Sleep With The Lights On

by Maggie Shayne

  “I don’t need to meet them. Maybe you can just...tell me about him.”

  “Not much to tell. Eric was...” He stopped there, and I almost heard the “oops.”

  “So his name was Eric.” I smiled, and not only because he’d let the name slip out unintentionally, but also because knowing the name of the guy who gave me back my eyesight meant something to me, I guess. I know, saccharine, right? Gag.

  “He was just an ordinary guy. Quiet. Kept to himself.” Still crouching, head down, pretending to keep his attention on the dog but actually focusing on not saying too much.

  “Sounds like what the neighbors always say about the guy who goes postal and murders a bunch of coworkers.”

  He snapped his head up so fast he probably pulled something in his neck. His eyes were wide, probing mine. I felt the tension in his body coil so tight it must have hurt. I’d said something wrong. He was alarmed, defensive, maybe even hostile.

  I looked away because he was skewering me with his eyes as if he was digging inside my brain. I stared at the water. He wasn’t going to tell me anything, was already covering up the reaction, and I didn’t want him all defensive. So I would pretend I hadn’t noticed the telltale response. “The dog’s name is Myrtle, by the way.”

  A beat passed. Then he said, “That’s the perfect name for her.”

  “She’s blind and needed a home. My assistant figured she could guilt-trip me into taking her.”

  “Looks like it worked.”

  “She’s still on probation,” I said.

  I felt him relax, heard him exhale deeply and fully, felt him uncoil a little, and I faced him again as he straightened.

  “What did you mean?” he asked me. “When you said the accident might have happened for a reason?”

  I frowned as I realized we’d circled back around to an earlier spot in the conversation. And that he was basically changing the subject entirely, even though I hadn’t learned a single thing about my organ donor, other than his name and that his brother wanted to keep him buried.

  I moved to the park bench and sat down. Myrtle took the opportunity to plop flat out on the ground. She lay on her belly, short legs straight out behind her like a big furry frog, chin between her forepaws. She started snoring before she even closed her eyes.

  “I’m really sorry about your brother,” I said, leaning back on the bench, opening the flap of my handbag and digging inside. “I should have said that first. I know how it feels. I was at the police station that day because of my own.”

  He didn’t come and sit beside me. Just stood there waiting—impatient, I thought, to have this meeting come to an end. “Your own?” he asked.

  “Brother,” I said. “And since I didn’t get much help from your colleagues at the Binghamton P.D., I thought maybe a detective racked with guilt for running me down like a dog in the street—sorry, Myrtle—would be a good asset to have.”

  “Your brother is...?”

  “Missing.” I found my brand-new iPhone, and flipped through my recently added photo collection—thank you, Amy—until I found a recent shot of Tommy, and then I got stuck on it. I hadn’t seen him since he was fourteen. The photo Amy had gotten from Sandra looked nothing like the Tommy I’d known back then. I’d never seen it, but I’d sensed it. You could feel a person fading away—well, I could, anyway. But the sight of him was still a shocker. Skinny, with a gray cast to his skin, teeth stained and crooked, one missing right in front. That stupid tattoo on his neck that I’d heard about but never seen—a climbing tiger. Even drug-ravaged, he looked younger than his age. Closer to twenty-four than thirty-four. He’d always kept his teenage looks, Sandra said. His soft brown eyes, his long brown hair. I wished I could see him again and nag him to get it cut.

  Sighing, I turned the phone toward Mason Brown. “Of course, you had to go and assuage your guilt by giving me back my vision. So I don’t suppose I have any leverage left to get your help on this.”

  He was staring at my phone. Staring hard. “How long...has he been missing?”

  Wow. Something had changed in him. I lowered my head so I could close my eyes without being obvious.

  He knows something. I turned my senses up to full alert.

  “He disappeared a week before our accident,” I said. “As near as anyone can figure, anyway. That was the last time anyone who knew him saw him. But it’s impossible to say for sure how long he’s been gone.”

  “Why’s that?”

  His voice was softer, his energy all broken up and uneven. Like the water when you do a cannonball off the tire swing.

  Now that was an odd thought. I’ve never done a cannonball off a tire swing in my life.

  “You can probably tell by the photo, can’t you?” I asked, looking up again.

  “He’s an addict.” He turned the phone toward me and handed it back.

  “And a transient.” Polite-speak for bum. Street person. Homeless. “I imagine that’s why the police didn’t take me very seriously, which was why I went stomping into the street that day without paying attention, which is why you hit me with your car, which is why, I would hazard to guess, I got your brother’s corneas.”

  He nodded as if that all made sense.

  “It’s almost as if the stuff in my books really does have some merit,” I muttered, only because the thought had just then occurred to me and it was a little bit mind-blowing.

  “I’m sorry?” He was inside himself, barely listening to me.

  I looked up fast. “Nah. Nothing. Nothing worth repeating, anyway.” But I filed it away under “synchronistic coincidence,” knowing it would get an entire chapter in my next bullshit book. It made just enough sense to be believable and fit perfectly with my “everything happens for a reason” line, which was starting to get stale.

  “Listen, I know you’ve done more than enough for me already, way more. I shouldn’t ask for anything else from you, but I still think we met for a reason. Not so I could get your brother’s eyes, but so you could help me find Tommy. So what do you say? Will you do it? Will you help me find my brother?”

  I watched the way his Adam’s apple bulged and then sank again, like a whale breaking the surface and then receding into the depths. “I’ll do everything I can.”

  Shit. That’s what they all said. And with that exact same inflection and attitude that revealed the rest of the sentence, the part they didn’t say. I’ll do everything I can, which is absolutely nothing. I sighed, then nodded and tried to hide my disappointment. “Great. That’s just great. I filed a missing persons report, so they’ll have all the info you need.”

  He nodded. “Height, weight, hair and eye color...?”

  “Tall, skinny, brown and brown. Thomas Anthony de Luca. Like I said, it’s all in the report.”

  “Okay. I’ll look into it.”

  Maybe he would. Barely. He had something else on his mind, though. Something heavy. I could hear it weighing down his voice like a lead weight. I was quiet for a few ticks, not knowing what else to say. And then it occurred to me what I hadn’t yet said, so I said it. “Thank you. Your brother’s gift changed my entire life. Mainly that’s what I wanted to come here and say. I hope you’ll pass my gratitude on to your family for me.”

  “I will.”

  “But I’d still like to know more about him.”

  He stared into my eyes for a long moment. Not in a sexual way, and not in an adoring fan way, either. This was like he was looking for something in them. And I knew what. His brother. His brother, Eric, whose eyes were inside my head. You know, sort of.

  Damn, the guy must have really loved his brother.

  “I actually have somewhere I have to be,” he said, looking away. “I meant to reschedule it and completely forgot. I’m sorry I don’t have more time.”

  “Oh.” It was bullshit. He was feeling uncomfortable as hell for some reason, so he wanted to end this. Nothing I could do about that. “All right, then.”

  “I’ll call you, though, if I find
anything on your brother.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said, and gave him my number, which he entered into his own phone.

  “I’d still like to know more about Eric,” I told him. Again. “Maybe...some other time?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Some other time.” Then he gave me a stiff smile, a stiffer nod and walked away, taking the path in the opposite direction from the way I had to go. I watched—so did Myrtle, whining twice—until he was out of sight, around the bend in the path, moving fast, as if he couldn’t get away from me fast enough.

  I scratched Myrtle right in front of her ear where she loved it best. “You ready to head back, old lady?”

  She lifted her “eyebrows” as if to say, Are you fucking kidding me?

  And yet she got up, heaving a long-suffering sigh.

  Something about this meeting had gone wrong, I thought, but I was damned if I knew what. We turned and headed back along the walking path, onto the road and toward home. We went slowly, for Myrtle’s sake, and I replayed my every word, trying to figure out where the hell I’d messed up. Something I said had shaken that big detective right to his toes. And I didn’t think he was the type who would shake all that easily.

  * * *

  Mason pulled into the driveway of his apartment, the place where his brother had died, and sat behind the wheel working up the resolve to go inside. He’d only been back once since Eric’s suicide. Just once. Long enough to clean up and pack some of his things. He’d hauled the sofa to the curb, along with all the plastic that had been over it, the end tables, the coffee table, a couple of lamps and the area rug.

  His considerate big bro had covered that in plastic, too, but he knew how blood was. It always got through. He’d had a compulsive need to get every trace of his brother out.

  But even with that, he couldn’t stay there. He’d been using a guest room at his mother’s house while looking for a new home. That had worked pretty well at first, because his mother needed the company. But after a couple of weeks he’d started using a local motel instead.

  Eric’s duffel was still in the trunk of Mason’s car. It made no sense to leave it there. It was ridiculously risky to leave it there. Hell, maybe he’d been hoping someone would find it and force him to spill. He’d been intending to go through it, burn everything burnable, bury the rest, but he just hadn’t been able to work up the will to do it yet. And yes, he knew it had been six weeks. The truth was, he didn’t know if he would ever be able to face what was in that bag.

  Well, hell. Now he didn’t have a choice, did he?

  He opened the trunk, took the bag out and glanced around for spectators, but he wasn’t too worried. Taking a bag from one’s trunk into one’s apartment didn’t really scream suspicious activity.

  Slam trunk. Up the stairs, keys in the lock.

  When he turned the knob and opened the door, there was one brief flash of Eric with that gun at his own head, one echo of that deafening explosion and the forced mist of blood spray. He jerked reflexively. It was that real. Then he blinked the flashback away. He saw a bare wood floor, an all-but-empty living room. The TV and stand were the only pieces of furniture left.

  He moved quickly through into the kitchen, where a sour smell reminded him that he needed to clean out the fridge and cupboards, and soon. Maybe he would hire someone to get it done. The less time he spent here, the better.

  He slung the duffel onto the square Formica-topped table and grabbed the zipper, and then he froze, shaking all over. He couldn’t move for a second. Couldn’t unzip it. Was paralyzed.

  “Get on with it. You’re a cop. It is what it is, that’s all. Open it up and get it over with.”

  He had no choice. Rachel de Luca knew something. Or at least suspected something. Why would she be so interested in Eric?

  Who wouldn’t be interested in their organ donor?

  No, this was more. It was in her eyes. He was a good cop, had been a cop for a long time, and he knew better than to doubt his gut. His gut had put him on high alert from the second she opened her pretty plump lips and asked if his brother was a psychic or something.

  What the hell did that mean, anyway? What was she getting at?

  One quick tug and the bag was gaping open. He looked inside. The letter was on top, his brother’s suicide note, speckled with blood spatter. Mason pushed it aside. The driver’s licenses had all worked their way to the bottom, of course, being small and having been bounced around in the trunk of his car for the past six weeks. So he was going to have to either paw around feeling for them, or take everything out.

  Face it all, item by item. It had to be done.

  He reached in, closing his hand around the first thing he felt. A framing hammer. A heavy one, like Dad used to build their tree forts when they were kids. He’d always given the boys little hammers, the kind meant for trim nails and tiny hands. But he’d preferred the big heavy ones for himself. Used to say why hit the nail ten times when you can hit it twice and be done with it?

  Mason shuddered a little, wondering if his brother had applied the same logic to his victims. Was this how he’d done it? With a hammer?

  He turned it in his hands. No visible blood. He probably ought to make sure there was no invisible blood, either, before he got rid of the thing.

  Next in the bag, duct tape. Ten rolls. Fuck.

  Beneath that was a pile of shiny new chain that turned out to be two pieces, each about six feet long, each with manacles on one end. Where the hell did a person buy manacles?

  A roll of plastic sheeting, thick and two feet wide, the kind some people bought to staple over their drafty windows in the wintertime. Several coils of brand-new rope, not the cheap plastic stuff but the real deal, in different sizes from slightly-bigger-than-a-clothesline to tow-a-car. Finally the bag was empty and he took out the driver’s licenses, lining them up on the table one by one.

  There were thirteen of them, he realized. But he stopped dead at number nine, as he stared down at the face he’d burned into his memory at the Whitney Point Reservoir this afternoon. Thomas Anthony de Luca.

  He looked healthier in the license photo. Not as skinny. His teeth were better. So was his color. The license had expired long before he had.

  Mason pressed a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. “What the hell did I do to you, Rachel de Luca?”

  My brother killed her brother, he thought. But it was worse than that. It was way worse. He’d only been trying to help, trying to make amends for Eric’s crimes by doing good with his leftover parts. But he had inadvertently given a woman the eyes of her own brother’s murderer.

  If she ever found out, he imagined she would want to claw those eyes out of her own head.

  “Then she can’t find out,” he said softly. But didn’t he owe it to her—to all of them—to try to figure out where Eric’s dumping ground was and get those thirteen young men a decent burial? Give those thirteen families a chance to say goodbye, to have closure, to put their nightmares and beloved sons, brothers and husbands to rest?

  Yeah. He owed them that. He owed them all that.

  Which would mean an investigation, an investigation that, if successful, would lead the police right to Eric. And once that happened, Rachel would find out. They all would.

  And while he might not have known he was giving Rachel the eyes of her brother’s killer, he had known he was giving her a killer’s eyes.

  All the organ recipients had gotten pieces of a killer. Every last one of them.

  He’d never stopped to wonder if they would have wanted those organs, had they been asked. He’d never stopped to think about that.

  Would they?

  Would you? a voice inside him asked.

  He closed his eyes, shook his head. “I don’t even want the apartment he died in. What the hell have I done?”

  6

  As she was on her way out the door at the end of the day, Amy had slapped a slick, full-color tri-fold brochure into my hand and said, “I think this might help y
ou figure things out.”

  Bitch was gone before I could even decipher what it was she thought might help. But I knew exactly what it was she thought I needed to figure out. This transplant thing. I’d filled the damn house with books about transplant recipients who believed they’d received a little something extra from their donors, and whenever I wasn’t researching Eric Conroy Brown on the internet, I was reading those books. Amy had noticed, and also remarked on, how my tastes had changed. In music—reggae? Really? In food. What was with the hot sauce? I wasn’t sleeping well, because I was scared shitless of those nightmares, and though I hadn’t told her about them, I was cranky enough that she knew something was up.

  Hell, I’d even yelled at Myrtle today.

  I looked at the folder in my hand. O.R.G., for “Organ Recipient Group,” a support group for transplant patients. Great. Amy knew perfectly well that I’m not exactly known to get good grades in “works and plays well with others.” I thought about tossing the brochure aside, but for some reason I didn’t. I took it with me when I headed out the back door with Myrtle on her completely unwarranted leash—like she was gonna what? Sprint away from me? We took our evening walk around the perimeter of my piece of paradise, and I let myself bask in it for a while, then reined myself in when I started sliding too far into the mind-set I preached to the masses, and instead opened the leaflet and started reading.

  We’re a group of people who’ve been given something precious and welcome the chance to talk about what that means to us. Non-recipients can’t come close to understanding all the things that come with such a generous gift. What does it mean for us long term? How do we feel about our donors? Are we obligated to donate our own organs when we pass? Should we feel guilty if that’s not what we want to do? There are no right or wrong answers to any of these questions, nor to the thousands of others that can sometimes haunt us. But here we can discuss them openly. Nothing said in this safe space is judged, and nothing is repeated. We meet Wednesday nights at 7:00 p.m. at the Legion Hall, out back under the oak tree when weather permits, inside the meeting room in back otherwise. Service animals welcome.