Stalking's Only A Crime If You Get Caught

It had been a long night, and Joseph Grant was exhausted. He didn't bother turning on the lights of his penthouse when he walked in, choosing instead to let his mind and eyes rest in the darkness. He stood at the welcome mat for a second, taking a deep, relaxing breath as he willed all thoughts of the outside world to melt out of his pores. Satisfied with his newly slowed heart rate, Grant removed his blazer and tie, placing both on the arms of his kaya-wood coat hanger poised by his front door. He stepped out of his fine Italian leather loafers, and untucked his shirt from his pants before he took his first step past the front door.

Though pitch black, Grant could navigate the interior of his penthouse apartment perfectly, the result of spending an astronomical amount of money to own as few possession as possible. He'd had the simple lay out memorized like a dance. 

Five steps forward, mail table. He didn't bother leafing through whatever catalogues and paternity suits his assistants had combed through for the day. Two steps forward, eight steps to the right, kitchenette. The checker-board marble tile floor was hard, but so cold that it was a much needed relief on his feet. Five steps forward, three to the left, his spirit cabinet, so named because it was a much needed relief to his spirits on a day like this.

He poured himself a vodka tonic, and found his eyes had finally adjusted to the dark as soon as he reached to bring the glass to his lips. He had the faint traces of light pollution filtering in from the far window to thank for that. 

Grant decided to finish his nightly ritual in the typical fashion. He walked from the kitchen to the window on the far side of the main room. He didn't even think of sitting in the designer recliners or couches as he passed them. Grant didn't even hesitate at the large, 5KHD television when it enterred his line of sight. All either of those things would do was distract him further. If he was truly to relax and sleep well, he needed the Gotham skyline. 

Grant didn't open the blinds immediately. He took a moment to bathe in the faint glow slipping through. This, he thought, was the most calm he'd ever be. Grant's life was too hectic. Even vacations to island paradises weren't enough to relax him. Massages from fine beauties, a stroll on the green, not even a leisurely afternoon at the theater calmed him. It was only those simple moments with a vodka tonic in his hand, and the light of the city drowning him, could Grant feel truly at peace. 

He removed his phone from his pocket, opened the home assistant app, and ordered the blinds to open...

***

Oliver Walcztloh was told that suburban bliss was the greatest thing a man could hope for in the modern age. That was hard to believe when he had triplets and an ex-wife on a feminist kick. Soccer, Ballet, Gymnastics, home, dinner, bed, repeat. No help from the ex-missus, she was determined to make him do it all himself AND shell out half his monthly wages for alimony. 

"Wicked Bitch of the West," he muttered to himself. 

There was a jackass on the road, as usual. Some idiot in a semi truck that wouldn't let him get over no matter how many times he honked or flashed his lights. Oliver took another look in his rear view mirror...yup, traffic was piling up behind him.

Oliver wished there was some way he could reach out to the cars behind him and telepathically assure them that he wasn't the cause.

His phone started playing the Wicked Bitch's theme song and his heart sank. He looked at the screen on his dashboard, pressing the green button only to find that nothing happened. He had to stab it an ungodly amount of times before it finally answered.

"Really, Oliver?"

"Sharon," he began through gritted teeth, "it's not me, it's this fucking car your brother sold me. The screen's defective or some shit." 

"I don't have time for this," she snapped. Sighing as if she was the one with reason to be stressed out, she continued, "Why haven't you picked up Lacey from Soccer yet?"

He was late, sure, but if she was that angry aobut it, she could always go and get Lacey from soccer. Oliver thought about reaching through the screen and--he pushed the thought out of his mind.

"There's an asshole on the road," he curtly responded.

"So you're on your way, good to know. Five-thirty means five thirty, Oliver! I have no clue why this is so hard for you to comprehend. I manage to do it and-"

"And you're back in school, working a full time job, and dealing with early-onset menopause," he continued. "I've heard the speech before, Phenomenal Woman."

"Yes, and you're an unemployed former athlete coasting by on League settlements and ad royalties," she shouted. "There's no excuse for your perpetual tardiness!"

Oliver pressed the red button. 

"I heard a tapping...ARE YOU TRYING TO HANG UP ON ME?!"

He pressed harder until her screeching finally died.

Finally free of the Wicked Bitch's cacophonous voice, Oliver said "fuck it" and turned his blinker on. Carefully mindful of the next lane, he swung his car to the side then floored the gas pedal. He raced past the semi, then re-entered the original lane. At least he got one victory that day.

Going no less than twenty over the limit of every road on the way, it didn't take him long to get to the park. He pulled into a handicapped spot and looked at his watch. The idiot in the semi made him twenty minutes late. 

Oliver got out of the car and looked around him. The parking lot was empty save one or two other cars. He could see the soccer field in the distance. Though covered in shadows cast by the trees in the twilight, he could tell that it had long been abandoned. There wasn't even a single orange soccer cone to be seen in the green beyond. 

Frantically, he reached into his pocket, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw a text from Lacey. She'd gotten a ride with her friend, Sam, and his parents. Oliver's feelings were mixed. Sam's dad was a balless beta that clearly sided with his ex-wife in the divorce, but Sam's mom was trying to stay neutral in the entire process. He hoped that meant she'd convinced her husband not to rat him out to his ex. 

Oliver shook his head as he re-entered his car. As many people do when unaware that they're in a horror story, he neglected to check the back seat...

***

Rebecca Walters couldn't wait to get home. It was the first time in years that she'd have the house to herself. Her son was off in college in Jump City, and her husband was away visiting a sick uncle. She could close up the bakery early and watch Aurora Teagarden on Lifetime until she fell asleep. 

Walters lowered the metal gate to the storefront and secured it with three locks, as usual. Taking in the cool air around her, she began her trek to the subway station a block away.

She thought of her son, Billy, in college during the entirety of her walk. She was glad that he didn't wind up going to Gotham University. After the story on the news about what those horrible Gamma Epsilon Omega boys had done, her last fond memories of the place had been forever tarnished. She didn't want her son surrounded by people that condoned such activities. Jump City was a very liberal place to live, as she'd been told. It was better to have him study there and not make the same little mistakes that she had made. 

She entered the subway terminal and her mood changed immediately. Rebecca Walters was scared. Her pulse was faster, her breath felt fainter, and her movements jittery. She wasn't sure, but she just knew that the disheveled man at the ticket kiosk had looked at her when she walked in.

Walters stole a look at him in response. He was a small, thin man. His clothes were tattered and baggy, as though he stole them off the corpse of a much larger vagrant after killing him. His grey hair sinewed into strands of long, grey dreads that reminded Walters of the Spanish moss trees she saw on her vacation to Louisiana. He had a similarly unkept beard, which was full of crumbs and other material that she couldn't identify. His wide, brown eyes looked sinister, and his face blended into the dark shadows of the terminal too well for her comfort.

Walters wasn't sure that the man was a danger, but she didn't want to take that chance. It was only natural for a woman to be suspicious of strange man in this day and age, after all. She quickly walked up to the turnstiles and placed her card on the reader. The green light flashed and the happy-sounding bell chimed, and she continued through the gate, then down the stairs to her platform.

A minute passed. The train still hadn't arrived. Walters heard footsteps coming down the stairs. She didn't want it to be what she thought. It was. 

The disheveled man was stumbling down the steps, limping like a drunken idiot. She thought she saw him look at her, this time licking his lips expectantly. She wasn't sure. Walters took out her phone, ready in a moment's notice to call...she didn't know. Who would come to rescue her if he attacked her? 

The man stood a few yards away, and Walters was certain he was trying to appear normal for the cameras. It wouldn't do to appear as though he were obviously following her. She felt trapped by the distance. Even if some rescuer appeared, he could say he was minding his own business even if he weren't.

She heard the train before she saw it. The platform filled with the sounds of rolling thunder that she knew from experience could overpower everything else. Now's his chance, she found herself thinking. Over the roar of the train, he could attack and no one would hear. She closed her eyes, expecting to feel a hand on her shoulder or a knife in her back. Neither came.

When the train's doors opened, Walters practically lept into the car and raced to the chair at the furthest end. The car was empty, just as she feared. The man followed her inside, but sat on the opposite end of the train. She looked at the door to her side, determined that she'd run to the next car should he so much as sneeze. 

"Five stops to go," she whispered to herself. She did so again, and again, and again. It became a mantra.

The train stopped. A cop got on, and Walters's heart did a somersault. The man surely wouldn't do anything with an officer on board! She could relax.

The cop was a lanky, skinny kid with adorable freckles and the faintest tuft of red hair peeking from beneath his cap. His green eyes appeared wide, soft and kind, much like Walters's own son. He was likely a new hire, just out of the academy. Still, she felt safer with him there. 

The cop sat three seats away from Walters and pulled a small bible from his pocket. He began to read silently to himself, his body haunched over as though he were a toddler gazing at a picture book. Just like her Billy used to gaze at his picture books. 

At one point, Walters found her eye turning upward, again aligning with the disheveled man. She was positive that time, he had looked in her direction and was still doing so. Was he looking at her, or was he just looking at the cop? She wasn't sure, but she knew that she didn't like either possibility, as they both meant he was definitely up to something. 

Walters reminded herself that the man would be a fool to act with a cop three seats over, and dropped her gaze. She tried to find another part of the train to focus on, and found herself immediately locking eyes with the cop.

The ginger officer looked at Walters, then turned his head to the disheveled man behind him. He turned to Walters again with a puzzled expression, but then turned his head back to the disheveled man. Finally, he stood up, placing his bible onto the seat he'd arisen from and one hand into his pocket. He walked up to where the disheveled man was sitting and plopped himself in the seat right next to him.

The cop didn't speak. The man didn't speak. The cop looked at the man, and the man tried to avoid the gaze of the cop. But there was nowhere for the bum to run, he'd cornered himself into the last seat before a solid wall. They sat there, just like that for a while, and Walters looked on at the strange pair, with an odd chuckle waiting in the back of her throat.

Finally, the train came to a stop at the next station. No one got on.

The cop pulled his hand from his pocket and presented the disheveled man with a few dollars. 

"Take the next one, buddy," he said to the bum.

The disheveled man, eyes wide and terrified, grabbed the cop's pocket change and hightailed off the train. Satisfied, the cop walked back to his original seat and took up his bible again, neither looking at or saying anything to Walters.

After a minute or two of silence, Walters leaned towards the cop and said a quick, "Thank you." 

He nodded respectfully but didn't take his eyes off the pages of his bible. 

Three stops later, it was time for Walters to get off the train. She arose from her seat and began walking to the door, but then she paused and turned back to the officer. Walters tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention.

"Sir? I'm sorry to disturb you but I wanted to thank you again for getting that man off and commend you for the professional, peaceful way you handled the matter."

The cop shrugged, "No problem, ma'am. Just a part of the job, y'know?" 

Walters was satisfied with his response, sure that he'd been properly thanked, and turned again to walk off the train car. 

"Ya know what," the cop said as he suddenly rose from his own seat, "I think I might walk with you. Unless you got someone meeting you from here on out? It's Gotham after all." 

"Oh dear, thank you so much!" Walters nearly cheered for the officer. Truly, she had been nervous about walking back to her apartment alone, but she didn't want to say anything and be a bigger burden. 

The two exited the train at the same time and began walking to the stairs at the far end of the platform. Walters felt a bit awkward with the cop in tow, but ultimately it was better to feel awkward than terrified. With a GCPD officer at her side, no one would dare try anything with her.

"One thing ma'am," the officer suddenly said, "d'ya mind holding on to this for me?" 

He thrust his hat towards her. She reflexively grabbed it without questioning why. The man had given up his hard-earned money and a few minutes of his day to help her, the least she could do was hang onto his hat for him.

"And this too," he said as he placed another item inside the overturned hat in her hands. Again, Walters was glad to tote the item for the officer, wanting to be as helpful to him as she possibly could. 

In the very next second, Walters realized there was something strange about the object he'd just placed into the hat. Beige in color, it kept rolling around and pumping into the hat's walls. Curious, she reached in and pulled it into the light to get a better look at it.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" 

Walters screamed and dropped the object to the ground. It was soft when she grabbed it, almost like real flesh. The artificial, costume nose was so much like the real thing that it made her want to faint.

"I must say," the cop said in a newer voice, "that was a very rude thing to do. I daresay you've damaged my property, madam." 

Walters watched in horror as the cop reached up to his face and pulled the skin clean off. Beneath the beige, freckled layer that she'd so adored was a horrible face that turned her blood cold. She recognized the black paint and red lipstick from the news, just as any Gothamite would.

What Walters saw was the same face that greeted Joseph Grant when he opened his blinds. It was the same face reflected back at Oliver Walcztloh from his rear-view mirror.

It was my own beautiful visage. The face of a Minstrel.