Don't Close Your Eyes (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 1) (11 page)

“Bastard!”
The door of the cathedral slammed behind me, delivering me from its sanctuary. We had angered God, Twain and I. Water poured from the sky as I imagine it must have in biblical times, the days of fire and brimstone.
My kingdom for an ark.
Water rose along the gutters of Fifth Avenue, rising above the curb, spilling onto the sidewalk. The sky was black. Traffic had ground to a stop. Horns blared in frustration all along Fifth Avenue. And there I was, without an umbrella or a car, unable to go forward or back.

“I’m sorry.” He was there beside me. His movements were so stealthy that he seemed to materialize out of thin air. He pulled back his hood. His looks were devastating, my dark, brooding prince. “Truly sorry. Let’s go back inside.”

“Not a chance. You’re an easy target for a lightning bolt out here. I’d be careful if I’d defiled God’s house as you just did.”

“I’d really like to help you, Detective Chalice. May I?”

“All right, but I want you to think of me as Typhoid Mary. Can you do that?”

He closed his eyes and then reopened them. “Easily.”

Hey, I don’t think I liked that.

Twain gazed at the pitch-black sky. It was as midnight. His name defined him, destined from birth. Twain, he was two men, not one: the handsome, powerful brute and the helplessly phobic doctor. Which one would win? I could tell you how I’d cast my vote.

“Give me something, Twain. Give me something I can use. I’m looking for a psychopath who uses LSD. Now can you tell me something, or can’t you?”

“I used LSD as an amplifier of the psyche. The mind is filled with so many little bits, billions of nooks and crannies, most too small to get at through conventional psychotherapy. LSD helped me to help more of my patients than hypnosis ever could. It allowed me to ferret out vital clues and amplify them so that they were large enough to observe. I was not a flower child. Do you understand?”

“I can see why you gave it to your patients. Why’d you take it yourself?”

Twain looked sad, introspective, and absolutely vulnerable. Physically, he had it all. Mentally, well, that was another story. “I couldn’t get close enough to God without it.”

“I don’t understand.” The wind began to whip up. It came in fierce gusts. I pulled my jacket tight.

“My upbringing was devoutly religious. My parents forced me to worship. I didn’t know whether my devotion was the result of brainwashing or if I was truly in love with the Almighty. The drug helped me to see more clearly.”

“How?”

“To see, you have to experience. Pious men have been using hallucinogens since the beginning of time. Shamans, tribal priests, modern day clergy, you have no idea. There are documented cases of profound, life-changing spiritual experiences as a result of hallucinogens. Perhaps one day we’ll get close enough so that you can understand.”

“Look what it did to you. It’s caused you such problems, life-changing problems.” Lightning flashed above. The air sizzled around us.

“There’s good and bad in everything. My journey has been an intensely interesting one.”

No doubt.

“My phobias were not caused by LSD. They were caused by BZ.”

“And that is?”

“A very long story. The short of it is that it’s the very last word in mind-altering substances. Think of it as LSD on steroids . . . But let’s talk about your case, shall we?”

Finally.
Thunder exploded. I nearly jumped into his arms. We were just inches apart, breathless. I stepped back quickly. “You said he loves his victims. Let’s go there.”
Good recovery, Steph.

“Isn’t that why we kiss, to show affection? Doesn’t that make sense?”

Hey, make sense of this.
“You’re telling me he loved both of those women. I really doubt that.”

“I believe he did, but not as you’re thinking. He killed those women and likely several others, and he did it because he loved them. I tell you there were others, other women who fit the mold. Every time he murders, he’s killing the same girl. He’s doing it over and over again. The recent fatalities have something in common with his first victim. Find the first one and you’ll have him.”

“He left us a clue each time. He tells us to look back.” The air had turned ice cold. Twain’s black cape flapped like a flag in the blustery wind.

“Have you looked back, Detective?”

“There are only two cases that fit his MO.”

“The gunshot victims? Dismiss them. He wanted your attention. There must have been other suffocation victims that he’s responsible for. I’ll bet there are other women who got the big wet kiss. Check it out. There must have been other fatalities. The two men would never have been shot if you were giving him the attention he was looking for. He’s leaving clues, Detective Chalice. Doesn’t that make sense as well?”

“You’re saying he’s got a hard-on for the NYPD.”

“No, Stephanie Chalice. His boner is for you.”

I was stunned. I remained silent while my brain raced to compute what Twain had just told me. My cell phone rang, snapping me back to attention. “Chalice.” My voice had a desperate, emotional quality to it. Twain’s comment was still processing. It was gradually eating into my brain.

“Stephanie.” It was Lido’s voice. “Your mother’s on her way to NYU Emergency. She’s taken a bad fall. Where are you? I’ll be right there.”

I looked at the stalled lanes of cars in front of me. It was one vast parking lot. I turned to Twain. “Your car here? I’ve got to get to the hospital right now!”

Twain nodded. “Just off the corner. What’s wrong?”

“My mother’s on her way to the ER.” I spoke into the phone. “Forget it, Lido. You’ll never make it. I’ve got a ride.”

“Okay,” Lido replied. “I’ll meet you there.”

Twain and I began to run flat out on the rain-drenched pavement. It felt like I was running next to a cheetah. His strides were long and graceful. “Tell your driver to run all the lights.”

“I’m the driver,” Twain replied.

“No you’re not,” I replied. “Not anymore.”

It was a miracle.
The street opened up before me. I leaned on the horn as I shot past Madison Avenue. Twain’s midnight-blue Corvette seemed to blend in with the stormy sky as it raced like a stealth fighter across town. I heard an ambulance’s electronic siren yelp as we approached First Avenue. Ma was in it; I could feel it in my bones. I swung in tight, right behind it, stuck to its bumper right up to the ER entrance.

I was out of the car before the stretcher had hit the ground. Ma looked unconscious. An oxygen mask was strapped to her face. “What happened?” I screamed. A paramedic shoved me aside. I ran after them as they raced Ma into the building.

I looked behind me. There was no sign of Twain or his car. I turned back. I was living the nightmare. There was a doctor and a nurse on either side of the stretcher, backpedaling with us. Their faces were painted with concern. As we raced down the entryway, the doctor boosted himself up to the stretcher. I saw a bright object in his hand, a small flashlight. He parted Ma’s eyelid and scanned her eye diagnostically. “She’s diabetic, Type 1,” I yelled ahead. The doctor looked up.

“You’re family?” he asked urgently.

“I’m her daughter.”

“Your mother’s in shock.”

“Neighbor found her at the bottom of a stairwell,” one paramedic barked. “Multiple contusions to the head, they don’t look serious. Check her for internal bleeding. BP is eighty over fifty. Pulse is forty-five.”

The doctor pointed to the left, toward a passageway. The paramedics heeded. He queried the nurse, “Are any of the ORs available?”

“Number two is,” she replied.

“Start rapid infusion of crystalloid solution and check her hematocrit, type and cross-match for six units,” he bellowed. He tore away her blouse and began pressing lightly on her stomach. “I want a CBC count, serum creatinine, electrolyte, amylase and blood glucose. Order a full series of abdominal X-rays. Have them ready the OR and schedule an immediate abdominal laparotomy.” He was off the stretcher now, running alongside. “Call Edwards and tell him I can assist.”

“What’s going on?” I asked frantically.

“I think your mother’s bleeding,” the doctor barked. The stretcher crashed through swinging doors. I was on my way through when a male nurse stopped me.

“You’ll have to wait out here,” the nurse advised. “Don’t worry, your mother’s in good hands.”

I froze in my tracks, breathless, confused and disoriented. I stared at the sealed doors, wondering if Ma would come out alive. Someone was holding a cup of coffee in my face. “Light with Sweet’N Low, correct?” Twain was standing in front of me. He had ditched the cloak and was wearing scrubs, a surgical mask and gloves.

“What happened to the d’Artagnan getup?”

Twain shrugged. “When in Rome—” He sat down next to me. “I’m affiliated here. I was in the OR,” he announced. “They’ve got your mother’s blood sugar corrected, but she bled quite a bit. They’ve got to operate. There’s evidence of blunt liver trauma. They’re scrubbing now. Someone will be over with a release form any minute.”

“I can give her blood.”

“They’re already administering from a universal donor, but I’ll let them know. What’s your type?”

“O negative.”

Twain stood. “I’ll find out where to go for blood donation. A hospital can never have enough.”

He looked so normal in the scrubs, clean and clinical, a Dr. Kildare for the mentally ill. Perhaps it was the circumstances, but I was beginning to feel a slight bond with the odd Dr. Twain. I was glad that he was with me. Now all I had to do was pray.

I was sipping the orange juice I had been given in the blood donor unit when Twain came back. He was still in scrubs. Lido was with me as well. I wasn’t used to having two men in attendance, in particular, two who got to me the way Lido and Twain did.

Twain was smiling. I jumped up. “She’s out of the woods,” he announced. “They repaired the damaged liver.”

“Can I see her?” I asked anxiously. Lido was next to me, hanging onto Twain’s every word.

“Soon. She’s in recovery. It was a rough ride. She won’t be herself for a couple of days.”

“Thank you, Dr. Twain.” I noticed a sheepish expression on Lido’s face. “Shoot, where are my manners? Dr. Twain, this is my partner, Detective Lido.”

“Pleased to meet you, Doc. Detective Chalice told me that you came up big for her and her mom. Thanks. Don’t hesitate to reach out if there’s anything I can do for you. You’ve made a friend for life.”

“Not at all, Detective. It’s my privilege to serve.”

Shit, I didn’t know which of them to hug first. I was getting uncharacteristically misty. The cop was gone. Only the child was left, thankful for her mother’s safe recovery from harm. “Thank you, Doctor.” I was fighting it, but couldn’t stop. My arms were around Twain. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I squeezed him tightly. Don’t hate me for this, but he was as solid as a rock, arms like cast-iron sewer pipes.

I pulled back. Twain took my hands in his. I could feel the latex against my skin. He remained cool, perhaps for Lido’s benefit. “Glad I could help.” He turned to Lido. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Detective.” Then he turned back to me. “I’m going back inside to see how your mother’s coming along.” He smiled warmly. “Then I’m going to scrub. I haven’t been in an OR in years. Too many microbes for my liking.” His eyes widened, a modest attempt at feigning nervousness. “Let’s speak tomorrow.” His hands rolled off mine slowly, very slowly. I hoped that Lido hadn’t noticed. Was it Twain who had lingered, or was it me?

He began walking away. “Hey,” I called after him, “did they use my blood?”

Twain shrugged. “I’ll inquire.” He turned away.

“That’s the cuckoo? Seems like an OK type,” Lido said.

I put my arms around Lido and rested my head on his shoulder. He was no pile of mush either. “He surprised me. I guess I’ll have to look at him differently now. Everyone came through for me. Thanks.” I kissed him. He tightened his arms around me. I felt really good, but very vulnerable. I made a mental note not to let it carry over to the job.

“I’m glad your mom’s okay.”

I was feeling spent, terribly so. I was capable of chasing rocket-fast crack-heads for miles, through alleys and across rooftops, but family really got to me. I was down a father already, and Ma . . . Thank God we caught a break. “Let’s sit down,” I told Lido. “I’m wasted.” There was a loveseat on the other side of the waiting room. We filled it.

I rested my head on Lido’s shoulder and closed my eyes. I was in the ER again escorting Ma into the operating room. It had been freaky, almost like the nightmare. It was as if all those dreams were preparing me for the real thing. Perhaps the dreams would stop now, now that I had lived through the real thing. Had the dreams been a prophecy of sorts? I hoped that was all it was. I hoped that my brief experience with psychoanalysis was over.

Lido took the Saint Christopher medal from around his neck and put it around mine. “Why don’t you wear this a while. Saint Christopher helps me get through the tough times.” He smiled at me like my dad used to when I was a little girl. “He’ll watch over you.”

I couldn’t say no. I just whispered, “Thank you.” Then I began to cry.

~~~

Twain caught up with Carl Edwards in the doctor’s locker room. Edwards looked up at Twain. “You can take the mask off now, Doctor.” He winked at Twain. “I think the patient’s safe from the risk of infection now that she’s in the recovery room.”

Twain smiled. He loosened the top lace and let the mask flap a little, then moved to the other side of the locker room and sat down in a vinyl chair out of harm’s way. “Nice work in there. It’s been years for me. Watching you work was a real treat.”

Edwards put his foot up on a chair and tied his wingtip. “I’ve performed trauma surgery for nine years. You should see some of the messes they bring me. Today was a piece of cake.” He took his left foot off the chair and put his right in the identical spot. “What’s your specialty, Dr. Twain?”

Twain seemed introspective. “Psychiatric medicine. I’m not used to actually seeing inside the body. The psyche is messy enough for me.” He glanced off into the distance. “Just a friend of the family trying to lend a helping hand.”

“You’ve got the hard job, Doctor. I just cut and patch.” Edwards rolled his eyes. “Loose screws, that’s beyond me.” Edwards straightened up. He pulled his suit jacket out of his locker and put it on. He stopped to look himself over before walking over to Twain. He extended his hand before realizing that Twain was still wearing surgical gloves. “Oh, sorry.”

Twain shot an embarrassed glance at his latex-covered hand. “Better safe than sorry,” Twain mused.

Edwards chuckled. “Thanks for running liaison with the family, Dr. Twain.” He saluted in place of the handshake and walked to the door.

“Oh, Doctor, did you use a lot of blood?”

“Eight units, I believe. It took a while to patch that liver. That reminds me, I’ll have to raise hell with the blood unit. Some moron brought in a unit of type AB. Good thing the attending doctor checked. The patient was O positive. It would have killed her!” Edwards shook his head in dismay. Twain tilted his head, expressing disbelief. “Thanks again, Dr. Twain.” Edwards turned and left.

The door closed, leaving Twain alone in the locker room to reflect on what he had just heard. It had been almost twenty-five years since he had studied blood chemistry, but there were some things you never forgot and this was one of them.