Eyes of a Stalker by Valerie Sherrard Page A

liberated woman, that Shelby,” he commented.
    â€œHow bad is it?” I asked, ignoring his teasing.
    â€œI’d say he was pretty lucky, considering,” the nurse said. “There are a couple of cuts that will need stitches, but mostly they’re superficial wounds.”
    â€œBut there was
so
much blood,” I said. “His whole face was covered.”
    â€œMmm. Scalp wounds are like that. They bleed like crazy. He actually doesn’t have any cuts on his face. A few small ones high on the forehead and the deeper ones on the scalp. Could have been worse.”
    â€œWhat happened?” I asked Greg.
    â€œI don’t really know. I opened my locker and the next thing I knew I was bleeding. I felt somethingsmash into my head but I was looking down at the books I was holding, so I didn’t really see anything.” He shrugged, like it was no big deal.
    â€œYou have no idea who did this? You didn’t see anyone coming at you?”
    â€œNo one came at me,” he said. “It came from inside my locker.”
    â€œFrom inside your locker? But how…?”
    â€œSomeone booby-trapped it, I guess. And it had to be spring-loaded because it came out with quite a bit of force. You probably noticed that I wasn’t the only one who got cut. My guess is that someone rigged a bunch of broken glass on the shelf so that it would fly out when the door was opened.”
    â€œIt’s just fortunate he had his head down,” the nurse commented. “If he’d been hit in the face he could have ended up all scarred. And you don’t even want to
think
about what it could have done to his eyes.”
    I shuddered at that, and I saw that Greg looked pretty solemn too.
    â€œI’d like to know what kind of monster would
do
something like this,” the nurse added. “I suppose it’s the one they wrote about in the paper. Well, I hope they catch the guy soon. Bad enough he’s making
your
life miserable,” she said with a glance at me, “but this! This is no joke.”
    I hadn’t thought what the stalker was doing to me was exactly a joke either, but I knew what she meant. Getting phone calls or e-mails or being watched is one thing; actually being injured is something else again.
    The doctor came along and sent me out while he stitched up the deep cuts. I found Mom in the waiting area and sat down next to her. While we waited, I told her about how Greg’s locker had been booby-trapped. Just as I finished going over the whole thing, Greg came along, smiling and saying he was good to go.
    â€œOh! Oh my goodness!” Mom said, looking at him in horror. I guess hearing about what had happened hadn’t really prepared her for the stitched gashes on his head (clearly visible since they’d shaved those spots) or the sight of the drying blood all over his shirt. I hadn’t even realized myself how much blood had run down. It looked pretty bad.
    â€œI’m fine,” Greg told Mom. “Just a few nicks, really.”
    â€œHas anyone called your father?”
    â€œNah. He’s in Viander today and anyway, there’s no reason for him to come rushing home or anything.”
    â€œWell, I think he’d want to be told,” Mom said. She looked worried. “I know
I’d
want to be contacted if it was Shelby.”
    â€œI’ll call him if you really think I should,” Greg said slowly, “but then he’s just going to be worrying driving home.”
    â€œYou’re right. I don’t know what’s best now!”
    In the end it was decided that Greg would call his dad and tell him he’d gotten cut a bit and had to have stitches, and that we thought he should come over to our place until his dad got him, just to be on the safe side. It went fine until Dr. Taylor asked to speak to Mom.
    â€œYes, Malcolm, how are you?” she said. “Yes, Greg is fine. I just thought he could stay with us