D. Schmidt - They Ate the Waitress?

Clayton West’s home was in a fashionable part of town, the kind of neighborhood young people moved to after they’d given up on becoming rock stars and artists and resigned themselves to working in an office for the rest of their lives. A row of bushes lined Clayton’s driveway, each trimmed into a perfect sphere. The house had round, protruding windows, hemispheres of glass. It looked rather like an overpriced, suburban submarine.

Nick crept cautiously up the driveway to the garage. Shining a flashlight in the window, he saw nothing but bare concrete. “No car. Looks like Clayton’s out for the evening. Still, I’d better be quick. In this neighborhood, security shoots first and asks questions at your autopsy.”

In an effort to prevent costly claims, some insurance companies employed security guards to patrol customers’ neighborhoods. The guards were heavily armed but also tightly restricted in where they could go, what they could investigate, and who they could arrest. Being kept on such a short leash made them resent manhunters, who had much greater freedom. Especially manhunters like Nick, who pretty much did as he pleased.

“I could pick the locks on the front door,” he thought, “but that would take time, and I don’t know how long I have until Clayton comes home. Looks like it’s the old Santa Claus gag…” He pulled his car up to the garage. He jumped from the roof of his car to the rain gutter and, once he pulled himself up, it was an easy climb to the chimney. However, sliding down the chimney was not nearly as much fun as he’d imagined.

Brushing off the soot, he switched on his flashlight and examined Clayton’s living room. The hardwood floor was covered in a circular, checkerboard pattern rug. The room smelled strongly of new paint, probably the hunter green on the walls. A line of framed photographs were hung over the fireplace. They were the old-fashioned, paper kind of photos, all of Renée.

“Nothing unusual. He dated her for a long time; of course he’ll have pictures.”

Then he turned to the other walls. They, too, were covered in photos of Renée: Renée walking down the street, Renée viewed through a window or from behind bushes, Renée putting on a sweater, Renée biting her toenails. He guessed there were around three dozen photos just in the living room. “On the other hand, this is a bit much. Not even Rent-A-Stalker gives you this much attention! I should make a record of this.” He pulled his transmitter from jacket and switched it into “record” mode.

“I am collecting evidence at the home of Clayton West,” he said into the tiny, twin cameras. “Subject appears to be obsessed with the victim, his ex-girlfriend, Renée Flockhart. Possibly psychotic. (Clayton, not Renée.) As Renée never returned her keys, Clayton could have had access to the premises through her. Also, take a look at this rug. Isn’t it hideous?”

He filmed a few close-up shots of the photos, taking a couple off the wall to get a closer look. The frames were gray, almost the same color as the nails upon which they were hung. They were cheap and flimsy, the kind of frame that usually held a liberal arts degree. Finished filming, he decided to quickly investigate the other rooms.

A calendar in the hallway had several days marked “ FLORIDA” in red. It looked like Clayton was leaving for vacation in a week.

The first door was the study. There was a computer in the corner and several long rows of bookshelves. According to Todd, Clayton bought paperback novels at random, as he only used them as accessories for his bookend collection. Next to the computer stood a stack of papers. Most of the pile was printouts of emails, correspondence with friends. However, near the bottom of the stack was a letter from Clayton’s medical insurance company:

Your new Schlock Products™ artificial heart comes with the latest in micro- processor software: HeartBeater 0.93b!

Please note that your new heart is designed for low-impact activities. Avoid all unnecessary stress, such as the following:

*Jogging

*Weight training

*Sexual activity lasting more than three minutes

*Thoughts of an overly philosophical nature

*Sasquatch hunting

*Drag racing (Cars or transvestites.)

Keep away from microwave ovens, garage door openers, and television remote controls. For internal use only. Not to be used as a sump pump.

There was nothing else in the study, so he continued down the hallway. “Oh, here’s the bedroom. Bed, dresser, television, enormous, snarling German Shepherd…”

He aimed his laser stunner at the dog’s head. Before he could fire, he heard the front door bang open, then heavy footsteps down the hall. “Anderson Security Company! You have three seconds to prove you’re not a thief before we open fire!”

Nick turned to face the six security guards who were all pointing very large handguns at his head. Shielding his eyes from the laser sights, he said, “Jimmy? Is that you?”

A thick-necked guard switched off his laser sight and pointed a flashlight at him. “Nick? Nick Wergild? Fancy meeting you here! You know, we warned you that the next time you broke into a house there’d be consequences. Dire consequences.”

“Yeah, I remember,” he said, taking out his money pouch. “So, bribes all around then?”

The following morning, Nick was roused from a deep sleep by the sound of his transmitter. As usual, the return to consciousness was particularly irritating. For Nick, the waking world was a lot like a cocktail party: aggravating, tedious, and full of people he would rather strangle than speak to. Also, there was a lot of booze.

He answered the transmitter, Sophia’s head appearing above his palm. “That psycho is outside!” she said, chewing on a fingernail. “I was trying to avoid him so I switched shifts with a friend but he must have found out somehow. He’s here at the store! My shift is over soon. Can you come over here and film him while he follows me home?”

“That wouldn’t prove anything,” he said groggily. Yawning and stretching, he climbed out of bed. “It would be too difficult to film both you and Bender at the same time. Without both of your cars in the same shot, there wouldn’t be any real evidence of stalking. I’ll have to head to your place and film him once he gets there. Don’t go home for about half an hour; I’ll need some time to get everything ready.” He reached down to cut the transmission.

“Nick, wait! I’m scared. Will you keep talking to me?”

“Sure. What did you want to talk about?”

“Just keep talking…”

As it was during the day, there were quite a few employees and customers around, so Nick figured Luke wouldn’t risk coming into the store. Nick got dressed and ran a couple of errands, all the while doing his best to keep Sophia’s mind off the man waiting for her outside. His first stop was at a small store called Notable Furniture. (The name confused shoppers, but they refused to change it.) Dividing his attention between Sophia and a salesclerk, he ordered a living room set and had it sent to an apartment in her complex that she knew to be empty.

Back in his car, he finished telling her about his night at Clayton West’s. “…And the last security guard, I decided to let him live. There had been more than enough bloodshed for one night.”

His second stop was at a moving van rental lot. In order to get a van, customers had to leave their cars behind as collateral. If they didn’t return the van on time, their cars were crushed into cubes and sold as extremely heavy coffee tables. He left his car and continued on to Sophia’s in a large moving van.

He found a space in front of the empty apartment. Notable Furniture’s deliverymen were already there, unloading the bedroom set. “I have to go, Wynne. You can head on home. I’ll be here, waiting to intercept Bender.” She seemed unsure but agreed to do as he said.