“I thought that was what you went to Boston to do,” Sally said coldly, looking at her ex-husband with arched eyebrows. “Along with five thousand reasons in cash.”

“Yes,” Scott replied equally coolly, “I guess our bribe offer didn’t work. So, what’s the next step?”

They were all quiet for a moment, until Hope blurted, “Ashley’s in a bad situation. She clearly needs assistance, but how? And what? What is it we can do?”

“There must be laws,” Scott said.

“There are, but how do we apply them?” Hope continued. “And, so far, what law do we think this guy has broken? He hasn’t assaulted her. Hasn’t hit her. Hasn’t threatened her. He’s told her he loves her. And he’s followed her. And then what he’s done is screwed up her life with the computer. Mischief, mostly.”

“There are laws against that,” Sally said, then stopped.

“Computer mischief,” he said. “That hardly describes it.”

“Anonymous,” Sally said.

All three were thinking hard about what to say next. Then Scott leaned back and said, “I had a really sticky problem of my own the last week or so, generated anonymously by computer. I think it’s solved, but…”

Nobody spoke for a second, before Hope added, “So have I.”

Sally looked up, surprised at what she’d heard.

But before she could say anything, Hope pointed directly at her. “And so has she.”

Hope stood up. “I think everyone is going to need a drink.” She headed off in search of another bottle of wine. “Maybe more than one drink,” she threw back over her shoulder to where Scott and Sally were staring at each other in doubt.

The Massachusetts State Police detective seated across from me seemed at first like an oddly pleasant fellow, with little of the hard-bitten, world-weary appearance of a character in a police novel. He was of modest height and build, wore a blue blazer and inexpensive khaki pants, and had close-cropped sandy-colored hair with a disarming bushy mustache on his upper lip. If it weren’t for the ice-black, nine-millimeter Glock pistol riding under his arm in a shoulder holster, he would have seemed more like an insurance salesman, or a high school teacher.

He rocked back in his chair, ignored a ringing telephone, and said, “So, you want to know a little bit about stalking, right?”

“Yes. Research,” I replied.

“For a book? Or an article? Not because of some personal interest in the subject?”

“I’m not sure that I follow.”

The detective grinned. “Well, it’s a little like the guy who calls up the doctor and says, ‘I’ve got this buddy at work who wants to know what the symptoms of, ah, a sexually transmitted disease like, ah, syphilis or gonorrhea are. And how he, ah, that’s my friend, not me, might have gotten it, ’cause he’s in a lot of pain.’ ”

I shook my head. “You think that I’m being stalked and want…”

He smiled, but it was a calculating grin. “Maybe you want to stalk someone and you’re looking for tips on how to avoid arrest. That would be the crazy sort of thing a real intense stalker might try to pull off. It’s always an error to underestimate them. And what they will do when it comes time for them to do it. A really dedicated stalker makes a science of his obsession. A science and an art.”

“How so?”

“He not only studies his victim, but their world, as well. Family. Friends. Job. School. Where they like to eat dinner. Where they go to the movies or have their car serviced or buy their lottery tickets. Where they walk the dog. He uses all sorts of resources, both legal and illegal, to accumulate information. He is constantly measuring, assessing, anticipating. He devotes his every waking thought to his target-so much so that often he can think steps ahead, almost as if he is reading the victim’s mind. He comes to know them almost better than they know themselves.”

“What is all this driven by?”

“Psychologists are unsure. Obsessive behavior is always something of a mystery. A past that has, shall we say, rough edges?”

“Probably more than that.”

“Yes, probably. My guess is, scratch the surface a bit, you’ll find some pretty nasty stuff in their childhood. Abuse. Violence. You name it.”

He shook his head. “Dangerous folks, stalkers. They aren’t your ordinary type of low-rent criminal by any means. Whether you’re a trailer-park checkout girl in the local supermarket being stalked by your biker ex-boyfriend, or a Hollywood star with all the money in the world being stalked by an obsessed fan, you’re in a whole lot of danger, because, no matter what you do, if they want it enough, they will get to you. And law enforcement, even with temporary restraining orders and cyber-stalking laws, is designed to react to, not head off, an eventual crime. Stalkers know this. And the frightening thing is, they often don’t care. Not a bit. They are immune to the usual sanctions. Embarrassment. Financial ruin. Prison. Death. These things don’t necessarily frighten them. What they fear is losing sight of their target. It overcomes everything, and that single-minded pursuit becomes their entire rationale for living.”

“What can a victim do?”

He reached into his desk and brought out a pamphlet titled “Are You Being Stalked? Advice from the Massachusetts State Police.”

“We give you some material to read.”

“That’s it?”

“Until a felony is committed. And then, it’s usually too late.”

“What about advocacy groups and…”

“Well, they can help some people. There are safe spaces, secret housing, support groups, you name it. All can provide some assistance in some cases. And I would never tell someone not to contact those types-but you have to be cautious, because you might be bringing something to a confrontation that you really don’t want. But it’s usually too late, anyways. You want to know what’s really crazy?”

I nodded.

“Our state legislature has been in the forefront of passing laws to protect folks, but the dedicated stalker finds his way around them. And, what’s even worse, once you engage the authorities-like when you go file the complaint and have the case registered and obtain the court order requiring the stalker to stay away-that can just as easily trigger disaster. Force the bad guy’s hand. Make him act precipitously. Load up all his weaponry and announce, ‘If I can’t have you, no one will.’ ”

“And…”

“Use your imagination, Mr. Writer. You know what happens when some guy shows up at a workplace or a home or wherever, dressed up like Rambo in cammy fatigues, with an automatic twelve-gauge shotgun, at least two pistols, and enough ammunition strapped to his chest to hold off a SWAT team for hours. You’ve seen those stories.”

I was quiet. I had indeed. The detective grinned again.

“Here’s something you should keep in mind: as best as we can tell, both in law enforcement and forensic psychology, the closest profile we can arrive at for a truly dedicated stalker is more or less exactly the same as a serial killer.”

He leaned back. “That kinda makes you think, doesn’t it?”