Eye of the Beholder

  “Didn’t she come here?” Greer asked, her blood temperature dropping suddenly.

  “She was supposed to. I left the door open for her. Uh. Big mistake. Last thing I remember, I was in here making pasta sauce, and then I hear you guys trying to smash my new Pella windows.” Jenny seemed to notice for the first time the broken wine bottle and the mess on the floor for the first time. “Where did that come from?”

  Sterling exchanged glances with Greer and then slipped out of the kitchen. Greer held the ice gently against Jenny’s head. “We’ve got to go get that head looked at. That’s a nasty bump.”

  “Really? Ow!” Jenny exclaimed as she touched it gingerly. “Jesus, it’s the size of an apple!”

  Sterling reappeared in the doorway. “Are these yours?” He was holding a small overnight bag and a purse.

  Jenny shook her head and instantly regretted it. “Ouch. No, that’s Leah’s purse; I recognize it from this morning.”

  Sterling was holding a piece of paper in one hand. “Did you write this?” It was the note that Leah had pulled off the door and set down on top of her bag, telling her to come on in.

  Jenny looked as though she had trouble focusing on it, and then she sighed. “No, that’s not my writing.”

  “It looks more like a man’s writing, don’t you think?” Sterling asked.

  With a trembling hand Greer reached out. “Give it to me,” she said. She took the torn sheet and looked down at it. But instead of seeing the ink and the paper, she saw a brownish black space, and inside of it was Leah’s face.

  “He’s got her,” Greer whispered.

  Chapter 62

  He sat down across from her in one of the leather armchairs, set the gun casually on the arm, and, extracting a cigarette from a box on a small table next to him, he lit it and regarded her with a pleased, ugly glint in his eye.

  “Oh, how rude of me—I haven’t offered you a drink.”

  Leah said nothing.

  “Whiskey? You used to like Jack Daniel’s, as I recall. A bit on the sweet side for me, so if you don’t mind, I’ll have a little Knob Creek.”

  Taking the gun, he moved to a built-in bar and poured two glasses of the brown bourbon. Crossing back, he offered one to Leah; she ignored him.

  “Oh, well, can’t say I never gave you anything.” He laughed, downed first one and then both the drinks, and sat back down again. “Now, let’s talk about why you’re here.”

  “I know why I’m here, Vince,” Leah said coldly. “And other people know where I am too.”

  He leaned forward and looked at her, his eyes glazing slightly from the liquor. “I think you’re lying. I don’t think you ever told anybody about what went on between us. You’re so fucking uptight it would horrify you to have anyone find out the kind of fun we used to have.”

  Leah’s blood boiled, both at the memory and the truth that was in his mockery. “Fun?” she said, barely containing the tears of rage.

  Vince stood up, set the gun down again, and unzipped his pants. “I think you’ve been missing me. I think I know exactly what you want. You need a little refresher lesson.” His voice grew more and more angry as he went on. “You think you can fuck with me? I’ll teach you to keep your mouth shut. I’ll stuff something in there to keep it shut.”

  He moved forward toward her, and before she could try to slip away he had the back of her hair in both his hands. He pulled her face forward up against him; his cruelty and her helplessness had excited him.

  “Open your mouth,” he ordered.

  At first Leah resisted, pressing her lips tightly together and struggling to turn her face away, though he held her head firmly right where he wanted it, but she realized quickly that there was no other choice.

  So she opened her mouth, he inserted himself into it, and Leah, remembering all her rage and all her pain, bit down as hard as she could.

  Vince howled with pain, but was unable to pull away without causing himself more damage. Leah brought both her hands up. Grabbing his testicles hard with one hand, she squeezed and twisted with all her strength. The other hand she placed at the base of his penis and twisted hard in the opposite direction.

  He let go of her hair and struck hard against the side of her head. She tasted blood as her teeth were knocked sideways, but she held on for her life with both hands, squishing and twisting with every ounce of rage she possessed. Again and again Vince struck at her head, but she took the blows. He grabbed at her face and tried to push her away, but she dug in her fingernails and twisted harder. Coming to her feet, she began to pull him toward the door as he began to plead with her.

  “Sweet Jesus, let go. Oh, fuck me, let go, please.”

  Leah yanked and wrung his offensive genitalia with renewed energy as she realized he was weakening. “Call off the fucking dog,” she ordered.

  “Oh, please, let go.”

  “Call off the dog!” Leah shouted at him.

  She held on, giving an additional tweak when he seemed to slow or weaken in his resolve. She forced him to unlock the door and put the dog into the garage. Then, using her reins, she made him cross to the phone and call the police. She listened to him whimper and cry his way through giving his address and telling them he had assaulted someone, and then, when he collapsed, barely conscious, onto the floor, she let him fall, and took up the gun.

  Her right ear rang with a constant buzzing where he had struck her, and a tentative exploration of her face told her that her lip was split and there was a nasty lump coming up on her temple. Blood or sweat or both dripped into her right eye, and she had to squint to squeeze it away. She stood over him, panting, while hot tears ran down her injured face, the salt water stinging the abrasions.

  He writhed and moaned where he lay, clutching at his injured parts.

  She still didn’t trust him. She’d tie him up until the police got there.

  Leah looked around and spotted the closet door. She tried it; it was locked. Vince’s keys were hanging loosely from his jeans, which had fallen halfway down his thighs. Carefully, keeping the gun pointed at his head, she leaned down and unclipped them from his belt loop.

  Holding them under a table lamp, she matched the brand name on the lock to the one on the key and inserted it. It tumbled with a satisfying click.

  Turning the knob, Leah pulled open the door to see a row of coats hung tightly together. A shelf above held boxes, and on the floor . . . She had to take a step backward to see into the dark place shadowed by the clothes; she leaned down and peered into the small space.

  There was nothing there but a neat row of cowboy boots.

  Leah pulled one of the belts off a raincoat. That would have to do until the police arrived and put this fucker in handcuffs.

  Chapter 63

  Joy had waited until the sound of the big truck’s wheels had crunched away over the gravel drive and the dog’s barking had followed it to the gate. Her whole body ached from the multiple bruises she’d suffered, but for just a few seconds she forgot all of that as she raised a shaking hand to the doorknob.

  “Please God, let it have worked,” she prayed. She slid the screwdriver into the lock and felt it slide along the layers of packing tape she had pressed into the receiving hole for the bolt as she had fallen against the door. The metal caught on the last fraction of an inch, and in rage and frustration she jimmied the bolt, threw her shoulder against the door, and tumbled out onto the living room floor.

  Struggling to her feet and ignoring the feeling of a thousand tiny pinpricks as her legs were roused from their slumber and blood began to flow into her capillaries, she moved toward the kitchen, retrieving her shirt from the floor on the way. There on the gleaming countertop was the wooden knife holder. With her wrists still bound, she reached out and grabbed at a handle with both hands, drawing out a long, slim filleting knife. She let it drop back and selected another, this time producing a shorter, serrated blade.

  Sitting down on a chair, she pressed the handle of the knife between
her knees so that the blade stood straight up, and then she began to saw the rope on her hands back and forth against it. She slipped twice, nicking herself badly, but finally a strand of the hefty nylon cord was severed, and she was able to unwind the remaining loops.

  She donned her shirt, then pulled up the leg of her jeans and thrust the knife into the top of her sock. The blade felt hot but reassuring against the skin of her calf. Cautiously, she moved to the kitchen door and looked out.

  The dog was asleep on the deck a few feet away from the door. She knew that the animal had the run of the property within the gated area, and that no other door would offer a protected exit.

  She backed away and tried to think. She felt light-headed—she’d had little to eat or drink in the last few days—and her bruised body objected at every movement. Joy went to the refrigerator and rummaged around. There wasn’t much there, but she wolfed down a piece of bread and some lunch meat, drinking eagerly from the faucet. She didn’t know how much time she had, but she had to assume that it was next to none.

  She took everything she thought the dog might eat and went again to the door. The bolt was locked with a key she knew he had with him, but the top part of the door was made of glass slats with a screen on the inside. Grabbing a butter knife from a drawer, Joy began to turn the screws that held the screen in place.

  The dog woke up, turned to investigate the sound, and launched himself at her figure in the window. She backed away a step and then returned to her work.

  “It’s okay, doggy from hell. I got a little treat for you.” She tried to keep her voice both calm and friendly, though it seemed unlikely he could hear her over his own incessant noise.

  When the screen was off, she turned the slats open and threw out a few pieces of sliced turkey. The dog stopped barking long enough to investigate and then eat them. Good. She went to the front door while he was busy and checked it out. There was no keyed bolt on that one. Okay.

  Returning to the kitchen, Joy gathered up all the food items she had taken from the refrigerator and cabinets and shoved them through the window as fast as she could, trying to get them to land in different places on the deck. The dog went for them, and she ran for the other door.

  There was a walking stick leaning against the wall, and as she turned the lock she grabbed it, threw the door open, and ran.

  Ahead of her, dimly lit by the yellow porch light, she could see the gate that led to the road. It was thirty feet away. She had no thought of stealth or anything but reaching it as quickly as her wounded body and her fear would carry her. She had crossed the deck and started down the stairs when she heard the dog.

  He’d spotted her, and with a vicious growl he took off after her. She’d made it halfway across the yard when he got hold of her right leg.

  Joy screamed in pain as the long teeth pierced her jeans and entered her skin. Her forward movement was arrested and she was thrust forward onto the hard ground. Instinctively spinning to defend herself, she hit at the dog with the stick in her hand and kicked repeatedly with the other foot, but it seemed to have no effect. The dog held his grip and started to pull backward, scraping Joy’s back along the rocky ground.

  “Let go, you fucking monster!” Joy screamed, and grabbed out for something with which to pull herself away or to strike him. Her hand landed on a large rock, and, gripping it, she swung down and smashed it into the dog’s head once, twice. The dog stopped growling but held on. Joy sat up, took the several-pound rock in both hands, and raised it up over her head. She knew that the animal wouldn’t give up, that it was her or him. With a guttural howl, she launched her bludgeoning weapon downward with all the strength that her survival instinct could muster and felt it make contact with the dog’s giant head.

  He let go, yelped, and backed away in confusion. Joy could see blood dripping from his ear. He walked a few uneven steps and then flopped down onto his side, panting raggedly.

  Her leg was a mess. The jeans were torn and wet with a dark mass of her blood and the dog’s saliva. Like a crab, Joy crawled backward, still watching the wounded dog, who growled feebly, but didn’t get up again.

  When she felt the fence against her back, Joy used it to pull herself to her feet, felt her way to the gate, unlatched it, and slipped out. She stopped to try to examine her leg, but she couldn’t see much in the dark. She took off her shirt, ripped away one of the long sleeves, and bound it tightly around the throbbing wound, then pulled the now asymmetrical garment back over her head. She tried to stand and found she could bear her weight if she favored the other foot.

  Now . . . what to do? The long driveway led back to the road, but that was the way he would return. For a long section of it the road had been cut into the side of a steep incline; it dropped off sharply on one side while a sheer rock face rose on the other. If he came upon her there, she would be completely exposed with nowhere to hide. No, the road was not an option.

  Only one choice left. Guessing at the right direction, she took off, limping painfully, into the dark woods.

  Chapter 64

  They pulled up to the Verdugo Hills Hospital emergency entrance. Greer was sitting in the backseat, still holding the ice to Jenny’s head.

  “I’m fine,” Jenny kept insisting. “I don’t need to go to the hospital.”

  But Sterling would have none of it. “Even a momentary loss of consciousness means that you need to get your head checked out, and we have no idea how long you were out. The fact that you are making sense now and don’t seem too disoriented bodes well, but it would be stupid to take chances.”

  Jenny looked up at Greer. “How does he know all this?”

  Greer smiled at her. “He used to work in a pub in Tooting.”

  “Did you lose consciousness often?” Jenny asked him.

  Sterling smiled grimly. “Not very. Usually it was the other guy.” As he helped her out, they were joined by Lewis. Greer had called him from the car, and he had left work to rush to meet them. He embraced his wife with tears in his eyes and then led her gently to the counter, where they took one look at her and sent her to an examining room.

  Sterling and Greer settled in to wait. Greer rooted through her wallet until she came up with the card Sheridan had given her. They’d called the police from Jenny’s house and reported Leah’s disappearance and the assault, but Sterling had insisted they leave for the hospital instead of waiting for the police. The operator had told Greer that an officer would meet them at the ER to take a report.

  But Greer couldn’t shake loose the feeling that she should talk to Detective Sheridan. She carefully dialed the cell phone number on his card and got a message. Next she tried the precinct nonemergency number, and after close to twenty rings a bored voice picked up.

  “Yes, hello,” Greer said. “I’m looking for Detective Sheridan.”

  “Hold on; I’ll transfer you.”

  Greer nodded in response to Sterling mouthing the words, Do you want coffee? as she waited. After a few seconds a deep but distinctly female voice came on the line.

  “Detective Arlen.”

  “Uh, I was holding for Detective Sheridan,” Greer tried again.

  “He’s out. Can I take a message?”

  “I guess so. This is Greer Sands. I’ve been talking to Detective Sheridan about the Joy Whitehorse case.”

  “Mm-hmm,” came the noncommittal response. “Do you have some further information?”

  “No . . . well, unfortunately not about Joy.” Greer’s heart felt as if it would break, and she had to rush on to keep herself from being overtaken by sorrow. “I’d like to speak to him about another assault that I think might be related.”

  “You want to report another crime?” Interest seemed to pique warily in the detective’s voice, as though she spent most of her evening being teased by citizens with faux crimes and was afraid to hope that this might be an actual incident.

  “Yes, I would, but I’d like to speak to Detective Sheridan as well.”

  “Where
are you?”

  “I’m at Verdugo Hills Hospital in the emergency waiting room.”

  “Is the victim with you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Conscious?”

  “Yes, she’s in with the doctor.”

  “There should be an officer on duty at the hospital. They’ll have been alerted by the office staff. They’ll give us a call if we’re needed—”

  “Please!” Greer cut her off. “Do you have any way of getting in touch with Detective Sheridan? It’s very important that I speak with him. I’ll leave you my number.”

  Detective Arlen let a sufficient period of silence pass to accurately depict both annoyance and disinterest. When she spoke again she sounded very put out, but she took the number and said she would pass it on.

  Sterling had returned with two Styrofoam cups of weak coffee, but before she could relate the conversation, their attention was snatched away by an ambulance pulling up outside and a police car careening smoothly into the space next to it. A woman with her head partly bandaged was escorted from the back of the police car as the EMTs began to pull a stretcher from their vehicle.

  Both Sterling and Greer tried to look away, to not stare intrusively at this new tragedy, at someone else’s pain. Greer sipped the coffee and read the names off the magazines on the side table. But as the automatic glass doors slid open with a swish, she glanced up discreetly at the woman and got a good look at her face.

  She choked and sloshed the coffee as she set it down too fast on the table, scalding her hand, but she felt nothing.

  “Leah!” Greer cried, and stood with one hand clapped to her mouth. “Oh, my God! Thank God you’re all right. Are you all right?”

  Leah, her face swollen almost to the point of being unrecognizable, had turned at the sound of Greer’s familiar voice. Until this moment she had remained stoic, hard, factual.

  But as Greer came toward her with her arms outstretched, all the pretense of strength fell away. The shock and the horror that had she had lived through hit her harder than Vince’s fist ever could, and she collapsed into her new friend’s arms, sobbing like a broken child.