For Your Eyes Only

by Sandra Antonelli

  Willa glanced at her old friend. You have to be a shit, don’t you? “I’m a quantum physicist, like Dominic.”

  John groaned. “I guess that means I’m not getting any homemade peanut butter cookies, am I?”

  Willa grinned at him. “Sorry. I won a Reines Fellowship at the Lab and I start tomorrow.”

  Another snort came from Dominic.

  “Aw, yeah, that answers everything.” Sean lifted the pitcher Dominic had brought to the table and poured juice into his glass. More orange liquid dribbled onto his sweater as he drank. “You start what tomorrow?”

  “Research in entanglement and quantum discord in mixed state quantum computation. I aim to be running simulations with the Roadrunner Supercomputer and comparing the result with older models.” Willa massaged the back of her neck, hoping to relieve the pain now seeping into the crown of her head. “Have you read about the Roadrunner?”

  “Beep Beep! That’s the only Roadrunner I know.” Sean dropped a chicken leg on the table. Pumpkin-colored sauce spattered the eggshell tablecloth. “Oops.”

  “That’s going to stain,” Eva groaned.

  “Eh, come on, honey, it’s not like it’s Irish linen that’s been handed down through his family or anything. It’s polyester.”

  Sniff-sniff- sniff. “Tell us more about what you do, Queenie,” John said, eyes on her mouth.

  Sean slid the drumstick onto his plate and licked his fingers. “Yeah. What kind of salary does a job like yours draw?” he asked, dabbing at his lips with a floral-print paper towel. “Detective John-boy there makes less than shit. What sort of perks do you get?”

  Lesley slid her eyes towards heaven and Willa chuckled, which was a mistake because it kicked the dull ache in her head into a pulsating thump. She pressed a few fingers against her skull and noticed Dominic staring at her.

  He flashed a grin and popped a potato in his mouth. His wife reached out and wiped a smear of yellow from his upper lip. He kissed the tip of her finger. Her gaze locked on his and the smarmy little smirk he’d been wearing changed into something that was profound, something that revealed his depth of passion and love for Lesley.

  Dominic absolutely adored his wife.

  Willa wanted to laugh because in all the years that she’d known Dominic, she’d never seen him look at any woman that way. She’d seen plenty of women look at him, though. Most of the girls she’d known in college had developed a crush on Dominic as soon as they laid eyes on him. Lab techie Penny Thanos once confessed he was the fantasy guy she tickled her taco to, which was far too much information, but Willa could never figure out what all the fuss was over.

  Sure, he’d epitomized tall, dark and handsome. Aesthetically she could appreciate his form and overgrown features that made her think of a granite-jawed superhero fighting for truth and the American way, but for all intents and purposes, he was just a guy. He was her good-looking, closest male friend, although she’d never really thought of him as a male.

  There’d been speculation they’d been more than friends, speculation they’d wind up together with a barrel full of tall, white-haired, brainy kids. They’d talked about the supposition now and again, discussed the assumptions people made about them and laughed like hell. To Willa, Dominic was simply … Dominic.

  The only person who had refused to believe their friendship had never been sexual was Stefanie, the mother of Dominic’s son, Kyle. She had attended the ‘When Harry Met Sally School of Boy-Girl Relationships’. She believed that men and women couldn’t be friends without being lovers first. To her way of thinking, Dominic and Willa were friends only because they’d slept together.

  Of course, Stefanie proved her point. When she and Dominic had relationship problems, she went looking for a friend, for a shoulder to cry on. The ‘friend’ she found provided evidence of her Harry-and-Sally mentality. She’d had an affair with Dominic’s slimy youngest brother, Terry, who’d been, quite briefly, Lesley’s husband at the time. Then, nearly a year later, she came clean, walked out on her infant child, and left a distraught Dominic with doubts over Kyle’s paternity.

  It had been nearly eighteen years since that mess, and Willa had been there to help pick up the pieces of Dominic’s life, she’d kept quiet about paternity issues and betrayals. She’d never divulged anything to anyone, and she never would. Only she and Dominic’s lifelong friend, Fabian, were privy to that information. No one else knew. No one. But as she sat at the table, head hammering inside, pretending to listen to Sean blither on about 401K plans and public servants, she couldn’t help but think that Dominic had drawn parallels of betrayal between her work at the FBI and Stefanie’s faithless abandonment.

  The difference was that Willa had never betrayed Dominic. The word that fit her actions was duplicity, the notion of being two things at once. The bald fact was, she could have told him. She’d kept his secrets. He would have kept hers.

  Thinking about it all made her head hurt more. The overhead light was too bright, and its glare was painful.

  John touched her arm. His fingers were warm and gentle. “Can I ask you girls about something Queenie and I discussed earlier today?”

  Willa looked at him, his gaze flicking from her lips to her eyes. She tilted her head to one side. It probably made it seem like she was flirting, but doing so stretched out the muscle along her shoulder. She hoped it would alleviate the thudding tension beneath the cap of her scalp. “Are you still obsessing over your niece’s eyeliner?”

  “Yes,” John shrugged, “because she’s only a little girl, and I see it at work all the time. It’s driving me nuts. Revealing clothing and makeup fast-track little girls into adolescence. It’s a sexualizing of younger and younger girls that overshadows childhood innocence. I just want to know when you think a girl is old enough to wear makeup?”

  “Fifteen.” Eva answered without hesitation. “Fifteen is a good age, but a teenage girl needs a good skin care regimen, otherwise she could end up with pimples if she wears the wrong kind of makeup. If she looks after her skin when she’s young, she’ll look better when she’s older, like Wilma. You have lovely skin for a woman your age, Wilma.”

  Willa brought her head back to center and gave Eva a dry smile. “Why, thanks.”

  Eva smiled, like a crocodile. “What sort of foundation do you use?

  John’s little finger played against the back of Willa’s wrist. Despite her headache, the sheer animal response such a simple touch stirred up in her was a little surprising. It could have been nothing more than hormonal desperation, but she wanted to feel his breathy chuckle whisper over the shell of her ear. For just a second, the idea dampened the hammering inside her skull. A tiny chill shot up her spine.

  Then pain surged back and she tried not to wince.

  Willa gave Eva a weak smile. “I don’t use foundation.”

  Aghast, Eva shook her head. “All women should wear foundation. A little makeup can be a good thing. It would really bring out your eyes, Lesley, and accentuate your cheekbones, Wilma.”

  “My wife doesn’t need make up.” Dominic ran a finger down Lesley’s cheek. “She’s stunning, even with latex paint on her nose.” He leaned over and kissed her slowly.

  John sighed with mock annoyance. “Are you two ever going to move out of the honeymoon phase?”

  Dominic kept his hand cupped at the back of Lesley’s neck. “Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s gooey and sickening, but glory days, I love it. I love her.” He cut his eyes to Willa. “Every day with Lesley is a honeymoon.”

  His allusion to Miles’ death was a low blow. Willa had never known Dominic to be malicious, but feeling betrayed did funny things to people, just like fear did. She wasn’t sure if it was a sense of guilt or his spiteful dig, but a strange rubbery feeling began to spread through her limbs. Unlike a drop in adrenaline, and not as immediate as an anxiety attack, and not altogether unpleasant, the sensation moved with the speed of drifting smoke. Willa coughed softly, hoping to rid herself of the fogginess.

&nb
sp; Sean held his fork in his fist, prongs up. He looked at his sister. “Ya know, Les, this stuff’s pretty good, even if it looks like baby shit.”

  Eva sighed. “Lesley, have you ever noticed your brother turns into your grandfather when he’s had too much to drink?”

  “GP schwears more,” Sean slurred, “and I have not had too much to drink. Two beers and two glasses of Tilbrook’s double punch is not too much to drink.”

  “What’s that you’re singing, Willa,” John asked. “Sheena Easton?”

  Sean licked his fork. “Sheena Easton. What’s she doing now?”

  “I wasn’t singing.”

  “Yes,” John nodded, “you were.”

  Dominic laughed, huh-huh-huh. “Yeah. I think it was Janet Jackson. I definitely heard the words ‘nasty boys’.”

  “I would never sing Janet Jackson,” Willa protested, pulling at the waistband of her tights, which squeezed like a corset, pushed her liver upwards and jammed it in between her heart and esophagus.

  “You know, John,” Dominic said, ignoring her, “besides this little quirk she has with colors and numbers, Willa’s got a real thing for ‘80s music. Squeeze, the Stray Cats, Psychedelic Furs, she loves all that stuff, and she sings it when she’s thinking, tired, or pla—”

  “Man, Sheena Easton was hot.” Sean slapped his hands together. “When she did that thing on Miami Vice it was me and Sheena and ‘for your eyes only’ time.”

  “Did you really have to share that with us, Sean?” Eva was aghast and she rolled her eyes.

  Not that Sean noticed. “Can I have those schpuds, Wilma?” he slurred.

  Willa was positive she hadn’t been singing anything. She leaned forward to pass the bowl of yellow potatoes to Sean, but the bowl was too heavy for her watery hand to hold. Potatoes tumbled onto the table along with the serving spoon and a jet of curry. Golden sauce ran between her finger, over the back of her knuckles and up her wrist, mustard seeds sticking to her skin. She giggled. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” John scooped the food back into the bowl. “It’s a pretty little contrast to Sean’s stain. Why don’t you go wash that off your hand?” He rose and blotted the mess with his paper towel as well as the one Lesley yanked off a roll.

  Willa scooted back and stood, knocking over her Darth Vader glass as she lurched a little sideways. Water shot across the ocher stain the potatoes had just made on the tablecloth. Eva scrambled out of the way as the yellowish wash streamed towards her and cascaded over the edge of the table.

  A loud crack of Dominic’s laughter came from the other side of the table as he added his crumpled paper towel to the mop up. “I’m so glad to know there are a few things about you I can always count on to be the same, Willa. Your hair, your taste in music, your klutzy moves.”

  Willa tried to glare at her old friend, but her vision swam as she realized she was singing. She was singing eight-six-seven-five-three-oh-niy-ee-yine.

  John was under the table, blotting the carpet with an entire roll of paper towels. Laughing.

  Lesley had run into the kitchen to grab a dishcloth.

  Eva was bunching up the tablecloth.

  Sean simply finished off his drink. Willa watched him pour himself more juice from the pitcher on the table, the same pitcher Dominic had in the kitchen, the same juice he’d poured into a glass, a glass she’d skulled thinking it was horrid-tasting pineapple juice.

  Rock me Amadeus. She was drunk.

  Dominic had gotten her drunk.

  On purpose.

  He knew she couldn’t handle her liquor. He’d known she was a lightweight since their years at MIT. Disbelief her old friend could do such a thing rendered her speechless, but so did the way the world tilted. Willa gripped the back of the chair to stay steady.

  No one noticed except Dominic. While the others were busy swabbing up water and curry, trying to stem the flow dripping onto the Persian-style rug under the table, he smiled at her with a gleam in his eyes.

  Then he winked.

  Willa managed not to stagger when she let go of the chair. John picked that moment to look at her. She gave him a weak smile before she turned away.

  Inclined slightly forward, she hurried into the living room, heading for the powder room under the stairs.

  She missed the doorknob and her hand banged against the wall. On the second attempt, she grabbed the shiny metal handle, swayed into the small room, and pulled the door shut with a soft click.

  Her tights were a compression bandage and Willa squirmed as she stood at the sink, water rushing over her curry-stained hand. Leaning forward over the basin, she splashed her face and neck. Cold liquid dripped down her chin, down her throat and in between her breasts, soaking her bra and the front of her dress. The clingy wet cloth was uncomfortable, but her tights were even worse now; they were a squeezing python swallowing her whole.

  Hands wet, she hiked up her dress and peeled down the cotton-nylon blend waistband. The stretchy material twisted and rolled down farther on the right than left. Then it tangled up in her fingers. Pinky caught, her fingernail snagging out a web of thread, she listed sideways, bumped her head against the lowest part of the slanted ceiling, and bounced the other direction like a ball in the pinball machine springing off a bumper. Her flailing hand hit the light switch. The instant darkness was broken by the strip of light at the bottom of the door.

  Unsteady, she plopped onto the toilet seat, not caring that the lid was up, and shoved her tights down to her knees. Perched and swaying above the open bowl, she began to jerk off her boots. They’d been so easy to slip on but now seemed impossible to take off. There was plenty of room for her feet in the upper, her toes wiggled freely in the soft leather, but the boot refused to release her heel. She pointed her toes, tilted her ankles, and flexed her calf. Grunting, and twisting her knee, she got the right boot off. It fell to the tiled floor with a klunk.

  Just like she was about to.

  The tiny room had begun to spin in a horrible way, like the old whirling Teacup ride at Disneyland. Willa grabbed the edge of the toilet seat and held on as if she were about to be flung off the planet.

  She had to stop the spinning ‘right round baby right round’, to stop singing those old ‘80s hits. One side of her tights remained rolled to the knee above her remaining boot. The other side drooped, a dead black snake of cotton-nylon dusting the floor. Legs sprawled, Willa leaned to the right and let her forehead rest against the toilet paper roll hanging on the wall beside the toilet.

  The world tilted again on its axis, completing a revolution around the tiny, dark room as it circled around her head while her skull orbited her brain. Willa’s temple pressed into a pillow of 3-ply Charmin and she shut her eyes, taking slow, deep breaths.

  Bright, portable lights had been set into place on the scene. They sent up a glow from the bottom of Barrancas Canyon, illuminating the cloud cover that had rolled in over an hour ago. It was cold, and it made John’s arm stiff. He buttoned the top of his coat to keep the frosty air from creeping inside, before the stiffness turned into a constant dull ache.

  Someone had already rolled out the yellow tape. He ducked under a flapping length of it and walked towards the headlights from a patrol cruiser. He’d stepped onto a crime scene, but his mind was still stuck in the dining room back at his house. A trivial amount of confusion prickled the back of his neck, as it had since Queenie had taken off so abruptly. In all the hubbub of cleaning up a spill, he’d assumed she’d simply gone to wash curry from her hands, but she’d been gone a little too long for that.

  He didn’t blame her for disappearing. It was embarrassing to dump food all over the place in the company of people you’d just met, although Queenie didn’t exactly come across as the kind of woman who’d care about first impressions or staining a reproduction Persian carpet any more than she cared about the way she’d spilled salsa all over herself earlier in the day.

  Of course that had been when it had just been the two of
them. He was simply assuming that made things different. Men and women got into all sorts of trouble assuming stuff about one another, misinterpreting simple friendliness for interest, misinterpreting a sigh of boredom for pleasure, misinterpreting a raised eyebrow as amusement instead of annoyance.

  Why was he worried about this? She liked him. Why was he doubting himself? Women always liked him. He had nice manners; he opened doors for them, pulled out chairs, offered his coat when they were cold. He was the likable nice guy, which, according to his ex-wife, equaled boring—which he’d always thought was bullshit. Nice and boring were not the same thing. However, he was beginning to think nice was an issue of another sort. Where he was now, amid yellow police tape and the crime scene unit, certainly wasn’t nice.

  John exhaled, shifted his thoughts from Queenie to work, and called out to the patrolman just ahead. “Archuleta?”

  “No. Archuleta’s got the bug now, so it’s you and me out here, JT.” Officer Duncan Ishimaru, a wiry guy of Scottish-Japanese extraction turned around for a moment. “Bet you were hoping for something a little cleaner, this being your first day back on the job and all.” He switched on his flashlight and illuminated the crime scene.

  John didn’t say anything. It wasn’t that he was ignoring the patrolman; he was a little busy looking at a dead man’s face.

  Or what was left of it.

  Limbs akimbo, the man lay face-up. Scavenger birds had done a decent job ripping or pecking the flesh from his cheeks. The poor bastard’s remaining eye was closed beneath a brow that was purple-mottled and bloated. His nose had been smashed, his front teeth shattered. A crust of dried red-brown blood spread around his gaping mouth, over his chin and ears. The awkward position of his neck made it pretty clear it was broken.

  “It gets worse.” Ishimaru moved his flashlight to the left. There were sticky, dark blotches on the dead man’s chest, right hand, and twisted forearm. The substance dotted the inside of his ulna, which protruded from his blood-crusted fractured skin, to his hand. “A few of his fingers have been gnawed on. He has a number of bite marks. Dogs, coyotes, or both, maybe mountain lion. Cuthbert, the Field Deputy Medical Investigator said it could have been raccoons or some other critters went at him too. They were probably attracted to the gunk on his skin.”