Sleep With The Lights On

by Maggie Shayne

  She was lying on the blanket snoring, not the least bit into the game she couldn’t see. But every time I jumped up and yelled for the girls, she would lift her head and look my way. It was cruel, what she was missing.

  It had been cruel that I’d been missing it for so long, too.

  “I wonder if they do cornea transplants for dogs?”

  Sandra reached down to pet her head. “I never thought I’d see you go soft for an animal, Rache. Myrtle has you wrapped around her forepaw.”

  “She does not.”

  “No? She owns more outfits than you do.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t do the frou-frou shit, you know that. I’m getting my inner girlie-girl off vicariously.”

  “Oh, so that’s all it is.”

  “Yeah, that’s all it—holy shit, Christy’s gonna score. Go! Go, Christy!”

  She had a shot but passed the ball instead. The red-headed Amazon she’d passed to flubbed the kick, and the goalie was on it like white on rice. I sat down, deflated. “Damn.”

  “Easy, Rachel. It’s just a game.”

  “Bullshit. It’s self-esteem, is what it is. I need to have a serious talk with that girl.”

  Misty and Christy were nearly identical on the field, but Misty played fullback and Christy was front line. They both wore black spandex leggings under their black-and-gold uniform shorts, and long-sleeved spandex turtlenecks under their jerseys to keep warm. On top of the leggings, white soccer socks and shin-guards. Hot-pink cleats. High blond ponytails, and smudges of black under their eyes.

  Mercenary-Barbie, your favorite doll goes rogue.

  The thought amused me so much I laughed a little bit.

  “It’s good to see you smile.”

  I shot Sandra a look. “What do you mean? I always smile.”

  “Not lately. Actually, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that.”

  “About what?” The other team was speeding toward our goal, and I jumped up again. “Boot it, Misty! Get it out of there!”

  Misty complied. The black-and-white ball sailed a hell of a lot farther than I ever could have sent it and was promptly claimed by one of her teammates. I sat down again.

  “You’ve been looking rough, honey,” my sister said. “You have dark circles under your eyes.”

  “They’re just tired from all this seeing. They’re not used to it, you know.”

  “Amy says you’re short-tempered.”

  “More than usual?” I asked with an innocent blink.

  Coach called a time-out. The girls came jogging to the sidelines, gathering around their bench for a thirty-second conference.

  Sandra was still going on. “She said you fell asleep at the computer yesterday. Is something—”

  “Be right back.” I handed her Myrt’s leash—you know, just in case my comatose dog decided to get up and go for a romp—and marched to the huddled mass of sophomores, yearning to breathe free. I put a hand on Christy’s shoulder and, leaning in close enough to speak for her ears only, said, “Next time you have a shot, you damn well take it, sweetheart. Fifty bucks in it for you, hit or miss.”

  The coach sent me a scowl, but I didn’t care. I was back at the bleachers seconds later, looking at the scoreboard and wondering how long five more minutes was in soccer time.

  “Amy says you’ve been seeing quite a bit of that cop.”

  “Amy’s got a whole lot to say about my personal life, doesn’t she?”

  “She loves you, and you know it.”

  “She’s gonna love herself right out of a job if she’s not careful. Did she mention I’ve been on three dates with David Heart from the support group?”

  “No. She must not think you’re serious. I agree with her, considering you’re still not using his actual last name.”

  “I keep forgetting his actual last name.”

  “So you’re not serious.”

  “He tried to stick his tongue down my throat after dinner the other night. How’s that for serious?”

  “You sound more grossed out than turned on.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, I was. I don’t think it’s going anywhere.”

  “And what about Detective Brown?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, big sister, I’ve seen Detective Brown a few times—because I want him to find our brother so we can bury him.”

  She lowered her head. “We don’t know for sure that he’s—”

  “Yes, we do, Sandy. I’m really sorry, but we do. His wallet was left behind, just like all the others. I told you that.” I also told her that Mason believed Terry Skullbones had been a copycat. A one-time killer. That scared the hell out of her, too.

  She blinked as the whistle blew and the girls ran back out onto the field. “Is your detective getting any closer to finding the...to finding who did it?”

  “No. Not yet.” I ignored the fact that she’d called him my detective, bit my lip and decided I was going to have to tell her about Mott. She’d hear about it sooner or later anyway. “Sis, last night Mott went missing.”

  Her head came up fast, eyes round as platters. “What? Oh my God, was it the same...?”

  “Yeah, it looks like the same guy.”

  She muttered something under her breath. I heard cuss words in there, and my sister never cussed. The girls were playing again, but Sandra was staring at me. “Rachel, that’s two victims who are close to you. It’s beginning to look personal. Have you thought about that?”

  How could I not think about that? It was personal. But I couldn’t tell Sandra that or she would have me on the first flight to Timbuktu. Thank God the action on the field picked up just then, giving me an out.

  “Hey, look at your daughter, sis.”

  Christy was dribbling for the goal, when she hesitated and faked a shot, swinging her foot past the ball so the goalkeeper dived in the wrong direction. Instantly my brilliant niece turned and took a real shot. The ruse worked, and the ball sailed straight into the net.

  I rose to my feet and pumped my fist. “Yes!”

  The buzzer sounded, and the girls formed a screaming, squealing happy huddle in the middle of the field. I knew they would be busy for ten more minutes with the obligatory “good game, good game, good game” high fives with the other team, then picking up their equipment, and after that Sandra would still have to wait to sign the coach’s clipboard so she could reclaim the girls and drive them home. This wasn’t my first soccer game. Just the first one I’d been able to see. And I was damn near giddy about that.

  I got up and coaxed Myrt to her feet, as well. “I’m gonna put Myrtle in the car and turn on the heat. She’s about frozen.”

  “She’s warmer than any of us.”

  “I’ll meet you by the van to say bye to the girls.”

  She sighed. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes, I’m sure I’m all right.” I am so far from all right it’s not even funny, but I need to go home so I can sleep and dream of Mott and maybe find out where he is, because it’s the only thing I can think of to do. “Meet you at the minivan.”

  “What are you doing this weekend, sis?”

  “Helping a friend move,” I said. I’d been shocked as hell when Mason invited me along to meet his nephews and see his new place, and I hadn’t actually given him an answer, only said I’d call him and get the address if I could make it. And I’d only just now decided I would go. I assumed he had motives that had nothing to do with anything personal and everything to do with the case. He wanted to keep me close. I just wasn’t sure if it was because he thought I might be in danger or because he thought I might lead him to the serial killer. I was at least pretty sure he didn’t think I was the serial killer. Either way, it was cool with me. I wanted to keep him close, too, so I could learn everything he knew, one way or another.

  * * *

  When I arrived home, I put the car into the garage. I didn’t always, especially if I was in a big fat hairy hurry, as I was then. It was just starting to get dark. The soccer
game had run into the dinner hour, so I’d joined Sandra and the twins for a celebratory fast-food fest at the combination McDonald’s, Mobil station and convenience store, making sure to display suitable excitement over Christy’s goal. Okay, so that hadn’t really been a challenge. I’d handed over the fifty I’d promised her, and given another one to Misty to keep things fair. By then it was pushing seven. Another few minutes home, but only because I drove really slowly over my rutted dirt road, then through the gate—which I closed for once—and into my driveway. After I put the car in the garage, I closed the door and locked it, too. Myrt and I went in through the door that led from the garage into the kitchen, and I locked that for good measure. And I set my alarm system for once, so that it would start chirping if the door was opened without the code being entered first. I did not want to be driving around in my sleep again. That was freaky. I could have killed someone. I wished there was a lock on my driveway gate. I’d never thought it necessary, but now it was on the top of my to-do list.

  At least with the alarm on the door, the chirping would wake me if I tried that little trick again. I hoped. God knew I didn’t use the security system often enough to be able to enter the pass code in my sleep.

  Myrt danced around my feet once we were inside. That was as active as she ever got, to be honest. She’d been quite content to snooze on the passenger seat until after my McMeal with the fam, but when I came back out to the car, she was done with that. Her interest became focused on sniffing the red-and-white bag I’d brought with me, knowing it contained a cheeseburger just for her. I know, she was already chubby, bordering on fat, but we hardly ever had junk food, and everybody needs to indulge now and then, right?

  I opened the bag as soon as we were inside the kitchen, broke the burger into pieces and fed one to her. She ate it with the same relish I eat chocolate.

  I couldn’t wait to get to sleep, thinking maybe I’d dream about Mott and figure out where he was or who had him. Part of me was scared, too, because I didn’t want to see him die. I couldn’t stand that.

  As it turned out, it didn’t matter. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t think I would ever sleep again. My fear apparently outweighed my worry about my friend. I thought about taking a pill, but I needed to be able to wake up fast if I got a clue where Mott was. I turned off all the lights except for the bathroom one and lay there staring at the ceiling for several hours. Eventually I turned on the TV and propped myself up on pillows to try to manually put myself into a coma by watching one of the twenty-four-hour news channels. The same six or so stories, over and over and over, word for freakin’ word. By the third cycle, my eyeballs were drooping.

  A car door slammed, and they popped open. Was it a real sound, or had I dreamed it?

  Seconds passed, then there was some kind of a thud from downstairs. Myrtle sprang up onto all fours—no shit, she sprang—and let out a low growl, while I sat up in bed, frowning. The TV was still on. I found the remote and hit the mute button. Tires spun as whoever had been down there sped away.

  I had this weird moment of wondering if I was in a dream or actually awake, and then decided the only way to find out was to head downstairs and check for myself. The night-light was on. I turned on the big lamp beside the bed, got up and pulled on the bathrobe hanging from the bedpost. It was the ugly green one. It was fluffy and plush, mint-colored, and made me look about twice my actual size. But it was also my fave because it was so snuggly cozy warm.

  Shoving my feet into slippers, I went into the hall. Myrtle hustled down the little portable steps I’d put by the foot of the bed for her so she could get up and down. It was the first time she’d used them without me putting a hand on her back to guide her. She reached the bottom and hurried ahead of me, cutting me off so short that I damn near tripped over her.

  “Easy, girl. It was just a car.” Though it had sounded like it was on this side of my gate.

  She gave another low growl, still blocking me.

  I’d never seen her like this. The fur along her spine was standing up. I had cold chills up my own spine, but something made me keep going. I don’t know what. I made it to the bottom of the stairs with Myrt practically walking between my feet, but I did, and then I went into the kitchen to grab my cell phone off the counter where I’d dropped it when I’d come in last night. I gave the battery a quick check. Low, but on.

  Okay, I was being a big chicken, but Myrt was acting weird, and I was feeling something, too. Her senses were sharper than mine, and mine were sharper than most humans’. Something was wrong.

  I walked to the front door thinking about the peignoir-clad waifs in all the horror novels I’d listened to on audiobook over the years, walking toward the scary noise in the dead of night instead of running away from it. I usually call them every kind of idiot. I sure as hell never thought I’d ever be one of them. But I had to keep going toward my front door, even though it loomed ahead of me like maybe there was a hungry lion waiting on the other side. My hand was shaking as I reached out, turned the lock—yes, still locked, that’s good. Alarm light still green. Also good. No one has been inside. I punched in the code, gripped the knob and pulled the door open.

  There was a pile of rags at my feet just outside the door, blocking the threshold. Wait, no, what was at the end of that stained... Was it a shirtsleeve? Was that a hand?

  I hit the light switch beside the door. The outdoor light came on. The pile of rags was being worn by a person. A dead person, lying facedown. My eyes jerked from the pale, bloody hands to the jeans-clad legs to the head, all bashed to hamburger, with a few tufts of curly hair still sticking up here and there.

  “Mott, oh, Jesus, it’s Mott.” Everything in me wanted to back away, slam the door, scream my brains out, but there was one little piece of reason left, and it told me to check for a pulse, just in case he might still be alive.

  I crouched down and reached out. My hand touched his shoulder, and the entire lump of what had once been my friend flopped over in cinematic slow-mo. Myrtle started barking her brains out. Mott was staring up at me through wide-open eyes that had never seen, set in a face painted in his own blood.

  That was when I started screaming and leaped to my feet, spasmodically smacking every button on the security panel just inside the door until I hit the one that called the cops.

  14

  “Drink this.” Mason shoved a glass under my nose. It looked like Coke, but I could smell the vodka. Hey, don’t tell me it has no odor. It totally does, and it’s an aroma I know well. I took the drink, chugged it and smacked the empty glass down onto the end table next to my chair.

  Cops were outside, flashing cameras just beyond the closed door, and their cars were all over the driveway flashing their bubblegum lights. My living room looked like a damn disco from the police flashers outside, and I realized I still hadn’t turned on the lights. I didn’t remember calling Mason. I remembered hitting the alarm system’s panic button for the first time since it was installed, and not much more. I don’t know how the hell I got from the front door to the overstuffed chair.

  I decided it was time to pull my head out of its hidey-hole and face reality.

  Never face a reality you don’t like. Create a better one instead.

  Had I really written that? God, I was an asshole.

  “Rachel?”

  I blinked a couple of times, and managed to lift my head, look him in the eye. “Yeah, I’m here. And yes, it’s Mott.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nodded. “His face was intact. Bloody, but intact. It’s him. That bastard killed my friend.” My jaw went so tight my teeth hurt. I picked up the empty glass and handed it to him.

  He held it up and someone else took it from him. Rosie, his partner. I’d met him twice now, once when Mason hit me with his car about a hundred years ago, and again at Terry Skullbones’s house. I liked him. Rosie vanished from my line of sight, but I heard him pouring, heard the splash of ice going into the glass. “Turn on some freakin’ lights while y
ou’re over there, will you, Rosie?” I called.

  “Sure, Ms. de Luca. You got it.”

  I narrowed my eyes against the sudden glare, but it was better than being in the dark with all those strobing cop lights.

  “Can you tell me what happened, Rache?”

  Mason was hunkered down in front of my chair, watching my face like he thought it was going to put on a show.

  “What the fuck do you think happened? Someone killed Mott and dumped his body on my doorstep.”

  He held my gaze and didn’t flinch. He didn’t deserve my anger. The bastard who’d killed Mott did, and I think that moment right there was when I decided I was going to have to find him and kill him myself, because this shit had to end.

  I didn’t know if I could really do it, though. I’d never even entertained the notion of killing anyone before. But this guy had taken my brother and how many more? Fifteen that we knew of. And Mott. Blind, arrogant, activism-prone Mott with his stupid guitar and his constant performances of half of a song. He never finished one. Always forgot the rest and petered off, then thought a minute before starting a new one and not finishing that one, either. Drove everyone fucking crazy.

  My breath hitched in my throat, and I lowered my head and choked on tears. Rosie’s big hand held the drink under my nose, and I took it and drank deep.

  Mason said, “Tell me what you heard, what you saw, what you did tonight, everything leading up to finding the body.”

  I nodded, and then I told him. I told him about the soccer game, and that no, I didn’t know the names of anyone else who’d been there besides my sister, Misty, Christy, a referee named Sanchez who was more blind than I’d ever been, if her calls were anything to go by, and Coach McElroy. I told him about going to McDonald’s, then coming home and trying to fall asleep early, and watching CNN to help with that. About starting to drift off, and then hearing the thud from downstairs, the slam of the car door and the squealing tires, and that I needed to get a fucking lock on my fucking gate.