Chapter 1

There was something wrong with this picture. The woman standing on the street corner was wearing a navy blue dress which hung just below her knees, navy blue hose, and medium heels. Her blond hair was freshly permed, and just barely brushed her shoulders. She stood stiffly erect with her feet together and her eyes cast down. Her hands were clasped behind her and the handcuffs which restrained them looked huge on her slender wrists.

It wasn't the sight of a woman standing on the corner in handcuffs that was odd. It was common to see hookers being arrested on the avenue. What was odd was that this woman didn't look like a hooker. The hookers who worked the avenue were universally unattractive. They plied their trade on the avenue because is it was the only place they could find customers who were desperate enough to pay for their services.

The only attractive hookers on the avenue were police decoys. Everyone knew this except the Johns, who were even dumber than the hookers. When the police would run their occasional decoy operations, a guy could be getting arrested twenty feet away and another would walk right up to the decoy, make a solicitation, and be arrested himself. They didn't want to be seen with a hooker and thought they could achieve this end by not seeing anything themselves.

I drove the avenue every day on my way to and from work and knew most of the regular hookers by sight. I would see one of the hookers being arrested every once in a while. The ladies all knew the drill and when arrested would usually lean, handcuffed, against a tree or utility pole or sometimes just sit on the curb while waiting for the paddy wagon. If they were on drugs, they would fidget continuously. One or two cops would stand nearby, bored and likewise waiting for the wagon.

That's what was wrong with the scene on the corner. This woman was attractive--not gorgeous, just pretty much normal looking. Her clothing was conservative, not provocative, and clean. I had never seen her before. She stood erect and unmoving, looking like nothing so much as a middle class housewife. A plain clothes officer stood next to her. Such women normally wouldn't be seen on the avenue. What was she doing there? Why had she been arrested?

I was on my way to the bank to make the day's deposit. After I finished, I drove by the corner again. The woman was not in sight, but a paddy wagon was parked at the curb. I assumed she was locked inside.

I drove on home. The scene on the street corner was just something I had glimpsed while driving by, but I couldn't get the woman out of my head. I wondered if she had turned to prostitution to get herself out of some financial bind, but it didn't make sense. Why the avenue? She could make more money with less hassle from the cops by working the hotels. Not only that, the avenue was dangerous. More than one of the girls who worked there had been fished out of the river minus a limb or two. The girls on the avenue were there because they had run out of options. This woman's dress and general demeanor indicated resources unavailable to the usual avenue hooker.

I watched the sidewalks every day for the next couple of weeks, hoping to see her again. When the avenue girls were busted, they'd be back on the street in the next day or two, so I thought there was some chance of spotting her.

Although I drove the avenue every day and was familiar with all the regulars, I had never actually talked to any of the hookers. They were not ones such as would inspire lust, and while I had sympathy for their plight, I wanted nothing to do with them. This woman was different. There was something about her. The street corner tableaux had burned itself into my brain and the unknown woman had become the main character in my erotic fantasies. I wondered what I would do if I actually saw her again. Would I stop and talk to her? Perhaps inquire as to her price?

About a month later I was buying a loaf of bread. I was in the checkout line behind a woman with a full cart who had apparently noticed my single item.

"Would you like to go in front of me?"

I pulled my head out of the clouds and looked to see who was talking to me. It was her. I stared.

"Do I know you?" she asked. It was clear that I recognized her, but she couldn't place me.

"We've never met, but I've seen you before."

"Oh, where?"

"On the avenue at 14th street. You were wearing handcuffs at the time."

She turned bright red, wheeled her cart about, and got in the farthest checkout line. "Wait... , " I called. She ignored me.

"Well, you really blew that one," I told myself. I thought about following her, but that would be stupid. I would only dig myself deeper into her bad graces by trying to force contact. I could only hope that fortune would provide me with a future occasion.

Her departure had left me next in the check out line, whereas she was now at the end of another line. It would be a while before she came out. I paid for my bread and left.

I decided to increase the odds of a future encounter by finding out where she lived. I sat in my car and waited. My back was to the store and I watched the door in the mirror. It was a full fifteen minutes before she emerged. I watched as she pushed her cart full of sacks along the front of the building toward the edge of the lot. Even though there were a lot of cars in the lot and people coming and going, I didn't want to chance drawing her attention by starting my engine. I would wait until she was occupied starting her own.

As she neared the edge of the parking lot, rather than turning toward the last row of parked cars, she pushed her cart onto the sidewalk and disappeared around the corner of the building. For a moment I was surprised that she hadn't parked in the lot, then I realized there was no parking on the street. She hadn't come in a car. She was on foot. Damn. There was no inconspicuous way to follow a pedestrian in a car. I would either have to drive past her multiple times or park and watch until she turned a corner, then move to a new vantage point. I headed home.

I had learned a couple of things. She apparently didn't have a car. Pushing a cart as full as hers over the rough sidewalks in this area is not something you would do if you had other options, although I suppose her car could have been in the shop. The other thing I learned was that she lived nearby. There had been ice cream in her cart and it was a warm day, so she wasn't going too far. Since she had been pushing the cart north on the west side of the building, it was also reasonable to assume she lived to the north and west.

I wondered if she had a family. I hadn't paid all that much attention to the stuff in her cart, but hadn't seen anything that would specifically indicate children. Nevertheless, the quantity of stuff she had purchased indicated she was shopping for more than one.

As I drove home, I started thinking about the shopping cart. Although I knew almost nothing about this woman, I had a feeling she wasn't someone who would steal a shopping cart. I drove back to the store and parked on a side street about two blocks north of the store. About ten minutes later, I saw her in my rear view mirror, pushing the empty cart back toward the store. She walked right by me and I wished I had been wearing a hat to pull down over my face. I didn't want her to catch me spying on her. My concern was unwarranted. She passed by without a glance. I'm not even sure she knew I was there.

This was unusual behavior for someone who lived near the avenue. Most of the women I knew made sure they knew who was around them and some made a point of making eye contact with anyone they felt might be threatening. Nevertheless, it made a consistent package. Being oblivious to her surroundings and returning the shopping cart seemed to fit together. She hadn't been here long.

After she was out of sight, I moved the car. I was on a street just east of the one running north from the store and had by chance parked on the street she lived on, but hadn't seen what house she came out of. I parked at the other end of the block and awaited her return.

After a bit, I saw her turn onto the street where I was parked and walk toward me. About half way down the block, she entered a small bungalow.

I waited a few minutes, then drove past the house and returned home. I hadn't seen anything in the yard or on the porch that told me anything.

When I got home, I looked up the address in the cross reference. The name attached to that address was Gregory Silva. I called the phone number listed with the address.

"May I speak to Gregory?"

"I'm sorry, he doesn't live here." It sounded like her voice, but I couldn't be sure. She had only spoken a few words to me.

"Is this 1824 Spruce?"

"Yes, but he doesn't live here."

"Where can I find him?"

"I don't know. He lives out of state, but I don't have his number."

"Okay, thanks. Sorry to bother you."

I'm not sure what I would have done if Gregory had answered. Probably told him he'd been specially chosen to win a trip to Cancun and all he had to pay for were the airline tickets, meals, tips, and hotel room.

I had thought about trying to keep her on the phone in the hopes of getting a conversation going, but decided to cut it short. I didn't want her to be able to recognize my voice if I encountered her again.

Gregory may have moved out of state, but it was curious that his listed telephone number still rang at his listed address.

I decided it was time to stop being obsessive and return to real life. I went out to mow the lawn. After I finished, I showered, brought the mail in, sorted the bills by due date, and tossed the junk mail in the trash. Even from the trash I could still hear it screaming: Urgent! Dated Material, Open Immediately! I ignored the clamor and put my loaf of bread to use, making a sandwich. I got a beer from the fridge and sat down to eat.

I hadn't even taken a bite of my sandwich when the doorbell rang. I got up and headed for the front door, carrying my sandwich in one hand so it would be obvious to whomever it was that he had interrupted my lunch.

My jaw dropped and I nearly dropped my sandwich. She was standing on my porch, right in front of me. I managed to gather my wits quickly enough to get the first word in.

"Would you like some lunch?" I asked, proffering the sandwich.

"No, thank you."

"Would you like to come in?"

"I don't think so."

"Would you like to go out?"

"No."

"Well, what do you want?"

My little twenty questions game was carried out almost by reflex. If I had had more time to think, I would have asked her questions that would have had her agreeing with me. Nevertheless, I had gained some psychological advantage. I had her answering questions and now she would have to say whatever it was that she came to say in response to my demand for an explanation of her presence.

"I want to know why you're stalking me."

Was I stalking her? I had maybe an hour total invested in today's activities. That hardly qualified as stalking, although it was the result of several weeks of obsessing about her.

"And how do you come to the conclusion that you're being stalked?" I wanted to know more about where she was coming from and what she wanted. The way she had phrased her question struck me as odd. She hadn't demanded that I stop, she just wanted to know why, but I'm sure a demand to cease and desist was next on the agenda. I would have to see if I could deflect her before she got that far.

"You got behind me in line at the grocery store, you followed me home, you know my address and phone number. How long have you been following me?"

That helped. She didn't realize the store was a chance encounter. Apparently she had seen me when I'd watched her from the car, and also recognized my voice on the phone. I'd been wrong about her not being aware of her surroundings. She was, if anything, more aware than average. On the other hand, I'd been right about her taking the cart back, so at least some of my speculations about her had been correct.

I wasn't surprised that she had found me. I hadn't bothered to block my number when I'd called hers and I was in the phone book. Given that she'd recognized my voice, it wasn't surprising that she'd located me. I was surprised to find her here on my doorstep. She was right here, talking to me. I had to somehow take advantage of this opportunity. I had to make her want to see me again after she left. It probably wasn't going to be easy.

"That's going to take a bit of explanation. Are you sure you wouldn't like to come in?"

"No, I don't think so."

"In that case, let's sit here on the porch. Would you like something to drink?"

"No, thank you."

I wasn't being too successful at laying obligations on her, although I did get her to sit. I cast about for another tactic. How had she gotten here? I looked about and spotted the bicycle leaning against the tree next to the curb.

"Before we go any further, we'd better get your bike up on the porch. It's not safe where it is."

"Nobody would take it while we're watching."

"You're not from around here, are you?" I headed down the steps to get the bike. I leaned it against the wall behind me and sat down at the table across from her. I now had control of her transportation.

"No. I just moved here about a month ago."

"And what brings you here?"

"Divorce. I had to have a cheaper place to stay. You still haven't answered my question."

"When did you first become aware that you were being stalked?"

"Today."

"And how long do you think it's been going on?"

"You said you saw me arrested. You must have been following me then if you saw that."

"So you think I've been watching you for weeks?"

"Well, yes. You know my address and phone number, when I go to the store... everything."

"There is one thing I don't know. I don't know your name."

"I don't believe you."

"It's true. I have no idea what your name is. Since your phone is listed to some guy named Silva, I could speculate that your last name is Silva, but I could be wrong."

"You are."

"I have even less idea what your first name is. What is your name?"

"I don't think I want to say."

"Well, at least tell me your first name. It can't hurt. If I'm lying, I already know. If I'm not, then things are not what you think. You know my name, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Well?"

"Alright. It's Rachel; but I won't tell you my last name."

"That's okay. At least I know what to call you. Now, let me tell you how my interest in you came about. Then you can do some explaining of your own."

"What do you mean?"

"We'll get to that, but first let me give you some background." I explained that it was just by chance that I had witnessed her arrest, and only about 30 seconds of it at that, and how it had drawn my interest because it struck me as so unusual. I told her I had forgotten about the whole thing (which wasn't true) until I had by chance found myself behind her in line at the store. Even then, I probably wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't spoken to me. Her reaction to my telling her that I'd seen her in handcuffs piqued my curiosity even further. I had to know more about her, how she had come to be arrested, etc.

"You mean you've only seen me once before today?"

"That's exactly what I'm telling you. Until today, all I'd seen of you was a passing glimpse of your arrest. You're more observant than average, yet you never saw me before today. Surely you'd have noticed me before if I was stalking you."

"But you followed me home."

"Exactly. If I'd been following you all these weeks, wouldn't I already know where you lived? I wanted to meet you, but didn't know if I'd ever even see you again. I thought that if I knew where you lived, I could improve the odds."

"So you saw me in handcuffs and wanted to meet me."

"I'll admit being attracted to women in handcuffs, but there was more to it than that. Your reaction when I mentioned it at the store was what really got me going. You became a mysterious woman with a secret. Now that I've actually met you and talked to you, you're even more mysterious."

"Why?"

"You present all these contradictions. On one level, you seem naive and you don't know how to handle yourself in this neighborhood, yet you pay attention to everything that goes on around you and don't make it obvious that you're watching. You strike me as being a bit shy, yet when you think you're being stalked, you come and ring my doorbell to confront me. That's so brave and so stupid, I truly don't know what to think of you."

"So what should I have done?"

"What should you have done? Almost anything else. You don't have enough to go to the police with, so you check it out from a distance. Call me on the phone, or have some guy you know call me or come by and see me. There are lots of ways to handle a situation like that without putting yourself in danger."

"Am I in danger?"

"Of course not, but you would be if you were really being stalked."

"But if I'm not in danger, what's the problem?"

"Rachel, that's nuts. The only thing I can figure is that you knew before hand that I'm not truly stalking you, or you have a thing for dangerous men."

"As long as they're not too dangerous."

What did she mean by that? Was she flirting? Normally I would have viewed a response like that as in invitation to raise the stakes, but with her I couldn't tell. She had said it so matter-of-factly that her intent was unreadable.

"I don't know where you moved here from, but the dangerous men around here are very dangerous. You can't pull this kind of stunt and assume you'll survive." That seemed to shock her.

"So what... so what about you? Are you dangerous?"

"That's something you'll have to decide for yourself." This was the first time she had faltered. Up until now, she had spoken with complete self assurance. But with this sentence, there was a catch in her throat. If it had been delivered smoothly and suavely, it would have been an obvious come on line, but it wasn't. Her delivery was forced and it was like there was a major lump in her throat. There was just the faintest touch of "Take me, you fool" in it, but also a bit of apprehension, maybe some disappointment, and something else I couldn't quite put my finger on, something like an unsuccessful attempt to sound detached...

The one thing I was certain of was that I was that I had witnessed a breach in her defenses. I was getting to her. I knew what to do next: send her home. "Rachel, it's time for you to go." I picked up her bike and carried it to the sidewalk. She followed me down the steps and I handed her the bike.

Time to close the sale. This called for physical contact. I took her by the shoulders, turned her toward me, and looked into her eyes. "Shall I forget your phone number?"

"Call me," she said, and pedaled off.

I returned to my lunch, but ate it without being aware of doing so. Rachel had set my mind (among other things) on fire. She was more mysterious now than ever. She was obviously intelligent, but she was so dumb. I wanted to protect her. I wanted to possess her. I wanted her to stand before me in handcuffs just the way she had stood when I first saw her.

It would be at least fifteen or twenty minutes before I could call her, since it would take her that long to get home. Realistically, I couldn't call her for a couple of days. It wouldn't do to get over anxious at this early stage. Today was Saturday. Tuesday sounded about right.

Tuesday finally arrived. Early in the evening, I called Rachel. She seemed reluctant, obviously having had second thoughts about the whole thing, but I finally talked her into going to dinner with me on Friday.

I picked Rachel up at her house Friday evening. I took her to a restaurant downtown that was nice but not intimidating. It was a place where I could get wine by the half bottle. I suspected that Rachel wasn't much of a drinker, so I wanted a quantity that would help get her talking, but not get her looped.

I wanted to know why she had been arrested, and her reaction in the grocery store told me she was sensitive about the subject. In the meantime, I learned whatever else I could about her. Her divorce had been accompanied by a bankruptcy, so she hadn't gotten much in the way of a settlement. Gregory Silva was a friend of a friend who needed to maintain a legal residence in the city for business reasons. He had agreed to let Rachel live in the house he maintained for that purpose and use his phone line. That explained the Gregory Silva deal. He didn't really figure into her life except as absentee landlord. Rachel didn't have a car and rode the bus to and from work and used her bicycle to get around the neighborhood. She was a librarian and worked downtown at the main library.

Finally, over dessert, I asked her about her arrest.

"It was all a big mistake. My lawyer says we can get it thrown out."

"So what happened?"

"It was my first day here in this neighborhood and I got off at the wrong stop coming home from work. Once the bus pulled away, I realized I wasn't at the right spot, but didn't know how to get to the one I wanted. There was this guy standing there, so I started asking him directions. He told me how to get home, and as I turned away, he asked me 'how much?'. I asked him 'how much what?" and he said 'you know, how much for a blow job?' I couldn't believe it. So I told him, 'it's normally only a fifty dollars, but for you, it's a thousand' and he arrested me for soliciting. Then he put handcuffs on me and called a paddy wagon."

"Did the cop see you get off the bus?"

"I think so. I don't see how he could have really thought I was a hooker."

"Part of the problem was that you asked him for directions. Some of the hookers are pretty brazen, but others are more circumspect. They ask for the time, or a light, or directions or something to break the ice. He probably would have ignored you if you hadn't approached him. I doubt he really thought you were a hooker, but when you insulted him, he arrested you."

"When I insulted him! He insulted me first. He asked me for a blow job. He deserved to be insulted."