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“My God, Lou — that’s… you could have been hurt. That’s horrible. Do you have any idea — no, of course you don’t. Listen, I’m coming right over.”
He has hung up before I can ask him not to come right over. I am too excited to work now. I do not care what Mr. Crenshaw thinks. I need my time in the gym. No one else is there. I put on bouncing music and begin bouncing on the trampoline, big, swooping bounces. At first I am out of rhythm with the music, but then I stabilize my movement. The music lifts me, swings me down; I can feel the beat in the compression of my joints as I meet the stretchy fabric and spring upward again.
By the time Mr. Aldrin arrives, I am feeling better. I am sweaty and I can smell myself, but the music is moving strongly inside me. I am not shaky or scared. It is a good feeling.
Mr. Aldrin looks worried, and he wants to come closer than I want him to come. I do not want him to smell me and be offended. I do not want him to touch me, either. “Are you all right, Lou?” he asks. His hand keeps reaching out, as if to pat me.
“I am doing okay,” I say.
“Are you sure? I really think we should have a lawyer here, and maybe you should go by the clinic—”
“I was not hurt,” I say. “I am all right. I do not need to see a doctor, and I do not want the lawyer.”
“I left word at the gate for the police,” Mr. Aldrin says. “I had to tell Mr. Crenshaw.” His brow lowers. “He was in a meeting. He will get the message when he gets out.”
The door buzzer sounds. Employees authorized to be in this building have their own key cards. Only visitors have to ring the buzzer. “I’ll go,” Mr. Aldrin says. I do not know whether to go in my office or stand in the hall. I stand in the hall and watch Mr. Aldrin go to the door. He opens it and says something to the man who is standing there. I ca
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Hi, Mr. Arrendale,” he says, and puts out his hand. I put out mine, though I do not like to shake hands. I know it is appropriate. “Is there somewhere we could talk?” he asks.
“My office,” I say. I lead the way in. I do not have visitors, so there is no extra chair. I see Mr. Stacy looking at all the twinklies, the spin spirals and pinwheels and other decorations. I do not know what he thinks about it. Mr. Aldrin speaks softly to Mr. Stacy and leaves. I do not sit down because it is not polite to sit when other people have to stand, unless you are their boss. Mr. Aldrin comes in with a chair that I recognize from the kitchenette. He puts it down in the space between my desk and the files. Then he stands by the door.
“And you are?” Mr. Stacy asks, turning to him.
“Pete Aldrin; I’m Lou’s immediate supervisor. I don’t know if you understand—” Mr. Aldrin gives me a look that I am not sure of, and Mr. Stacy nods.
“I’ve interviewed Mr. Arrendale before,” he says. Once more I am astonished at how they do it, the way they pass information from one to another without words. “Don’t let me keep you.”
“But… but I think he needs—”
“Mr. Aldrin, Mr. Arrendale here isn’t in trouble. We’re trying to help him, keep this nutcase from hurting him. Now if you’ve got a safe place for him to stay for a few days, while we try to track this person down, that would be a help, but otherwise — I don’t think he needs baby-sitting while I chat with him. Though it’s up to him…” The policeman looks at me. I see something in his face that I think may be laughter, but I am not sure. It is very subtle.
“Lou is very capable,” Mr. Aldrin says. “We value him highly. I just wanted—”
“To be sure he would get fair treatment. I understand. But it’s up to him.”
They are both looking at me; I feel impaled on their gaze like one of those exhibits at the museums. I know Mr. Aldrin wants me to say he should stay, but he wants it for the wrong reason and I do not want him to stay. “I will be all right,” I say. “I will call you if anything happens.”
“Be sure you do,” he says. He gives Mr. Stacy a long look and then leaves. I can hear his footsteps going down the hall and then the scrape of the other chair in the kitchenette and the plink and clunk of money going into the drink machine and a can of something landing down below. I wonder what he chose. I wonder if he will stay there in case I want him.
The policeman closes the door to my office, then sits in the chair Mr. Aldrin placed for him. I sit down behind my desk. He is looking around the room.
“You like things that turn around, don’t you?” he says.
“Yes,” I say. I wonder how long he will stay. I will have to make up the time.
“Let me explain about vandals,” he says. “There’s several kinds. The person — usually a kid — who just likes to make a little trouble. They may spike a tire or break a windshield or steal a stop sign — they do it for the excitement, as much as anything, and they don’t know, or care, who they’re doing it to. Then there’s what we call spillover. There’s a fight in a bar, and it continues outside, and there’s breaking windshields in the parking lot. There’s a crowd in the street, someone gets rowdy, and the next thing you know they’re breaking windows and stealing stuff. Now some of these people are the kind that aren’t usually violent — they shock themselves with how they act in a crowd.” He pauses, looking at me, and I nod. I know he wants some response.
“You’re saying that some vandals aren’t doing it to hurt particular people.”
“Exactly. There’s the individual who likes making messes but doesn’t know the victim. There’s the individual who doesn’t usually make messes but is involved in something else where the violence spills over. Now when we first get an example of vandalism — as with your tires — that clearly isn’t spillover, we first think of the random individual. That’s the commonest form. If another couple cars got their tires slashed in the same neighborhood — or on the same transit route — in the next few weeks, we’d just assume we had a bad boy thumbing his nose at the cops. A
“Expensive,” I say. “To the people with the cars, anyway.”
“True, which is why it’s a crime. But there’s a third kind of vandal, and that’s the dangerous kind. The one who is targeting a particular person. Typically, this person starts off with something a
I feel as if I am floating in a crystal sphere, unco
“You may feel safe,” Mr. Stacy says, reading my mind again. “But that doesn’t mean you are safe. The only way for you to be safe is for that nutcase who’s stalking you to be behind bars.”
He says “nutcase” so easily; I wonder if that is what he thinks of me as well.
Again, he reads my thoughts. “I’m sorry — I shouldn’t have said ‘nutcase.’… You probably hear enough of that sort of thing. It just makes me mad: here you are, hardworking and decent, and this — this person is after you. What’s his problem?”
“Not autism,” I want to say, but I do not. I do not think any autistic would be a stalker, but I do not know all of them and I could be wrong.
“I just want you to know that we take this threat seriously,” he says. “Even if we didn’t move fast at first. So, let’s get serious. It has to be aimed at you — you know the phrase about three times enemy action?”