The eyes of
a stranger

It started with the flowers, a dozen roses, delivered to her office, without a card.

Then another dozen, left at the front door of her townhouse, also without a card.

Then a card, a very personal card, declaring love.

"You are mine," it said. "You've always been mine. You always will be mine."

Suddenly, no place was safe: A note under the windshield wiper of her car outside the health club, flowers at least once a week, a bottle of her favorite perfume.

Her love life was quiet at the moment, "between opportunities" she liked to tell friends. No one special. So who was this secret admirer who lavished such attention?

One evening at the mall, she tried on a dress at Macy's. She liked it, but passed because it was too expensive.

The next day, a courier delivered a package to her office. It was the dress, in her size, along with a note: "It looks fantastic on you."

She went to the police. They tried to seem sympathetic, but said there really wasn't much they could do. They advised changing the locks on her house, changing her routine.

The flowers continued. Then letters, long letters which claimed undying love and described, in exacting detail, how he would make love to her.

She dated, no one in particular and no one more than once or twice, and that didn't seem to bother her secret admirer.

Then she met someone. Someone serious. They went out several times. He stayed over one night and emerged from her townhouse the next morning to find the tires slashed on his car and the paint scratched.

The next day, the florist delivered a box of dead flowers to her office, along with a note.

"You bitch," it said. "How dare you cheat on me. You're mine. You will always be mine."

Now she was scared. She went back to the police. They looked at the notes, they looked at photos of the boyfriend's car. They said they would see what they could do.

Then threatening phone calls started. One day, she found a large manila envelope at her door. Inside was a background investigation of her boyfriend. He was married (he had said he was divorced). He also had a criminal record. When she called him, he confirmed it. She broke it off.

The threats stopped. The roses started arriving again. Last week, a letter arrived.

"What do you want for Christmas?" it asked. "Just go and pick it out. I'll be watching and it will be yours."

Instead, she left work on a Friday afternoon and drove to a crowded mall. She parked in the lot, went through several stores, out a side door and caught a bus.

Then she caught a cab. Then the train.

Two days later, a friend picked up her car, a friend who had agreed to buy it. The same friend arranged for sale of her townhouse.

When the deal is closed, the money will be sent to a lawyer who is the only one who knows where his client went.

At her office, a stranger keeps calling and asking where she can be reached. The receptionist, as instructed, says she's sorry, but the lady in question no longer works there and, no, she doesn't have a forwarding address. The police put an electronic back trace on the line, but the calls always come from a public phone and always a different one.

A Realtor showed the townhouse to a man who seemed more interested in how to contact the owner than in actually buying the house. No, the Realtor doesn't really remember what he looked like. The stranger was wearing a hat and dark glasses and there were so many who came through that day.

She's gone, away at last, from the eyes of a stranger.

But those eyes are looking for her. And they won't stop until they find her.

She still doesn't know who he is.

But she knows he will never give up.

--Doug Thompson
Washington, DC