Afterimage

by zerofret

Chapter 3: Unfocused

Stan watched warily as the stranger turned – his movements slightly stiff and deliberate – to face him. The man said nothing; he simply assessed him with a cold, analytical gaze. Stan was chilled by the flat, dead expression in those eyes. There was something indefinable in that look that made him feel like an insect pinned helplessly to a bulletin board. It was something akin to mental dissection, and it made his skin crawl. He could feel a shudder trying to pass through him, and he fought to stifle it. His instincts told him that showing weakness in front of this guy would not be a good thing.

His senses were heightened. He could feel the palms of his hands growing clammy, could almost feel the weight of the damp night air hanging heavy and close around him. So what does this guy want? he thought, forgetting momentarily that he was the one who had initiated this situation. Rivulets of blood ran down the back of his neck, flowing from the wound where his scalp had been opened. It made his skin itch maddeningly, but still he remained motionless.

Eternal seconds ticked by. How had he ended up here in this bizarre standoff? There was something not right about this guy, and he was regretting his decision to force a confrontation. Trying to come up with a plan of action in case things got violent, he briefly considered the knife he kept folded away in his pocket. He then cursed silently; it was so close, but so far away. The knife was tucked in his right pocket, and his right arm was useless after the collision with the door; he didn't think he could even lift it.

Instead, he raised his left hand in a placatory gesture. "Just watch where you're going next time, okay?"

He hoped he sounded amiable rather than cowardly. But he could feel blood starting to dampen his shirt collar, and he wasn't feeling too brave. He noticed the glow of the streetlight glinting off something metallic under the man's jacket. Shit! Stan thought, his fight-or-flight mechanism accelerating into overdrive, that's a gun in his waistband! How was he going to get out of this?! As before, the matter was decided for him.

Suddenly, without a word, the man wheeled away from him with the same deliberateness of movement as before, and strode off into the night. Stan – frozen to the spot – watched him go, aware for the second time that night of his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest. He feared that this time it might succeed. Moments later, he heard the sounds of a car door closing and an engine roaring to life. Eventually, he remembered to breathe, and time resumed its forward march. Apparently, the stranger had somewhere to be, and he didn't have time for him. Lucky me, he thought, sourly.

Stan exhaled heavily, just relieved to be free of that discomfiting stare and the unknown motives behind it. That had been plain...creepy. No other word for it, really. His legs feeling rubbery, he sank down until he was sitting on the building's front step, and fished for a handkerchief in his left pocket. He held it to the back of his head to try to stem the bleeding. He was going to have one hell of a headache in the morning, but he had a strong sense that it could have been much, much worse. He cast a furtive glance down the street in the direction the man had gone, hoping that he was gone for good.

He then remembered why he had come here. A cold wave passed through him. Could that have been the guy the police were trying to protect Sarah from? Had he come here looking for her, too? Alarmed, Stan turned toward the door. It had taken some damage in the collision; there would be no need to get buzzed in. From the lobby, he pushed through the door to the stairwell, and took the steps – a couple at a time – to the second floor.

Apartment 225 was located at the end of the hallway. There didn't appear to be any sign of forced entry. He listened closely at the door for a moment, and then rapped sharply on it with his good hand.

"Sarah?" he called.

He paused and listened, but no answer was forthcoming. He knocked again, louder this time. "Sarah, are you there? It's Stan. I need to talk to you!"

He glanced down the hallway, expecting to see heads start to appear in doorways, looking to see who was making the racket. He paced, waiting for an answer, but still none came. Either no one was there, or if anyone was there, they didn't want him to know it. Maybe Sarah knew what was going on, and just wouldn't open the door to anybody. Then – for the first time – it occurred to him that Sarah might not have just stayed home tonight. She might have made a date with someone else; she could be out with some other guy right now. A small flame of jealousy flared. Whatever the case, it certainly seemed that she wasn't here.

He turned back toward the stairwell. After only a step or two, he was brought up short by a scuffling sound behind the door of #225. It was followed by a distinct thud, then silence. Someone was in there. He came back to the door and knocked loudly once again.

"Sarah, are you there? It's Stan. I need to talk to you. Please, it's important!" No sound came from within.

"Ginger?" he tried.

After a few more minutes of listening closely, the sound hadn't repeated. He knew there was no point in knocking again, or in staying here any longer. Cursing under his breath with frustration, he descended the stairs, trying to make sense of what he had heard behind the door. At the stairwell door, he turned right, walking through the lobby to the building's back door. After exiting, he picked up an empty cigarette package from the ground and placed it in the doorframe, so the door wouldn't close tight. He then advanced into the shadows of the building's parking garage, walking quickly through the rows of cars while scanning for Sarah's Honda Elite scooter. But it wasn't there.

A pair of car headlights suddenly snapped on near him and Stan jumped noticeably, letting out a little yelp of surprise. The car rolled slowly from its parking space, and he could hear the laughter of several voices from inside; the occupants were clearly delighted that they had scared him. "Boo!" the driver yelled, as the car cruised by.

Once Stan was alone again, he stopped to take stock of the situation. All of this just has me a little rattled, that's all, he told himself. First had been the news report, then his encounter in front of the building, and finally getting no answer at Sarah's, but hearing something inside the apartment. But he had to admit to himself that it was that big guy who had unnerved him the most. He ran a hand across the back of his head, where the bleeding – for the most part – had stopped. He hadn't just unnerved him; he had left him with a couple of souvenirs of tonight's events.

Finally, admitting temporary defeat, he walked back through the building until he stood once more at the front door. The inner lobby door hung askew. Stan shook his head in wonder. Steroids or PCP? he wondered. The broken hinges squealed a protest as he pushed the door open. All coming here had gained him was a concussion and a broken arm; that's what it felt like. No one had even noticed the brief and violent incident. He pulled the bloody handkerchief out, and scrubbed his own blood off the inside glass of the main entrance door, then exited the building.

He had to take his jacket off – gingerly easing the leather from his throbbing arm – to retrieve his car keys from the right side pocket. As he did so, one last possibility occurred to him. Earlier, when he had circled the block, he had noticed a coffee shop down the street and around the corner. That might be one final place to look for Sarah; it was a long shot, but it was worth a try. He set off at a brisk pace. The walk would do him good; the night air was bracing, and it helped to clear his head a bit.

A few minutes later, Stan stepped through the door of a twenty-four hour coffee and doughnut shop. Only two tables were occupied, each one by an individual late night snacker. Neither one was Sarah Connor. He walked down the main aisle to the back of the restaurant and pushed open the door of the women's restroom, drawing only a mildly curious look from the teen behind the counter. The restroom was unoccupied. He retraced his steps to the front of the restaurant and went to the counter.

"Coffee, please."

The teen working the counter turned toward him.

"Would you like a small, medium, or – "He broke off, his eyes widening, then recovered quickly. "...or, ah, large?"

"Make it a medium."

"Right."

The kid set about getting the coffee, stealing another quick glance over his shoulder at Stan. The strange reaction mystified Stan, but he simply busied himself in maneuvering his wallet out of his right back pocket with his left hand. This was getting to be a pain.

"Anything else with that?"

A few aspirin, Stan thought, but said, "No, that's it."

He paid, then headed to a booth around the corner from the counter, away from the kid's prying eyes. He let out a sigh as he settled into the seat. Sipping slowly at his coffee, he could feel the warmth of it start to relax him a bit. He brooded on the events of the past hour, able to think with more clarity now that he had slowed down for awhile. He realized he had acted rashly after hearing the radio report; there had been no point in going to Sarah's apartment. If the police were trying to contact her, the first thing they'd have done is phone her home. They would have tried that before ever making a statement for the news asking her to contact them. If he had thought before he acted, he would have concluded that she wouldn't be home. A quick phone call would have confirmed that. It was even possible that the police had taken her into protective custody.

He mused over his encounter with the stranger at the apartment complex's front entrance. That was just an accident. It was actually me who wasn't looking where I was going, he admitted to himself. I was looking at the intercom board. Sure, the guy was a bit creepy...and who pushes a door open with that kind of force? But still, it had to be an accident. Surely it was an overreaction to think that this was the very man who was hunting down Sarah Connors all over Los Angeles. And the scuffling sound behind the door of the apartment? Sarah probably had a cat, or something.

He watched the traffic streaming by outside without really seeing it; he was totally absorbed in his own thoughts. That was exactly what he had been doing the day he met Sarah. It had been about three weeks ago. He had been settled comfortably into a booth at Big Jeff's, just watching the world go by outside, as he waited for his order to be taken. An angry voice had suddenly exploded from behind him. He closed his eyes for a moment, reliving the memory, letting the scene play out in his mind as it had happened that day:

"Idiot! Ugh, look, it's all over me!"

Looking over his shoulder, Stan could see an irate man angrily wiping gravy off of a brown jacket. A blonde waitress was looking flustered; she was offering whatever help she could give.

"No!" the man snapped. "You've done enough."

"I could get a damp cloth."

"You can get the manager is what you can do."

"I'm sorry, sir. The manager isn't available right now."

He glared at her. "Well, I expect this establishment to pay for this. Look!" He gestured at the stain. "This will never come out. I want my jacket replaced."

He looked to his lunch companion for support; the other man nodded vigorously in agreement. The waitress was at a loss.

"It matches," Stan suddenly quipped. The waitress and the table's two occupants looked over at him. The man looked annoyed at being interrupted.

"What?" he asked, impatiently.

"The gravy," Stan said, trying to ease the tension. "At least it matches your jacket."

The man looked incredulous, then said to his friend, "Is this guy kidding me?"

The waitress was shooting him a look that told him he wasn't helping the situation.

"Come on," Stan continued, "it was an accident. She didn't mean to do it. Did you?"

The waitress's eyes widened. "Of course not!"

"There, see?" he said triumphantly.

"It's not your jacket that got ruined," the man replied, tersely.

Stan shook his head. "Yours didn't, either. That stain will come right out. You know what works good on grav – "

"Look, pal, why don't you mind your own damn business?"

The waitress was looking more harried by the second. Stan figured he'd alleviate the situation, for her sake.

"Okay," he shrugged. "I was just trying to help. It's only a little gravy, not the end of the world." He couldn't resist one final jab. "I sure hope the end of the world is more interesting than a gravy stain."

He turned and settled back into his booth. From behind him, he could hear the man's friend already having a change of heart.

"You know, if they just pay for the cleaning bill, that should cover it."

Stan grinned to himself, and tuned them out. A few minutes later, he looked up to find the same waitress standing at his table, ready to take his order. He held his hands up defensively.

"Whoa, careful now! I just had this jacket cleaned."

The joke seemed to be lost on her.

"Oh, come on..." He spotted her nametag. "...Sarah, I'm just kidding."

Looking morose, she said, "I could lose my job."

"Over that?" he scoffed.

"If the customer complains enough about it..." She let the thought trail off.

"It's a restaurant. Things like that will happen now and then."

"Maybe too often with me," she admitted.

"I don't believe that." He beamed a winning smile at her, working his charm. "I promise I won't complain about anything."

He placed his order and Sarah departed. When she returned, she still looked pre-occupied by the incident. As she set his burger and drink down, he said, "Don't let that ruin your day, okay? Forget it."

"I'll try," Sarah responded, in a tone that suggested she wasn't likely to forget it any time soon.

In an exaggerated, confidential whisper, Stan opined, "It was an ugly jacket, anyhow." He grinned. "You did him a favour. He should have left you a big tip."

He held his hands wide apart to indicate how large. For just a moment, it looked like Sarah might allow a giggle at that. He pressed his advantage.

"It's not worth worrying about. Cheer up!"

Sarah still looked a bit doubtful. Finally, he serenaded her...badly.

"Sarah smile," he sang softly. "Oh, won't you smile awhile for me, Sarah."

He was so bad that finally Sarah did smile; she couldn't help it.

"That's better!" he exclaimed. He looked pleased. "A little blue eyed soul will do it every time," he drawled, with satisfaction.

Ohhhh, is that what that was," Sarah quipped wryly, with a laugh. She clearly was in a brighter mood now. Stan wished the conversation could continue; those soft grey eyes were doing a number on him.

But Sarah had tables to wait on. She only stopped briefly once more – a few minutes later – to give him his bill. He slid it across the table toward him to see what the damage was, and then started to laugh. A short message was scrawled on the back: "About your day job. Don't give it up. Thanks. Sarah."

He scanned the restaurant, looking for Sarah, and caught her eye. Smiling, he gestured to the bill. Sarah offered back a mischievous grin of her own.

Stan was smiling to himself now, enjoying the memory. After everything that had happened tonight, he was finally starting to breathe a little easier, feel a little better. Getting lost in that memory for awhile had helped. Even his arm didn't hurt quite as much. He flexed his fingers and then his wrist, wincing as pain raced up his forearm. Well, it was a bit better. He had managed to convince himself there had been nothing unusual going on back at the apartment complex. His own unfortunate incident had just spooked him, that was all. It was time to call it a night, and go home.

While drinking the last of his coffee, he became aware of the sound of a siren drawing steadily nearer. A black and white sped by outside, its lights flashing. Stan felt a knot tighten again in his stomach. Okay, maybe he wasn't entirely convinced that all was well back at Sarah's apartment. That cruiser could be going anywhere, the rational side of himself insisted. The car wheeled around the corner and headed toward Calder Street.

He watched until the car's taillights disappeared from sight, and he was left looking at his own reflection in the window. He did a double take. It was his reflection, but it was practically unrecognizable. The young man looking back at him looked disheveled, drawn, and pale. His hair was matted in clumps at the back of his head where he had bled. The collar area of his white t-shirt was stained with the blood that had run down his neck, along the collar of his jacket, and into the cotton fabric beneath. He hadn't even realized he looked like this. No wonder the teen at the counter had given him such a strange look. He pulled his jacket around him and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, smoothing out the matted tangles. Then he rose to leave.

Out in the night air once again, he turned his collar up against a light misting rain that had started to fall. He walked quickly back toward his car. He'd be glad just to have this night over with. It had started out so well, with a few beers to celebrate Alex' new job, then taking in the game at Dodger Stadium. All of that had been great. He rounded the corner onto Calder Street. But after the game, the whole night had skidded rapidly downhill –

Stan halted abruptly. Further up Calder Street – in front of the apartment complex at 309 – the street was littered with police cruisers, their lights strobing. A couple of EMS vehicles also stood by. A crowd had gathered. Lights now glowed from the second floor windows where Sarah's apartment was located. Stan felt his heart plummet down to his shoes. Was this all about Sarah? Was she going to be the third Sarah Connor in the news for all the worst reasons? He fought down rising panic, then got moving again. I should have trusted my instincts, he berated himself. I should have known something was wrong there. I should have had the superintendent check the apartment. I should have –

His checklist of "should haves" was put aside as he suddenly remembered how he looked. He stopped once more and zipped his jacket all the way up. It wouldn't be too smart to arrive at a police scene in a blood soaked t-shirt. He crossed to the other side of Calder, trotting to beat the traffic, and continued up the street. Arriving in front of the apartment building, he blended into the crowd as just another curious onlooker. He listened closely to see if he could get a sense of what had happened here, but it seemed that nobody had much information.

After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, Stan noticed activity in the building's front lobby. The lobby door and the main entrance door were being propped open. Two stretchers, each one draped in a sheet, were wheeled out. The sheets covered long black vinyl bags. Body bags. Stan's throat tightened. Suddenly, he didn't want to be anywhere near this place, nor did he want to know who occupied those bags. It was too easy to guess. There were two bodies, and two occupants lived in the apartment. Who else could it be? It had probably already been too late when he had come to the apartment before.

A middle-aged detective, a badge hanging on a cord around his neck, followed the stretchers. He stopped on the front path near the sidewalk, and watched the stretchers being loaded into vehicles. Moments later, a uniformed police officer emerged from the building, and started down the front walk. A pet carrier hung from one of his hands. The detective beckoned him over and the officer complied, setting the carrier down only a few feet from where Stan stood in the crowd. Stan squinted into the darkness behind the bars. There was something...green inside. He heard a scuffling noise from within; it was identical to the sound he had heard from behind the door of Sarah's apartment. Reptilian eyes now peered out from the cage, blinking stoically at the surrounding commotion. That was what I heard? Stan couldn't believe it. I was talking through the door to...that?! A sticker had been affixed to the side of the carrier. It was a standard name sticker, with "Hello, my name is" pre-printed on it. The name "Pugsley" had been printed into the blank space by hand. Stan recognized it as Sarah's printing.

The detective was gesturing to the pet carrier. "Does the iguana belong to Connor or the victim?" he asked the cop.

The cop glanced down at the carrier. "Gee, I just plain forgot to take a statement from it. Why don't you ask it?"

The detective ignored the sarcasm, muttering to himself, "If only we could...ask it about that, and a lot of other things." To the cop, he said, "Well, if it's Connor's, she'll probably be wanting it back."

"Yeah, I guana get my lizard back," the cop guffawed. "Right? Get it?"

The detective gave him a long suffering look, and sighed, "Just tell Traxler it'll take us another hour or so to wrap things up here, okay?"

"I'll do that," the cop affirmed. "I'll tell him as soon as I've checked in the lizard."

The detective couldn't resist correcting him. "Iguana."

The cop smirked. "Right. Was that on the detective's exam?"

The detective glared levelly at the smart-ass cop, then turned without a word and walked back toward the building. The iguana, for its part, continued to stare impassively from its prison. Its gaze was not unlike that of the man Stan had encountered earlier on this very spot. His gaze had been equally unwavering, cold, and impassive. Stan was starting to feel a certainty that that man was responsible for this whole scene.

The cop now looked down at his small captive. "Come on, greenie, let's go," he said, scooping up the pet carrier. He continued to chat conversationally to the animal as he walked toward a waiting police cruiser. "I'm afraid you'll have to ride in the back seat. But don't worry, you're not a suspect. Although, if you ask me, I think you've got beady, shifty eyes. You know, Vukovich is going to love you..." His voice trailed off, out of hearing range.

The crowd was now starting to drift away. Stan decided he shouldn't hang around for too long; after all, someone might have seen him insistently knocking at the door of Apartment 225 earlier that night. That could lead to questions he might not want to answer. He walked slowly to his car, now realizing how tired he was. He had had enough for tonight. His arm ached, his head ached...and something unimaginable had happened in Sarah's apartment.

But it didn't happen to Sarah, he thought, with relief. He had heard the detective say "Connor's or the victim's" when asking about the iguana. That meant Sarah wasn't one of the victims. Obviously, the police had located her. But it also meant it was a certainty that one of the victims was Ginger. Only this afternoon he had listened to her cheery message on the answering machine. He shuddered, wondering how Sarah was taking the news.

He guided the Porsche through darkened back streets, avoiding the main thoroughfares. Once home, he wearily mounted the stairs to his loft. He went directly to the bathroom medicine cabinet. After shaking two aspirins from a bottle, he poured a glass of water. As he re-entered the main room, his eye was drawn to a red light that pulsed steadily on his answering machine. He cued up the tape and listened, while downing the aspirin. It was Alex, and he sounded worried.

"Stan! Did you hear that report on the news? About the Sarah Connors? Do you know if Sarah's okay? Call me!"

A mechanical voice took over. "Eleven thirty-seven p.m.," it informed him. That was over an hour ago.

"Tomorrow, buddy," Stan sighed, as he re-set the tape. "I'll catch up with you tomorrow." He was just too tired to call anyone right now.

He kicked off his boots and shrugged carefully out of his jacket, then collapsed onto the bed. He immediately fell into a fitful sleep, marred by disturbing dreams of all-seeing, implacable eyes that saw into the depth of his being.

ooOOoo

Stan was awakened the next day by rays of sunlight slanting in through the window. Something weighed heavily on his chest, and he raised his eyelids to find a pair of cold and unforgiving eyes staring directly into his own.

"Oops," he rasped groggily. "I forgot to feed you when I came in last night, didn't I?" He chuckled. "Is kitty starving?"

Stan yawned. The cat – now looking even more affronted – rose, stretched languidly, and dropped to the floor.

"Sorry, Dewey" Stan offered. "I'll get right on that mouthwash."

The scrawny stray tiger-striped kitten that he had taken in a year ago and dubbed "Cat-mandu" was now a healthy, full-grown cat. He usually called it by its simpler, shorter nickname. Dewey now responded with an indignant tail flip and wandered away. Wondering how long he had slept, Stan raised an arm to look at his watch. "Damn," he exclaimed softly. The crystal was smashed and one of the hands had been broken off. The previous night's events started to filter back to him. The watch must have been another casualty of his collision with the lobby door.

He sat up slowly – carefully – but still felt a wave of vertigo sweep through him. He kept still, patiently waiting for it to pass. His arm felt like it had been worked over with a Louisville Slugger; he could barely move it. His only order of business on this Saturday should be to go to a hospital emergency ward and get himself checked out. But he still needed to know what the outcome of last night had been for Sarah.

The digital clock on the bedside table read 11:40 a.m. Just in time for some noon news...if I can manage to get to the TV in twenty minutes. In his current condition, that seemed like a tall order. He was now feeling other aches and pains he hadn't been aware of last night. Easing himself off the bed, he stood up slowly to avoid more dizziness. He padded over to the TV and turned it on, wincing as a loud game show came blaring into the room. He adjusted the volume, and then busied himself with other tasks as he waited for the news.

After turning the coffee maker on, he stepped into the bathroom. The sight of the bloodstained t-shirt in the mirror made him grimace. He removed it, and set to washing up a bit. Returning to the main room, he selected a fresh shirt and put it on. After dishing out some food for Dewey and pouring himself a coffee, he settled onto the couch in front of the TV.

With a few sips of coffee in him, he was starting to feel a bit more awake. He turned his attention to the grim-expressioned anchorwoman on the screen.

"This hour's top story," she was saying. "A still unidentified lone gunman continued to terrorize the city last night, claiming victims in three different locations." She went on to describe the storming of a police station by the man, with seventeen police officers losing their lives in the ensuing shootout.

"Earlier last night, the same man also exchanged gunfire with another man at Tech Noir night club." A camera shot was panning across the club; it looked like a hurricane had swept through it. "The official number of casualties has yet to be released, but it has been confirmed that there were deaths."

The camera cut to a street shot of a trendy looking young woman, distinctly "Valley" in her mannerisms. She seemed to be somewhat shaken, and she was bleeding from a cut on her forehead. Microphones from three local media outlets were pointed toward her.

"The one guy looked like he was going to shoot this girl," she explained breathlessly, "and the other guy just suddenly pulled this shotgun out from under his coat...a trench coat, you know? Then you could just hear all these shots...more than one gun firing. It was so loud! Nobody knew what was going on. People just started screaming and running to the exits...everybody pushing and stepping on other people. Some guy just threw me out of his way, up against the wall. That's how I got this." She gestured to the cut. "But I managed to get out."

She paused, a grave look on her face. "Not everybody did..."

The anchorwoman now continued, "Police suspect that the same gunman is responsible for a double homicide in a Calder Street apartment last night." Stan felt a shot of adrenaline run through him; this was it. "Twenty year old Ginger Ventura was shot multiple times; twenty five year old Matthew Buchanan received severe trauma to the head and body. Police have released this picture of the suspect, which was taken last night by a police station security camera."

A grainy picture of the perpetrator appeared on the screen, causing Stan's breath to catch in his throat. It was him! It was the man he had had the bizarre encounter with at the apartment complex last night. He was wearing a different jacket – a black leather one – and for some reason he was wearing sunglasses. An automatic rifle was in his raised hand, yet he wore the same unfazed expression Stan had seen last night. He didn't even have to see his eyes to know that. It was as if a shootout in a police station was of no greater concern to him than a stroll down the street. Stan had suspected his involvement in the double murder at the apartment, but the truth of it still came as a shock. He had drawn back instinctively when the picture had appeared on the screen, but he now sat forward and scrutinized the man closely.

"The gunman is still at large at this hour, and he is suspected in three other homicides. Police are warning the public that this man is heavily armed and very dangerous; he absolutely should not be approached for any reason. Authorities have reason to believe that his intended victim is nineteen-year-old Sarah J. Connor."

A picture of Sarah appeared on the screen. It had likely been taken at the police station the previous night, as well. She looked tired, drawn, scared.

"The motive is unknown. Connor went missing from the homicide division after the gunman's rampage. She had been there under protective custody. She is believed to be in the company of this man..."

A third picture appeared. It showed a young man, handsome, but with a distinctly haunted look. He sat on a chair with his hands cuffed behind his back. He was clearly agitated, leaning forward toward the camera, and yelling. Stan assessed him critically. Sarah was with him? He looked half crazed!

"...Kyle Reese was being held for questioning and psychiatric assessment. Police have declined to comment on whether or not this is considered to be a hostage situation. Anyone who has information on their whereabouts should contact police at..."

Stan listened numbly, finally closing his eyes and lowering his head into his hands. This was a lot – maybe too much – to absorb. So the one victimhadbeen Ginger, and the other was her boyfriend Matt. He had suffered "severe trauma to the head and body". Well, he could sure believe that. He thought about how the man, with seemingly little effort, had pushed the lobby door open with such force that it had thrown Stan back against the outer door like a rag doll. But he had good reason to be in a hurry, Stan thought, and he didn't want anybody to get in his way. It's a lousy way to be inconspicuous, though. He could almost still feel that moment of impact, and hear the sickening thud of his head meeting the glass. He recoiled from the thought.

And police were warning that this man absolutely should not be approached. "Now you tell me," Stan muttered out loud. He was thinking about how he had pursued the stranger down the front walk, yelling at him and seeking a confrontation. He remembered being rooted to the spot by his blood chilling stare, and the sense that he was being stared into, layers of his mind being peeled back one by one. He knew he didn't want to experience that feeling ever again. Considering how many victims the man had left in his wake last night – the path of carnage he had strewn through the city – Stan realized that he had been miraculously lucky. He easily could have been just one more victim.

But still...why did he want Sarah Connor? And Sarah...now missing again. She was presumed to be in the company of an unstable looking criminal escapee, maybe even his hostage. Was he possibly in league with the gunman? They both seemed to be after her. What was going on?!

It seemed to Stan that the world had gone crazy.

ooOOoo

He arrived home late in the afternoon, with stitches in his scalp, his arm in a sling, and a bottle of prescription painkillers in his pocket. He had told the emergency room doctor that it had been a simple barroom disagreement that had gotten out of hand.

"He was a Giants fan," Stan had shrugged, offering a weak grin. More like he was a giant himself, he had thought, grimly. The doctor had nodded non-comitally. He had worked in emergency long enough to know when people were or weren't being truthful about how they came by their injuries. He didn't think this guy was being quite on the level, but it was his business. He had tended to the injuries, and had then provided a prescription.

Stan now intended to take advantage of the tablets, and sleep the night away. He first made a quick call to Alex to tell him as much as he knew, from what he had heard on the news. He left out the part about his own encounter with a homicidal maniac; he hadn't yet come to terms with that part himself.

He had briefly considered calling the police, as well. After all, he could definitively place the gunman at the scene of 309 Calder Street on Friday night. After debating the issue inwardly for a while, he had ultimately rejected the idea, deciding that it was best for him not to get involved. He was loath to admit, even to himself, that self-interest played the biggest role in his decision. He had considered that he might have to testify in court about the case, with that awful, intimidating stare boring into him the entire time. He thought he'd do just about anything to avoid that.

ooOOoo

He woke up the next morning feeling considerably better. The painkillers had him feeling a bit fuzzy, but they were doing the job. He had slept well, and his bad dreams of the previous night hadn't recurred.

A breakfast hour newscast reported that Sarah Connor had been located. She was safe, and was recovering in the hospital from injuries she had sustained. The man she had been with was dead; the cause of death was not yet being stated. The whereabouts of the gunman was unknown. The details still appeared to be sketchy; it seemed the climactic events of the two-day pursuit had happened mere hours ago.

Stan felt relief at the news, but it was tempered with worry. Sarah might be safe, but for how long? If the gunman was still at large, the nightmare might not be over. He was sure that was why they hadn't mentioned what hospital she had been taken to.

But he felt somehow certain that his own part in these events was over...in every way. As he looked at the picture of Sarah that was showing on the TV screen, he could sense inherently that any possibility there had been for the two of them to get together was now gone. He knew he would never make the follow-up phone call that he had promised. What's more, he knew that Sarah probably wouldn't even notice. Everything was different now. She had been through a trauma, and it was going to take her some time to get over it.

Stan was only half right, though; he and Sarah never would get together. Sarah Connor had passed quickly into and back out of his life. But he wouldn't forget her anytime soon. Although she was gone, she would remain vivid in his memory, like an afterimage that lingers before the eyes, even after its light source has ceased.

His memories of her would always be inextricably connected to the many questions he felt sure he would never have answers to. Why did the gunman want Sarah? What had become of him? Who was the mysterious stranger Sarah had disappeared with, and how had he died? Where had Sarah been found? He could only speculate about the answers to his questions.

But Stan was wrong in believing that his own involvement in the bizarre happenings was over. The strange series of events that had begun in May of 1984 would find their way back to him again, and draw him once more into their dizzying vortex.

xxx (End Chapter 3) xxx

Chapter Notes:

1. "Sara Smile" (Hall), by Hall & Oates (1975)

2. This story is projected to be eight chapters.