The Fear in Her Eyes

by Grant McKenzie

  THE SECOND house on the list was empty. Ian walked around the exterior, peering in the windows and trying the doors. Both the front and rear doors were locked, and the interior showed no evidence of occupation.

  A kitchen window opened on the neighbor’s house and an older woman stuck out her head.

  “Can I help you?”

  Ian turned and managed an easy smile. “I was looking for the occupant,” he said. “Do you know when he moved?”

  The woman’s eyes flashed a warning. “You a friend of his?”

  “No.” Ian moved closer and pulled out his phone to show the picture of Molly. “This girl has gone missing, and I’m just checking some of the …” he struggled to find the word.

  “Perverts,” finished the woman.

  Ian nodded. “So you know about him?”

  “He has shifty eyes,” said the woman. “Right from the first day he moved in I knew there was something wrong about him, but he left last month. Heard he was moving closer to his sister, poor girl. She’s a better Christian than I am.”

  “I doubt that. Thanks.”

  As Ian walked back to his car, the woman called out, “I hope you find that girl. God bless.”

  AT THE third house, the door was answered by a gruff, gray-haired man in a white sleeveless T-shirt and black dress pants held snug by a pair of thin elastic suspenders. Beneath bushy eyebrows and a narrow nose, he sucked deeply and with purpose on a hand-rolled cigarette, the bleached paper stained dark from nicotine.

  Sizing up the uninvited stranger on his doorstop, the man plucked the cigarette from between a pair of thin, dry lips and nestled it in the fleshy cradle between middle and index finger where the amber stain had spread like gangrene. One eye twitched as a rat’s tail of smoke drained from his right nostril, made a sharp U-turn, and crawled up the ladder of wrinkles in search of escape.

  “Whaddayouwant?”

  The words flowed together as if he was drunk, but Ian couldn’t smell anything beyond the sour stench of bulk tobacco. He held up his phone. “This girl is missing.”

  “So what?”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “Fuckoff.”

  Ian slipped his foot between door and jamb a moment before it could slam closed. When the door bounced off his foot, the man looked down and sneered.

  “I’ll take your fucking toes off. Move’em.”

  Ian lifted the phone again. “Have you seen this girl?”

  “Fuck you.”

  Ian hit the door with his shoulder, sending the surprised man sprawling backward down a short entrance hall until he hit a sliding closet door. The flimsy, particleboard barrier leapt its track and collapsed inward, taking the unbalanced man down with it. Ian stepped inside and closed the front door behind him.

  Looking up from the floor, the man bellowed in anger. “You have no fucking right, man. I’ll get the cops. I have goddamnrights.”

  “You sure about that?”

  Ian stepped over the man’s sprawled legs and entered the living room. Like its owner, every stick of furniture was past its prime. Ian drew a deep breath and called out Molly’s name. In answer, a girl giggled.

  Ian spun around to see a young dark-haired girl of about six bumping down the short flight of carpeted stairs that led from the bedrooms. When she reached the bottom, she looked over at the man trying to extricate himself from the broken closet.

  She frowned. “What did you do to Grandpa?”

  Ian ignored the question. “Are your parents here?”

  The girl shook her head. “They’re at work, I think. There’s no school today, so Dad brought me here. Grandpa said he would make ice cream and peanut butter sandwiches, but he forgot. He forgets a lot.”

  “You’ve been here all day?”

  The girl sighed heavily. “Yep. I’m soooo bored. Grandpa doesn’t have a computer or cable, so I can’t watch my shows. He says radio is better, but that’s ’cause he’s old.”

  “Are there any other girls here?”

  The girl shook her head. “I wish.”

  Ian turned as the girl’s grandfather made it to his knees and started to rise. Ropey muscle flexed beneath tissue paper skin. The years hadn’t been kind, but the man had obviously remained active.

  Ian’s throat burned. “How stupid are your kids?”

  The man’s eyes widened.

  “I’ve read your sheet,” Ian continued. “Does this girl’s parents have any idea what you were locked up for?”

  “They know. Sowhat?”

  “You prey on—” Ian glanced over at the young, vulnerable girl and felt his stomach churn. “Your own daughter testified—

  “Not anymore,” Grandpa growled.

  “You’ve been cured?” Ian couldn’t keep the contempt out of his voice.

  The man stared at him in deathly silence before shrugging his shoulders. “I ain’t never touched this one.”

  “Not yet, but that’s why you have conditions on your release.”

  The man sneered. “My son asked me to babysit.”

  Ian sneered back, his teeth sharper and more vicious. “You should have said no.” He tapped 9-1-1 into his phone and waited for the emergency operator to answer.

  IAN STAYED with the girl and her grandpa until the police arrived, with Social Services fast on the patrol car’s bumper. Knowing most of the city’s social workers by name and reputation, Ian had contacted one of the best. But no matter one’s skill set, how do you explain to a little girl that her grandpa is a deviant monster and her parents are irresponsible for leaving her in its den?

  After giving the police a statement, Ian was finally allowed to leave. When he moved toward the front door, the handcuffed grandfather spat on his shoes.

  “Interfering do good bastard!”

  Ian chose not to respond because once his tongue started clicking, his fists would be all too eager to hammer the message home.

  THERE WAS nobody home at the fourth house, and a neighbor said she was pretty sure the occupant worked a late shift at a nearby bottling plant.

  Feeling drained, Ian called Children First to find out if there were any updates. Nothing had come in. Molly was missing and no one had a clue to where she had disappeared.

  “You should go home,” said Linda. “The police are on it. Let them do their job. Maybe Molly just needed time to think. Seeing her mother again could have been a bigger shock than either of you realized. You know how these kids get a fantasy into their heads about how life should be if only Mom wasn’t a junkie and Dad didn’t …” Linda let the sentence drift. There were so many things that lousy parents did to scar their children.

  “You’re right.” Ian sighed.

  “Get some rest, OK? It’s quitting time. She’ll turn up. I’m sure of it.”

  After Ian disconnected the call, he aimed the car downtown. Home would have to wait. He still had to break the news about the death of Tyler Young to one of the few people for whom it would have any real meaning.

  10

  The Westside building was modern glass and chrome with curved, transparent elevators within its hollow core that allowed passengers to gaze down on the spacious, Japanese-inspired lobby. From that windowed perch, they could play spot the awkward bald spot or admire the décolletage of countless young professionals sitting together by the koi pond and sipping skinny lattes.

  Ian rode the elevator in silence with his back to the glass, not wanting to catch the eye of someone who might remember him, to see his or her expression change into one of sorrow or embarrassment.

  On the fifth floor, he stopped at reception and asked if the person he had come to see was available. The receptionist was new—not surprising; it had been at least eight months since Ian last showed his face—but like those who had valiantly guarded the gates before her, she shared the same pleasing characteristics: young and attractive with bright eyes, a crisp voice, and a polished smile.

  “Quinn?” questioned the young woman behind the white pine desk. “I�
�m afraid we have no one here by that name.”

  Ian paused, wincing slightly at the same faus pas he had made so often in the past. “Sorry, I meant Fairchild. Helena Fairchild.”

  The young woman glanced at the clock on the wall above the elevator and tried not to let her smile falter when she noted Ian had arrived with less than a minute to go before her long business week finally ended. Ian guessed she had visions of chocolate martinis and eager young lawyers with fat wallets on her mind.

  “Is Ms. Fairchild expecting you?”

  “No, but you can let her know her husband is here.”

  “Husband?”

  “Only legally. I’m Ian Quinn.”

  The woman’s lips formed a perfect O before she picked up the phone and tapped the appropriate button. When the line was answered, she repeated Ian’s name without mentioning her newfound knowledge of his relationship with one of her bosses. Ian admired the professional restraint. In the legal game, the ability to hold onto knowledge until it could do you the most good was a valued asset. Mix that with a pinch of ambition, and she would quickly move up a rung in the corporate ladder.

  “Ms. Fairchild will be right out.”

  Returning the handset to its base, the young woman pushed back her chair and stood to smooth her skirt. High-waisted and demurely black, the skirt’s hem flirted with the smooth curve of her knees, but something in the way she moved said she preferred it shorter.

  After retrieving a light jacket and a large purse from a concealed cupboard built into the wall behind her, the freed receptionist marched around the desk and headed for the glass elevator.

  “Have a fun evening,” said Ian. The fatherly tone in his voice made him wonder when he had grown so old. Instead of asking what cool bar or club she was heading to, he wanted to warn her to watch out for boys, guard her drink, and not to stay up too late.

  The young woman, oblivious to his fears, treated him to a mischievous wink. “I intend to.”

  WHEN HELENA arrived in the lobby, Ian couldn’t help but glance at her wrists. She wore a long-sleeved silk blouse in a shade of ivory that complemented her fair skin without fighting the expensive honeyed highlights in her chin-length hair. But the tips of twin white scars, running deep and vertical, could still be seen in the shadows of the fastened cuffs. They had faded, become more a curiosity now than a glaring reminder, and even then noticeable only if you knew to look beneath the glimmer of perfect pearl buttons.

  “Ian? I wasn’t expecting you. Is everything OK?”

  Ian lifted his gaze and studied her eyes. They were the color of summer fog adrift on the ocean and still so easy to read. When they grew dark, he knew it was best to keep close to shore and bide his time until the storm had passed. But today they were a thin mist with sparkles of starlight filtering through.

  Helena Fairchild was a beautiful woman. The mother of his golden child, and the lover he had clung to and almost suffocated with his need. She was also the fragile being who had broken to pieces when she couldn’t find a way to forgive him for what he couldn’t forgive in himself.

  A part of him yearned to hold her, but that had become impossible. Polarities had shifted, and their bodies now repelled what had once been such a powerful attraction.

  “Tyler Young is dead,” Ian said.

  Helena rocked back on her Jimmy Choo heels. “When?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “How? Who told you?”

  “I was there.”

  Helena gasped and covered her mouth with a manicured hand. She looked behind her to make sure they were alone as if fearing that Ian was about to make a murderous confession. “Let’s talk in my office.”

  Helena turned and tapped a magnetic pass card against a chrome plate that unlocked a set of frosted glass doors to the inner sanctum beyond. Following her inside, Ian was greeted by a familiar sea of desks, divided into equal-sized clusters, that served the six senior partners of Fitzroy, Pierce, Harris & Fairchild.

  The prestigious law firm traced its roots back to the turn of the previous century, when Helena’s great-grandfather was one of the original founders. He was followed in turn by Helena’s grandfather and her father. Thus, even after her marriage to Ian and an unexpected decision to take his name, Fairchild always remained on the company letterhead. In hindsight, Ian wondered if he should have taken that as an omen.

  Despite the growing lateness of the hour, several of the desks were still occupied by young lawyers doing lawyerly things. None of them seemed to notice the presence of a lesser being.

  Helena led Ian to her corner office and closed the door. “Tell me everything,” she said.

  And Ian did.

  “WHY WOULD Young send you that message and then kill himself?” asked Helena. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I agree.”

  “So you believe he was murdered?”

  Ian shrugged. “Someone tried before.”

  “The fight,” said Helena, “when he was first jailed. The police wondered if we had hired someone.”

  “If I had known how,” said Ian, “I would have considered it.”

  “And did you?”

  Ian frowned. “Did I what?”

  Helena’s forehead remained unwrinkled. Her eyes clear and steady. Her manner serious. “Discover how?”

  Ian almost smiled, but he knew from a decade of marriage that his natural instinct to find humor in a serious topic was one of the things that drove Helena crazy.

  “No,” he said. “But if I had, I would have at least waited until after I found out what he had to say.”

  Helena touched her lips with an index finger, pressing its shallow whorls into the soft indent just below the tiny bump on her nose that she always tried so hard to disguise. Brushing that small imperfection with his lips had, for the longest time, been the last thing he did each and every night before falling asleep.

  Since her absence … no, that wasn’t fair; sleep had eluded both of them since Emily’s death.

  Helena looked up. “The note could have been a ruse. Maybe Young was lying.”

  “I considered that, but if it was just a final kick to the teeth, why the surreptitious delivery?”

  “The homeless man?”

  Ian nodded. “Young didn’t drop it in the mail because he knew all correspondence entering and leaving the prison is monitored.”

  Helena leaned back in her chair. “How did he get it out then?”

  “A friendly guard or—” A thought brightened Ian’s eyes. “His cellmate was released a week earlier.”

  “So the question remains—

  “Why didn’t he want to risk anyone knowing he was contacting me?”

  Helena leaned forward and clasped her hands in understanding. “He was afraid.”

  “And for good reason,” said Ian. “What he wanted to tell me cost him his life.”

  ON THE far side of the room, Helena produced a dark-green bottle of Rémy Martin from within a mirrored cupboard and poured a generous portion of amber liquid into two crystal snifters. When she returned to her desk, she handed one of the pear-shaped glasses to Ian before taking a long, slow swallow from her own.

  “What I don’t understand,” she said, “is why anyone would want to kill Emily—on purpose.” She took another swallow of cognac. “An accident is horrifying enough to deal with, but this . . . it’s . . . it’s unfathomable.”

  Ian took a small sip of his drink and looked down at his shoes. His voice was quiet, mournful, as he confessed, “In my line of work, I’ve made some enemies.”

  Helena drained her glass and returned to the small bar for a refill. With her back to him, she said, “I’m a lawyer. Everyone fucking hates us.”

  Hearing the angry despair in her voice, Ian rose to his feet, but something—a memory flash of cold white skin in a pool of crimson liquid, the vise that squeezed his heart and stabbed needles through his eyes, the guilt and the pain—stopped him from crossing the floor and offering comfort. Instead, he stood
awkwardly in place as Helena’s shoulders trembled beneath the caress of silk, and sorrow was suppressed by the staccato rhythm of deep, barely controlled breaths.

  “I need a moment,” she said, her voice a fractured whisper.

  Without turning around or exposing her face, Helena moved to the far corner of the room, where a near-invisible door led to a private washroom.

  Ian returned to his seat and sipped his drink in silence. The premium cognac was superior to anything he had ever tasted, and yet the only part he relished was the warmth that spread out in a wave from his stomach to loosen tight muscle and unclench his jaw.

  When Helena returned, her composure was back in place, but the chinks in her armor were easier to detect: the corner of her lower lip, gripped by a lone tooth; the glistening redness in the corner of her eyes; the way she couldn’t stop touching the teardrop emerald that dangled from her right lobe.

  “Do you remember those horrible threats I received?” Helena asked.

  How could he forget? It was the first time he had felt their perfect life was built on a floor of glass. The foundation felt solid, but all it took was a crack in the wrong place to bring everything crashing down. And yet they had survived that crisis with barely a bruise, not knowing the sledgehammer that was still to come.

  “That was six months before Emily’s death,” said Ian. “I don’t see how it’s related to Young.”

  Helena looked off to the side, focusing on something in the distance that no one else could see. Ian knew she needed to talk, to convince herself that this unimaginable revelation wasn’t connected to her. Having it be an accident had already been too much to bear; to have it be deliberate …

  “The threats weren’t even over something I had done. He wasn’t a client or a witness or someone who had anything to do with any of my cases. His name was …” She pulled the information from memory. “Sidney Brooks. Forty-six years old. He read about me in the newspaper, one of those Community Connects fluff pieces, and became obsessed. The police said he had plastered dozens of photos of me on his bedroom wall. Every one was the same, all clipped from the paper and mutilated in different ways—usually the eyes.”