers, crack-addict mothers, guns and gangs, little girls turning to prostitution. He vowed that nothing bad would ever happen to his daughter. His plan was simple: he'd protect Gwen, raise her the right way, teach her good moral values, family values — which, thank God, people had started talking about again. He'd keep her close to home, insist that she get good grades, learn sports, music and social skills.
Then, when she turned eighteen, he'd give her freedom. She'd be old enough then to make the correct decisions — about boys, about careers, about money. She'd go to an Ivy League college and then return to the North Shore for marriage or a career. This was serious work, hard work, this child rearing. But Ron was seeing the results of his efforts. Gwen had scored in the ninety-ninth percentile on the PSATs. She never talked back to adults; her coaches reported she was one of the best athletes they'd ever worked with; she never snuck cigarettes or liquor, never whined when Ron told her no driver's license until she was eighteen. She understood how much he loved her and why he wouldn't let her go into Manhattan with her girlfriends or spend the weekend on Fire Island unchaperoned.
And so he felt it was utterly unfair that Harle Ebbers picked his daughter to stalk.
It had begun last fall. One evening Gwen had been particularly quiet throughout the evening meal. When Ron had asked her to go pick a book out of his library so he could read it aloud, Gwen just stood at the kitchen window, staring outside.
'Gwen, are you listening to me? I asked you to get me a book.'
She'd turned and to his shock he saw she was crying.
'Honey, I'm sorry,' Ron'd said automatically and stepped forward to put his arm around her. He knew the problem. Several days ago she'd asked if she could take a trip to Washington, D.C., with two teachers and six of the girls and boys from her social studies class. Ron had considered letting her go. But then he'd checked out the group and found that two of the girls had discipline problems — they'd been found drinking in a park near the school last summer. He'd told Gwen she couldn't go and she'd seemed disappointed. He'd assumed this was what troubled her today. 'I wish I could let you go, Gwen —' he'd said.
'Oh, no. Daddy, it's not that stupid trip. I don't care about that. It's something else…'
She'd fallen into his arms, sobbing. He was filled with overwhelming parental love. And an unbearable agony for her pain. 'What is it, honey? Tell me. You can tell me anything.'
She'd glanced out the window.
Following her gaze, he'd seen, in the park across the street, a figure crouching in the bushes.
'Oh, Daddy, he's following me.'
Horrified, Ron had led her to the living room, calling out, 'Doris, we're having a family conference! Come in here! Now!' He'd gestured his wife into the room then sat next to Gwen. 'What is it, baby? Tell us.'
Ron preferred that Doris pick up Gwen at school. But occasionally, if his wife was busy, he let Gwen walk home. There were no bad neighborhoods in Locust Grove, certainly not along the trim, manicured route to the high school — the greatest threats were usually aesthetic: a cheap bungalow or a flock of plastic flamingos, herds of plaster Bambis.
Or so Ron had believed.
That autumn night Gwen had sat with her hands in her lap, staring at the floor, and explained in a meek voice, 'I was walking home today, okay? And there was this guy.'
Ron's heart had gone cold, hands shaking, anger growing within him.
'Tell us,' Doris had said. 'What happened?'
'Nothing happened. Not like that. He just like started to talk to me. He's going, 'You're so pretty. I'll bet you're smart. Where do you live?''
'Did he know you?'
'I don't think so. He acted all funny. Like he was sort of retarded, you know. Kind of saying things that didn't make sense. I told him you didn't want me to talk to strangers and I ran home.'
'Oh, you poor thing.' Her mother embraced her.
'I didn't think he followed me. But…' She bit her lip. 'But that's him.'
Ron had jogged toward the bush where he'd seen the young man. He was in a curious pose. It reminded Ron of one of those green plastic soldiers he'd buy when he was a kid. The kneeling soldier, aiming his rifle.
The boy saw Ron coming and fled.
The sheriff's office knew all about the boy. Harle's parents had moved to Locust Grove a few months before, virtually driven out of Ridgef ord, Connecticut, because their son had targeted a young blonde, about Gwens age, and had begun following her. The boy was of average intelligence but had suffered psychotic episodes when younger. The police hadn't been able to stop him because he'd only hurt one person in all his months of stalking — the girl's brother had attacked him. Harle had nearly beaten the boy to death but all charges were dropped on the grounds of self-defense.
The Ebbers family had at last fled the state, hoping to start over fresh.
But the only change was that Harle had found himself a new victim: Gwen.
The boy had fallen into his obsessive vigil: staring into Gwen's classrooms at school and kneeling beside the juniper bush, keeping his eyes glued to the girl's bedroom.
Ron had tried to get a restraining order but, without any illegal conduct on Harle's part, the magistrate couldn't issue one.
Finally, after Harle had stationed himself beside the juniper bush for six nights straight, Ron stormed into the state mental health department and demanded that something be done. The department had implored the boy's parents to send him to a private-care hospital for six months. The county would pay ninety percent of the fee. The Ebbers agreed and, under an involuntary commitment order, the boy was taken off to Garden City.
But now he was back, kneeling like a soldier beside the infamous juniper bush, only one week after the ambulance had carted him off.
Finally Sheriff Hanlon came on the line.
'Ron, I was going to call you.'
'You knew about him?' Ron shouted. 'Why the hell didn't you tell us? He's out there right now.'
'I just found out about it myself. The boy talked to a shrink at the hospital. Apparently he gave the right answers and they decided to release him. Keeping him any longer on a dicey order like that, there was a risk of liability for the county.'
'What about liability for my daughter?' Ron spat out.
'There'll be a hearing in a few weeks but they can't keep him in the hospital till then. Probably not after the hearing either, the way it's shaking out.'
Tonight as mist settled on the town of Locust Grove, this beautiful spring night, crickets chirped like greaseless gears, and Harle Ebbers was frozen in his familiar pose, dark eyes searching for a delicate young girl whose father happened to be deciding at that moment that this couldn't go on any longer.
'Look, Ron,' the sheriff said sympathetically, 'I know it's tough. But —'
Ron slammed the phone into the cradle, nearly tearing it from the wall.
'Honey,' Doris began. He ignored her and as he started for the door she took his arm. She was a strong woman. But Ron was stronger and he pulled away brusquely. Pushed open the screen door and started across the dewy lawn to the park.
To his surprise, and pleasure, Harle didn't flee. He stood up out of his crouching position and crossed his arms, waiting for Ron to approach.
Ron was athletic. He played tennis and golf and he swam like a dolphin. One hundred laps a day when the country club pool was open. He was slightly shorter than Harle but, as he gazed at the boy's prominent eyebrows and disturbingly deep-set eyes, he knew in his heart that he could kill the young man. With his bare hands if he had to. All he needed was the slightest provocation.
'Daddy, no!' Gwen screamed from the porch, her voice like a high violin note, resonating through the mist. 'Don't get hurt. It's not worth it!'
Ron turned back, hissed to his girl, 'Get back inside!'
