A Blind Eye

by Julie Daines

  “In my dream, I touch her face. It’s sticky and wet. Smells like blood. Her eyes hang loose out of their sockets.”

  My hand froze. “Was Katie blind?”

  “No, she wasn’t. Isn’t. She could still be alive, right?” She broke down again, her body shaking.

  “Sure. She could be fine.” But I doubted it. If they were this tenacious about finding Scarlett, I didn’t have much hope for Katie. That is, assuming the whole dream-becomes-reality thing was true. “What were they doing to her?”

  She shook her head. “Dunno.”

  I rubbed her back for a second longer, until she lifted her wet face from her hands. Then I said, “Okay, let’s get going.”

  She sort of nodded, and I thought I heard a soft, “’Kay.”

  I backed out of the neighbor’s driveway. When we passed my cabin, the front door was only half closed. I stopped the car and opened my door.

  “Where are you going?” she cried, her hand latching onto my arm.

  “It’s fine. I’m just going to lock up. I’ll be two seconds.” I hurried to the house and secured the dead bolt then jogged back to the car.

  We couldn’t stay here. And I wouldn’t go home. I’d never get into Canada with Scarlett, not legally anyway. I had no idea how to attempt an undercover border crossing, so that ruled out my aunt’s house.

  “Okay. Here’s the plan”—at least the best plan I could come up with—“I’ll take you back to Portland. We can hang out there for a few hours, blend into the crowd, until this Simon guy answers his phone. Then we’ll figure out a way to get you on a plane back to London. Will he meet you at the airport?”

  She nodded. “I think so. Or I can take the tube.”

  I dialed his number and passed the phone to Scarlett.

  “He’s still not picking up,” she said.

  Shoot. I could give her some money to pay for a taxi when she got to the London airport. Maybe I could throw in some extra. I had a couple grand, but was it enough to get her back on her feet? To help her move out of Simon’s apartment? They must have assisted living places for people with disabilities, and she’d mentioned a government stipend. Would the men who’d searched the cabin go all the way back to England to kidnap her again? It was hard to believe they’d gone to all that trouble to kidnap her just because she dreamed about a murder. It didn’t seem like she posed that much of a threat.

  After a quick stop at a fast-food drive-thru, we merged onto the highway, backtracking west toward Portland.

  “Scarlett, where were you when you found my car? Before the cemetery? If I knew how you got away from them and into my car, maybe we can find out who is behind all this.”

  I hoped that if I had something solid, some real evidence, I could convince Scarlett to go to the police. I’d already proven I was no Jason Bourne. These were problems for professionals—CIA, FBI—whoever solved nasty crimes that spanned two continents. If I couldn’t get her home soon, I’d have to go to the police whether she wanted to or not. But if we could figure out who had taken her, maybe the police would be more willing to listen and do something about it.

  “When they put me in the suitcase, they must’ve drugged me,” she said. “When I woke up, I was inside a locked room. Sometimes being blind pays off, because the gits did nothing to secure the windows. I waited until dark—it wasn’t long—then crawled out.”

  “How did you know you wouldn’t fall five stories to your death?” It seemed like a big risk. But maybe that was a gamble she was willing to make rather than end up on the operating table.

  “I smelled grass and mulch and felt coolness from the earth on my face.”

  The kidnappers weren’t the only ones to underestimate the blind girl—though I hated lumping myself in with them. She continually surprised me with her ability to use her other senses to navigate the darkness of her world.

  “I went in the direction of quiet. I walked for a long time, until I found myself in a cemetery. I hid as best I could, not knowing for certain if I was totally concealed. Then I heard your car, and I figured, why not? It couldn’t be worse.”

  She wrenched the knife stuck in my guilty heart, twisting it relentlessly. “You mean until I dumped you on the interstate? I know I said this already, but I really am sorry about that.”

  “I know. It’s over, and you’ve made up for it, and more.”

  “Sure.”

  She leaned her head back and lifted her face toward the sun again. She seemed to like that. I turned on the stereo and selected a playlist. At the very least, I could try to do something that might bring her a little happiness before I sent her home. Something fun. What would a British punk girl like?

  I considered stopping at Multnomah Falls for some sightseeing but quickly decided that was a worthless idea. Then I remembered her comment about not having anything to leave behind back at the cabin. I could take her shopping. Didn’t all girls love that? How many days had she been wearing those same clothes? I shuddered.

  “How long have you been gone?”

  “Dunno for sure, but I’m thinking four or five days. I’m not certain how long I stayed in the bag.”

  She definitely deserved a diversion. “I’m thinking we should go shopping.” There was a Nordstrom at the Lloyd Center Mall in downtown Portland. We could stop there.

  The ride from Hood River took a little over an hour. I parked in the lower level of the mall’s huge garage. After consulting the store directory, I took Scarlett to the teens department on the second floor. She clung to my arm while we rode the escalator, grinning the whole way up.

  I knew nothing—nothing—about shopping for girls. I went straight to a sales lady and said, “Hi, this is my friend Scarlett. Her luggage didn’t make it. Can you please help her find whatever she wants?”

  The sales lady seemed a little old to be working in juniors. But she smiled and tossed her long, dark hair behind her and said, “Of course.” She looked like she spent a bit too much time down at the make-up counter. A smudge of red lipstick on her teeth distracted me for a moment.

  Scarlett tugged on my arm, and I leaned down. “Are you sure this is okay?” she whispered.

  “It’s more than okay. Really. Anything you want. Just promise me one thing.”

  “What?”

  “Get some new shoes. Those boots weigh more than you do.”

  “Promise.”

  The sales lady, Colette, according to her name tag, led us around the floor. She caught on quickly to Scarlett’s blindness, describing the clothing with great detail. She described the jeans, shirts, and sweaters—which Scarlett insisted were actually called “jumpers.” Scarlett listened to every word, running her hands over the garments while Colette spoke.

  I was about to tell Colette that Scarlett had no concept of color, but then Scarlett snuggled her cheek into a woolly cardigan and asked, “What color is it?”

  “You told me you don’t know colors,” I said.

  “I like to hear it anyway.”

  I wondered again what the world was like from inside her head. The sweater was gray. Did that mean everything soft and fuzzy was gray?

  After they’d collected a mound of clothes, I hoped we might be done. But instead of heading to the cashier’s counter, Colette steered us toward the dressing rooms.

  “Ooh, no,” I said, shaking my head. “I am not going in there.” The women’s bathroom had been bad enough. “I’ll wait here.” I sat on a chair outside. A man sitting across from me cast me a sympathetic look.

  Colette took Scarlett into the dressing rooms but then came right back out again. She laughed. “She sent me out for some skivvies.”

  Oh yeah. No way was I going anywhere near that dressing room. I scooted my chair farther from the entrance then pulled out my phone to check my messages. When I saw three voice mails from my dad, my eyebrows slowly crept up. I pushed play: “Son”—again with the son?—“please call me.” Beep. “Christian, some men came to the office last night asking about you.” Y
eah, and you led them right to me. “Call me.” Beep. “Look, I know you think I don’t care.” He was wrong. I didn’t think he didn’t care; I knew he didn’t care. But his voice strained as he finished the message. “I’m worried. Are you in trouble? Call me.” He hadn’t given me or my life a second thought in years. I shook my head. What a sham.

  I had two other messages from the same unidentified caller as last night. Both were just a few seconds of nothing, same as before. I pushed the call back button, and the phone rang.

  A man answered. “Hello?”

  I knew that voice. It was Deepthroat, or whatever his real name was. The tall guy. I didn’t respond.

  “Christian Morris,” he said with satisfaction, like now that I’d called him, his life was complete.

  Betrayed by the caller ID. “Leave Scarlett alone,” I said, and hung up. As if that would do any good. Maybe I should’ve said pretty please. I stashed my phone back in my pocket. Idiots. Still, my hands were shaking.

  I glanced toward the dressing room door and wished I hadn’t. Some lady wearing a pair of jeans that were way too tight was admiring her reflection in the full-size mirror. I looked away quickly, only to find myself staring at a rack of what Scarlett would call skivvies. I lowered my eyes to the vacant chair beside me. There was a stack of magazines. I leafed through them—they were all women’s stuff. I groaned and tossed them away.

  How could it take so long? It’s not like she was looking at herself in the mirror. Another lady approached the changing rooms with a stack of clothing. I almost smiled at her, just trying to be friendly. But I didn’t. Strange kid hanging around outside the dressing room, watching the women come and go? Kinda creepy.

  I rested my head in my hands and studied the orange-gold carpet. I spent the next forever trying to decide if the grayish stain between my feet looked more like a gun or a machete. Either one would’ve satisfied my growing desire to kill myself rather than sit here a minute longer.

  Scarlett finally emerged from the dressing room wearing an outfit consisting of a long black sweater thing and new grungy jeans that hugged her legs all the way to her ankles. A long, thin belt with silver studs looped twice around her hips.

  “Well? How’d I do?” she asked.

  My mouth went dry. She’d managed to turn her punk look into something . . . hot. I mean, she was good looking before, but . . .

  Collette cleared her throat.

  Eyes up top, Morris, I reminded myself. “You look very cool.”

  “Thank you,” she said in a voice that implied she already knew she looked good.

  Who taught her that? I wanted to know. Colette in the changing room? Or her platonic roommate, Simon?

  After getting some sweats for sleeping and a pair of useful shoes—black and gray plaid canvas slip-ons—we were ready to pay. I couldn’t convince her to get a jacket.

  “I like to wear yours.”

  “Why?” I asked. “It drowns you.”

  “I like the way it smells.”

  Hopefully, that meant clean laundry smell. I actually couldn’t remember when I washed it last, and it could’ve just as easily smelled like BO.

  Colette rang up the clothes, and I paid with a wad of my dad’s cash. I didn’t want to use the credit card because I thought Connor could trace it. I’d ditched them in Hood River, and there was no way they could find me here. I wanted to keep it that way. For all they knew, we could be in Idaho.

  Colette handed me our bags and finally—freedom. Whether Scarlett intended to or not, she had at last gotten revenge on me for leaving her on the highway. Note to self: Do not take a girl shopping ever again.

  Scarlett, on the other hand, smiled bigger than ever, so maybe it had been worth it. She walked with a bounce, but that could’ve been because I carried her combat boots in one of the bags hanging on my arm.

  We passed the skating rink located in the center of the mall, and Scarlett stopped. “Feels cold. What’s that sound?”

  I started to explain but then figured, why not? “Scarlett, I’m taking you ice skating.”

  Chapter Six

  Christian vs. Modern Art

  The skating rink occupied the main courtyard of the bottom floor of the mall. A bridge, frosty blue to look like a walkway of ice, connected the two hallways on the second story above the center of the rink. Iron trestles crisscrossed the ceiling of the Lloyd Center, supporting arched panels of glass that gave the shoppers a view of the sky.

  I stuffed Scarlett’s bags of new clothes into a locker then got her fitted with a pair of worn white skates. I took a pair of black skates.

  “Have you ever been skating before?” I asked, checking her laces one last time.

  “Never.”

  She clung to my arm with both hands while we inched our way onto the ice. I stood in place for a few minutes, letting her find her balance on the thin metal blades. She slid her feet back and forth then bent down and ran her hand along the ice. Her fingertips came up glistening from the cold surface.

  “Ready to go?” I asked.

  “Chocks away, I s’pose.” She laughed.

  “Chocks away?”

  “You know, off we go. Ready or not.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  I started off slowly, and she dragged along behind. I supported her entire weight with my arm until she got her feet under her. She caught on quickly, and soon we were skating around the rink at a smooth, easy pace, our blades clacking rhythmically on the ice.

  She loved it, laughing and holding her free arm out at graceful angles—something that must come naturally to certain people because she didn’t learn it from watching the Olympics. She kept her other arm padlocked around mine, still relying on me for the bulk of her balance. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose flushed pink from the cold, and she looked more alive than ever before.

  My phone rang in my pocket, and I checked the ID. It was the unidentified caller who I’d now identified as Deepthroat. Why would he call? I maneuvered us to the side rail and answered.

  “Christian?” he asked.

  I didn’t respond for several seconds. “Maybe,” I said and immediately regretted it. Why was I so stupid? He knew it was me. But I had no clue what to say. I’d never been involved in furtive phone calls before. Not even to find out who liked who. We took care of all that stuff with texting.

  Still silence.

  “Who is this?” I made an effort to sound tough.

  “Give us the girl and no one will get hurt.”

  His line was even more cliché than mine. And more untruthful. “You mean, no one except for Scarlett.”

  Scarlett listened intently while I spoke. Her smile disappeared like it had been wiped off by the Zamboni. I leaned down so she could hear both sides of the conversation.

  “What makes you think that?” Deepthroat asked.

  Then it hit me. He was stalling to keep me on the line. Isn’t that what they did to trace the location of a phone call? Could you trace a cellular or was that only a landline? Either way, the risk was too high. He’d never tell me anything anyway.

  “Leave us alone,” I said again and hung up.

  “What did they want?” Scarlett asked.

  “I’m not sure. But I’m thinking they might have been trying to trace my phone. We’d better go.”

  “Right.” She frowned and skated with me toward the exit, clunking her feet along like a child who didn’t get more candy. We turned in our skates and put on our shoes then headed for the lockers. When I glanced back at the rink, I saw two men on the bridge above, searching the crowd.

  One of them turned, and his eyes fell directly on me. The one I called Deepthroat.

  I shoved Scarlett behind me. “They’re here. Put up your hood.” How did they find us so fast? They must have known our general location before the phone call. Connor and Deepthroat split up, both sprinting for a different escalator.

  I whipped my head around, looking for a place to hide. If we went back into the skate rental or acr
oss to the locker area, we’d be trapped. The elevator dinged behind us, and I grabbed Scarlett’s hand and ran.

  I pounded on the door close button. Two eons later, the elevator doors finally slid shut. But not before Connor saw us. He turned and headed back for the escalator, gesturing at Deepthroat to do the same.

  When the doors opened on the second floor, I bolted for the nearest store, dragging Scarlett behind me. It was a large bookstore that took up the entire corner of the mall. We crouched down between a rack of magazines and shelves of giant coffee-table books.

  “Did we lose them?” Her hand trembled as it clung to mine.

  “I don’t know.”

  Again, I wondered at the darkness she lived in. I shut my eyes for a second, trying to see the world from her point of view. When my lids closed, the objects that existed before still filled in the negative space. I could picture the cases of books and the plush reading chairs across the aisle.

  My phone rang again, and I opened my eyes. Now was not the time for a foray into the world of blindness. I yanked out my phone. Deepthroat. I punched the decline icon. He insulted my intelligence. Did they really think I’d answer it again? Or were they listening for a ring-tone? I flipped the switch to mute, and a second later, the phone vibrated. This time the number was different but still unrecognized.

  “They keep calling, trying to find us.”

  “Maybe that means we lost them,” she said.

  I released my grip on Scarlett and stood up slowly, just until I could peek over the racks of periodicals. Deepthroat paced the wide hallway outside the store, peering off in the opposite direction. I couldn’t locate Connor.

  “They’re waiting outside the store,” I whispered without turning around. “At least one is . . . not sure about the other.” I craned my neck to see around the edge of the dark walnut bookcases. Did they split up again?

  Scarlett gasped.

  I spun around. Connor had her. One hand covered her mouth and the other squeezed her waist.

  “Oldest trick in the book,” he said. “Now, I’m taking the girl. You can let her go peacefully, or you can make a fuss and watch her die.”