Camera Eye First Chapter

            Stanley Stonebridge followed his victim, his steps as silent as the warm breeze that dried his sweaty brow. He was careful to

 keep a comfortable distance, being aware that if he did his job correctly, she would never know he was there. 

            He watched her strut through the crowd, her lascivious legs commanding attention as her stiletto heels clicked against the mall

 sidewalk. She glanced over one shoulder and then the other, as if she were searching for a store worthy of her presence.

He followed—carefully, precisely, and steadily. He had done this too many times. It was his job—his life.

            He kept the digital camcorder in a big bag that read “Blake’s Shoes,” which was a store in the outdoor mall. He had selected the bag because of the dark blue color, which made the hole in the end less noticeable. He had cut the opening just large enough for the lens of the camera to peer through. Tucked tight under his arm, he was able to hold it fairly steady. One quick glance into the top of the bag provided him a means to preview the images he was capturing. 

No one ever looked at him twice. He had the appearance of an ordinary forty- year-old man, who simply needed to pick something up at the mall. Maybe he looked a little awkward plodding along with his bag—occasionally pushing his brown frame glasses back up his pudgy, sweaty face. But to the casual observer, he was no one to fear.

It was a hot July day, but this didn’t stop Stanley from wearing his usual jeans, plaid button-down shirt, and old, worn work boots. His clothes didn’t make him look all that unusual since there were many working-class men in similar garb that would stop in the mall for this or that. He looked like a typical local guy—born and bred in Camden, Connecticut.

Camden was a small shoreline town, just about in the middle of the state. There were a few fancy mansions on the beach that were tucked away in private, exclusive coves, but for the most part it was a simple town with average hard-working people. Aside from some nice beaches, the only thing that made Camden stand out was the gigantic mall of outlet stores.

People traveled from all over the area to shop at the outdoor mall; it was known as the best in New England. Most of the major clothing stores had an outlet there and people—mostly women—flocked there in droves, all looking for bargains on quality clothing. Women from New York City could take the train into New Haven, and then connect to another train that would take them into Camden. Once there, a shuttle was available that ran directly to the mall.

The mall was always teeming with attractive women, especially in the warmer months. This enabled Stanley to get footage of stunning models from Manhattan without having to venture more than a couple of miles from his home.

Stanley assumed the girl he was shooting was about twenty-three and definitely a model—probably from New York. She was close to six-feet tall, and had long legs with a flat, sun-browned stomach. She wore a minuscule halter-top, tiny mini-skirt, and sexy black stockings. Women like this one didn’t live in Camden, Stanley thought, as he steadied the camera.

He knew he had a perfect subject, and planned to shoot her for as long as possible. The longer the footage, the more valuable it was in the porn market. He changed shots once in a while as they walked along, but mostly stayed tight on her buttocks and thighs. He panned down to her shoes a couple of times, and mixed in some brief glimpses of the back of her head.

He wanted to shoot her from some different angles—thinking this would make the footage more entertaining. He hoped for a side angle and maybe even a frontal shot. It would be tricky to walk along the side of her and be able to angle the camera properly, but he had done it before.

He quickened his pace and caught up to her. He moved to her side and pointed the camera in her direction. He had her from the side angle, but she was out of focus; he was walking too quickly. As he fumbled with the camera, struggling to get her in focus, she stopped. She peered into the store window in front of her as Stanley continued to walk—trying to look casual. When he thought he walked far enough, he turned to get his coveted frontal shot, but a man came out of nowhere and accidentally bumped into him.

“Watch it, pal,” the man grumbled as Stanley clutched the camera. The brief encounter was enough for him to miss the chance for the frontal shot; she was on her way into the store. Despite this setback, Stanley was pleased with the footage he was getting, so he shut off the camera and waited for her.                             

He sat on a bench, pretending to relax, and patiently glanced around the area. Hoards of people hustled through their errands around him. It was an arduous task for Stanley to blend in with such chaos, but it was better for work—more women to pick from, and more cover to hide him. He felt satisfied knowing this was a productive workday.

Then he heard the voices.

He told himself that he wasn’t there to hurt anyone. He believed his actions were mostly harmless. The model’s body would be broadcasted over a web site within a week, but she would probably never know it. Even if she did find out, no one was getting hurt.

The voices got louder and soon they were on top of him. He tried not to look. He stared at the store and wished for the model to come out before he would see them. But it was no use. He felt them surrounding him like sharks around a bloody carcass. 

He sat there helplessly as the young girls stumbled into his field of vision. There was a whole pack of them—fifteen years old, sixteen years old, certainly none over seventeen. They were a blur in front of him as he heard the chatter, the laughter. He smelled their flowery perfume as they swirled around him.

He looked up, and Tammy Ardito came into focus. She had bright, buggy eyes with medium-length blonde hair and a skinny-little body that was just starting to blossom. She wore a good deal of makeup that looked a bit misplaced on her young, pale skin. Her clothes looked purposely tight.

She moved past him, awkwardly balancing herself in her high-heeled shoes as they briefly met eyes. Stanley made a feeble attempt to look away, but her eyes touched him—like a sharp pin piercing his soul. He knew it was over and gave up his struggle. His penis was rock hard.

He sat paralyzed on the bench until the buzz of the girls became fainter, and he sprang to his feet. They were moving toward the south end of the mall. The model appeared from the store and glanced in Stanley’s direction. She paused for a second and walked north.

Stanley took a long, deep breath, turned on his camera, and went south.           

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