Doug Allyn - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 6. Whole No. 766, June 2005

During the campaign, she hired two bodyguards, turned ‘em loose on us. They were pretty nice — they knew we had a job to do. They never broke our cameras, though sometimes they asked for our film. Mostly, they stood in front of us so we couldn’t shoot nothing and told us to go away ‘cause we were “disturbing” the lady.

Honestly! She looks at me sometimes like she’s afraid I’m going to gun her down. But I protect her. I’m not like those paparazzi. I never sell pictures that would hurt her precious reputation. I have shots of her kissing guys — just in greeting, but that’s not the way it looks in the photos. And pictures of her without a top. Her skirt riding up her leg getting out of a cab. Falling off a bike. Giving the finger to a heckler. I could’ve sold nude photos for big money to Playboy or Hustler, but did I? And when the senator was shot, did I sell pictures of her covered in blood, her face all stretched out like a laugh, only it wasn’t? Hell, no. I got too much class for that.

I just want her to come down to our level. If she’s gonna be that stinking rich and famous, she’s gotta share a bit, you know what I mean? Hell, we live in a democracy.

I’d never hurt her, like chasing her in front of a truck. I wouldn’t do that to a dog. Have I ever broken the speed limit going after her? Never! Besides, if she got hurt, there goes my meal ticket.

It’s not like I’m some kind of crazed stalker. I’m just trying to earn a living. You know what I mean?

She collapsed inside the door of her Park Avenue condo. Her back slid down the wall until her butt thumped on the floor. She hugged her legs to her chest, sobs ripping up her esophagus.

What did they want from her? The crowds who hovered outside her building, teenagers and housewives fawning over her as if she were the Virgin of Guadalupe, reaching across the police barricade, fingertips stretched, on fire. Holding out photos of her to sign, babies to kiss. And the Cyclopes, blinding her with their flashes, squatting, jumping around the fans, their cameras whirring — pop, pop, pop — oblivious to the traffic and the busy sidewalk.

When would it end? When would they leave her alone? They took her husband! What more did they want?

She felt weak, persecuted, violated. Like a fox chased through the woods by a pack of beagles and men on horseback. A fox without a chance.

She huddled in the corner of her hallway, panicked and shivering. Like a roach, she sought a dark crevice where she could hide. She wished she could disappear.

Her heart fluttered, beating too fast, and her skin burned all over. The hallway floor tilted, the ceiling pressed down. Whimpering as she sobbed, she gasped for breath.

This is it, she thought. I’m losing my mind. They have driven me crazy. But even as these and other unspoken words zipped between her temples — insanity, paranoia, psychosis — even as she dashed into her bedroom, yanked a pistol from her bedstand drawer, and shoved it into her mouth, a pea-sized knot of reason held fast.

The barrel felt cool against her lips and tongue. It tasted and smelled like motor oil, making her gag. She took the gun out of her mouth.

As tears poured down her face, she sat on her bed and looked at the pistol. It was silver and not much larger than her hand, a gift from a lobbyist for the NRA after her husband spoke in favor of banning the sale of handguns. Before he was gunned down.

She felt its weight in her hand. No, she would not let them drive her insane. She was stronger than that.

Mental anguish my foot! Bloody bitch thinks she’s gonna sue me? What about my First Amendment rights! She’s got all the money in the world and she wants to prevent me from making a living? There are a million photographers out there. How come she’s got to harass me?

She has these fancy New York lawyers. Fine. We’ll fight in court, baby. A big trial ain’t gonna embarrass me none. Hell, it’ll be good for business. Free publicity.

So there she is on the witness stand all weepy, looking straight at the jury, in her whispery I’m-just-a-poor-defenseless-woman voice: “I feel like a prisoner... all I want is a small measure of privacy... I feel terrified of what he might do next, especially to my children.” Boohoo! Her voice cracks. She dabs her eyes. The jury looks at me like I’m some kind of child molester. One lady bares her teeth at me. Christ! I got kids, too!

Then, after the jury goes out, one of her employees trots in with a big picnic basket, and she and the judge have lunch in his chambers. Is that even legal? What a sham!

Sure she wins. How’s a working schlub like me gonna compete with all that money? Against a mother protecting her children? No way. Everyone on that jury acts like she’s some kind of princess. But what the hell has she ever done? Nothing but snag a famous husband. Yet she gets respect and I get kicked in the teeth.

Sure, I’m mad at her — she doesn’t have to be that way. But I don’t hate her. Hell, I make my living off her — I oughta love her. I’ll tell you what I really love. I love that moment she sees me, her eyes filled with terror. Like a wild animal. That’s real. She can be as phony as she wants to the rest of the world, but when she sees me, I get her soul. Sure, I get off on it. It’s power. Then she takes off until next time.

It’s like we have a relationship.

You’re thinking I’m a psychopath. No way. I’m good for her. I let her know WE exist out here. I let her know she’s human. I let her know she’s got responsibilities to us. She should be grateful to me.

I hear she’s got a big blowup of one of my photos hanging in her dining room. You know, the one where she’s looking over her shoulder at me in jeans and braless in a tight jersey, her hair flying in the wind, with this ferocious look in her eye like she’s about to bite.

So you see, she knows I’m good at my job. I guess that makes me kind of happy.

I see him as soon as I cross Fifth Avenue and turn the corner by the museum steps. He follows, keeping his distance. His Cyclops eye zooms in on me, scoping me out like a sniper’s rifle. He shuffles with his camera pressed to his face, bumping into tourists, darting between cars, flipping a finger to honking taxis, Screw you, sweetheart! skipping around businessmen, ducking for a moment behind a hot-dog stand, then sliding between gray-haired matrons and their middle-aged daughters.

On he comes, never ceasing. His feet splayed in a duck walk, his heels hitting hard, his polished leather coat flapping against his thighs. On he comes, unerring, undeflected, a missile to its enemy, a predator after its prey. On he comes. On target.

By Conservatory Water, the children in red-and-white sailor maillots prod toy sailboats with sticks. Dried leaves twirl in spiraling gusts. The oak trees and crape myrtle bend lightly in the wind. Weary Park Avenue au pairs chat in foreign tongues as their toddlers take tentative steps toward one another. Old men eat peanuts from small paper bags, and tourists take off their shoes to rub their feet.

He lurks on the other side of the pond, his black proboscis probing the shadows until he finds me.

I turn and flee back up the path toward the museum and into the tunnel that leads to the Great Lawn. I stop and wait. He charges into the underpass, lenses rattling. He pulls up abruptly when he sees a dark figure leaning against the wall. The tunnel is dank and narrow, smelling of pee and moss, the kind of place bad things happen, the kind of place New Yorkers run through holding their breath. He hesitates, not knowing if it’s me or someone who will stab him, grab his cameras, and kick him in the face.

He takes a step toward me. I’m sure he can’t make out my face. He wheezes; his breath is shallow. Does he have asthma or emphysema? Is my stalker ill? I smell his body sweating in leather, frowsty like an old man. My stalker is ageing with me.