On your tail lights, continued

by John Sedgwick

I spend the night of my Boston tails like a taxi driver, hopping from one "ride" to the next: Brookline to the Fenway to Kenmore Square to Newbury Street to the South End to Beacon Hill. Back and forth, in town and out. I've hoped to cap off the night by tailing a luscious little Miata on Berkeley Street, which, by a quirk, also has a license plate that ends in JB. Such a zippy little car, I'm immediately taken by it, and I like the brunette behind the wheel, too.

I follow her to Storrow Drive, heading in town toward Mass General, but then a huge Lexus cuts in front of me and the Miata zooms free. I think, okay, Mr. Lexus, I'll take you then. It's a big black SUV, one of those cars that take all the gas in the Middle East to fill, and I'm immediately resentful. I stay with him to the traffic lights by the rotary near the I-93 on-ramp. There's a back-up there, and I pull up right beside him, look across to check him out. I once impressed myself by doing a full 360 around a car I was following out the Mass Pike, but this is cool in its way. The guy has a slim, collegiate face with a firm jawline and brush-like hair. I hate him.

I glance around to the other drivers and am astonished by how much I can see: the guy eating a sub to my left, the two middle-aged jerks yukking it up diagonally ahead of me, the hot girl in a tank top behind.

Then the light changes, and we're off. Up the ramp goes Mr. Lexus, then he swerves for the Tobin Bridge. The Tall Ships are in town, and I notice fireworks going off along the South Boston waterfront, great spurts of color arcing high into the night. The Lexus flies ahead across the first, nameless bridge over the Charles, then swings onto the circular ramp that leads to the new tunnel. He is flying. The signs say 35, but he's doing 70, easy. I slam down the accelerator to catch up with the prick. He's weaving in and out of traffic, left lane, right lane. Who is this guy? What's his hurry? We dash across the Tobin, the water smooth below us. I'm four or five cars back, fighting to keep up, when I see a dark SUV up ahead signal a right and then veer off on the Chelsea exit.

My guy didn't seem like the Chelsea type to me, more like North Shore. But there's no time to think. I turn off in hot pursuit -- and see that the SUV I've chased is, in fact, a Massachusetts State Police vehicle. Uh-oh. I slow down abruptly, let that car go on ahead.

I've had my thrills. But I can't quite get the memory of the first JB out of my system, the girl I left in Brookline. I think about those fluttering curtains. I think how I walked along her sidewalk, peered in. I didn't see much, just the pale outline of a couch before a fireplace, with a rattan table beside. I saw that first JB pass through a doorway at the far end of the room, flicking her hair off her shoulders as she went. If I'd only stayed there longer, perhaps I'd have seen something . . . more.

It's only 10 o'clock. I could go back. The Brookline house is on my way home. I could park a block or two down from her door. I could stroll back by her windows, casually, as if I were merely enjoying the night air. If I glanced in through the curtains, I might see her again. I might see her with someone. I might see her alone. She wouldn't know I was there. I could just watch.

Rollins would do this. But, in fiction, I didn't have to worry too much about the recipients of Rollins's gaze. In life, you need to be more considerate. Rollins can circle back if he wishes. As for me, I return to the Tobin Bridge, bound for home. As I pass the turn for Brookline, I say a silent goodbye to the woman of my dreams. And to the man.

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John Sedgwick's psychological thriller The Dark House has just been published by HarperCollins.