After he had shut the door, she locked it, then started the car and backed out of the space. Matt stood to the side, watching. He gave a short wave as she began the slow, twisting descent. Soon he was lost to her view.
Lauren smiled all the way down Cambridge Street. She was still smiling when she curved into Storrow Drive and was ebullient enough to ignore the harsh beam of headlights from a car following too close on her tail. When she crossed the Eliot Bridge onto Route 2 and the same car remained behind her, she indulgently assured herself that if she was patient, the car would turn off soon.
It didn’t.
She passed through Fresh Pond, circled the far rotary and moved into the right lane of what was now a comfortable superhighway. The car stayed with her. She tossed frequent glances in the rearview mirror and frowned. The traffic wasn’t heavy. Surely whoever it was could move to the left and pass her, rather than tail her at forty-five miles per hour.
The highway was well lighted. She could see that the car was a late-model compact and that the driver was alone. Some kid having fun? There was no weaving to suggest he was drunk. Neither was there any hint that he was trying to tell her something, such as that her car had a flat tire or was on fire. He was simply following her and succeeding in making her extremely nervous.
Lauren pressed her foot on the gas pedal, pulled into the middle lane and held steady. The other car accelerated, pulled into the middle lane and held steady. She moved back into the right lane. The compact followed suit. She pumped her brakes lightly in an attempt to signal the driver to pass her, but he only slowed accordingly, then resumed speed when she did. In a last-ditch attempt to free herself of the tail, she flicked on the signal lights, moved into the breakdown lane and came to a cautious stop, prepared to floor the gas pedal if the other car stopped.
It swung to the left and passed her.
Breathing a shaky sigh of relief, Lauren sat for several minutes to recompose herself. Since she’d realized she was actively being followed, her imagination had taken her to frightening places. Too many little things had happened to her lately—the near accident on Newbury Street, the vicious dog in her yard, the garage door’s fall, the subtle suggestion that someone had been in her home—for her to dismiss summarily this instance as a prank.
Yet as she entered the driving lane once more, that was exactly what she forced herself to do. A prank. A dangerous prank.
Then she crested a hill and saw taillights in the breakdown lane. She passed them by, instinctively speeding up, but within minutes the same car was behind her once more.
She swore softly, but that did no good. The car remained in pursuit. Five minutes went by. She searched the road for a sign of a police cruiser she might hail, but there was none. Another five minutes elapsed, and her knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
She approached her exit and held her breath, praying that when she turned off, the driver of the compact car would consider the game not worth any further effort.
He exited directly behind her and proceeded to follow her along the suddenly darker, narrower road.
Praying now that her car wouldn’t break down and leave her at the mercy of the nameless, faceless lunatic, she drove along the road as fast as she dared, heading directly for the center of town.
For the first time she blessed every chase movie she’d suffered through in which the dumb innocent was pursued up and down hills, around corners and through dark alleys without grasping at the simplest solution. Lauren Stevenson was no dummy. She had no intention of heading off into a side street, much less leading someone to her farmhouse, where she would be totally unprotected.
She headed for the police station.
What she hadn’t expected when she pulled up in front was that the car that had been on her tail all the way home would swing smoothly—with no qualms or hesitation—into a space in the parking lot. Between two police cruisers.
Lauren quickly shifted into drive and headed home.
She was mortified. Apparently she’d imagined the worst for nothing. Yes, she was angry. For an officer of the law, plainclothes or otherwise, to have behaved in such an irresponsible fashion was inexcusable!
But what could she do? If she marched into the police station and complained, she’d be making a certain enemy. Policemen protected their own, and if what she’d read so often in the newspapers was correct, they weren’t beyond administering their own subtle forms of punishment. Someday she might need them, really need them. Could she risk turning them off to her now?
Moreover, what could she say? That she’d been terrified because so many strange things had happened to her of late? They’d think she was nuts. A wild dog. A garage door that went bump. A ghost in her underwear. Maybe shewasnuts.
No one was following her now, but then, she hadn’t expected that anyone would be. Some cop had been playing his own perverse game, perhaps simply practicing up on the technique of the chase. It must be boring being a cop in as peaceful a town as Lincoln. No doubt he’d enjoyed the excitement of his little escapade. At that moment he was probably sitting in the back room with his police buddies, having a good laugh.
Lauren put the car in the garage, then all but ran for the side door of the farmhouse. No doubt about it, she was spooked. She’d left her pursuer at the police station. She’d reasoned away all of her other little near-mishaps. Still, she was spooked.
Coincidence and imagination were a combustible combination.
Turning on every available light, she walked from room to room before satisfying herself that everything was the same as when she’d left that morning. That morning seemed so very far away. And that evening had been so very special, but somehow tarnished by the terrifying experience she’d just been through.
After leaving a single bright light on downstairs, she went up to bed, thinking about the outside floodlights she would have put in when she finally found an electrician. Perhaps sheshouldconsider a burglar alarm. God, she hated that thought. One of the reasons she’d bought a home in the country was to avoid the stereotypical city fears.
She was making something out of nothing, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time as she lay in the dark of her bedroom, afraid to move. She was letting Beth’s wild imagination get to her. She was letting her own wild imagination get to her. Maybe Beth was right. Maybe she did need a bodyguard. The thought of Matt Kruger-strong, capable of protecting her, capable of thrilling her with a kiss—brought some measure of relaxation, so that at last she was able to fall asleep.
That weekend, working around the hours when the shop was open, Lauren met with three different general contractors to discuss what she wanted to do with the farmhouse. None of the three impressed her.
The first was too traditional in his orientation. What she wanted wasn’t exactly restoration, she tried to explain. Yes, she wanted the outside of the farmhouse to look much the way it always had. But she wanted the inside to be a modern surprise of sorts.
Unfortunately, number one didn’t have much imagination when it came to modern surprises.
