Without going into detail, I will simply state that I have become the innocent target of a stalker. Why this man singled me out is quite unfathomable to me. I am neither a talk show host nor a teenage tennis champion. While presentable, I am by no means a raving beauty. I had never met him, nor had I done anything to arouse his interest or his ill will. Yet he will not leave me alone.

He parks his car across the street and watches my house through binoculars. He follows me when I leave the house. He calls me at all hours. I have long since stopped answering the phone, but this does not stop him from leaving horribly obscene and threatening messages on my answering machine.

I was living in Missouri when this began, in a suburb of St. Louis. I have moved four times, and each time he has managed to find me. I cannot tell you how many times I have changed my telephone number. He always manages to find out my new unlisted number. I don’t know how. Perhaps he has a confederate at the telephone company…

He read the letter on through to the end. There had been a perceptible escalation in the harassment, she reported. He had begun telling her he would kill her, and had taken to describing the manner in which he intended to take her life. He had on several occasions broken into her house in her absence. He had stolen some undergarments from the clothes hamper, slashed a painting, and used her lipstick to write an obscene message on the wall. He had performed various acts of minor vandalism on her car. After one invasion of her home she’d bought a dog; a week later she’d returned home to find the dog missing. Not long afterward there was another message on her answering machine. No human speech, just a lot of barking and yipping and canine whimpering, ending with what she took to be a gunshot.

“Jesus,” Keller said.

“The dog, right? I figured that would get to you.”

The police inform me there is nothing they can do,she continued.In two different states I obtained orders of protection, but what good does that do? He violates them at will and with apparent impunity. The police are powerless to act until he commits a crime. He has committed several, but has never left sufficient evidence for them to proceed. The messages on my answering machine do not constitute evidence because he uses some sort of instrument to distort his voice before leaving a message. Sometimes he changes his voice to that of a woman. The first time he did this I picked up the phone and said hello when I heard a female voice, sure that it was not him, and the next thing I knew his awful voice was sounding in my ear, accusing me of horrible acts and promising me torture and death.

At a policeman’s off-the-record suggestion, I bought myself a gun. Given the chance, I would shoot this man without a moment’s hesitation. But when the attack comes, will I have the gun at hand? I doubt it. I feel certain he will choose his opportunity carefully and come upon me when I am helpless.

I know the risk I take in writing to someone who is even more a stranger to me than my tormentor is. No doubt you could use this letter as an instrument of extortion. I can say only that you would be wasting your time. I won’t pay blackmail. And if you are some sort of policeman and this ad is some sort of “sting”-well, sting away! I don’t care.

If you are what you imply yourself to be, please call me at the following number… It is unlisted, but it is already well known to my adversary. Identify yourself with the phrase “Toxic Waste.” If I’m at home, I’ll pick up. If I don’t, simply ring off and call back at a later time.

I am not wealthy, but I have had some success in my profession. I have saved my money and invested wisely. I will pay anything within my means to whoever will rid me forever of this diabolical man.

He folded the letter, returned it to its envelope, and handed it across the table.

“Well, Keller?”

“You call her?”

“First I went to the library,” she said. “She’s real. Has a whole lot of books for young readers. Writes them, draws the pictures herself.The Bunny Who Lost His Ears, that kind of thing.”

“How did he lose his ears?”

“I didn’t read the books, Keller, I just made sure they existed. Then I looked her up in a kind ofWho’s Who they have for authors. It had her old address in Webster Groves, Missouri. Then I went home and watched him work on a jigsaw puzzle. That’s his favorite thing these days, jigsaw puzzles. When he’s done he glues cardboard to the back and mounts them on the wall like trophies.”

“How long’s he been doing that?”

“Long enough,” she said. “I went downstairs and put the TV on, and the next day I went out to a pay phone and called Muscatine. I lookedthat up, too, while I was at the library. It’s on the Mississippi.”

“Everything’s got to be someplace.”

“What do you think so far, Keller? Tell me.”

He reached down and scratched the dog. “I think it’s asking for trouble,” he said. “Guy goes down, they pick her up before the body’s cold. She’s got to sing like a songbird. I mean, she told us everything and we didn’t even ask.”

“Agreed. She’ll fold the minute they knock on her door.”

“So?”

“So she can’t know anything,” Dot said. “Can’t tell what she doesn’t know, right? That’s the first thing I said to her, after I said ‘Toxic Waste’ and she picked up the phone. I laid it out for her. ‘No names, no pack drill,’ I said. I told her a number, said half in advance, half on completion. Cash, fifties and hundreds, wrap ’em up good and FedEx the package to John Smith at Mail Boxes Etc. in Scarsdale.”

“John Smith?”

“First name that came to me. Soon as I got off the phone I went over and rented a box under that name. The owner’s Afghani, he doesn’t know Smith from Shinola. It’s better than the post office because you can call up and find out if they’ve got anything for you. I called yesterday and guess what?”

“She sent the money?”

She nodded. “ ‘Send half the money,’ I said, ‘and our field operative will call when he’s on the scene. He’ll introduce himself and get the information he requires. You’ll never meet him face-to-face, but he’ll coordinate with you and take care of everything. And afterward you’ll get a final call telling you where to send the balance.’ ”

Keller thought about it. “There’s stuff they could trace,” he said. “The PO box, the mailbox. Records of phone calls.”

“There’s always something.”

“Uh-huh. What kind of a price did you set?”

“Just on the high side of standard.”

“And you got half in front, and she hasn’t got a clue who she sent it to.”

“Meaning I could just keep it. I thought of that, obviously. If you turn it down, that’s probably what I’ll do.”

“Just probably? You’re not going to send it back.”

“No, but I could call around, try and find another shooter.”

“I didn’t turn it down yet,” he said.

“Take your time.”

“The old man would have a fit. You know that, don’t you?”

“Gee, I’m glad you told me that, Keller. It never would have occurred to me.”

“What does that mean, anyway, ‘No names, no pack drill’? I’m familiar with the expression, I get the sense of it, but what’s a pack drill, do you happen to know?”

“It’s just an expression, for God’s sake.”

“Give me the letter again,” he said, and read it through rapidly. “Most of the time,” he said, “the people who hire these things, there’s other things they could do. They may think otherwise, but there’s usually another way out.”

“So?”

“So what choice has she got?”

“Nelson,” Dot said, “you know what I just did? I watched your master talk himself into something.”

“ Muscatine,” he said. “Do planes go there?”

“Not if they can help it.”

“What do I do, go there and call her up? ‘Toxic Waste,’ and then I wait for her to pick up?”