The Stalker by John Coultas

This is a scene from my story Tripping Over Murder

She hummed to herself as she wound along the forest road. John had offered to ride into town with her, she was insistent that she was an accomplished rider; she would have no problems, finding her way or avoiding catastrophes.

On the paved main road she sensed a car behind her, she kept to the shoulder to avoid a collision, giving the driver room to pass. Back to her humming she forgot about the car and focused on John. The warmth he generated in her. And what an accomplished person, building his cabin, surviving in the woods, baking and cooking, what a guy. He was the true Renaissance man.

Back to the real world she thought about that car, it never passed. Quick glances over her shoulder would reveal a flash of color behind or she would hear a distant crunch of gravel.

There was a rise above, at the top she would stop and look back to see who was following her. At the high point she did just that, she looked back upon vacant pavement, but around a bend there were wisps of vapor, such as that made by an idling vehicle.

There was a good grade down this side of the hill, she would put distance between herself and whoever it was that was following. She pushed off, and began pumping the peddles, keeping her head low, she whipped around the first curve. She could feel the tires slip a bit but she came out fine, ahead she was going to go through a dark tunnel of overhanging pine and oak. She remembered this turn, not as tight as the one above, another look over her shoulder, she thought her stalker was still there.

Inside the tunnel it was night like, and cold, again she pumped at the peddles, she knew that she would be going into the curve just as she came out into the light. Her eyes adjusted rapidly, she forced the handle bars into the turn, God no! Her peripheral vision picked up a brown blur, she was hit from the side, the impact felt like a Mack truck.


“Janeane,” She could here someone calling her name, from far away. It was dark, nighttime or was it a thick fog. “Janeane,” The voice called again, maybe closer. There was pain all over, her head felt as if it had exploded. Someone was pulling her arm, shaking it. Don’t do that it hurts, everything hurts, go away leave me in my pain! “Janeane, its Dan, are you okay?”

Her eyes flickered to narrow slits, “Ouch,” She complained, “No I’m not okay. Go away! Just let me die here.”

“Good, I thought you might really be injured,” Dan leaned back holding on to her hand.

“What hit me, all I remember was the force...and then my rough awakening? You need to work on your bedside manner.”

“A herd of deer came across the road. Lucky they butted you to the side, otherwise you would have been road kill.”

“Oh, deer," Janeane groaned,"Who would of thought Bambi could be so careless?”

“Lot of people get injured up here...even killed...by our deer, not to mention elk and moose.”

“So, how did you know that it was a deer that hit me?” She gave Dan the quizzical look.

“Oh, I saw, I was up the road.” Innocence planted on his face.

She winced as she sat up, “You were behind me? You were the one following me? You were the one that made me ride like a maniac down this deer infested road and almost killed me? Some help you aren’t.” Her hands went to her throbbing head.

“You want me to call the paramedics?”

“No, just take me and my bike back to town. Where is my bike?” She looked around.

“Like I said you were lucky they nudged you to the side...you could have died." His hand scrubbed at his ten o'clock shadow," The bike got trampled. I’ll put what’s left in the trunk and drive you back to town.” He offered shoulders slumping.

“My bike!” She began sobbing. That bike had been so important to her, her only means of transportation for years. She wasn’t sure she could survive without it. She gritted her teeth, restraining herself from putting all the blame on Dan. And why was he following me. She looked at him through her tear filled eyes.

All of this would have to be resolved in time. Right now she would have to shape up for work on Monday. Miss Chambers would disapprove of a battered and bruised librarian. She felt her face, a bump on the forehead, an abrasion on the cheek. With a sweep of hair across the bump, and the cheek would be covered by a slathering of makeup, that should do it.