See No Evil

by Morgan Hayes

  She was sure Dr. Sterling had said ten to twelve hours. He’d also said something about regaining more perception once she was able to distinguish light. Yet, there had been nothing beyond that dim white square. Maybe he’d been wrong. Or maybe this was all she could expect.

  Around her were nothing but shadows—blacks and grays—and dark ambiguous forms. She wanted out of this place. Out of this dusty prison.

  She had been out earlier, though, briefly. Twice, Fenton had led her to a washroom down the hall. The first time he’d come in to get her, he’d gripped her arm savagely and dragged her from the bed. At the time she had no idea where he was taking her or what he planned to do. She’d balked, refusing to go anywhere until he told her where they were going.

  And once she’d finished with the washroom and they were heading back to the room, Stevie had stopped him, demanding to know about Paige.

  She’d heard a sick grin in his voice. “Oh, don’t worry that pretty head of yours about her,” he’d said.

  But Stevie had stood her ground, determined not to budge until he told her. “I want to know what you did to Paige.”

  Finally, his hand still clamped fiercely on Stevie’s arm, he’d said, “Well, lucky for your friend she didn’t get a look at me. Otherwise I might have had to take care of her.”

  That was all Stevie had been able to get out of him. He’d shoved her down the narrow hallway and back into the room. He’d slid the bolt into place, and it was then that Stevie decided she would have to be careful not to reveal her returning vision, minimal though it was. If Fenton had even a shred of suspicion that Stevie could see him, he’d no doubt “take care” of her.

  The second time Fenton had come to get her, hours later, Stevie could have sworn she’d been able to see more. And she’d considered her chances at making a run for it. But Fenton would have had her in a second.

  Other than those two brief ventures, the rest of the day had been spent locked in the room, with nothing but the monotonous cooing of pigeons outside on the sill and the constant dull thumping of the fan blades.

  She’d attempted to walk around, to stretch her stiff muscles. But when she tried to maneuver through the clutter of dusty boxes and cobwebbed furniture, each effort had resulted in another thunderous crash, and Fenton would barrel in. By the third time, he’d let out a vicious string of expletives, taken her by the shoulders and shoved her roughly onto the old mattress, warning her to stay put.

  “If you don’t,” he’d snarled, “I’ll make damned sure you do.”

  So Stevie had given up. She’d sat on the bed, her legs drawn up into the circle of her arms, her back against the wall. She hadn’t moved. She’d wanted to cry, but didn’t have the energy. She’d dozed once or twice in the same position and woken up with a stiff neck. And then she’d just sat, watching the square of light slowly fade.

  The minutes had stretched into hours, the hours into a lifetime. The only hope she clung to now was Allister.

  She clung to the memories of the brief happiness she’d found in his arms. But she’d thrown all that away. She’d finally found love, and now she wasn’t sure it could ever be regained.

  She should have listened to Allister. She should have trusted him. Now, more than ever, Stevie regretted her harsh words. She regretted fearing him as much as she had yesterday morning when she’d thrown him out of her apartment and out of her life. And she wouldn’t blame him if he never forgave her for that.

  Paige was right. Everything she’d said—that Allister loved her, that he’d wanted to protect her, that he couldn’t have done anything else—was all true.

  Twelve nights ago at the warehouse, Gary had died in Allister’s arms. Stevie couldn’t imagine the rage that must have seized him then. And when she’d arrived Allister had believed her to be Gary’s killer returning. She would have done the same thing. She would have attacked, too. Out of defense, and out of anger.

  But then Allister had taken her to the hospital. To bring her to safety, he’d risked being placed at the warehouse that night, of being linked to Gary’s murder. He had understood the chance he was taking, yet he didn’t just leave her there at the warehouse.

  And if she hadn’t been blind, Stevie realized, she would have identified him as the man she’d seen, the man she’d believed was Gary’s killer. Allister would have been falsely accused once again. She would never have gotten to know him, never have learned the truth.

  And she would never have grown to love him.

  Stevie wished for sleep, but her thoughts wouldn’t allow it.

  She should have convinced Allister to go to the police, to get help long ago. She shouldn’t have let him try to deal with Bainbridge on his own.

  True, one of the things she loved about Allister was his fortitude—the courage it had taken for him to go on with his life after everything he’d been put through. But it was that same admirable courage that made Allister believe he could take on the world, Bainbridge and Fenton included.

  No, if nothing else, Stevie should have convinced him to go to the police.

  The sudden metallic thump of the door’s slide bolt brought Stevie’s head up with a start. Every muscle in her body stiffened, and when she heard the familiar squeal of hinges, she hugged her legs to her chest even tighter.

  She turned her head in the direction of the door, and almost gasped when she saw the bright rectangle of light and the dark hulking shape that filled it.

  Fenton.

  Stevie struggled not to squint against the sudden brightness. She couldn’t let Fenton know she could see him.

  He came into the room, his boots making a hollow sound against the floorboards. She could just discern the hazy line of his massive shoulders, and as he came closer to her, the light from the corridor caught his face. It was little more than a blurred outline—black hair, pale skin, a slash of a mouth, and dark holes where his eyes looked down at her.

  Stevie’s breath was gone.

  When he reached for her, she cringed at his touch and choked on a scream.

  “Come on, let’s go.” His fingers hooked around her arm, bruising the soft flesh as he yanked her up off the mattress.

  And then, suddenly, Stevie didn’t want to leave her prison. She felt safer here than beyond that doorway, in the unknown. At least she knew this room. Once outside, God only knew what Fenton intended to do with her.

  “Come on,” he said again, his voice grating with impatience as he hauled her to her feet.

  Stevie almost lost her balance, and when she reached out to block her fall, it was Fenton’s arm she grabbed. She pulled back immediately.

  “Where are we going?”

  “For a drive,” was his only answer apart from a forceful shove toward the door.

  But Stevie had had just about all the manhandling she could take in one day, and she wrenched her arm from his grasp.

  “Where?” she demanded more firmly this time, and spun around to face him. She looked up into those dark holes of eyes for a fleeting moment and couldn’t help thinking that he looked like a caricature of Death.

  “Where?” There was amusement in his voice, as though he took a certain delight in her brashness. “To meet your boyfriend is where.”

  Allister. So, Bainbridge was going to make a trade. Her for the coins.

  “Now come on.” Fenton turned her around. “Either you walk on your own, or I carry you outta here. Your choice.”

  Stevie started towards the light. Allister, Allister. They were going to Allister. Everything was going to be all right, she tried to convince herself. Allister would give Bainbridge the coins and—

  “For your sake,” Fenton added, as he guided her along the dim corridor, “I hope your boyfriend hasn’t decided to keep those coins for himself. Hey, he might have skipped town already. What do you think, sweetheart? You worth a few million bucks to him?”

  As repulsive as Fenton was, he had a point, Stevie thought as she groped her way along the banister and to the top of a rick
ety set of wooden steps. What was to stop Allister from taking the coins and running? After everything she’d said to him, after she’d kicked him out of her life and refused to trust him, she couldn’t really blame him if he had left Danby hours ago—with or without the coins.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE VOLVO’S ENGINE idled dangerously low, and Allister gave it more gas. He removed his gloves and switched off the heater. But the light sweat that beaded his brow and dampened his shirt beneath his jacket had nothing to do with the car’s interior.

  It was snowing again. In short bursts of wind, fat flakes tumbled down and melted instantly on the windshield. Allister looked through the blur to the steel girders of the bridge. In the Volvo’s headlights, they glistened with a thin shellac of ice.

  Tugging his wrist free of his leather cuff, Allister tilted his watch to catch the light of the single lamp at this end of the bridge. Seven-fifteen. He was early.

  As promised, Bainbridge had called at seven on the dot. Paige and Allister had been waiting for the call, along with Devane, who had parked his car behind the studio in case anyone was watching. And the second Allister had hung up the phone, they had been ready to move. Bainbridge hadn’t given him a lot of time to get out here, but Allister had broken every speed limit along the way. As he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel now, he hoped Devane would be able to assemble his men and get out here just as quickly.

  It was obvious why Bainbridge had chosen this spot. The bridge experienced some traffic during the day, being on a primarily industrial street at the northwest end. But after six, when the factories shut down, the bridge would be deserted.

  Allister had seen one car, though, a green Impala parked fifty yards from the east end of the bridge. Bainbridge’s advance scout, Allister was certain, to ensure he’d arrived alone.

  In the glow of the lamp, Allister glanced over at the shipping box on the passenger seat. Luckily Devane had agreed with him about the coins—using anything but the real goods would have been too risky.

  At the precinct, he’d told Devane and Jackson everything, starting with the night of Gary’s murder, how he’d taken Stevie to the hospital, how he’d tracked down Vince Fenton and had broken into the man’s apartment. Finally he told them about the coins in the safe-deposit box. Through it all Devane had sipped his coffee. And when the cup was empty, the detective had methodically crushed it in his fist.

  When Allister had finished, he could tell that Devane worked at keeping his voice calm, no doubt for Paige’s sake. But gradually his tone had risen until he was ranting about withholding evidence and threatening Allister with the remainder of his sentence as he outlined the many ways Allister had broken his parole.

  Even so, Devane recognized the fact that Stevie’s life was at stake. He’d agreed with Allister that they couldn’t storm Bainbridge’s estate without knowing where Stevie was being held. And at last, making it clear that he didn’t like the idea, Devane consented to the trade.

  But the plan was far from foolproof, Allister thought. There was no way of knowing if Devane and his men would arrive on time. And he had little doubt now, given the isolated location Bainbridge had chosen, that the collector had any intention of letting either Stevie or Allister walk away from this tonight.

  Allister shifted in the driver’s seat. Gary’s Ruger jabbed into the small of his back. He hadn’t told Devane about the gun. If the detective had known, he never would have let Allister come out here. But there was no way he would have come unarmed.

  Edward Bainbridge had taken everything Allister had ever worked for, everything he’d ever loved. And now the man was doing the same thing all over again. But this time it was Stevie.

  And this time, Allister vowed silently, Bainbridge was not going to win. No one was going to take Stevie away from him. Not Bainbridge. Not Vince Fenton. Not even Devane.

  Allister didn’t care about the coins. He didn’t care about the cops. He didn’t even give a damn about getting Bainbridge or clearing his name anymore.

  He just wanted Stevie back.

  He wanted her safe.

  And then he saw the headlights.

  STEVIE ROCKED with the gentle lilt of the big luxury car. It smelled of leather and cigars, and faintly of liquor. All that, and she could still smell Fenton’s after-shave.

  He sat next to her in the back seat. As tightly as she held her body, she could not avoid touching him. His leg was hot against hers, and his broad shoulder pinned her back into the soft upholstery.

  On her right was Bainbridge. He’d had at least one drink, she was sure of that. She could smell it on his breath between each quiet wheeze.

  Up front, beside the driver, was another man. A big man, Stevie figured, judging by the vague shadowy bulk she could make out through her darkness.

  She wasn’t certain of the location where they’d linked up with Bainbridge and his other thugs. After Fenton had led her down the rickety stairs, he’d tied her hands and pushed her into the back seat of his car. It had been dark outside when he’d driven the sedan out of what she guessed was a warehouse, and Stevie had tried to catch glimpses of illuminated signs to get a sense of where he was taking her. But the lights only hurt her eyes, and the letters were meaningless blurs.

  Once Fenton had pulled the sedan over, he’d guided her to Bainbridge’s car, where Bainbridge himself had suggested Fenton untie her. She’d been shivering then, and not only from the cold, although she wore no coat or shoes and her heavy wool socks were wet from the hasty vehicle switch.

  Now, as she clenched her hands in her lap, willing herself to stop shaking, Stevie blinked against the glare of light. After all the darkness, after praying for light all these days, she’d thought she would have welcomed it. But it only hurt her head. And the glare in her eyes had been constant from the moment she’d been in Bainbridge’s car.

  At first she’d thought it was the headlights of oncoming traffic, until she realized that she hadn’t heard any passing cars in some time. Yet the glare was still there. And then she understood. It was the rearview mirror. Headlights from a tailing car reflected off the mirror directly into her eyes. She didn’t dare squint for fear of tipping off Fenton. Instead, Stevie cast her gaze downward.

  But why did Bainbridge need a second car? With Fenton, the driver, and the extra man in the front seat, what could he possibly be expecting of Allister?

  “Give Smitty a call and tell him to hang back.” Bainbridge’s voice came from within inches of her ear, and Stevie cringed at the sound of it. “I want him to wait at the end of the bridge.”

  When she looked up again, the glare in the mirror was gone. Past the crest of the front seat and through the windshield, two points of light radiated out toward them through the darkness. The car slowed.

  “Okay, stop here. That’s him.”

  Stevie felt her heart skip. Allister was here close by. Her gaze fixed on the tunnel of light, and she was certain she saw a shadow pass before it.

  Bainbridge turned beside her, but her gaze was riveted on that shadow in the light.

  Even when Bainbridge touched a fleshy finger to her cheek, Stevie sat stock-still, focusing on the shadow she knew must be Allister. She’d come this far, she kept thinking. She could deal with anything now. All she had to do was concentrate on Allister. He was here for her.

  “Well, we’ll see if this boyfriend of yours is as good as his word, won’t we?” Bainbridge said to her, his voice sounding as thick and ugly as the finger that crawled over her skin.

  “Vince—” his tone became caustic, as though it angered him that he hadn’t gotten the reaction he’d hoped for from Stevie “—get out of the car. And if he makes any moves, shoot him.”

  Stevie’s breath caught in her throat. Fenton opened the door, and frigid air rushed in, bringing with it a new level of consciousness. In her limited peripheral vision, she caught a movement, and when she turned, the car’s interior light glinted on what she guessed was Fenton’s gun.

>   “No!” she screamed. But it didn’t sound like her own voice. It was so thin, so desperate. “No!” she tried again and reached for Fenton.

  She wrestled with him, grappling with his massive hands, tearing at his coat, trying to pull him back into the car. Twice she felt the hard sharp edges of the gun against her fingers.

  And then someone grabbed her sweater. The collar dug into her throat, cutting off her wind, and she was yanked back into the seat.

  ALLISTER CLUTCHED the small box in his left hand. The edges of his bomber jacket blew open in the cold wind as he walked toward the other car. With each stride, he felt the reassuring pressure of the Ruger against the small of his back, tucked into the waist of his jeans. But if the situation did come down to any kind of a shootout, he’d have to be damned fast. And even if he managed to draw the semiautomatic, he wouldn’t stand much of a chance against a thug like Fenton.

  Bainbridge’s car had stopped about forty yards away, its big engine idling. In the vehicle’s low beams, swirls of snow danced along the bridge’s surface.

  Allister never took his eyes off the car as he steadily closed the distance. He prayed that Stevie was all right. And then he prayed that she was in the car. If she wasn’t, if Bainbridge had decided to keep her until he had the coins, or worse, if he had already decided she was a loose end and-God! He couldn’t think that. Not now.

  The cardboard box threatened to collapse under the pressure of his grip. Another cold wind swept along the bridge and whipped at his hair, blasting snow into his face. Allister blinked and kept walking.

  Thirty yards.

  Twenty-five.

  One of the back doors opened, and Allister stopped.

  The car’s interior light flickered on. There was a sudden flurry of movement, and seconds later a man got out. It was Fenton. He was holding a gun.

  Allister looked back at the car, struggling to see past the low beams into the interior. There were several figures inside, lit up by the dim overhead bulb. One of them, smaller than the others, he was sure was Stevie.