Savage Cinderella

Chapter 24-Stealthy Stalker

Chapter 24
Stealthy Stalker

High atop a nearby cliff, Roy Stockman looked on, binoculars trained on the young couple. They were easy enough to follow from the girl's home in Buckhead, but Stockman was growing more impatient and uneasy as the days passed. Disabling the security system and slipping a dose of ketamine into a couple of guards’ coffee was one thing, but with her home so closely watched now, he couldn’t get to her there. He’d almost been caught once already.

A thrill ran through him. She’d known he was there. He could feel her fear through the door. He wondered how much she remembered of her time with him. "You’ll never erase my mark, Little One," he whispered.

The boy kissed her and then she turned away. She looked out over the lake—directly toward the stand of high shrubs where he crouched and froze. A look of confusion and pain darkened her features.

Aching with frustration to possess the girl again, he ducked deeper into the hedge. He couldn't follow too closely with the melon-headed muscle they had on their tail, or the suits that followed in the distance. If the two meddlesome kids hadn’t interrupted him at her house, she would be his now. He would have to wait a little longer. Eventually, her guard would be down and he would have his chance. He glanced at his watch, noting the date and time. He had to retreat back to his house soon and take care of matters there, but that was all the better to establish his alibi should the need arise. He’d talked his way past cops before and if there was one thing he was good at, it was getting around security. He’d learned to get through almost any defense. It was just a matter of time. Time. And waiting, and watching.

Seeing Brinn pull away from Justin gave him a sense of satisfaction. She would never feel a man's hands on her body and not think of him. He had marked her and it didn't matter how much time passed, she would always belong to him. He watched through the binoculars. She was frowning and there was a serious look of desperation on the young man's face. The boy wanted her; it was clear. The idea sent blood boiling to the surface.

"Sorry, Son, she isn't yours, and she never will be." When Brinn turned back to Justin and fell into his arms, every nerve in Stockman's body fired. He let out a string of curses that sent two older women who were hiking past him scrambling to give him a wide berth on the trail. He gained control of himself and once more found the raven-haired girl and her companion in the view of his binoculars. When the couple continued on the pathway, Stockman pulled up roots and followed along the cliff's edge.

He kept his distance, blending with the hikers, naturalists, and families out enjoying the state park's pristine trails and hills. He had shaved for the occasion, eliminating any traces of the face she might vaguely recall, once bearded and scruffy. Whenever he was on a hunt, he was clean-shaven, well-groomed, and innocuous as a lamppost.

He smiled at passersby and nodded casually at small children, making faces at them when their parents were otherwise engaged. The children would giggle and he smiled in return. He could have any one of these little lambs, he considered, as a troop of Brownies brushed by, chattering and giggling in their little blue uniform tops decorated with patches and pins.

He corralled his attention back to the field glasses that brought Brinn and Justin into focus. His eyes held fast to his prey. He had not been successful over the years without learning to curb his appetite and avoid distraction. Besides, his rule was that he could only have one at a time. He’d have to dispose of his other little prize when he brought this one home. He couldn’t have them combining forces against him. 

These were lessons he’d learned from his father. When he died, Fernell Stockman had left him a legacy that included a compulsion to possess young girls, and a cattle ranch complete with a slaughterhouse. The drugs he kept for tranquilizing the animals had come in handy.

Not one for doctors or public officials, the old man refused treatment of any kind. Instead, he expected his only son to care for him at his bedside until the bitter end when the cancer took over. When the old man started coughing up blood and could no longer get out of bed, he had begged his then twenty-two year old son to end his suffering.  With little argument, and his heart colder than even he could have imagined, he held a dirty pillow over his father's face until the struggling stopped and the lifeless body was empty of breath. Roy would have used those drugs first if he’d wanted it to be painless, but Fernell had earned his death.

It was a relief, really. Like a heavy burden had been lifted from Roy’s shoulders. There would be no more cruel criticism, no more beatings, and no more feeling like he’d never measure up. He was tired of being nothing but a painful reminder of his mother’s sins. He buried the old man out behind the shed next to the woman who had abandoned them both, marking the spot with nothing but a plain flat stone. There was no love lost between father and son. The old man was a miserable bastard, but once he was gone, Roy was alone. Loneliness was its own cross to bear.

Stockman had to admit he'd at least learned how to survive from his father. The old man had taught him everything he needed to know about running the slaughterhouse attached to the barn. He taught him how to deal with paperwork and clients. It was Roy’s idea to take the night watchman’s position part-time. It supplemented his income and gave him a legitimate excuse to wear a uniform that earned him some respect.

His father hadn’t lived long enough to test that theory, but at least the locals regarded him as a solid citizen. No one questioned his reclusive lifestyle as long as he plastered on the friendly smile and charm that disarmed even the curious busybodies at the local grocer. People were suckers for a compliment or a stupid joke. He knew how to tell people what they wanted to hear—to convince them he was something he wasn’t.

Most importantly, Fernell Stockman taught his son that women were weak, helpless creatures. That they should be shown their place from the time they were young or they would grow up and become faithless whores who would betray a man at every turn.

Roy had grown up with that lesson literally burned into his flesh, his father's fury at his mother's betrayal fueling the cruel rule of thumb he lived by. Annabelle Stockman had died in childbirth, committing the worst act of betrayal his father could fathom: she’d left him, and Fernell Stockman had cursed her soul and taken it out on his son every day of his life. 

Roy watched Brinn approach the car across the parking lot. The young man opened the door for her and then climbed in on his own side. They pulled out of their spot followed by the jarhead in the pickup who was obviously there to keep trouble at bay. Two dark sedans fell in behind. Stockman grimaced and fell into line far behind the caravan of vehicles, his own car dirty, but not too dirty, new, but not too new. He had to be careful. If she’d told the police everything she could, they’d have found him already. 

He couldn’t afford to watch and wait for the day when she would be alone and vulnerable again. He needed to find a way to get close to the girl and shut her up for good. For now, his only objective was to keep his secrets safe.