Hide Your Eyes

by Alison Gaylin

  I jammed the long thin blade through the crack, then worked it back and forth until the door drifted open. I was setting the knife back down on the counter when the phone rang.

  It was so loud and close that for a second, I thought it was the cell. But then I realized it was the cordless; the receiver was still on the dinette.

  I hurried out of the kitchen and picked it up fast. “Hello?”

  But there was no answer, just breathing.

  “Hello.”

  Still no reply. My back tensed up. The call had come just after Yale had left the building. He knows I’m alone. He’s watching. I wanted to hang up, but for some reason I couldn’t. It was as if the receiver was part of my hand. I listened to the breathing, the deep inhale and exhale, slow and controlled and strangely hypnotic. So calm. He had all the time in the world.

  From the hollow sound of it, I could tell he was breathing through his mouth. I pictured Peter’s full, reddish lips, taking the air in, pushing it out. I breathe. I eat. I smoke. I fuck.

  I pictured his long, tapered finger, coated in fresh blood. I kill.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” I heard myself say.

  And then came the response, out of the slow breathing with no voice behind it. “Eyes.”

  The caller hung up, but I stood frozen against the table, holding the dead receiver to my ear for a long time.

  10

  Black Box

  Strange how it added up so fast as I stood at the dinette, the images clicking in and out of my mind perfunctorily, like slides on a screen. Click. The word scrawled in my book: hide. Click. The e-mail I’d received at the Space: your. Click. The disembodied whisper at the other end of the phone: eyes.

  Click. Sydney’s eyes on the valentine. Click. The bleeding eyes of Schoolteacher Barbie. Click. Hide your eyes. Click. Hide your eyes.

  I found myself thinking of eyes I’d never seen—Peter’s real eyes behind the mirrored contacts; the eyes of the murdered boy who’d been found two years ago in a Dumpster on Tenth Street; Ariel’s eyes. Something was done to the child’s eyes, Krull had said, not telling me what was done to them. Not wanting to tell me.

  I thought of Daniel’s imaginary man, the Man with the Sunglasses. And I believed he was real. I believed he was Peter, wearing dark glasses to shield mirrored eyes from anyone who might live to remember them. Were those eyes watching Daniel? Is that why he’d made up a fairy tale about the strange man? Because he’d felt those eyes on him, because he’d seen that hollow smile?

  I heard Peter’s voice in my head so clearly, as if he were standing over my shoulder. You were trying to blind the devil! I could hear his laughter too, and suddenly, I wished he was standing over my shoulder—so I could pick up the plastic receiver and force all my strength and anger into it, so I could sock him in the eyes until they bled.

  “Ruby Redd’s Brewing Company!” said a chirpy female voice.

  “Hi. I was looking for a waiter by the name of Peter Steele. Is he there?”

  “No, but his shift starts any min—Yep, I see him coming through the door right now. If you want to wait a few seconds, I can get him for—”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Should I tell him who called?”

  “No need, I’m on my way. Bye.”

  Well, I am on my way. I folded up the cell phone and shoved it back in my pocket. I’m on my way to getting his sick ass fried.

  What I needed was solid evidence against Peter, and I knew where to find it: in the Space’s computer. Whether or not his fingerprints were on the magazine ad or in Yale’s apartment (and I was sure he’d been smart enough to wear gloves), the word your was sent to me from a personal e-mail address. If it wasn’t Peter’s, then it belonged to someone who could make the connection. Since Peter was starting his shift at Ruby’s, I could go to the theater and print it out without being followed.

  I slipped on my coat and boots, and I wasn’t scared or unsure or even apprehensive. I was proud, to tell the truth, as I felt around in my shoulder bag and quickly found the sharp, familiar comfort of my work keys. I was proud to be doing something, rather than sitting around my apartment eating peanut butter sandwiches and waiting for it all to blow over.

  Words echoed in my head, and then I said them out loud; shouted the sentence so I could listen to it bounce triumphantly off the walls. “I am going to fry your sick ass, Peter Steele!”

  I had no doubt I’d succeed as I ran for the door, ignoring the furious banging beneath my floor except to think, If only Elmira knew. If only she knew.

  I’d been in the box office after nightfall before. These late winter days, when nightfall was at around 4:30 p.m., it seemed I was barely there in daylight. And I’d been in the box office alone, to close up for the evening. But I’d never entered it after nightfall, alone.

  It was my second day job after all. I was accustomed to bright office lights when I showed up, to booming actors’ voices that had already been filling the two rooms for hours. So it was odd, unlocking the box office door in the dark, cold night and seeing more darkness inside. The subscription room was stuffy and dry from radiator heat and so quiet you could actually hear the silence. Since the only big window faced the courtyard rather than the street, even occasional traffic sounds were muffled. “Somebody honk a horn for godsakes,” I said to no one. My voice sounded high and squishy in the darkness.

  I turned on the lights, saw the identical desks, the beige carpet, the blank white walls and lifeless Teletron machines. It really was a dull, corporate place, I realized, without its cast of characters.

  I walked into the tiny ticketing room, booted up the computer and logged on. My two e-mails were still waiting—one from my mother, the other from ER425160. What could that screen name mean? I thought as I printed it out. There were too many numbers for it to be a birthdate or a street address and what did ER mean? Emergency Room? The TV show?

  I closed my eyes, repeated the name: “ER425160.” Did the letters relate to the numbers, or did they stand on their own? I thought about numerology, how En had lopped off the first five letters of his name to ensure his success as a writer, and wondered if Peter had cut the first three of his for his screen name. I doubted it. For one thing, En was not a devil worshiper. For another, the ER on the address was in caps, which made me think, initials. But there had to be something with those letters. I debated calling Ruby’s again and asking for Tredwell, because he could probably clear it up. And I was on the verge of doing just that when I remembered what Tredwell had already told me . . .

  In Satanism, you say names backwards. He’d call me Llewdert when we fucked . . .

  And you called him Retep, didn’t you? I thought. And if you called him by his full name, you called him Eleets Retep. Eleets Retep . . . ER . . . And four and two are six, and five and one are six and six and zero . . . 666. The number of the beast. ER666.

  God, you’re predictable.

  I turned off the computer, folded up the printout and slipped it into my bag. Eleets Retep 666. Give me a break.

  Before leaving, I walked to the area near the will-call ticket window and checked out the staff cubbyholes. Shell’s held three spare tubes of lipstick and the National Enquirer she’d pilfered from Argent. In Argent’s, there was a copy of Casting Call and a note from a visiting friend with huge, girlish handwriting. En’s held the Yoga Journal. Hermyn’s, a red envelope with For My Butterfly printed neatly on the front.

  Yale’s cubbyhole seemed empty and so did mine, at first. Then I noticed a shadow at the very back and peered in. Balled-up newspaper? “Which one of you assholes put your trash in my cubbyhole?” I said, a little uneasily.

  I looked into the dark space again, then stuck my arm in and reached back until I felt soft newsprint against my fingertips. Just trash. Bet Shell did it. But as I started to grasp it, I grew aware of a weight inside—mostly round but irregular, about the size of a tennis ball. “Oh . . .”

  Slowly I pulled it out. A lumpy, glob
ular thing, encased in Want Ads, resting in my palm. My fingers touched the oily paper, removed it as gently as a bride’s veil. And without breathing, I stared at what had been wrapped inside.

  It was the plastic head of a doll, a pale little girl. Its wavy hair had been colored, cut and styled exactly like mine. And its eyes had been cut out.

  A small sound escaped from my throat and I jumped back, the doll’s head flying out of my hand and hitting the wall on the other side of the room. And then, like a sudden, hard slap, I heard Peter Steele’s voice.

  “You bitch,” he said, and when I turned around my gaze shot from his mirrored lenses to his checkered waiter’s bow tie to his black leather trench coat to his gloved right hand, grasping something short and thick and dark. A gun. It’s happening again, it’s the man in the Pinto all over again, again with a weapon in his hand, a weapon meant for me, again calling me bitch, only this time I have to move. I have to move please. Let me move . . .

  There were a few feet of space between his shoulder and the ticket room door, and I threw myself into it with such force that I knocked him off his feet. I heard a yelp and a thud behind me as I flew at the side door to the subscription room, pushed it open and fell into the still courtyard.

  “Get back here!”

  I headed for the street, which was maddeningly empty. A cab whizzed by, “Off Duty” sign blazing, and then there was nothing again.

  I heard the box office door opening, and without thinking, I bolted for the theater, unlocked the heavy door, slammed it shut behind me, heart pounding up through my throat. When I reached the center of the aisle, I collapsed on the floor. Tough shit, Peter. You don’t have a key.

  There is no lobby in the Space. It’s what they call a black box—a simple 150 seater with movable rows of chairs, facing a decent-sized, square stage and a rudimentary catwalk for hanging lights. Addie’s set, such at it was, had yet to be struck. It consisted of a bunch of dirt; a cheesy diorama painted with horses, rain clouds and shacks; a plain wooden coffin; and a small upright piano, shoved against the far wall.

  The theater was absolutely dark. For at least a minute, there was no difference between closing my eyes and opening them. But slowly, they adjusted. I began to discern shapes, like the neat rows of chairs, the few ladders that had been placed along the walls, the shadow of the coffin at the center of the stage.

  I’d seen the show once. Once was all I could manage. I remembered the opening scene, in which eight shirtless pallbearers in baggy overalls rushed onstage, dropped the coffin and ran off without speaking a word. I remembered a bony character actress popping out of it like a Gothic jack-in-the-box, her face coated in thick white makeup, a black shroud draped stolelike around her shoulders. She’d shrieked, “Hey, fellas! The dead have feelings too!” And then the pianist had started to play.

  You have a cell phone. Call the police. What’s the number? 911, you idiot.

  I pulled the phone out of my pocket, looked for the on button or the power button or whatever it was I was supposed to look for, in complete darkness. Come on, you little piece of . . .

  Finally, I tapped a button and the face glowed green. I felt like kissing it in gratitude.

  “Kkkkkk,” went the door.

  The phone dropped out of my hand, clattered to the floor. I thought you locked automatically, you fucking fuck of a fucking door.

  I ran for the stage, though I knew there was no backstage area, no wings to wait in. They put black scrims up for some productions, but not this one. Actors entered and exited through the stage doors. I tried one of them. It was locked. Of course it was locked. What was this, some kind of door conspiracy?

  The theater door slammed shut. I heard his shoes scuffing the cold floor, the metal legs of a chair he’d made contact with whining and toppling.

  I had maybe seventy-five, eighty seconds before his eyes adjusted to the light. At least I’d seen the show.

  I backed up until I felt Addie’s coffin against my leg, and slipped inside. There was no squeak as I closed the lid, no sound at all save the whisper of plywood cutting through air.

  I held my breath for several seconds. Let it out as slowly as air seeping through a pinprick and wished I could deflate all the way, until I was flat, two-dimensional.

  The coffin lid was just inches away from my face and body. If I stuck out my tongue, I could probably touch it. Breathe in, breathe out . . .

  I tried to see starry skies, tried to hear ocean waves, tried to find a place in my mind, far away and safe. Think of anything. Think of nothing.

  But all I could think of, all I could see, was that grinning doll’s head—black, round holes where its eyes once were. He cut its hair to look like mine.

  I heard a crash, and knew Peter had knocked into something large. Maybe a group of chairs. Maybe a crate of props.

  “Aaaah,” he said.

  The footsteps continued down the aisle, then stopped. Was he looking under a chair? That’s it, fucker. I’m under a chair. Better check all of them. There’s 150.

  I held my breath again, listened. One chair, two chairs, three chairs, keep it up . . .

  I clenched my teeth. Was he really looking under chairs? Or was he drawing the gun, aiming it at the coffin?

  The movement resumed. More deliberate this time, back down the aisle until the footsteps reached the stage. One step, two steps, three steps, four, which puts him right next to your head. Hold your breath and flatten, flatten out . . .

  He passed the coffin. Kept walking, then stopped. More silence. Several seconds of it, like prayer.

  Click, click, click, click. Then a faint buzzing sound. He’d found the houselights.

  Fuck. The word so loud in my mind, I thought for a second I’d said it.

  Footsteps. Towards the . . . Bong. A piano key. Low note. My back stiffened. Don’t make a sound. Then one higher, then higher. All the way up the major scale. E,G,B,D,F . . . Every girl’s body dies finally.

  The piano lid slammed shut, and I heard his boots moving closer to the stage, heard them crunching against the dirt again, moving towards the diorama, then stopping, turning.

  Best I could tell, he was by the foot of the coffin now, and I heard him moving, crunch, crunch, crunch. Closer to my face, then turning, crunch, crunch crunch.

  No...

  Crunch, crunch . . .

  He was circling me.

  “I know where you are, Samantha. Do you think I’m stupid?”

  I shut my eyes tight, bit my lip, jammed my fingernails into the palms of my hands until I could feel the moist sting of my own blood.

  “You’re really going to make me do this, aren’t you?” Peter said. He was standing right next to my neck, and his voice was impossibly calm.

  He opened the lid, and stared at me, his eyes reflecting the pale flesh of my forehead.

  I swallowed hard, didn’t move.

  “Get out of the coffin.”

  Slowly, I got out. My legs felt wobbly, as if I might collapse, but I managed to stand up straight. I kept my eyes on his face. I refused to look at the gun. I knew he wanted me to look at it, but I wouldn’t. That was within my control. “What do you want from me?”

  He smiled broadly, mirrored eyes drilling into my skin. “What do I want from you,” he said. “What do I want from you?” He started to laugh. “You called the police on me. Why would you do a thing like that, Samantha? What did I ever do to you?”

  I stared at him. “It’s not . . . it’s not what you did to me. It’s what you did. It’s what you are.” I shut my eyes and waited for the gunshot. But none came.

  Slowly, I opened my eyes and let them drift to his right hand. He was still grasping it, but it wasn’t a gun. It was a collapsible umbrella.

  I could go for the door. I could push him over again and run back up the aisle. I started to move, but he grabbed my wrist. His grip was strong. “How did you find out?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Oh, it’s definitely my busines
s.” His gloved fingers tightened around my wrist. “It’s been my business ever since I saw you go into the Sixth Precinct, and ever since I got a call from that detective. It’s been my business ever since . . . we . . . met.”

  “It was in the paper,” I said. “Don’t you ever read the Post?”

  His hand loosened slightly. “You’re crazy.”

  “I’m crazy? I’m crazy?”

  “Like I really believe it was in the New York Post that I’m Canadian.”

  I stared at him for what must have been a full minute before I found my voice again. “What?”

  “Let me tell you what I think this is about. You’ve got a thing for Yale, and you’re jealous as hell that he and I got together. You act rude to me, but that doesn’t work, so you do some digging. Maybe talk to some of my friends, I don’t know. And then you run to the police and you tell them I’m an illegal alien so they can deport me, and Yale and I will never see each other again, and won’t you be hap—”

  “You’re an illegal alien?”

  “I mean, so what? I forgot to renew my work visa once. I’m going to take care of it.”

  He let go of my wrist. I started to back up, but my ankle turned, and I fell to the dirty stage floor.

  “You okay?” Did he really just ask me that?

  I stood up, brushed myself off. Looking at Peter, I suddenly lost my urge to leave. Instead, I was overcome by a starving curiosity, a desperate need to call his bluff and prove I’d been right about him all along. “Where did you get that tattoo on the back of your neck?”

  “This place on St. Marks. Why?”

  “It’s a pentagram.”

  “So?”

  “That’s the sign of the devil.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  My cheeks were starting to burn. “Yes, it is.”

  “It’s Wiccan,” he said. “I was into Wicca for about five minutes three years ago.”