The Fear in Her Eyes

by Grant McKenzie

  The phone died in Ian’s hands, its minutes swallowed, its usefulness at an end.

  24

  The dead phone slipped from Ian’s hand, tumbling end over end until it hit the trampled ground with a tiny explosion of dirt. He watched it fall, his eyes unable to focus on anything else; his fingers, like his lungs, were frozen in place and unwilling to function.

  “Ian!” Jersey called. “Are you OK? Who was that?”

  Amazed that his legs still worked, Ian lifted his foot to crush the plastic case and spill its innards in a futile gesture of sending a spark of pain to its owner.

  “Don’t!” Jersey shouted.

  A strong hand grabbed Ian’s arm and pulled him away.

  “We can use it,” said Jersey. “The SIM card holds valuable data. It could give us a name.”

  Ian yanked his arm free from Jersey’s grasp as he fought his way up from the bowels of shock. Grasping for purchase, kicking off thorny tendrils of guilt, clawing for air. When he broke the surface, his vision suddenly snapped into focus and his mind cleared with renewed aim.

  He turned to Jersey. “Can you get Molly home?”

  “Of course, but—

  “Make sure she’s safe,” Ian interrupted. “That she gets inside and her foster parents have her in their care.”

  “Yeah, sure, but—

  To Molly. “Sorry. You can trust him. He’s a good friend.”

  “But I want you to take me—

  “I know. I can’t.”

  “But you promised.”

  Ian shook away Molly’s plea even as it pained him to do so. His eyes darted across the yard, and his legs quickly followed to the Wreckers’s six parked choppers. Straddling the most powerful, the vampire skull adorning its headlight, he turned the key and kicked the starter. The Harley roared to life with a guttural and near-primal growl.

  “Where the hell are you going?” screamed Jersey.

  “She threatened Helena,” Ian shouted over the bike’s deafening roar. “I might already be too late.”

  Ian popped the bike into first gear and felt the rear wheel spit dirt and gravel before finding grip. Then the road became an undulating river of licorice-smooth tarmac as he pressed the stolen machine to its very limits.

  THE ROYAL Oak Condos were built for the working wealthy who liked the idea of being able to walk to every amenity, but rarely did. The front units boasted a view of the Willamette River, Waterfront Park, and Hawthorne Bridge, while the rear offered telescope-toting occupants an ultimate game of I Spy—Portland Edition: I spy Starbucks, I spy Dr. Martens, I spy Portlandia, etc.

  When Ian roared up the wheelchair ramp to the brass-and-glass lobby doors and boldly slid off his skull-adorned chopper, the Royal Oak doorman—resplendent in a red velvet suit and Beefeater-style hat—quickly moved from behind a polished oak desk to block the path to the elevators. For such a large specimen, he moved with a confident grace, and, perhaps due in part to his unfortunate uniform, his face was anything but friendly.

  “I don’t have time to explain,” Ian said frantically, “but we need to get up to the sixth floor. Helena Fairchild is in trouble.”

  The doorman squared his broad shoulders and widened his stance while holding up a beefy, white-gloved hand. “And who might you be, sir?”

  “Her husband.”

  The man shook his head. “I don’t think so. Ms. Fairchild lives alone.”

  “Fuck, look. We’re separated, but I received a phone call.” Ian veered to one side, but the doorman moved with him. “She’s in danger. It’s urgent that I get up there.”

  The doorman’s upper lip curled slightly and small furrows appeared on the bridge of his nose. “Let me call.”

  Ian bared his teeth and clenched his hands into fists. He didn’t have time—

  “I wouldn’t,” warned the man. His eyes were gray slate, and tiny muscles rippled along a formidable jawline. “Ex-army, and I fight fucking dirty. I’ll Taser you in the balls just to hear you squeal.” To prove his point, he lifted a compact Taser from a velvet pocket and made sparks jump from its twin contact points.

  Ian’s fists unfurled as the man lifted a mobile phone from another pocket with his free hand and stabbed in Helena’s number with his thumb. When there was no answer, he shook his head.

  “Can’t let you up.”

  Wishing he still had the shotgun, Ian reached into his own pocket and pulled out a business card. Pinching it between two fingers, he held it out. “Call Detective Jersey Castle at homicide. He’ll confirm my story. But hurry. I need to get up there.”

  The doorman reached out for the card, but before he could get a grip, it inexplicably fell through Ian’s fingers. Instinctively, his eyes darted to the falling card and missed the swift rise of Ian’s knee. Putting all his pent-up fear and fury behind it, Ian’s kneecap slammed into the doorman’s testicles with such force they practically became a new set of tonsils.

  Taking him at his word that he wasn’t someone to be messed with, Ian quickly followed up by forcing the doorman’s arm to bend at the elbow and jammed the Taser into his neck. He squeezed the trigger before the ex-army guard had a chance to resist. The man shuddered and bit his tongue as he collapsed to the ground. Moving with him and keeping the trigger pressed, Ian watched fresh blood foam on the man’s lips until his eyes rolled into his head and his legs stopped kicking.

  Ian checked the man’s jittery pulse and rolled him into the recovery position before conducting a quick search of his pockets for the building’s universal access security card. As soon as the magnetic key was in his possession, he sprinted to the elevators.

  The ride to the sixth floor took forever. Ian’s breathing was hard and fast, his heartbeat racing with adrenaline and making his head feel uncomfortably light. He tried to slow his panic, make his lungs hold the breath, control the rhythm, but it didn’t help.

  When the elevator doors slid open, he pushed through the gap and rushed to Helena’s door. He swiped the guard’s key across the electronic security override panel and was rewarded with a beep of acceptance and the whir of a sliding deadbolt. Ignoring all caution, he shoved open the door and stepped inside.

  THE APARTMENT-style condo was dark and quiet. All window blinds and sheers were pulled closed and none of the ceiling lights were on in either the plush white-leather-and-polished-hardwood living room or steel-and-granite kitchen. The only illumination came from several flickering candles inside clear glass holders. The candles were large and square, colored red and without scent. They were the kind people bought because they looked modern and sleek, but rarely ever lit because that ruined their waxy perfection.

  Ian slid around the door and moved down the hallway to his right. A faint yellowish glow pulsed from beneath the closed door that led to the main bathroom. Beyond that, the hallway led to two bedrooms and a large linen closet that doubled as the in-suite laundry. No light at all spilled from beneath those doors.

  Swallowing a hard lump in his throat, Ian turned the bathroom handle and nudged the door. The smell hit him first. Vanilla. Helena’s favorite. She always added scented fizzy bath bombs whenever she wanted to relax in the tub.

  The opaque vinyl-lined shower curtain that ran the full length of the tub was drawn, blocking his view of the interior, but splashes on the white tile floor made the throaty lump rupture and dissolve into bitter acid.

  The water was crimson.

  Knowing he needed to rush forward, to pull back the curtain and see for himself, Ian found his feet frozen to the spot. His mind was whirling, his thoughts a mess. He remembered too vividly finding Helena the first time. Three weeks after Emily’s death, he had arrived home unexpectedly early from his first difficult day back at work. The house felt so coldly different, but without Emily to brighten it he had simply assumed it always would.

  He called out his wife’s name, but there was no answer.

  He went to the kitchen to plug in the kettle for tea and saw her purse. Its contents were spilled across
the table as though she had needed something lost on the bottom but was too impatient to search.

  He called out again. Still no answer.

  Curious, he climbed the stairs to the second floor, saw the candle light under the bathroom door. He knocked and called her name for a third time, and for the third time received the same silent response.

  When he opened the door, the smell was overpowering: not just vanilla but the rich copper tang of blood. Helena was in the tub, white, naked, twin rivers of scarlet running from her wrists. An empty jar of sleeping pills floated on the surface, a half-drained bottle of wine sat on the edge.

  In anguish, he pulled her from the water and clumsily searched for a pulse. When he found one, slow and thready, he reacted the only way a loved one could; especially a loved one who didn’t want to be alone, who wasn’t strong enough to carry the great burden of grief upon a solitary set of shoulders.

  He called an ambulance and saved Helena’s life. She never forgave him and their marriage crumbled into more pieces than all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could ever hope to put together again.

  But this was different, he told himself. This time it wasn’t her choice.

  Ian’s mind screamed: Move! Dammit, move! He inhaled deeply, smelled the vanilla and—

  No! Just vanilla.

  He rushed forward and yanked back the curtain.

  The water was red, but the bathtub was otherwise empty.

  A CREAK of hardwood flooring behind him made Ian spin with eyes filled with pain and hands clenched into bare-knuckled rage.

  “Jesus!” Jersey broke his aim and tilted the barrel of his Glock toward the ceiling. “What the hell’s going—” He saw the bathtub, the color of the water. “Is Helena—

  “She’s not in here.” Ian swallowed, shuddered at the taste. “I haven’t checked the bedrooms.”

  “The doorman?”

  “That was me,” said Ian. “Not my finest moment.”

  “OK.” Jersey nodded to the hallway. “Stay behind me.”

  With his gun aimed in front, Jersey cautiously opened the first bedroom door. Helena was using it as a home office: computer, printer, busy book shelves, stacks of cardboard boxes, and—sitting against one wall, completely out of place—an ugly brown sofa that would have been rejected by most charity shops. It was the first piece of furniture they ever bought as a young married couple, when Helena was studying for the bar, while Ian made extra money pouring drinks behind another. They found it at a garage sale for forty dollars, but most of their friends still said they had been ripped off. Helena felt it contained special magic, which came to bear fruit when Emily was later conceived upon its cushions.

  Ian had assumed Helena threw it away.

  Next, Jersey moved to the master bedroom. The bed was neat and empty, as was the en suite bathroom and walk-in closet.

  “Did you look in the main room and kitchen?” Jersey asked.

  “Just a glance. Everything looked in order.”

  “I’ll check it out.”

  Jersey stuck his head into the linen closet for a cursory check before heading back down the hall.

  Alone in the bedroom, Ian spun in a slow circle. The room could have been in any magazine or condo brochure. Nothing about it said Helena. In fact, the only room that reflected her true personality—the naked, vulnerable, happy woman he had fallen in love with, who blossomed in motherhood, and who used to reappear every night after she stripped off her designer suits and polished makeup—was the small, messy office with the stupid, beat-up couch.

  Jersey called for him and Ian followed his voice. His friend was on his knees in the bathroom, scooping some of the bath water into a small glass. He lifted the glass closer to his face and sniffed.

  “I don’t think this is blood,” he said.

  “What is it then?”

  “Just dye maybe.” He shrugged. “Or food coloring. I’ll get it tested to make sure, but I don’t think anyone died here. Somebody’s messing with you.”

  “Then where’s Helena?”

  “Did you try calling her cell?”

  “Shit!” Ian pinched the bridge of his nose and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He found Helena’s new number and dialed. It went straight to voicemail.

  He called the law office with the same result, but then he remembered the business card Helena had given him earlier that day with her assistant’s direct line on it. He had barely glanced at it, but noticed that the number’s prefix meant it was a cell phone rather than an office extension. He searched his pockets, but came up empty when he suddenly remembered where he had dropped it.

  He looked over at Jersey with a pained expression. “How do you apologize to an ex-army doorman with sore balls and an electrical burn on his neck?”

  Jersey crunched up his face in conflicted sympathy and offered, “Very carefully.”

  ON THE elevator ride down to the lobby, Jersey placed a call for a forensics crew to look over the condo and check the bathwater.

  Outside the ground level entrance, two patrol cars were parked in a V-shaped wedge to block the skull-bedecked Harley from leaving, while inside the lobby two officers blocked the exits and two others interviewed the recently revived doorman.

  Looking up from the ice pack swaddled on his groin, the doorman pointed accusingly at Ian the moment he stepped off the elevator. “That’s the bastard! Fucker blindsided me.”

  Jersey flashed his shield to bridle the officers as he gripped Ian by the elbow and walked him over to where the doorman leaned uncomfortably by the main desk.

  Glancing at the doorman’s nametag for the first time, Ian handed back the security card. “I would like to offer my sincere apologies, Mr. McEwan, but it really was an urgent matter and I didn’t have time to explain.”

  McEwan snatched the card and spat bloody phlegm on the floor. “So you fucking Tasered me after trying to turn my balls into earrings?”

  “Only because you were such a dangerous foe. I couldn’t risk you getting back up and stopping me.” Ian could see the gears working behind the man’s eyes, assessing if the words were sincere. He added a dab of butter. “You said you were ex-army. I knew I only had one shot.”

  “Fucking right, you did.”

  “I sincerely believed my wife was in mortal danger.” Ian held out his hand. “Will you accept my apology?”

  The man blinked and looked around at the five other men in the lobby. “If I do, how far does this go?”

  Jersey exhaled and stepped forward to hand over one of his business cards. “None of these men will breathe a word. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “So my employer won’t know he got past me?”

  “Nobody will.”

  McEwan took the offered hand. He squeezed hard, grinding bone and muscle, forcing his foe to flinch.

  “But there’s still one problem,” said Ian through gritted teeth.

  Releasing his death grip, the doorman’s eyes narrowed in wary distrust.

  “Someone got past you before me.”

  Spittle flew from McEwan’s mouth. “Bullshit!”

  Ian shook his head. “Somebody was in Helena’s apartment. Could have been a woman?”

  “I didn’t see any—” McEwan faltered and grimaced. “Mr. Yukatan is having a large dinner party on four. Several groups came in together. They were all dressed to the nines and … fuck … nobody stood out, but—

  “But?” Ian encouraged.

  “One of the guests came back down. She was talking on a cell phone and completely blanked me as she left. I didn’t think anything of it.”

  “But she was alone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about Helena? Did you see her come home today?”

  The doorman shook his head. “Ms. Fairchild’s not regular like some. She works a lot of odd hours.”

  “What about this other woman’s face?” Jersey asked, joining in. “Could you identify her?”

  “No.” McEwan sighed heavily. “Sor
ry to say I was more interested in her figure. She was wearing this red silk dress, tight across the ass, and …” He stopped talking.

  “High heels?” asked Ian.

  “Very. Made her ass … you know? Pert.”

  “Hair color?”

  “Black. Pitch black. Striking.”

  “Ethnicity?”

  “Italian maybe. There was a hint of Sophia Loren about her, but hard to say.”

  Jersey caught Ian’s eye. “Ring any bells?”

  Ian shrugged. “Not really. Although being comfortable in high heels rules out a few … except for the secretaries, hookers, wealthy housewives, strippers, and businesswomen. I’ve dealt with them all.”

  Jersey raised an eyebrow. “You’re thinking this is related to a case?”

  “On the phone, the woman said she wanted me to suffer and unless I offended somebody at a jazz club, Children First is the only obvious link.”

  “What about Helena?” Jersey asked. “Do you think she still means to harm her or was this scare enough?”

  Ian pinched the bridge of his nose again. “She’s already killed my daughter. If she has Helena, she’ll finish the job.”

  Turning back to the doorman, Ian asked about the dropped business card.

  McEwan snorted. “That was smooth.” He flicked his chin in Jersey’s direction. “Wasn’t even his card, was it?”

  Ian shrugged. “Do you have it?”

  One of the uniformed officers stepped forward and held up a white card. “Found it on the floor. Thought it might be, you know, evidence.”

  Jersey took the card from the officer and handed it to Ian who quickly dialed the number scribbled on the back. It rang five times before a woman answered with an intoxicated giggle.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Helena Fairchild’s assistant?”

  “Oh, shit!” The woman’s voice became muffled and there was a clinking of glasses and quiet laughter in the background. “I answered the wrong darn phone.”

  “It’s OK,” Ian said quickly before she could hang up. “I’m Helena’s husband. It’s vitally important that I find out where she is.”