Don’t Close Your Eyes

by Carlene Thompson

  “It will be. If she makes it.”

  Natalie had never been one to spout false optimism, but Viveca sounded desolate. “Alison is young and physically healthy. Those things are certainly in her favor.”

  “Yes, she’s in very good health,” Viveca said hopefully. “Flu and a few colds. That’s all she’s ever had. Never even measles.”

  “She must have a strong immune system.” Probably because she never went to school like most kids, Natalie thought, she hasn’t been exposed to many contagious illnesses. “Her burns are minor.”

  “It’s just the slashed throat that bothers me.” Viveca gave a brittle laugh, then swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re entitled.”

  “Natalie, you don’t know who did this to Alison?”

  “If I did, I would have told the police. The attack was over when I arrived.”

  “If only you’d gotten there a few minutes earlier.”

  “I know. Maybe I could have stopped the whole thing, but at least the kids were there. I have a feeling the attacker was flustered, hurried, so he bungled what otherwise would have been a murder.”

  “Well, thank God for that. You’re sure the children didn’t see this person?”

  “No, they couldn’t possibly identify him,” Natalie said forcefully. When she’d told Nick that the would-be killer had looked directly at Paige, he’d turned ghastly white and immediately ordered round-the-clock protection for her and for Jimmy. But he told Natalie to emphasize that the kids had seen nothing. The more people who heard this, the better. Word spread fast in Port Ariel. The killer must be made to think he was safe.

  Otherwise, Paige and Jimmy could be the next victims.

  III

  His head pounded and he was desperately thirsty. Jeff Lindstrom was also desperately afraid.

  He had no idea how long he’d been here in the dark. Until what he guessed to be an hour ago he’d been unconscious from the last injection. Yesterday—or was it the day before?—he was standing by a window, grinning with satisfaction as he looked out to see a bright red cardinal flying past, when pain suddenly erupted in his head and blazed down his neck. It had just reached his back when his vision blurred and he crashed to his knees, then slid into oblivion. And now he was here.

  But where was here? He sat on a concrete floor. The chill of it penetrated his jeans and his hips already hurt from the long contact with the hard surface. A slightly musty, dank smell reached his nostrils. He felt chilly in his suit pants and long-sleeved cotton shirt. His jacket was gone and so was one shoe. Dried blood clung to the ragged heel of a gray sock.

  A tight blindfold covered his eyes. A strong cloth had been twisted, forced between his teeth, and tied behind his head. His mouth was abominably dry, his lips cracked. Metal handcuffs secured his hands behind a pole. He flexed his ankles against the cuffs shackling his feet. He bent his legs at the knees, planting his feet flat on the floor, and pushed himself against the pole as he rose painfully. He felt as if he’d been kicked all over. He was certain at least one rib was broken. His legs trembled.

  Panic rushed over him. He heard a long, rough sob and realized it came from him. He would have been embarrassed, but no one was around to hear. At least he didn’t think anyone was near. He couldn’t see. But he could hear. He went perfectly still, forcing his breath through his nose rather than his mouth. No sound.

  He squeezed his eyes behind the blindfold. Just this morning he thought he had it made. No one in the family thought much of him. Most family members wouldn’t socialize with him because they thought he’d hit them up for money. And he usually did. He’d always acted like none of it mattered. After all, who cared what the family thought of him? he asked himself in the mirror each morning. Who cared what his idiot ex-wife thought of him?

  But he did care and it made him feel hopeless. Until lately. At last all the failures, the family scorn, the loss of the pretty, bubble-headed wife he’d inexplicably loved—none of it mattered because he was going to even the score. Not even the run-in with Meredith had bothered him. The big man with his righteous outrage. The sheriff didn’t have a clue what was really going on. It had been funny.

  But not any more.

  Jeff couldn’t believe this was happening to him. Life sure hadn’t been any bowl of cherries. He’d always had lousy luck, things had always gone wrong for him, but not this wrong. Not—

  A noise. He cocked his head. A door opening and not too far away. His breath quickened, whistling around the narrow gag. Footsteps. He tried to speak, but nothing came out except unintelligible grunts.

  “Be quiet. I can’t understand anything you’re saying and I don’t want to.”

  Jeff fell silent for a moment. Then a wave of fury mixed with fear overcame him and he burst forth again with a series of staccato grunts. A hand slammed against his face. The sting brought tears to his covered eyes.

  “I told you to shut up.” A sigh. “But I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

  “Why doesn’t it matter?” Jeff screamed inwardly. He lunged forward. The handcuffs clanged against the metal pipe and pain raged through his shoulders.

  “Now that was stupid. Useless.”

  Jeff tried to kick. The shackled right foot pulled the left out from under him. He slammed to the floor so hard his teeth snapped on the gag. He sat in shock for a moment before the pain registered. A breathy moan escaped him.

  “Stop thrashing around. You’re only hurting yourself and there’s no need for pain.”

  No need for pain? Jeff thought with a surge of hope. He wasn’t going to be hurt. But if he wasn’t to be hurt, then what?

  “You’ve wet your pants.” A hint of amusement, a hint of disgust. He pictured the ghastly smile he’d seen for just an instant before he’d been knocked unconscious what seemed an eternity ago. “Not attractive. You wouldn’t set any female hearts aflutter now. Natalie St. John wouldn’t wipe her feet on you.” Pause. “You do want her, don’t you?”

  A needle jabbed into his arm. Something stung its way into his body, something that robbed him first of muscle control, then of consciousness.

  His eyes were closing as a soft, insidious voice said in his ear, “I guarantee, Jeff, that Natalie St. John will never forget you.”

  IV

  SATURDAY MORNING

  Natalie awakened with a sense of dread. Something is wrong, her mind seemed to say before she’d fought her way completely through the last level of sleep. What was making her want to squeeze shut her eyes, hold Blaine tightly, and pull the covers over both of them for the rest of the day?

  Viveca had called back at four to say Alison had survived surgery and was now floating in and out of consciousness, mumbling “magic midnight, golden dreams.” “Her father used to say ‘magic midnight,’ ” Viveca explained. “And Eugene Farley once told her to have ‘golden dreams.’ Sad memories, but I think it’s encouraging that she does remember the phrases, don’t you?”

  Natalie agreed heartily that it was very encouraging. She put her father on the phone to discuss Alison’s condition in more detail. This time the killer had been unsuccessful. But what about the next time? And who was next? So far Ted Hysell was right—all the victims had been children of people involved in the Eugene Farley tragedy. Tamara, Warren, Charlotte, and now Alison. That left her and Lily.

  Andrew had been outraged that Natalie hadn’t told him immediately about Alison. He didn’t know until Viveca called with the news that Alison would survive. He wanted to go to the hospital immediately and urged Natalie to come with him so she wouldn’t be alone. “Dad, I’m too exhausted to move,” she’d protested. “You go. It’ll be daylight in a couple of hours and I’ll be fine.”

  So off he’d gone and she’d lain in bed until dawn broke, then fallen into a deep if brief sleep. Now the clock told her it was eight. At nine o’clock the locksmith would be here. Time to rise no matter how much her tired body protested.

  The coffee smelled especially delicious as it
dripped with maddening slowness into the pot. Natalie poured a mug before the pot finished filling, took a bagel from the toaster, spread it with cream cheese, and sat down at the kitchen table. Yesterday had been gray and dismal. Today a periwinkle-blue sky lay above the calm waters of the lake and a pale yellow sum warmed the tender green grass of early summer. Once again Harvey Coombs sat out in his rowboat, ancient hat jammed on his head as he fished for famous Lake Erie perch. The scene looked like a calm, lovely painting. Murder had no place here.

  But it was here.

  “I will not think about it this morning,” Natalie said to Blaine as the dog finished her breakfast and Natalie went to the front door. The newspaper lay on the lawn. She sighed. The paperboy was a star pitcher on the high school baseball team, but he could not seem to get the rolled newspaper anywhere near the front porch. Ever. Natalie clutched her robe around her and padded down the front walk on bare feet. A white car was parked across the street. A man sat behind the wheel. He paid no attention to her, but embarrassed in just her robe, she turned and quickly ran inside.

  She sat down at the table with a second cup of coffee and unrolled the paper. Headlines screamed the news of Alison’s attack. The story was scanty—reporters had had barely enough time to gather a few details before the paper was put to bed at ten o’clock. By now they were besieging Viveca at the hospital. Natalie could imagine her distress as reporters dug for details of Alison’s background and mental history, and she was oddly relieved that her father was there to help Viveca, since Oliver seemed to have stepped out of the picture.

  She glanced up at the kitchen clock. 8:45. The locksmith was due at nine. Natalie hurried through a shower and pulled on jeans and a tank top. Her hair hung long and wet as she rushed to answer the doorbell. A middle-aged man with graying curly red hair and a gold front tooth faced her. “Gary of Gary’s Locksmiths!” he announced, grinning ferociously. A locksmith on speed, Natalie thought. Or maybe he just loved his job. Or perhaps he was showing off his gleaming tooth. Whatever the case, Andrew had described Gary to her, so she didn’t worry that he was the killer posing as a locksmith. “Come right in,” she said. “We need a new lock on the front door, the back door on the garage, and the sliding glass doors leading to the patio.”

  “Yep. Doc already told me. I’m gonna put a bolt on the sliding glass doors. Slickest thing you’ve ever seen.” Gary grinned again, looking expectantly for an ecstatic reaction to his amazing sliding glass door bolt. “I’m rarin’ to go!”

  Good Lord, Natalie thought. She motioned him in, glancing at the man in the white car. He sat perfectly still, looking straight ahead with his head tilted slightly to the left. Maybe he was waiting for the young couple who had recently moved into the gray house across the street. But he’d been waiting for twenty minutes.

  And he hadn’t moved a fraction.

  Natalie stepped past Gary onto the front walk. She gazed at the man, transfixed as an icy feeling settled in her stomach, radiating shuddery cold. Suddenly she felt as if she could stand under a white-hot desert sun for hours and still not feel warm.

  Slowly she walked toward the car. From what seemed a great distance she heard Gary yapping about replacement pins and tumbler cylinders. Natalie ignored him. If he’d started shouting at her she still wouldn’t have turned around. Something waited for her in that car. Something as irresistible as it was awful.

  Natalie halted at the car and stared in the window. No movement. The unnatural angle of the head. The white shirt with a blood-soaked collar.

  Unable to stop herself, she clasped the door handle. Pausing, she drew a deep breath, then opened the door.

  The body of Jeff Lindstrom tumbled from the car, landing at her feet, his glassy brown eyes staring up at the beautiful blue sky.

  18

  I

  “Good God Almighty! What the hell! Is he drunk?” Gary blustered from the doorway. Harvey Coombs’s wife Mary had materialized in the street. She took one look at the gaping neck wound, gagged, and ran for home. Natalie kneeled and lifted a wrist searching for a pulse. The arm was beginning to stiffen. Given the temperature, she would say Jeff had died about three or four hours ago. She glanced in the car at the congealing blood covering the cloth upholstery seat. So much blood. His throat had been slashed in the car where he’d been left to bleed to death.

  All of this ran through Natalie’s mind as she pressed lightly on his lids, closing his eyes. She knew she shouldn’t touch the body, but she could not leave those sightless eyes open, vulnerable like Tam’s had been.

  She looked up. Gary still stood gaping at the front door. “Call the police,” she yelled. He didn’t move. “Gary, call the police! Ask for Sheriff Meredith or Ted Hysell. Tell them to get here immediately.” Gary was frozen. “Gary, now!”

  Gary jerked as if jolted by electricity. The young couple from the nearby house appeared on their front walk, dressed in identical red-white-and-blue running suits. Both were tall and blond and looked like brother and sister. The young man walked toward Natalie. “What’s going on?” He circled around the front of the car, looked down at the bloody body and quailed, all color draining from his ruddy face. “Did you do this?”

  The absurdity of the question snapped Natalie out of her numbness. “Do you think I’d cut this guy’s throat, then leave him outside my house so I could stand over him, gazing at my handiwork?” she asked coldly.

  The young man backed off, obviously considering more strongly the possibility that this loony woman had indeed killed the man. “I was only trying to help.”

  “I didn’t hear any offer to help.” Tears suddenly filled Natalie’s eyes and she began to tremble. “Do you have a blanket we can throw over him?”

  He turned and ran back to his wife. After a murmured exchange she exclaimed, “I’m not ruining one of my good blankets!” In measured strides they retreated to their house and firmly closed the door. In less than a minute their faces appeared at the front window.

  “Love thy neighbor,” Natalie muttered as she sank down beside Jeff’s body, suddenly dizzy. Three times in one week she had stood guard over the victims of savage violence. It was absurd. It was horrible. She felt as if she’d fallen off the edge of the world.

  Mary Coombs dashed out of her house bearing a blanket that she tossed over the crumpled form of Jeff Lindstrom. Then she sat down on the pavement beside Natalie and poured a cup of coffee from a Thermos. “Drink this, honey. You’re shaking like it’s thirty degrees out here.”

  The coffee was thick with cream and sugar. Natalie liked her coffee black, but she drank obediently. Mary put her arm around Natalie’s shoulders, and slowly the shaking began to subside. “Did you know him?” Man asked.

  “Slightly. He wasn’t a friend.” She shuddered. “He was left here for me to find.”

  “Now, Natalie, you’re just scared.”

  “I know what I’m talking about.” She looked at the pleasantly weather-worn face of the woman who’d offered love and sympathy ever since Kira deserted her so long ago. “Mary, did you see his throat?”

  “Yes, horrible. This is nasty business, Natalie, but it doesn’t have anything to do with you. Not a thing in the world.”

  But it did. Natalie knew with sickening certainly that it had everything to do with her.

  She wasn’t sure how long she and Mary sat silently beside the white car before the first police car arrived. Nick Meredith emerged, his expression grim, his eyes surrounded by bluish circles. Natalie doubted if he’d gotten a full night’s sleep since the murder of Tamara. He looked at the blanket, then at Natalie. “Know who it is?”

  “Jeff Lindstrom.”

  He drew in a quick breath. “Okay, besides Natalie, how many people have trampled on the crime scene?” he demanded.

  “Only me,” Mary returned indignantly, “and I didn’t trample”

  “The guy who lives in the gray house was here,” Natalie told him. “He didn’t come within six feet of the body, though, and I didn’t s
ee him touch anything.”

  Nick looked around. “Pretty boy standing at his window clutching a woman?”

  “Yes. Gary didn’t come over.”

  “Who’s Gary?”

  “The locksmith gawking at you from the doorway of my house. He made the call after I found the body.”

  Nick turned to a deputy hovering nearby. “Get the tech team.”

  “Runnin’ them ragged lately,” the deputy muttered as he headed for the patrol car.

  “And keep everyone else away from the area,” Nick added. He pulled on a clear, latex glove and lifted the blanket. After gazing at the neck wound for a moment, he withdrew a wallet from Jeff’s pants pocket. He flipped it open and read from the driver’s license. “Jefferson R. Lindstrom. 2020 Madison Street, Cincinnati, Ohio.”

  Mary looked at him sternly. “Certainly you don’t need Natalie to stay here and watch whatever you do with a body. She needs to go inside.”

  “She does indeed.” Nick reached down and took Natalie’s arm. “Let’s go in and you tell me what happened.”

  Mary insisted on following, casting suspicious looks at Nick. He told Gary to go about his business, but Gary wasn’t breaking any records. He worked slowly and quietly as he eavesdropped on Natalie’s account of the morning up until she’d opened the door of Jeff Lindstrom’s car.

  As soon as she finished, someone began pounding on the front door and shouting, “What the hell is going on? Are those home invaders back?”

  “Oh, Lord, it’s Harvey,” Mary groaned. “He was fine when he went out to fish, but it sounds like he got into the liquor before he came over.”

  “Would you mind taking him home, ma’am?” Nick asked politely. “We have all the confusion around here we need.”