Don't Close Your Eyes (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 1)

by Lawrence Kelter

  Light was ebbing as Twain approached the outskirts of Quarrier, West Virginia. Lightning crackled in the distant sky. A high-pressure system was moving in. The winds he had encountered on the drive in had intensified significantly.

  With the assistance of the AAA, Twain was able to negotiate the simple town and found his way to the home of Dr. Everett Howls without difficulty.

  He took a deep breath before exiting the car. He had made the transition from doctor to detective without difficulty. His incentive was great—he’d allow no harm to come to Detective Stephanie Chalice. He was not aware of when he had made the decision, but at some point he had, and now he was committed to her with all his heart and soul. Twain was convinced that New York’s murdering psychopath and Detective Chalice were on a collision course. He wondered, What did he want with her? He wasn’t sure about his powers as an investigator, but felt that his medical oath carried forward. She was still his patient and if it took a little detective work to solve her problem, well then, so be it.

  In the span of forty-eight hours, he had successfully broken and entered, discovered information he considered vital to the investigation, coerced a high-standing New York State official, and taken possession of records he had no authority to legally possess. So far, so good.

  Two hayseeds shot daggers at him as they marched past him on their way down the road to Billy Bob’s Bar and Grill. Thirty minutes and out, Twain surmised, before the boys have a chance to put on their hoods and grab the cross and gasoline can.

  The next part would be more difficult. He’d never questioned anyone before, not as a cop anyway. He’d spent his professional career prying secrets from people, but for different reasons entirely. He had always acted as the healer and not as an instrument of justice. With that in mind, he kicked open the door of the rental car, secured the bandana around his face and ran frantically through the wind and dust to Dr. Everett Howls’ doorstep.

  He rapped three times with the knocker, a brass horseshoe, while simultaneously pressing the bandana against his face to keep out the dust. “Come on, come on . . . Open the door.”

  A woman answered bitterly from behind the door. “Who’s there? Speak up. I don’t hear so well.”

  “Mrs. Howls?” he began. “My name is Nigel Twain, Dr. Nigel Twain. May I speak with your husband?” The debris-charged air continued to attack him while he waited for her reply. “Mrs. Howls, is that you? Is this the residence of Dr. Everett Howls?” No reply. “May I speak with him?”

  “Only if you’re a darned ghost.” The door opened abruptly. Mae Howls’ eyes widened with surprise at the sight of her unexpected visitor. “An English black man?” She was aghast.

  “That’s Dr. English black man to you,” Twain mumbled.

  “What? Speak up,” the obstinate old woman shrieked. “What’s your business?” She peered at Twain through wire-rimmed bifocals that seemed to sink into the creases in her puffy, weathered skin. “Why’re you wearing a mask? Just stick up a bank or something?”

  “The dust—” The bandana attenuated his voice considerably. “May I come in? It’s the dust, you see.” He was holding his breath when possible, trying to minimize his exposure to the tainted air.

  “There’s nothing in here of value and I’ve lost both my breasts to cancer.” She glared at him defiantly. “So there’s nothing in here worth stealing or fuckin’. Still want to come in?”

  Twain twitched nervously. “Yes. Yes, I do,” he said after a moment. He was gasping for air. “Please,” he added with urgency, “I’m choking out here.”

  Mae Howls stepped aside. Twain took a huge step past her, threw his head back, and filled his lungs with the musty air. He felt a sharp jab in the back of his leg. “Make some room for me. Think I want all this shit blowing in the door?” He turned to find the butt of her cane pressed against his leg. Charming!

  “May I—”

  “No. Don’t sit. Take that fool bandana off your face so I can see who I’m talking to and tell me what the hell you want.”

  Twain backed away a bit and reconsidered removing the bandana after he smelled her foul body odor. “I’m harboring a nasty cold. It’ll be better if I don’t.”

  “Crap.”

  “Am I to understand that the good Dr. Howls has passed?”

  “Yes,” came her shrill reply. “Dead two months. Don’t you Englishmen know nothing?”

  “I’m sorry.” Twain thought, why am I apologizing? “Mrs. Howls—”

  “Call me Mae,” she insisted. Suddenly they were kin.

  “Mae, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your husband.”

  “No! No! No! I dern told ‘em all, I don’t know nothing. Now git the hell out of my house before I start ta hollerin’ rape.” Her face grew redder and redder until it looked as if it might burst. “I’m ‘n ole lady. Let me live out my life in peace,” she bellowed. “Was it Sheriff Wilde that put you up ta this? Git out, goddamn it and tell that sombitch sheriff not to send no more coloreds to my door. Git out!”

  Twain held out his hands as a show of submission. “I’m going, dear. I’m going.”

  He was in his car a moment later, doors locked, engine running, climate control engaged and set to recirculate. He stared at the Howls’ house in disbelief, wondering what he had done to release such a tidal wave of anger. He rested a moment until he saw her weary eyes lurking behind the drawn curtains. Then he put his rental into gear and drove away.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Clovin boarded the downtown N train at West Fourth Street, chin down, the brim of his cap tugged low enough to obscure his features. Squeezing between two work-worn straphangers, Clovin found a concealed vantage point from which the young detective was visible. His secrecy permitted only fleeting glances at her. Yet, in his mind, he was able to hold and retain the split-second images and cast them into a detailed composite of his subject.

  Traces of LSD were still in his system, just enough to color his perception and heighten his awareness. He could still taste the bitterness in his mouth, still the image on the blotter paper: a black and white etching of Jesus’ baptism. It had been one of the better trips, one that had left him wanting more, feeling supreme and self-confident.

  It had been so easy to find her. The city unfolded before him. Like a giant blossoming flower, her nectar was easily found.

  He wanted to learn everything about her: the sound of her voice, the tilt of her head, her smile, and her aura. He wanted to know them all. With his eyes closed, he could smell her, the delicate combination of perfume and perspiration. All of his senses were keen; he could select her odor at will from that of the other passengers on the train.

  Snapshot by painstaking snapshot, he built his composite of her. By attuning his ears, he could separate her heartbeat from the others; hear the blood course through her veins and the breath whistle through her lungs. It was that which he longed to still, to silence forever, and in so doing, silence his own mania, decades of torture and anguish. “Silence,” he murmured. “Silence it forever.”

  In this moment he knew her, who she was; her past. Here I am. Turn and see me. How pathetic that she cannot hear me. She is not as strong and not as blessed as me. The newspapers have overstated her skills—Inflated adulation for a female cop, richly endowed with beauty.

  Doc Howls had given him the name, but he would have known her without it, recognized her at first sight. It angered him that she did not represent a greater challenge. Why was she getting the attention and not him? It had always been that way.

  A contingent of Chinese laborers spilled off the train at Canal Street. It had been their stench he had labored most to filter out.

  With the distractions now gone, his connection with her was strong, as direct as a mother with her fetus. He could hear her pulse in his ears, and feel the beat of her heart in his chest. The signals grew in amplitude, louder and louder, louder and louder until they were deafening, until his lungs were on fire and his eardrums were ready to burst
.

  Silence her! Silence her now! he ordered himself. Do it now and be done. End it here! He could feel the tips of his fingers tingle, aching to be at her throat. He could feel his arms around her, tendrils of destruction enshrouding her, asphyxiating her. Vanquish the fire that burns within your lungs. Use this opportunity. Do it now!

  The blackness of the subway tunnel grew brighter as they approached Whitehall Street. The station’s stark white ceramic tiles bleached his vision and clouded his mind. No, not like this. Not here. His alter ego reverberated in his head. She must come to you. Be patient and stick to the plan. He ground his nails into the palms of his hands until blood ran down his wrists. He raged within. Quiet! I must have quiet!

  His shoulder smashed into hers as he pushed through the crowd and exploded out the train door. “Hey, asshole, where’s the fire?” He could feel her eyes sear him as he escaped down the platform. He could feel the heat spread out across his skin, seething heat from her burning stare. Spontaneous combustion was mere seconds away. In a moment, the flames would consume him and she would win. He raced up the stairs, hoping God would send rain to extinguish the fire. At the base of the stairs, he could see the darkness of early evening in the unobstructed sky.

  He faltered on the steps as the flames leapt up and surrounded him. He felt the fire inside him and all around, consuming him, charring and torturing him. He had underestimated her. Her beauty belied her powers. They were strong and lethal.

  He lurched against the stairwell wall—his hand found support against the tiled surface. The tiles were cold to the touch. Yes, cold. Cold to extinguish the fire. He pressed his back flat against the tiled wall of ice. Ah! It was soothing. White ceramic doves interspersed between the pale, white tiles fluttered into his mind, calming him. Better, better, much better. He collapsed, fell unconscious on the steps, and remained there until a subway cop saw him and helped him to his feet.

  Chapter Thirty

  Hilary Glenn glanced at Evan Wainright as he burst through the door. Reading the expression on his face, Hilary knew the message before it was announced. “He’s done! He’s through!” Wainright was burning the carpet to his boss’s desk. “Rubio’s thrown in the towel.”

  It had been a rather somber morning, drab overcast skies, storm clouds, and the intimidation of intermittent thunderclaps. Wainright’s face brightened the room. Responding to his excitement, Hilary rose quickly, her arms opening and then closing around her campaign manager. “Thrown in the towel? More like capitulation and the abject admission of failure, don’t you think?” She gave Wainright a buss on the cheek. “You’re awesome. Did I ever tell you that? You cut Rubio’s heart out and printed it on the front page of every newspaper in New York, splayed raw, dripping blood. The man had no choice.”

  Wainright licked his fingertips in mock delight. “Cut it out? I reached in and tore it from his chest.”

  “How ghoulish,” she gushed.

  Wainright smiled. “Anything for you, Madam Senator.”

  “Not just yet. We’ve still got a long road ahead of us, a full six months of campaigning.”

  “Then why is it that you can’t help blushing? You know there’s not a single candidate in the pack who’s strong enough to catch you now that Rubio’s out of the way. Come January, you’ll be the United States senator from the state of New York and then—”

  “Then what?”

  “Then the first female president of the United States.”

  Hilary tightened her grip around Wainright and pressed against him. “Pipe dreams from a devoted campaign manager.”

  “Come on, Hilary, stroke me a little.”

  She pressed her mouth to his, kissing him passionately. An idle hand wandered to his groin. Wainright tried to pull away, but her grip, as her will, was ironclad. “Hilary, Jesus, I meant my ego. Stroke my ego. God, if someone walks through that door, your heart will be on the front page dripping blood next to Rubio’s.” Sweat broke out across his forehead. He tried to pull away again, but Hilary tightened her grip and then gently plucked his lower lip with her teeth. “Shit,” he swore, “that’s gonna show.”

  “Power’s such a fucking turn-on. Whew!” She stole another quick kiss before letting him go. “Wasn’t it worth it?”

  “Shit. We’ve got the fundraiser tomorrow night.”

  “Don’t be such a baby. Put a little ice on it. It’ll be fine.”

  “I hope so.” Wainright smoothed his hair and the fabric of his suit. “We can’t do this,” he warned. “There’s too much at stake.”

  Hilary turned back to her desk. “I can fuck the voters of New York and if I want to, I can fuck you.” She sat down, picked up a pen and signed the document in front of her. “Don’t forget it, Evan. When you signed on as campaign manager, you signed on body and soul.”

  Wainright’s jaw fell open just as he heard someone rapping on the door behind him. Thank God. It spared him the embarrassment of an innocuous and ultimately humiliating reply. “Come in,” he blurted, conjuring up an authoritative voice.

  Zachary Clovin opened the door, took in the scene before him and understood exactly what had just transpired. His powers were so keen that it was as if he had just watched the entire episode on videotape.

  Clovin was dressed in faded coveralls with the Harvard Services logo embroidered on a breast patch. He carried a five-gallon pail in his left hand. “Sorry to interrupt.” He spoke timidly, head buried, eyes averted. “Scheduled window wash.” He was doing everything possible to contain the contempt within him.

  Hilary glanced behind her. The windows were filthy. She smiled. “Yes, by all means.” There were two large windows in Hilary Glenn’s campaign office. “Let a little light in to brighten up the place.” Clovin nodded. “Do be careful,” she continued in her pretentious politician’s manner. “Thirty-five stories is quite a ways up.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be quick.” Clovin’s eyes studied the carpet as he walked, head down, to the window. He dipped his squeegee in the pail of soapy water and began applying it to the glass.

  Hilary winked at Wainright. “Thanks for the good news, Evan. Is there anything else?”

  “No, no, that’s all,” he said uncomfortably. “If you’re finished signing those authorizations, I’ll drop them on Marge Caputo’s desk.”

  Clovin understood the reason for Wainright’s clumsiness. He handled the squeegee deftly. The insides of the windows were done before Hilary was able to hand the documents to Wainright.

  Hilary glanced at Wainright knowingly and then mouthed, “Get out,” punctuating her instructions with a warm yet forced smile. Wainright countered with a sheepish smile of his own and then walked to the door. Clovin had already fastened his harness to the outside of the window frame and was shimmying out.

  Clovin watched the door close behind Wainright. He slid the window down until it made contact with his legs and then pressed down a little farther for an added feeling of security. Glenn was back at work. Clovin’s pulse quickened. He liked watching, planning, imagining, and fantasizing above all else.

  There was no conscious connection between Clovin’s brain and the precise movements of the squeegee. All relevant thought was focused on Hilary Glenn, former CEO of Vycon Petroleum, senatorial hopeful, and his next victim.

  He focused first on the back of her head, studying the apex of her parted hair. Roots of black and gray were just visible in the crevice where the beautician’s dye brush had not reached. Her hair was straight and bluntly cut. It terminated at mid-neck. Clovin was delighted at the sight of her pale and slender neck. It was almost a child’s neck, smooth and hairless. He could see her well from where he sat. He could feel himself touching her and savoring the supple tissue of her skin beneath his fingertips.

  The office was thick with her perfume. He had gathered her scent in his mind and now relished it. It was a familiar bouquet that Clovin had come across before, CK something or other. All the young harlots wore it. Glenn was a bit older than the rest, closer
to fifty than forty. He had to imagine her as a younger woman. It took an extra but rewarding effort.

  Glenn had taken good care of herself. Clovin’s eyes ran down the back of her blouse. He had an excellent angle from which to appreciate her and familiarize himself with her contours. He lingered on the slender hollow of her waist. He closed his eyes and felt himself behind her. His arms were around her now, one around her tiny waist, his hand over her mouth. His thumb and forefinger pinching her nostrils firmly and effectively, yet not hard enough to cause a bruise. His face was buried in the recess of her sylph-like neck, the aroma of her perfume pervading him, intoxicating him. She was a child in his arms, weak and defenseless. He could feel her struggle for air, writhing against him, and stimulating him but not sexually. This was not about lust. These roots were deeper, much deeper.

  She was powerful with toned, well-conditioned muscles. Her struggle was excellent, better than the rest had been. It took additional effort to keep her under control, to restrain her. He liked the fight and liked winning even more. She was exhausting herself in his arms, struggling against hope, oxygen-deprived muscles becoming fatigued, spent, and exhausted. He felt her heave. Her lungs were already filled with carbon dioxide, her own self-manufactured poison. It disappointed him when she began to abruptly weaken. A moment later he had to hold her up, as she had grown slack within his arms. She was perishing, almost lifeless. In ten seconds, it would all be over. He thought about giving her a breath, a second wind, but that would have been cruel and this was not about cruelty. This was about right and wrong. A man was meant to be king in his castle and never anything less.

  A sharp rapping noise abruptly brought him to attention. Glenn was in front of him, smacking her solitaire diamond ring against the window. “Hey! Hey! Are you all right?”