attack because he had been real then, a physical force that could be felt, seen. Now, he seemed to be nothing more than a shadow, impossible to catch, impossible to predict.
I had overheard several officers talking about the escalation of the crimes against me, saying that men like him didn’t usually give up. I stiffened at the thought of what he might do next, nearing the point of agoraphobia, afraid to be out in public because he might find a way to whisk me off, never to be seen again. I knew he was out there, watching and waiting for another chance to get me.
I quit my job and stayed inside as much as I could, only venturing out for necessities. My friends were concerned, often trying to get me to come out with them to dinner and parties. But I couldn’t. I didn’t feel safe. Every man I saw could be him . It always caused me to panic.
The final attack was what pushed me over the edge. I went for pizza with my friends, only to return to my apartment and find the door ajar. Stepping away from the building, I ran to my car and locked myself in, my hands – my whole body – shaking as I dialed 911 and waited. Staring into the dark night, the voice of the dispatcher droning on in my ear, I wondered if he was still in my apartment. He probably wasn’t; not now, anyway. He was too careful, always eluding capture. But I was still too scared to go inside.
A tap sounded on my window, the sound making me jump away from the door. A uniformed officer stared at me through the glass separating us. He had a serious yet kind face, but no matter how much I wanted to open the door or roll down my window, I just couldn’t. It wasn’t safe. If he could get in my apartment then... then he could get me anywhere.
“Caroline?” the officer asked.
“Yes! I’m Caroline,” I said, loud enough to be heard through the glass. “Someone has been in my apartment. The door... it was open when I got home.”
The officer stepped a few feet away from my vehicle and spoke to someone on his walkie-talkie. Seconds later, he returned. “Stay here. Don’t get out of the car. Okay?”
I nodded my understanding and he strode away with a determination in his step. His large frame easing its way up the walkway to my apartment, gun drawn, appearing to be ready for whatever awaited him.
I sat there for a few minutes, just watching the officer, each movement so calculated. He looked back towards my car and then disappeared into my apartment, his gun raised. He wouldn’t need it. Enough time had passed that I knew my stalker was gone. He was too smart to get caught.
The officer returned, talking again into the walkie-talkie on his shoulder. I could only make out a few words from the one-sided conversation, but enough to know my admirer had amped up his game. The policeman had a serious look on his face, and that’s when I knew I had to disappear. I had to go where this twisted, obsessed man couldn’t find me.
The stalker had left me another gift. He set the table with candles and a beautifully wrapped package. Inside the package was dead cat. The note said that was what he would do to me for turning my back on him. A ripped-up dress coated in blood was left on my bed.
Several more police cars pulled in and I watched with curiosity and concern. Officer Dailey appeared in the chaos of cars and cops with a woman in a business suit. As they neared my car, I opened my car door to meet them.
Before I reached Officer Dailey, two uniformed officers approached her. They talked briefly, voices low so I couldn’t hear them. From the looks passing between everyone, I knew it was bad.
“Officer Dailey.” I exclaimed, worried over what they might have discussed but thankful that I knew someone there.
“Caroline,” she said, nodding towards the woman with her. “This is Margo Waters. She’s with the local Victims of Crime Program. I think she can help you find peace. This stalker is escalating and fast. We need to get you somewhere safe.