calls.
That incident had warranted another visit from the police but the cops found Dale’s condo empty and the pickup gone when they’d arrived.
But Kari knew he’d be back. And so she’d decided it was time to end the problem once and for all. She’d never intended to be a model for more than a few years and she’d figured that this was a good time to quit. Telling only her parents and a few close friends, she’d instructed a real estate company to lease her house and moved to Crowell, Massachusetts, a town she’d been to several years before on a photo shoot. She’d spent a few days here after the assignment and had fallen in love with the clean air and dramatic coastline—and with the citizens of the town too. They were friendly but refreshingly reserved toward her; a beautiful face didn’t place very high on the scale of austere New England values.
She’d left L.A. at two A.M. on a Sunday morning, taking mostly back streets, doubling back and pausing often until she was sure she’d evaded Dale. As she’d driven across the country, elated at the prospect of a new life, she’d occupied much of her time with a fantasy about Dale’s committing suicide.
But now she knew that the son of a bitch was very much alive. And somehow had found out where she’d moved.
Tonight, huddled in the living room of her new house, she heard his pickup’s engine start. It idled roughly, the exhaust bubbling from the rusty pipe—sounds she’d grown oh-too-familiar with over the past few years. Slowly the vehicle drove away.
Crying quietly now, Kari rested her head on the carpet. She closed her eyes. Nine hours later she awoke and found herself on her side, knees drawn up, clutching the thirty-eight-caliber pistol to her chest, the same way that, as a little girl, she’d wake up every morning, curled into a ball and cuddling a stuffed bear she’d named Bonnie.
Later that morning an embittered Kari Swanson was sitting in the office of Detective Brad Loesser, head of the Felonies Division of the Crowell, Massachusetts, Police Department.
A solid, balding man with sun-baked freckles across the bridge of his nose, Loesser listened to her story with sympathy. He shook his head then asked, “How’d he find out you were here?”
She shrugged. “Hired a private eye, for all I know.” David Dale was exactly as resourceful as he needed to be when it came to Kari Swanson.
“Sid!” the detective shouted to a plainclothes officer in a cubicle nearby.
The trim young man appeared. Loesser introduced Kari to Sid Harper. Loesser briefed his assistantand said, “Check this guy out and get me the records from . . .” He glanced at Kari. “What police department’d have his file?”
She said angrily, “That’d be departments, Detective. Plural. I’d start with Santa Monica, Los Angeles and the California State Police. Then you might want to talk to Burbank, Beverly Hills, Glendale and Orange County. I moved around a bit to get away from him.”
“Brother,” Loesser said, shaking his head.
Sid Harper returned a few minutes later.
“L.A.’s overnighting us their file. Santa Monica’s is coming in two days. And I ran the Mass real estate records round here.” He glanced at a slip of paper. “David Dale bought a condo in Park View two days ago. That’s about a quarter mile from Ms. Swanson’s place.”
“Bought?” Loesser asked, surprised.
“He says it makes him feel closer to me if he owns a house in the same town,” Kari explained, shaking her head.
“We’ll talk to him, Miss Swanson. And we’ll keep an eye on your house. If he does anything overt you can get a restraining order.”
“That won’t stop him,” she scoffed. “You know that.”
“Our hands’re pretty much tied.”
She slapped her leg hard. “I’ve been hearing that for years. It’s time to do something.” Kari’s eyes strayed to a rack of shotguns on the wall nearby. When she looked back she found the detective was
That incident had warranted another visit from the police but the cops found Dale’s condo empty and the pickup gone when they’d arrived.
But Kari knew he’d be back. And so she’d decided it was time to end the problem once and for all. She’d never intended to be a model for more than a few years and she’d figured that this was a good time to quit. Telling only her parents and a few close friends, she’d instructed a real estate company to lease her house and moved to Crowell, Massachusetts, a town she’d been to several years before on a photo shoot. She’d spent a few days here after the assignment and had fallen in love with the clean air and dramatic coastline—and with the citizens of the town too. They were friendly but refreshingly reserved toward her; a beautiful face didn’t place very high on the scale of austere New England values.
She’d left L.A. at two A.M. on a Sunday morning, taking mostly back streets, doubling back and pausing often until she was sure she’d evaded Dale. As she’d driven across the country, elated at the prospect of a new life, she’d occupied much of her time with a fantasy about Dale’s committing suicide.
But now she knew that the son of a bitch was very much alive. And somehow had found out where she’d moved.
Tonight, huddled in the living room of her new house, she heard his pickup’s engine start. It idled roughly, the exhaust bubbling from the rusty pipe—sounds she’d grown oh-too-familiar with over the past few years. Slowly the vehicle drove away.
Crying quietly now, Kari rested her head on the carpet. She closed her eyes. Nine hours later she awoke and found herself on her side, knees drawn up, clutching the thirty-eight-caliber pistol to her chest, the same way that, as a little girl, she’d wake up every morning, curled into a ball and cuddling a stuffed bear she’d named Bonnie.
Later that morning an embittered Kari Swanson was sitting in the office of Detective Brad Loesser, head of the Felonies Division of the Crowell, Massachusetts, Police Department.
A solid, balding man with sun-baked freckles across the bridge of his nose, Loesser listened to her story with sympathy. He shook his head then asked, “How’d he find out you were here?”
She shrugged. “Hired a private eye, for all I know.” David Dale was exactly as resourceful as he needed to be when it came to Kari Swanson.
“Sid!” the detective shouted to a plainclothes officer in a cubicle nearby.
The trim young man appeared. Loesser introduced Kari to Sid Harper. Loesser briefed his assistantand said, “Check this guy out and get me the records from . . .” He glanced at Kari. “What police department’d have his file?”
She said angrily, “That’d be departments, Detective. Plural. I’d start with Santa Monica, Los Angeles and the California State Police. Then you might want to talk to Burbank, Beverly Hills, Glendale and Orange County. I moved around a bit to get away from him.”
“Brother,” Loesser said, shaking his head.
Sid Harper returned a few minutes later.
“L.A.’s overnighting us their file. Santa Monica’s is coming in two days. And I ran the Mass real estate records round here.” He glanced at a slip of paper. “David Dale bought a condo in Park View two days ago. That’s about a quarter mile from Ms. Swanson’s place.”
“Bought?” Loesser asked, surprised.
“He says it makes him feel closer to me if he owns a house in the same town,” Kari explained, shaking her head.
“We’ll talk to him, Miss Swanson. And we’ll keep an eye on your house. If he does anything overt you can get a restraining order.”
“That won’t stop him,” she scoffed. “You know that.”
“Our hands’re pretty much tied.”
She slapped her leg hard. “I’ve been hearing that for years. It’s time to do something.” Kari’s eyes strayed to a rack of shotguns on the wall nearby. When she looked back she found the detective was
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