Dead Eyes

by Stuart Woods

  “Sure,” he said, and she could hear him bustling about, wrapping the flowers in newspaper.

  “Was there a card?” she asked.

  “Pretty much the same,” Danny replied. “‘Get well soon, Admirer.’”

  “Throw them out,” she said, and fell back on the bed, already tired. She felt sick with dread; what was going to happen to her?

  Danny was back in a minute. “Listen to me, kiddo, and don’t argue. I’m moving into the guest room.”

  She didn’t move. “I can manage, Danny,” she said. “I’ll just…”

  “The hell you can,” Danny replied in a tone that brooked no argument. “This house is going to seem different to you until you get used to it again, and I’m not having you here alone at night with Admirer lurking somewhere nearby. You’ll be okay when Melanie is here in the daytime, but not at night.”

  “Oh, all right,” Chris sighed. “I’m too tired to fight you. The guest room is yours; go home and get your things.”

  “My things are already here and unpacked,” Danny said.

  The first morning back in the house Danny tried to bring her breakfast in bed, but she wouldn’t have it. She insisted on making it herself, and under Danny’s watchful gaze, she fumbled around the kitchen, burning herself on the toaster and spilling orange juice, until she had breakfast for both of them on the table.

  “Baby,” Danny said quietly after they had eaten, “I think you ought to get some temporary professional help.”

  “Danny, I keep telling you, I don’t need a shrink. My head is on perfectly straight.”

  “Not that profession,” he replied. “I mean somebody…who’s worked with people…who have trouble seeing.”

  “What?”

  “Approach it the way you would research a new role,” Danny said. “Learn how to be blind.”

  “You mean, get one of those telescopic white canes and tap my way around the neighborhood? Are you crazy?”

  “No, no, I mean that…there have to be some shortcuts to learning to deal with this, and there are people out there who can teach you.”

  “Danny, I know you mean well, but I have to tell you that I think part of getting over this is to believe that I’m going to get over it. I think it’s important what you think when you’re sick. If I start learning to be blind, that means that I’ve accepted being blind, and I’ll be damned if I’ll accept that. I’m not going to let anybody teach me to be blind; I’m going to teach myself to see again.” She paused. “Does that sound crazy?”

  Danny laughed. “No, baby, it sounds like you. If stubbornness can make you well, then you’ll see again in no time.”

  “The first thing I’m going to do is learn to be in this house again, and I don’t want you following me around picking up the pieces, do you hear?”

  “I hear Melanie’s car in the driveway,” Danny said, “and that means I’m out of here. I’ll see you tonight.” He pecked her on the cheek and ran.

  Chris spent a few minutes letting Melanie know that she was not going to be treated like a blind person; then she got herself dressed, choosing her clothes by their feel, brushed her hair, and began blundering from room to room, knocking things over, righting them, and memorizing where they were. By the time Melanie had left for the day there was a new map of her residence imprinted on Chris’s brain, and she was moving about with new confidence. She had an hour before Danny would arrive home from work, and she resolved to use it to become perfect in her movements.

  She walked about the house, first slowly, then quickly; she backtracked, circled, and sometimes spun her body to disorient herself. She was getting good at this.

  She was walking from the living room, across the entrance hall toward the dining room, when she stopped. There was something different in the way the entrance hall sounded when her heels struck the marble; less of an echo, or something. Then she had the oddest feeling on one side of her body, the side nearest the door; it was as if someone were passing a hand near her skin, but not touching her. Suddenly she was certain there was another person in the house, only a few feet away from her, standing near the front door.

  Chris froze for a moment, then turned and went back into the living room, trying to stop trembling. There was a vase of dried flowers on a table to her right; she picked it up and started back toward the dining room, as if she were simply moving the vase. Then, when knew she was in the middle of the entrance hall, she drew back and threw the vase of flowers at the front door as hard as she could. Then she ran.

  Behind her, she thought she heard the front door open and close, but she didn’t stop running. In a moment, with her newfound sense of the house, she was in the bedroom, locking the door, then dialing 911, shaking, feeling helpless and afraid.

  CHAPTER

  7

  By the time the Beverly Hills police arrived, Chris had recovered herself sufficiently to insist on making the two patrolmen coffee. She was very careful not to spill a drop.

  When she began to tell her story, one of them asked to use the telephone.

  “It’s nice of you to make coffee, Miss Callaway,” said the older of the two, judging from the sound of his voice.

  “It gave me something to do rather than just feel nervous,” Chris replied.

  The other officer rejoined them. “There’s somebody coming from the station house I think you should talk to,” the officer said.

  “Who?”

  “His name is Larsen; he’s a detective. He specializes in cases like this.”

  “There can’t possibly be any other cases like this,” Chris said ruefully.

  “I mean about the letters and flowers,” the officer said. “Are you sure you’re all right, ma’am?”

  “I really am.”

  “You just seemed a little clumsy with the coffee cups; I wondered if you were having some sort of delayed reaction.”

  “Oh, I’m always clumsy; especially when I’m nervous.”

  “I see.”

  Chris heard the front door open, and a minute later, Danny rushed into the room, breathless. “What is it?” he demanded. “What are the cops doing here? Are you all right, Chris?”

  “Take it easy, Danny; everything’s fine.” She introduced him to the two policemen.

  “Well,” the older voice said, “if your friend is here, and you’re all right, we’d better get back on patrol. Larsen will be here shortly.”

  Chris stood up. “Thank you both for coming. I feel a lot better just knowing you’re in the neighborhood.”

  “I’ll show them to the door,” Danny said.

  Chris sat back down and thought about the reaction of the two policemen to her. When Danny returned, she told him what had happened.

  “You’re sure somebody was in the house?”

  “Yes, I am. Danny, I don’t think those two cops knew that I’m blind.”

  “Didn’t they?”

  “No, I don’t think so. One of them remarked that I seemed a little clumsy with the coffee cups, but I don’t think he caught on. I could tell by his voice.”

  The doorbell rang; Danny went to answer it and came back with another man.

  “Chris, this is Detective Larsen,” he said.

  “How do you do, Detective?” Chris asked, not extending a hand. She wasn’t quite sure where he was. “Would you like some coffee? There’s some made.”

  “Thank you, yes,” Larsen said.

  Chris heard him drag a chair up to the kitchen table. He sounded nice, maybe in his mid-thirties. She treated the cup carefully this time and got it onto the table without spilling it.

  “I’m sorry you have to go over this twice,” Larsen said.

  “Actually, the two patrolmen seemed not to want to hear the whole story.”

  “That’s because they have standing orders to refer a case like this to me,” Larsen said.

  “I was…in the house alone,” Chris began, “and I…felt that someone was in the house with me. Standing near the front door. I picked up a vase of
dried flowers, chucked it at the door, and ran like hell to my bedroom. Then I locked myself in and called 911.”

  Larsen was silent for a moment. “I don’t quite understand,” he said finally. “You felt there was someone in the house?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you have psychic tendencies, Miss Callaway?”

  “No, no. I just meant I didn’t actually see him.”

  “You threw a vase of flowers at someone you couldn’t see?”

  “Yes, I suppose I did.”

  “Miss Callaway, is your vision impaired in any way?”

  Chris sighed. “I had hoped you couldn’t tell. Your two policemen seemed not to notice.”

  “Most people wouldn’t have,” Larsen said. “I have a younger sister who was blinded in an accident when she was nineteen. She fools people all the time.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m not completely blind,” Chris said.

  “But enough so that you wouldn’t know if someone were standing by your front door.”

  She nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  “I’m aware that you’re an actress, Miss Callaway; I’ve seen a couple of your movies, and I think you’re very good.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And I knew about your accident; saw it on ‘Entertainment Tonight.’ I just didn’t know you had been blinded.”

  Danny spoke up for the first time. “Neither does anybody else. Hardly anybody.”

  “I see,” Larsen said. “Please don’t worry; I’ll respect your wishes in that respect.”

  “Thank you,” Chris replied.

  “Now, let’s begin at the beginning,” Larsen said.

  When Chris had finished, Larsen sipped at his coffee and didn’t say anything.

  “Well?” Danny said. “What do you think?”

  “Well, your case is not…unusual,” Larsen said.

  Danny spoke up. “You mean this happens all the time?”

  “Not all the time,” Larsen replied, “but it happens. I run…rather, I am the threat management unit on our force; I deal all the time with something called the stalker phenomenon, people who obsessively follow or contact other people—sometimes men stalking women, but sometimes the other way around.”

  “Like the David Letterman thing,” Danny said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Who are these people that do this?” Chris asked.

  “All sorts,” Larsen replied. “Sometimes they work in the same office or go to the same school. These guys can make life a living hell for their victims, and they don’t bother to conceal their identities. They usually sign the mail or find some way to let the victim know who they are. They want their victims to know who they are. It’s part of the satisfaction they get from these acts. They have this warped conviction that their victims like the attention. They’re usually bright, otherwise well-adjusted people who have careers, even families. They just sort of flip out over one person.”

  “And you think ‘Admirer’ isn’t like that?”

  “Well, he’s been very carefully anonymous. In roughly half of our cases the stalker tries to keep his identity secret.”

  “And what do you think that means?” Chris asked.

  “It’s hard to say, but of course the first thing we want to do in an active case is to identify the stalker. I’m sorry you didn’t keep the letters; we might have tried handwriting analysis.”

  “The letters were all very neatly typed,” Chris said. “The ones I was able to see, anyway.”

  Danny broke in. “Come to think of it, they were so neatly done, I think they were probably written on a computer and a laser printer.”

  “Lots of people have those,” Larsen said. “Your man is probably affluent, or at least has a good job. He owns a computer, and his habit of sending six dozen roses at a time is an expensive one.”

  “I’ll bet he’s got a car, too,” Danny said. “Anybody on foot in Bel Air would be noticed immediately by the security patrol.”

  Chris laughed. “Oh, Danny, everybody in L.A. drives a car.”

  “There’s something encouraging about all this,” Larsen said.

  “What’s that?” Chris asked.

  “From your recollection, the notes have all been very benign, even respectful. A stalker is often vulgar or obscene. Has he made any demands?”

  “What sort of demands?” Chris asked.

  “Has he asked you to mail him your dirty underwear, or to meet him at some secluded place?”

  “No, nothing like that. He often promises to stay in touch, says I’ll hear from him again.”

  “And you probably will. He’s never given you a mailing address—a box number or mail drop?”

  “No.”

  “Then he doesn’t really anticipate a reply. Maybe he doesn’t even want one.”

  “A wanker,” Danny said.

  “Beg pardon?” Larsen replied.

  “He’d rather do it with himself than with Chris.”

  “Oh, yes. Maybe he’s just shy.”

  “Let’s hope he stays that way,” Chris said.

  “So what steps are you going to take, Detective?” Danny asked.

  “None, at least at this point. If you knew him you might be able to go to a judge and get a restraining order to keep him from contacting you, but it’s not a crime to write to somebody or send her flowers; he’s made no demands or threats; he hasn’t tried to harm you. We do have a stalker law in California, since ’91, and that law comes into effect if he commits a crime.”

  “What about breaking and entering?” Danny said.

  “I’m afraid we have no hard evidence of that,” Larsen said, almost apologetically. “Miss Callaway, when Marie—that’s my sister—lost her sight, she often thought people were standing closer to her than they were; she even thought, once or twice, that someone was standing in the room with her, but refusing to speak. You may just have experienced some sort of neurological phenomenon associated with the damage to your vision.”

  “Maybe,” Chris said, “but I don’t think so. He was here.”

  “He could have been here today,” Larsen said. “I don’t disbelieve you.”

  “What should we do, then?” Danny asked. “What steps should we take?”

  “First of all, Miss Callaway…”

  “Please call me Chris; the whole world does.”

  “Thank you. I think it would be a good idea if you weren’t left alone for a while; at least, until we see how this situation develops.”

  “You think it will develop?” Chris asked.

  “I don’t know. I think it’s probable that your ‘Admirer’ will keep writing. I’d like to hear about it if there’s any change in the tone of the letters, or if he starts sending something besides flowers. Also, if he should telephone you, try not to aggravate him. Don’t yell at him or demand that he stop writing. You can try to accomplish that politely—just tell him that you appreciate his interest in your career, but you’d prefer not to hear from him again. Be nice, and don’t try to find out who he is or anything about him; he could get paranoid if you start asking questions. He may volunteer information about himself or even his identity; if that happens, then I can have a little talk with him.” Larsen rose to go.

  Chris rose with him. “I don’t think he’ll telephone; I have a private number.”

  “Well,” Larsen said, shaking both their hands, “you thought you had a private address, too.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  “Light on the makeup,” Chris said. Danny had done her hair and was applying powder with a brush.

  “Yes, dear,” Danny said archly.

  “Danny, the first two cops didn’t notice that I was blind, and Larsen said most people wouldn’t.”

  “So?”

  “I wonder if I could get away with it.”

  “Get away with what?”

  “I wonder if I could keep people from finding out that I’m blind.”

  “For how long?”

 
“Until I can see again.”

  “Are you talking about working?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know, babe. That’s a tall order. What if someone asks you to read a few lines of a script at a meeting?”

  “I don’t think I could convince people that my sight is perfectly normal; just poor, but getting better.”

  “Why don’t you just take it easy for a while and not worry about working?”

  “Because if I’m marked as an invalid, nobody will even consider hiring me, except out of charity. I’ve got to be seen as healthy, even if I don’t work for a while.”

  “I see your point. It’s like actors with AIDS; people who are still healthy enough to work, but nobody will hire them once the news is out.”

  “Exactly. It’s not enough to keep it a secret that I can’t see; I have to make people believe that I can.”

  “Okay, how do we start?”

  “I think Sunday lunch at the Bistro Garden would be the perfect place.”

  “That’s tomorrow; there’ll be a dozen people you know there.”

  “I know. Maybe we’d better have a dry run today. How about the promenade in Santa Monica?”

  “I’m free all day,” Danny replied.

  The city of Santa Monica had closed several blocks of Third Street to traffic and created a pedestrian promenade. The area, once seedy, was making a comeback now, and on a Saturday afternoon the street was crowded. Chris, in jeans and a sweatshirt, with her hair in a ponytail and wearing big sunglasses, knew she was unlikely to be recognized by the filmgoing public; informality was her disguise, and it nearly always worked. The sun was a relatively bright spot in the upper left-hand corner of her vision and the people were no more than a jumble of dark shapes.

  “How about a little window-shopping?” Danny asked.

  Chris laughed. “Perfect.”

  “There’s a little shop with some cute stuff in the window, coming up on your right, maybe six steps.”

  Chris counted and stopped. “I like that little number,” she said, pointing.

  “It isn’t you,” Danny said, “but you’re pointing to the right place. How about some lunch?”