The Catcher in the Eye (America's Next Top Assistant Mystery Book 1)

by Lotta Smith

  I ambled to a glass showcase. “So Alan, what brought you and Karen to know each other?”

  “Actually, she is a frequent customer here. She likes the kinds of goods I have here at this little shop, not to mention that she likes my psychic reading as well. Such a charming little girl, you know? So intelligent and sensitive.”

  “I know. Then again, she’s got her share of naiveté, disappearing and reappearing like this, scaring the wits out of me. Seeing news and all, I couldn’t help but thinking of the worst case scenario.” I sighed. “So Alan, you knew where she’s been staying all these days?”

  “No way! Of course not.” Hands up in the air, he winced. “I’m a law-abiding citizen. If I knew of her whereabouts, I would have talked her into coming out and reported to the authority. She didn’t give me details but mentioned she was staying with a relative or something like that. When she makes up her mind, nobody can make her change it.”

  “Yeah,” I nodded. “As much as I’m so relieved and happy that she’s well and alive, I can’t help wondering what drove her to take such an extreme action. She’s not a running-away-from-home kind of girl, you know.”

  “Hmm…” tilting his head to side, he said. “Maybe that’s because we’re seeing at only superficial aspects of her as a little girl. But as we know, she is a mature, intelligent lady trapped in a little girl’s body.”

  He had a point.

  “I suppose you’re right.” I said, looking up at the shelves full of little goods with relatively big price tags. “Absolutely, she is…” As I was about to continue my share of insight on humanity, my eyes got stuck on a painting in the corner of the shop and I stopped.

  “Good God…” as I approached to the wall hanging the subject that caught my attention, I gasped.

  “This one has a character, doesn’t it?” With the tip of his fingers, Alan fondly stroked the frame of the painting.

  In my mind, I was trying to make some intelligible reply, but words just failed to come out of my mouth. At a complete loss for words, I was gaping at the painting like a total idiot. Obviously, it came with something more significant than a character.

  The first thing it grabbed my attention was the color scheme—the whole picture was painted in a couple shades of pink. And the touch of the picture looked similar to the ones I’ve seen before. The motif of the picture was the sun and the sky. It was hard to tell if the sun was rising, setting, or just floating in the sky. On top of all that, this painting had the same signature “Sam”, just like the ones I’ve seen lately at Alice Sinclair’s condo.

  I blinked. Couldn’t believe what my eyes were seeing.

  Then I muttered, “Jesus H…”

  There was something else that I had noticed about the painting beside from the similarities in color and signature with the paintings I saw at Alice Sinclair’s place.

  The sun was the main motif in the full 30 x 40 inch canvas. With a close look, I could see that the sun was indeed composed of numerous small circular dots in strong shades of shocking pink. Add the fact that each small dot had another circular dot in the center painted in a different shade of pink. In addition, the sky surrounding the sun was painted in gazillion circular dots as well. Like—some kind of fake Paul Signac paintings. Only it came with more obsession. Whole lot of more obsession.

  I’m no expert in art or symbolism, but I knew that all the dots in this painting represented eyeballs.

  Actually, this was not a painting of the landscape. A painting of crazy number of eyeballs was more like it.

  Suddenly, I started to feel sick. So sick that I was afraid my lunch would come back from my stomach saying hello with a stinking smirk.

  “This is called Rhapsody in Pink,” Alan told me, still stroking the frame of the picture. “I named this shop after this piece of art.”

  “Oh…I see,” I gasped, opening and closing my mouth, trying my best not to blurt out “Rhapsody in Pink? You’ve got to be kidding me, Obsession in Pink sounds more like it.”

  I cleared my throat. “By the way, Alan, do you happen to know the person who created this piece of…art?” I have managed to say that even though it seemed more appropriate to call that piece crap instead of art.

  “Of course,” he flashed a smile. “I personally know the artist who had created this piece of work. So tell me, Kelly, what do you think about this painting?”

  “Well, it’s interesting.” I said. Although “disgusting” was closer to what I had in my mind, I didn’t want to offend Alan. One of the keys to having an amicable discussion about artwork is to avoid dissing particular art pieces or creators. So in this case, “interesting” was the all-purpose term. In addition, I really needed to dig as much information as possible about this painting and the creator, not to mention I still had to meet up with Karen here.

  It was apparent that whoever has painted this picture Rhapsody in Pink was obsessed with eyeballs. (I mean, what kind of a person minus obsession is capable of painting infinite eyeballs without getting sick?)

  On top of all, eyeball-obsession fits perfect with the murderer’s profile.

  “So, Alan,” I said. “Can you tell me more about this painter …Sam? The signature says ‘Sam’, right?”

  “Right,” Alan nodded. “His name is Sam Deuchars.”

  “Wow. Can you tell me more about him?” His home address, for example. “I’m completely captivated by this piece.”

  “Oh, really?” he gave a lopsided grin.

  “Yes. So, you know where this Sam Deuchars person lives?”

  “Of course I know. He lives in Maine.”

  “In Maine?” I parroted. Isn’t Maine a bit too far from here? Think of the inconvenience commuting from Maine to the DC vicinity just to commit brutal murders.

  “I know,” he nodded. “But he often visits this area. Also, he has a vacation home in a town close to West Virginia border as well. A beautiful house in a deep forest. Three-hour drive distance from here. And guess what? He’s still staying at his vacation home. So you can visit him and say hi, you can even take a look at his newest creations.”

  “Wow, that’s a must-go place for me, I guess,” I said, except I was not all that keen about paying a visit to this Sam Deuchars’s place. Even if I was armed with powerful weapons like a machine gun and lots and lots of bullets, I couldn’t face the possibility of finding more bodies missing the eyeballs.

  Alan gave out a light chuckle. “You and Karen must be good friends, you know. A soul mate, maybe. She said exactly the same thing when she first saw the picture.”

  “Seriously?” I said. “Speaking of Karen, isn’t she a bit late? She should have reached here already, I guess.” Almost a half hour has passed since I have reached this store.

  “Let’s not make a fuss, Kelly. She’s fine. It’s only that Karen sometimes operates in a way that’s different from that of ordinary people’s.” He said.

  I sensed something weird about his remark but before I had the chance to clarify, my phone chirped.

  “Oh, it must be Karen.” I fished the phone out of my purse, only to see the ID of incoming call as Archangel, not Karen.

  Excusing myself from Alan, I pushed the talk button and stood up. “Hi, Mr. Archangel? How are you?”

  “Where the hell are you? What do you think you’re doing?” Archangel demanded. “I’ve made it crystal clear that you keep calling in with me regularly. It’s been more than six hours since you went out.”

  I walked to the entrance/exit door. “Guess what, Mr. Archangel?” I interrupted him in his mid-rant. “I came across a lead. No, not just a lead, make it two.”

  “A lead? Come on. With a lead or whatever, come back to the office.” Archangel commanded. “Immediately.”

  Oh-oh, he was in a perky mood. In addition, I sensed something out of ordinary in his voice. What was that? Agitation? Maybe. Which was notable, since he tended to be so unbiased to the level I sometimes find myself wondering if he lacks something in feelings department; such a
s empathy.

  “But I found Sam.” I protested. “He’s a painter based in Maine and he has a vacation home in West Virginia. I’m sure he’s the real Eyeball Snatcher. You should really see…”

  “I said come back to the office. Right. Now.” He interrupted in my mid-speech.

  “But Mr. Archangel,” I protested. “That doesn’t sound like a very good idea on the account…” I didn’t get to finish my little speech.

  I heard a muffled Zzz…eeiipp…and that was it.

  “On the account of what?” was the last of words I heard from Michael Archangel.

  Instead of shrieking for help over the phone, I mumbled something like “eww—”

  Then I collapsed on the ground.

  I guess I might have heard Archangel yelling my name from the distance, but that might have been a dream.

  It was true that pride is an ugly monster. Had I not been so occupied with it, I might have noticed someone Tasing me from behind.

  Chapter 31

  … So, it was true…

  I thought, feeling Tommy Lee smashing drum in every cell of my body.

  Recalling the old saying that goes “seeing is believing” which is supposed to mean that only physical or concrete evidence is convincing, I really thought this saying was true.

  Take swimming. You may learn a lot about swimming techniques by watching YouTube videos and reading books, but you don’t get hands-on experience of stroking the wet, cold, clear to creamy, soft ‘n’ hard, sometimes-mass-and-sometimes-fluid material called “water” unless you physically jump into it and at least try to move in it.

  The same thing can be said about sex as well, but it would be best if we can save that particular topic for future discussion, I guess.

  Anyway, now I truly knew the quote about what happens when you get zapped was true.

  People say it hurts like hell. What I can tell from my experience is it feels much worse than hell. Being burnt and then frozen over in hell gives you a more appropriate idea.

  First, you feel the electric jolt and your body gets all tensed up and the muscles get locked. As the electric juice goes through your entire body, you start to feel warm and fuzzy, then it gets oh-so-hot like someone has pushed you into an oven burning with flames and the blood in your body was swapped with Tabasco. After that, you lose your consciousness, feeling soft and mellow and dead inside, floating in a lake of Jell-O.

  Just like being reincarnated to a jellied-eel.

  Oh, don’t forget that all of the above events happened within the timeline of a moment.

  I tried to wiggle my fingers for fear that I might not have fingers to wiggle anymore. I was feeling like a pile of ash. Good thing I could feel my fingers and they were sort of moving, even though I had this funny sensations in my limbs. Then again, I wasn’t all that sure about my latest milestone because my eyes had been kept shut. And I was not ready to open my eyes and face the reality.

  I sniffed in the air in an attempt to estimate how burnt I was. It didn’t smell all that smoky. Just a tad bit dusty and a slight stench of alcohol and some other chemical. Another good sign that my olfactory sense was still operating. Also, it didn’t smell like I had wet my undergarments. Even better. Albeit I carried an extra pair of stockings as they taught me in finishing school, I didn’t usually carry an extra pair of panties. Urinary incontinence haven’t hit me yet. Thank you very much.

  Hmm… I thought. Do I have an iron bladder, or what? Indeed, considering that I was being zapped, I was feeling okay. Actually, I was feeling good. No, make it better. Yes, I felt healthier. Is it possible to be zapped and feel better than before getting zapped?

  As my head cooled down and the reasonable part of me had returned, the skepticism started campaigning against the confidence that I was trying to find the eyeball-snatching serial murderer on my own, got a call from Karen who was thought to be killed by the murderer, going to a shop called Rhapsody in Pink where I saw a gross painting with gazillion eyeballs and being zapped while talking to my employer over the phone. Oh, did I mention I’m employed by a huge guy who likes to cross-dress in women’s clothes? Skepticism surely had a point. By replaying a series of events that was supposed to have been happened, it felt outlandish. Considering that I was an ordinary person with an ordinary upbringing, it must have been all a bad, sick, nightmarish dream. That explained everything. I knew it.

  “…Great…this is great…” I mumbled with a sigh of relief, chuckling at my silly self. Add that 62 trillion out of 68 trillion cells have stopped vibrating like “Paaaaaaartayyyy!” to the list of reasons I was relieved.

  I was convinced that I had a weird, wild, and outlandish dream—

  —Sorta nightmarish, but nothing to worry about—

  “I’m glad you like it here, Kelly.”

  Until I heard Alan, the back-zapping lunatic interject.

  I opened an eye. Then another. I groaned. Shut the eyes again, then blinked several times.

  Holy crap… was what I thought.

  It sure was nightmarish, but I wasn’t having a nightmare. Nightmarish, but everything was happening in reality. And everything was happening to me.

  Whether or not to be happy, I wasn’t sure.

  Good thing my eyes could still see things and it seemed like I was relatively unscathed except for some minor inconveniences like being stuck in a room with a décor that doesn’t exactly match my taste. Then again, everything else, I mean everything else was not something you want to see with your own eyes.

  For starter, I was in a depressing, dimly-lit basement without even a window. The selection of furniture was very limited. The cold n’ wet-looking, grey concrete floor was devoid of carpets or floorings. There was a shabby, metal table covered with a various depths of scratch marks. A pair of metal chairs stood by the table. Alan was sitting on one of the chairs. He had changed into black fleece shirt and a pair of tight black jeans. My purse sat on the table, along with a candlestick with three lit candles, a half-full bottle of Moet et Chandon, and a glass with liquid and whitish balls that looked like pale green olives inside.

  And a sharp butcher knife. Even though there was not much cooking taking place in the room.

  The second problem was that I was all alone with Alan, who was holding another glass of liquid and pale green olives. Only difference was the number of olives in his glass was just two, instead of more in the other glass. He was sipping bubbly drink from the glass. He looked pretty calm and composed. Note that I was also immobile, as in literally and physically. I was firmly duct taped to another metal chair with my hands tied behind the back of the chair. I’m afraid that had about explained the funny feelings in my hands and fingers.

  And for the third and the most terrifying thing was, I had just recognized that each of those olives had a brownish, round spot bearing a resemblance to the brown of the eye. As my eyes had adjusted, I saw each olive indeed had a brownish spot that remarkably resembled with an iris and a pupil rather than pimiento stuffing gone stale.

  “Wh-what is that?” I stuttered, my gaze fixed at the glass in his hand.

  “Oh, this?” he raised the glass. “It’s champagne. Imported from France. Wanna drink some?” He told me as if he was talking to one of his customers, and tilted his head to one side. As he moved, the wild locks of his red hair bounced.

  “I-I-I…I don’t think so…” Shaking the head, I fidgeted with my words.

  “Why not?” he furrowed the eyebrows as if I was the one being irrational.

  Cussing, crying and screaming like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum was oh-so-tempting, but instead, I took a deep breath. I had sorta, kinda managed to calm my nerves.

  “Well, first off, I can’t hold a glass with my hands tied up behind like this.”

  “Then I’ll help you,” he took a step toward me, the glass in one hand. As if he was going to feed me the liquid.

  “No!” I almost shrieked, but I managed to add. “Actually, my stomach is not ready for bubbly. And I
would very much appreciate it if you’d kindly cut the duct tape which is tying my hands right now?” I desperately tried my best to play it nice and smooth in a vain hope that he may change his mind and let me go.

  “Hmm,” he shrugged. “It depends on if you promise to be a darling and let me take your eyeballs out of you without a fight.”

  “You’re just kidding, right?” I asked hopefully.

  “Well, well, well,” he made a tsk-tsk sound. “What kind of an idiot kidnaps a semi-celebrity like you just for fun? No one, I say. It catches too much unwanted attention. I took you here with an absolute determination to have your eyeballs removed.”

  Flabbergasted, I searched for any sign that he was just cracking a sick joke. After a couple of moments, I came to a conclusion that he was dead serious.

  A total head case. Seriously, positively and undeniably.

  I was anxious to know whatever had happened to Karen, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask. Call me chickenshit, but I was completely lacking courage to face the reality.

  “Well,” I said, partly because I couldn’t come up with any better things to say. “For your information, I’m nobody.” Then I added, “I presume those things in your bubbly glasses are eyeballs and you’re Eyeball Snatcher?”

  “Come on,” he let out an exasperated sigh. “I’ve never called, much less introduced myself with that name. It’s just a silly nickname the stupid media started to use on me. They’ve got no originality, if I may say so. Not to mention treating a total stranger like some kind of a petty thief is rude.”

  I took his reply as affirmative. “Hey, if you’re not a petty thief, you don’t need my eyeballs. You’re a celebrity whereas I’m just nobody. You know what? Celebrities often throw parties for charity causes because they have fame and fortune that ordinary people don’t have and can’t attain. Right? So, when you’re a celebrity and I’m nobody, it’s you who gives me something to help me, not the other way round. On top of that, come to think of it this way. You’ve got a pair of fully functioning eyeballs that lets you see things and appreciate all the beauty that life offers you, right? Generally speaking, having a pair of normal eyeballs is simply bliss itself. Can you imagine how lucky you are that you’ve got eyes that can see? I’ve met a blind person before and she had to use this white cane to check the things around her whenever she goes out because she cannot see things around her and when you can’t see things on your own, the world is full of danger and perils. Cyclists are the worst, you know, a stupid cyclist had once run over her cane, broke the cane and left her in a total darkness.”