Brock nodded. “Tomorrow night. That’ll give him a chance to stew, wondering if you finally got the message to keep away from me.”
Pat smiled evilly. “Stewing is good. It might make him screw up.”
“Let’s hope.”
They decided to really push the harasser’s buttons by having Pat pick Brock up at his house at seven-thirty Saturday evening, instead of their driving to the bar in separate cars. Harasser was Brock’s new word for the man, “Because I’m tired of calling him the note writer. He’s become more than that, now.”
* * * *
Brock spent his Saturday the way he normally did, doing chores. Not quite normal, he decided as he changed clothes after eating supper. Any other Saturday night I’d either be settling down to read or watch TV, or maybe getting ready to go to some movie that sounded int
