Don't Close Your Eyes (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 1)

by Lawrence Kelter

  Clovin’s eyes opened slowly, dreamily. A moment passed before he knew what had happened. He took a deep breath before yanking the window up. He looked ashamed. “Sorry. I guess I’m getting too old for this.”

  “You’d better get in here. You scared the hell out of me!” Glenn grabbed him by his coveralls as he unfastened his safety rig.

  “That’s all right,” he said as he slid off the window ledge. “I’m all right now.” He stumbled as his feet hit the ground. Glenn’s hand caught his. No! No! Don’t touch me. He felt the softness of her skin against his. No! Stop! Her embrace was provoking him, calling him into action. Not now, he told himself. It’s too soon. He looked into her eyes. His eyes were red, wild and frightening, like those of a tortured beast.

  His intimidating gaze forced Glenn to take a step back. “Do you need a doctor?” she asked. How about a straightjacket?

  Clovin felt the contact break. Control returned as her hand slipped through his fingers. “No, just a little embarrassed. I’ll be fine.” He straightened. “I’ll get someone else to finish. Sorry.” He grabbed his bucket and harness and hurried to the door. It snapped shut behind him.

  “No problem,” Hilary Glenn muttered. She was practicing her acceptance speech in her mind. Strange man, she thought. A moment later, she went back to work, having no idea that she had just courted disaster.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Twain leaned on the horn. The service station looked open. He could see an attendant with his feet up on the desk in the office some thirty feet away. He’d been waiting several minutes and no one had come out to take care of him. What does it take to get a tank of gas anyway?

  Another moment passed before Twain hit the switch that electrically lowered the window. “Pardon me. Pardon me.” Opie is either deaf or ignoring me. Twain was really starting to hate the small West Virginia town. It had taken him half the night to disinfect his motel room. Thank God I packed my own linens, towels, and pillows. The motel’s name was the Weathervane, but Twain had dubbed it the Malarial Vector. A full can of Lysol and half a box of alcohol wipes had been exhausted and yet he still felt as if the night had left him contaminated.

  A twister had set down overnight and torn up part of the town. Though the Weathervane was well out of harm’s way, Twain had thought the rickety motel door might come apart at any time. The fear of having the filth-saturated wind howl into his room made for particularly poor sleeping. Although the morning was clear and sunny, Twain was not.

  Twain leaned on the horn again. This time the attendant got off of his chair. He came to the door and hollered, “We ain’t got no gazz.” He looked at Twain with pity. Darn fool.

  Twain’s temper boiled over. He slammed the gear selector into park, shut off the engine, and jumped out of the car. As he did, an electronic voice reminded him to take the keys out of the ignition. “Is everyone in this town rude?” he muttered. He stomped off toward the office. Ten feet in front of it, he halted in his tracks and reached for his bandana. He considered his proximity to the bumpkin, about ten feet away in bright sun with no wind. There was no need for it; even redneck microbes couldn’t jump that far. All the same, he tugged it into place. It was time Nigel Twain made a statement of his own. “Why don’t you put up a sign if you’re out of gas?” Twain swore.

  “Ain’t got no sign,” the attendant explained.

  Naturally. Twain fumed while he considered his alternatives. “Where’s the next station?” Exasperation seasoned his words.

  The attendant pondered the simple question. “About twenty miles up the road.”

  Twain did some quick calculations. The low fuel light will be flashing the entire time. I’ll have to listen to that stupid electronic warning voice for half an hour, but I’ll probably make it. He eyed the attendant and assessed that he was in his mid-forties with thinning hair and bad posture. He was muscular with broad shoulders. Twain looked into his eyes. The bloke’s pilot light hasn’t been lit for years.

  “Well, well, well. What we got here?” A man in overalls and a faded Atlanta Braves baseball cap came out of the garage wiping grease off his hands. Gray pork chop sideburns protruded from the cap and extended down the sides of his face. “Do my ears deceive me? A black man talking the King’s English?”

  “Yes!” Twain replied indignantly. How would you know the King’s English? He was not accustomed to being such an oddity, nor was he accustomed to being in the company of those so provincial. Remember where you are, he told himself. “And you are?”

  “Well, this is Pruett’s Repair, ain’t it? Well, I’m Pruett.” The man advanced, laughing and extending his grimy hand. He spat chewing tobacco at the ground next to Twain’s feet. “Sam Pruett, I’m pleased to meetcha.”

  Twain sidestepped Pruett’s excreta and then eyed his filthy paw apprehensively. He began coughing violently and placed his hand over his mouth to contain it. He poured it on long enough to intimidate even the likes of dirty old Pruett, and made a face at his own slobbered-on hand. “Better not,” Twain explained. Pruett stopped advancing. Twain blew a sigh of relief.

  “Are you from England?” Pruett inquired.

  Twain nodded. “London, actually. Are you?”

  “Me?” Pruett slapped his leg and started howling. “Me? That’s funny. A funny, black Englishman. Well, I’ll be darned.”

  And you’re a bum hole, Twain thought.

  Pruett glanced off in the direction of Twain’s rental. “Is that one of those talking cars? I swear I heard it remind you to take your keys.”

  “Yes, it is,” Twain replied. “Well, actually, it’s a rental.”

  “Well, I’ll be darned,” Pruett commented. “My car don’t talk.”

  Probably a cognitive disorder, Twain mused.

  “What’s your name?” Pruett inquired.

  Twain pondered the request and then figured, What the hell. “Twain. Nigel Twain.”

  “Nigel Twain,” Pruett repeated. “That sure sounds like an English name. Nigel, is that right? I’ve never had an Englishman in my station, let alone a black one. There many black fellas like yourself over there in London?”

  No, I’m the only one. “Several, actually.”

  “Is that right? Well I’m right proud to meet an English black man.” Pruett registered his hands on his hips and then looked over his shoulder at the other attendant. “Richard, an English black man, do you believe it?” Richard stared blankly and did not comment. Apparently Richard was not the brightest bulb.

  “Richard!” Pruett hollered. “This fella’s from England. Ain’t ya got nothing to say?”

  Richard pondered the request. “Hi.”

  “Go tote them new tires into the bay, will ya?” Pruett ordered. Richard nodded. He seemed happy to be off the hook. “Simple as a stick,” he whispered to Twain. “Been that way ever since I found him, charred from fire, scared half to death, thrashing around the woods like the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz. Po’ thing, couldn’t even remember his name. Good around the shop, though. Strong as an ox.”

  “That’s sad. Did he have any psychological counseling?”

  “A shrink?” Pruett slapped his leg again. “In these parts? We ain’t even got a general doctor no mo’. Doc Howls was the last one and he got sent to the penitentiary. And that’s been a good five years. What’s with that bandana a yers? Fixin’ ta rob a bank? Ha, ha.”

  “Ha, ha,” Twain mimicked.

  “I’m recovering from a bit of oral surgery; afraid you might find the sight of my lip a bit unsettling.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m vaguely familiar with that name. Are you referring to Dr. Everett Howls?”

  “You know him?” The surprise was good enough for a third slap on the leg. “What a small world, a foreigner like you knowing old Doc Howls.”

  “I’m not a foreigner. I’m from New York. I came down here to ask Dr. Howls a few questions. An odd matter came across my desk that required the doctor’s explanation, but I understand he passed
away.”

  “Has he? Ain’t heard nothing ‘bout him in years. His missus is a real mutt. I don’t waste no time trying to make conversation with that old girl.”

  Amen, Twain concurred.

  “Well, I can’t say I’m sorry to see him go, seeing what he done.”

  “And that was?”

  Twain could see the West Virginian sun burning in the reflection in Pruett’s station window. The man smiled at him. “Come on inside and set a spell. I’ll tell ya all about it.”

  An unexpected thought occurred to Twain as he entered the garage.

  “Something wrong?” Pruett asked.

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “You just got a funny look on your face.”

  “It’s nothing,” Twain replied, but in his mind the seed of possibility had already begun to grow.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Clovin hated the paint, a gritty, caustic emulsion that stained his skin and burned the mucous membranes of his sinuses. He found the work embarrassing as well. It was beneath a man of such grandiose intellect, but it paid well. More importantly, it was off the books. Between his military disability and the painting job, Clovin was getting on quite well. It allowed him the indulgence of his hobbies and vices: gadgets, guns, and above all else, LSD.

  It was only that morning that he had finalized his plans for Hilary Glenn’s murder. Standing beneath the rusted beams, power sprayer in hand, he felt the powerful rattle of the compressor’s engine feed through the sprayer wand and knew how he would do it. The pulse of the paint through the wand reminded him of his days in the military and the feel of an automatic weapon discharging in his hands. It was a feeling of great power, a feeling he longed for. It brought him a satisfied grin.

  It took a long moment for him to return to the present. Staring into the bathroom mirror, it dawned on him that circumstances had changed. He was no longer in the army, but he was on a mission all the same. First Hilary Glenn and then . . . it was almost over. The moment of resolution was fast approaching.

  The protective garb helped, but did not prohibit a bloom of reddish brown paint from encircling his face. It started at his cheek, a clearly delineated line that began where his mask ended and grew darker toward his ear. His wrists were stained where the mist had seeped between his gloves and the elasticized sleeve cuff. The commercial material he deployed to inhibit rust had to be delivered under pressure. Clovin knew that despite precautions, the material was everywhere, impregnating his skin, the mucous membranes that lined his lungs, his hair, and his eyes.

  Working methodically, he began to rub his skin in a circular motion with a cotton ball saturated with an acetone-based solvent. He started with his face and then worked on his wrists and ankles. Thirty minutes later, standing naked before the bathroom mirror, Clovin was satisfied. He ran the shower until the water was scalding, and stepped in armed with a brush and pumice soap. He emerged at four-thirty, raw and adequately cleansed. The paint pigment was still there, embedded where the brush could not reach. It was in him, like a cancer, replacing healthy cells with prostrate. He could not see it or smell it, but knew that it was there.

  The task had left him ravenous. He prepared a ritualistic meal: vanilla-flavored soymilk and high-fiber cereal. He consumed half a quart of milk and one third of a box of cereal. He believed that dinner should be the lightest meal of the day.

  He napped until seven and then did his last tab of Alice in Wonderland. Lying in bed, he saw the spring sky begin to darken, and felt the need to kill well up within him once again.

  Dawn was on the rise. Clovin reveled in hypnagogic sleep, lavished in the bliss of an LSD-induced stupor. It had hit him just right, the orange tint of morning sky, chemical tranquility, stupor, and bliss. He was feeling no pain. The demons had released him, his flesh slipped, uncharred, from the fiery dragon’s mouth. He turned his head from the light. Hilary Glenn was next to him in bed, naked, sleeping soundly on her side, a sheet hanging limply from her hip.

  He touched her shoulder; her flesh turned purple beneath his fingertips. He could see waves of energy radiating out from beneath them. He slid his hand down her arm and watched it turn magenta and then bright red. He slid the sheet from her hip. There was only blackness beneath it, absolute blackness. He stared at the void until it began to undulate and grow into a shimmering, milky white. He drank from it. His lips tingled and soon began to burn. The burning intensified as it traveled toward his stomach. He tried calling to her through sealed lips, but was unable to produce an intelligible sound. He began to rock furiously and slam his hands down on the mattress around him, pounding it forcefully. He had to get her attention. He couldn’t kill her until he saw her eyes, her unsuspecting eyes. Only then could he end her life, hold her in his arms and smother her, bar the air from her lungs until she withered and died.

  She seemed to stir. It was coming, the moment he had waited for like seeing a deer through a rifle site . . . at last. He felt himself tense in expectation. Hilary Glenn rolled over and faced him. Her eyes were cool green eyes. They were devoid of warmth, but unsuspecting. He pulled her closer. She snuggled against him like a child.

  He placed his hand against her cheek. She was illusionary, ghostlike. How could he smother that which he could not hold? He screamed. This time he heard himself bellowing furiously at the top of his lungs firing resentment. He reached for her arm, but that too was insubstantial. His hand fell through her, touching the sheet.

  Hilary glared at him. Blinding beams of light projected from her eyes, scorching him, burning away his flesh. He covered his face until the pain subsided. He looked again. Hilary Glenn was gone.

  He heard a tapping on the window. She was there, sitting outside on the ledge as he had at her office. She was laughing at him, mocking him. He flew from the bed, bringing his mass against the glass, but it would not shatter. Hilary’s mouth opened. It was black and cavernous. The void grew, and then she disappeared again.

  He felt himself heaving, spent with exhaustion. Sweat poured from his brow, scalding his raw skin.

  “Daddy? Daddy, I’m here.”

  Clovin turned. Sheryl was in his bed, looking as she had on the last night he had seen her alive, pigtails broadcast over the pillow, wearing the printed nightgown they had purchased for her in Charleston.

  “Where have you been, Daddy? I’ve been looking for you.” She extended her arms. Her eyes were dark and lifeless. Clovin sighed. She had been dead for thirty years, but she had never gone away.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Tony Scosdolocus aka Tony Skuz opened the door of his canary-yellow Mustang. Before stepping out, he checked himself in the rearview mirror. His thick black hair and mustache had been freshly shorn that morning. He had restyled his hair using an excessive amount of gel. He’d combed every last hair methodically, until his mane had the appearance of molded plastic.

  He got out and tugged on his jacket. He had never worn a tux before and loved the cummerbund. It held in his beer belly better than his Sans-a-Belt slacks ever had. “Yeah, I’m telling ya, we gotta take up golf. That’s where the money’s at.”

  Alex Pareya sneered at Tony Skuz as he got out of the car. Julio Vargas, his usual partner, had called in sick at the last moment. Pareya knew better. He knew Vargas was shacked up with his girlfriend and just wasn’t getting out of bed. Tony Skuz was the resident joke at Prestige Security, the guy no one wanted to partner with. Now he was Pareya’s joke.

  Tony Skuz came around the car. Pareya grabbed his tuxedo jacket from behind the front seat and put it on. Skuz pointed at Pareya’s hair. Pareya glanced up. “Oh yeah, thanks,” he replied resentfully, before pulling off his doo-rag and tossing it into the car. Being told anything by Skuz bothered him.

  Pareya checked his hair in the side mirror. When he looked up, Skuz was fitting an earpiece. “Hey, c’mon, no fucking toys, man.” The earpiece had come from an old transistor radio. Tony Skuz had wrapped the cord around a pencil and baked it in a toaster oven so
that it remained coiled and had the appearance of a Secret Service ear set. The end of the cord was tucked into his shorts. “You look like a fool, man. Take it off!”

  “No way. It looks good,” Skuz said.

  Pareya cursed under his breath. He wanted to kill Vargas for saddling him with the buffoon. “You think that’s gonna get you laid, man? You think the girls gonna mistake you for some kind of tacky, out of shape James Bond or something?” He sighed with disgust before turning and walking off.

  Tony Skuz was hot on his heels. “You’re fuckin’ A, I look like a million bucks. This place will be crammed with eligible snatch.” Skuz began to strut. “And the pussy king is here to pillage.”

  Pareya waved him off, dismissing him. “You aggravate me, man. You want these saggy, old, society bitches? Good luck, man.” Pareya, like most of his Dominican friends, was partial to fifteen-year-olds and not the least bit interested in mature women despite their ample endowment with coin of the realm.

  Tony Skuz was not fazed by his partner’s unhappiness. As always, he thought better of his own ideas. This was his first assignment in Manhattan and Skuz was electrified with excitement. He’d seen Hilary Glenn’s picture in the news. The papers had reported that the private fundraiser hoped to raise a half a million for the Glenn campaign. It was a small black-tie affair, an intimate group of well-heeled supporters. Tony Scosdolocus was thrilled over his newly found celebrity. Working security for swanky politicians was far better than his day job.

  Make sure the Motorola unit works,” Pareya barked.

  Skuz pulled a handheld narrow-band radio from his jacket pocket and turned it on.

  A street person was camped out not far from the entrance to the supper club in which the fundraiser was being held. Skuz wrinkled his nose as he walked past. “Filthy bum. Get the fuck outta here.” He shot the derelict a distasteful look, dusted himself off, and continued on inside.