Don't Close Your Eyes (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 1) (12 page)

My cell phone was ringing.
I dashed the length of the corridor and turned the corner into Ma’s room in the ICU. Lido had gotten a little bored the other day and had monkeyed around with my phone’s ringtones. A twenty-decibel rendition of “Foxy Lady” was pouring out of my shoulder bag: two bars, three, four. One more and it would switch over to voice mail. “Hello,” I said in a breathless voice. “Chalice.”

“Detective, hello, how’s Mother coming along?”

I’d know that voice anywhere. It drew an immediate physiological response. I won’t go into it again. “Dr. Twain, hi,” I said excitedly.

“Just checking up. I do hope there’s good news.”

I hurried out of the room. The phone wasn’t supposed to be switched on within the hospital’s confines, let alone Jimi Hendrix blasting in the ICU. There was a small lounge at the end of the hall. I rushed to it as I replied, “She’s still in ICU, but she’s awake and she started asking for food half an hour ago. I guess we’re out of the woods. You sound far away. Where are you?”

“I’m on my cellular. I would like to go out of town for a spot. Is there anything you need from me before I go?”

“When will you be back?”

“Two days or less; an impromptu holiday sort of thing. Is that all right? I’ve left instruction with my office to forward your calls to me wherever I am.”

“Whatever it is, it’ll keep.”

“Send my fondest wishes to Mum. I’ll call you as soon as I get back.”

“Take good care, Doctor.” I meant it.

~~~

Dr. Twain stowed his cell phone. Having verified Chalice’s location, he then pulled a ski mask over his face. His gloves, as usual, were already in place.

He emerged from the stairwell with keys in hand and proceeded to let himself into Chalice’s apartment. His office would return the keys to her in the morning, stating that they had fallen from her purse and had been found in Dr. Twain’s car. He had filched them in the hospital during the confusion and hysteria. It was a bold move for Twain, but one that he embraced with verve and excitement. The mismatched blood types had aroused his suspicions. It was imperative that he learn more.

Once behind closed doors, Twain flipped on the light switch and headed directly for the bookshelf. It was filled with paperbacks, mostly thrillers and police procedurals, not at all what he was looking for.

Twain marveled at how exquisitely Chalice’s bedroom was decorated. It was feminine and tasteful. It included an antique chiffonier and a sleigh bed of reasonable quality. The room held the remnant fragrance of her perfume. Twain allowed it to waft through his mask and found it intoxicating.

Her bedspread was a divine bone and china blue foulard adorned with a delicate detailed fringe. It reminded him of his childhood in London.

He glanced around the room, squinting through the uncomfortable cutouts in the ski mask. He thought of taking it off, but was too nervous to do so. Chalice might send someone to collect fresh clothing. The possibility of being discovered by Lido or another close friend weighed heavily on his mind.

There was no sign of what he was looking for. He was about to check the living room, but stopped. The force that had retained him was almost involuntary. He sat down on the edge of her bed and ran his hand over the quilt.
Blast!
The cool texture of the high-count percale was lost to him. He couldn’t feel anything through the gloves.

Twain bent down and sniffed the fabric. He could smell her on it. Her essence and aura were there. He closed his eyes and she was there with him, alongside him. He reached out to caress the fabric one more time. His hand dropped, only to stop an inch from the surface. How would the touch of her bedding feel to his bare skin? He withdrew his hand nervously. A moment of divine pleasure, to be followed, he was sure, by an eternity of neurosis. Along with her lovely scent, there were undoubtedly bits of skin and hair, bacteria-infested tissue. Dare he? He could wash, after all, disinfect in his ritualistic manner. He ran his hand along her supple, imaginary leg and felt himself tighten in spasm. Off! Off with it! The glove was off in a second. A micron’s width separated the tactile pads of his fingertips from the cotton’s luscious surface. There he froze, waiting, wanting, trembling, tempting fate.
No!

He sprang from the bed and into the living room. He felt uncomfortable, a sense of being watched. Twain stilled his breathing and attuned his ears to the silence. A moment passed. Nothing. His eyes traveled around the room as he stood, silently waiting for any sound to confirm his suspicions. Still nothing. He finally released his breath. A smile came to him, pushing the paranoia from his mind. It was on the coffee table. Twain sat down on the couch. He refitted his glove before he began leafing through Chalice’s family photo album.

The most recent pictures were dated. Twain passed them quickly and continued to flip toward her past. He was getting closer. As he flipped the pages, Stephanie Chalice was going back in time, growing younger. He saw it all, drawing impressions along the way, as she regressed from a woman back into a child: the Police Academy, college, high school, middle school, and finally elementary school.

The dating stopped, or rather, it had begun in the early seventies. He was near the end of the album now and still hadn’t found what he was looking for. He flipped a few more pages and saw the precious newborn. He marveled at her simplicity and innocence. He couldn’t help feeling that he knew her, that he had always known her, had always wanted to know her.

He regarded the unspoiled child in the photo. Guilt rose within him. He was an unwanted visitor in her home and now in her life. He thought of what he had contemplated scarcely minutes earlier and felt ashamed. How could he have considered it? How could he have violated and defiled her home? Thank God, he thought. Thank God he had not. Tension started to creep over him again. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was not alone. He continued to feel uncomfortable, despite the fact that the apartment was silent.

And then he saw it. The photo had been taken before she was born. He slipped the picture out of its mounting brackets and flipped it around. The date was inscribed in pencil. It had likely been there for an eternity, before Chalice had grown into a woman and developed a nose for such details, a nose for inquisitiveness. He was sure that she had never checked the date. It was the one fact she had accepted unconditionally. Twain looked at the photograph of her parents just days before she was born, and his eyes began to mist over. He knew it was a lie.

“Why’d you waste your money on those?”

Ma’s voice was still weak. She tried to mask her appreciation, enshroud it in cynicism. I knew better. I fussed with the bouquet of yellow tulips nonetheless: primping, fanning, arranging, anything to ignore her artificial argument. “There, aren’t they beautiful?”

It took but a moment for her heart to betray her. “Yes. Yes, Stephanie. They’re beautiful.” She grimaced as she spread her arms. “My sweet, beautiful girl.” Tears began to glide down her cheeks. A moment later, we were in each other’s arms, weeping sweet tears of joy. “I’m sorry I’ve been such an old pain in the ass.”

“It’s all right, Ma. You’ll be home making lasagna in no time.”

“Lasagna? I’d be happy with a mouthful of anything.” Her IV was still in place, a sorry substitute for a steaming bowl of pasta.

I smiled sympathetically. “Give it a little time.”

“None of this would have happened if the staircase had been better lit,” she insisted. “I don’t know how many times I’ve complained to the superintendent about the damn lighting.”

“Ma, the lighting on the staircase is bright enough to give you a suntan. You passed out because your blood sugar was all screwed up. Admit it, you were cheating again, weren’t you?”

“Bah!”

“That’s not going to work this time, Ma. Come on. Let’s face it; your days of sucking down Hershey bars are over. You’ve been caught red-handed.”

She looked up at me shamefully. Then she brightened. “Let’s talk about you, my darling daughter.”

“Let’s not change the subject. I want you to swear to me on all that’s good and holy. Swear to me that you’re not going to eat any more chocolate. It’s certain death for you, don’t you get it?”

“Okay, okay. You’ve got me,” she acknowledged unhappily. “I’ll buy that god-awful dietetic crap. Happy?” she snapped.

The twinkle was back in her eye. “Ecstatic, Ma.” I kissed her forehead.

“Now, what about you? How long are you going to chase murderers and crazies? What about my advice to you? What about the money we put away for you? Take it and put a deposit down on a nice little house on Long Island. Stop worrying about right and wrong and diabetes. Live a little.”

“I’m not ready to settle down, Ma. I’ve told you over and over, I like what I do.”

“You’ll like children more.” She began to mist up again. “I did.”

“Don’t start, Ma. It’s not fair. You’re not strong enough to go the distance.”

“I can go the distance with you. “

“Bah!” I said. A little tit for tat.

Ma shook her head in dismay. “Then buy the boat. Maybe you’ll meet a nice sailor.”

Ma!” I pretended to be shocked.

She was facing a lifetime without chocolate. It made me blush, but I had to say something to her that would make her happy. I had to give her something to look forward to, wedding plans, grandchildren, all of that kind of nonsense. “I’m dating someone.”

“Who? That’s wonderful. Do I know him?” A painful spasm brought an end to her excitement.

“Take it easy, Ma. Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine.” She grimaced. “Spit it out already. Who is it?”

“I’m not talking.”

“Come on, Stephanie, give your mother a little happiness.”

“I’m not ready to talk about it.”

“Why?” She was visibly disappointed.

“Because I don’t know if it’s anything more than a playful romp. I’ll let you know if we get hot and heavy.”

“Why’d you save me?” Her swearing was half anger and half jest. She gazed skyward momentarily and then motioned for me to come closer. “Invite him to dinner. Let me check him out for you,” she whispered. “I’ll let you know if he’s worthwhile in two seconds.” Then she noticed the Saint Christopher medallion around my neck. “You get that from him?”

“Yes.” I nodded.

Ma crossed herself. “Thank you, God. Thank you.” A broad smile crossed her face. “A nice Italian boy?” I nodded. Gus was only half Italian but I don’t think it really mattered. “All right then. I’ll be patient, but not for long.” She shook her finger at me for good measure.

The door swung open behind us and the nurse came in. Thank God. It was time to take Ma’s blood pressure and temperature again. The nurse approached with one of those electronic thermometers. “Not again.” Ma swore.

“Stop bitching. It’s your own fault,” I told her.

“Stephanie.” She scowled at me and bit her lip.

“Look at the bright side,” I continued. “They used to take temperature rectally.” Ma grunted and wrinkled her nose.

“Can you step outside for a moment?” the nurse asked.

“Sure, I can use a cup of coffee. I’ll be right back.”

“Ask him to dinner, Stephanie. It’ll give me something to look forward to.”

She was beaming now. I tell you, they’re all the same; mothers, I mean. She’ll be crocheting booties before you know it.
Fat chance, Ma. Just what you need, a cop for a son-in-law. And maybe he’ll bring you a nice box of chocolates when he comes over for Sunday dinner. I don’t think so.

Zachary Clovin awoke at 5:00 a.m. feeling refreshed and full of vigor.
Consistent with his morning ritual, Clovin took a cool shower, shaved with a disposable razor and Colgate shaving cream. He then made himself an omelet: four eggs, cheddar cheese and lots of Tabasco. He smothered the eggs with ketchup and washed them down with three steaming cups of Chock full o’Nuts—black. He was still naked when he cleared the dishes.

Clovin washed his plate by hand, scouring the surface with hot water and Bon Ami. Satisfied that the plate had been sterilized, he cleaned his fork and spoon in the same manner until the flatware took on a finely brushed finish. He dried the utensils and placed the plate back in an otherwise empty cabinet. He took extra time with his coffee mug. He rubbed it until his fingers were raw, until every last trace of coffee stain had been removed. He sniffed his fingertips for trace odors of egg or cheese. Dissatisfied, he showered again, this time in scalding hot water.

He had showered for hours after killing each of his victims, after holding those girls in his arms. He had gotten too close to the tram conductor and gotten the bloody spray all over himself. He had burned his clothing after that killing. His clothes were dirty, filthy, and vile.

Clovin dressed in khaki pants and a plaid shirt. He had laundered and pressed them himself; half a can of spray starch had been consumed in the process. His lace-up shoes were the height of young men’s casual footwear, but Clovin cared nothing for fashion. They reminded him of the standard issue combat boots he had worn for most of his life. He cinched his Sam Brown belt and stepped up to the window of his apartment. Looking out onto the street, Clovin observed that the mailman had just made his delivery. This pleased him. His government disability check arrived like clockwork every month on roughly the same date.

He returned home after cashing his check. The fee he paid at the check-cashing store was outrageous, but necessary. Clovin maintained no banking relationships and handled all transactions in cash. He had stopped at the local supermarket for supplies: SPAM, canned vegetables, white bread, bananas, three cans of Niagara spray starch, Colgate shave cream, Scotch Tape, and all the local newspapers.

Clovin was feeling upbeat. He put away his supplies, unbuttoned his shirt and placed it neatly over the back of a kitchen chair, careful not to wrinkle it.

He uncapped a fresh can of Colgate, ran hot water in the bathroom sink until the room was filled with steam and lathered his skull. He proceeded to drag the disposable razor over his head for twenty minutes before he was satisfied that his skull was completely smooth.

He had browsed through the Daily News on his walk home from the supermarket and was delighted to finally find an article that aroused his particular sense of interest. A week had passed without his finding anything he deemed worthy of his time.

Clovin undid his shoelaces and placed his shoes alongside the bed. He noted happily that they had not been scuffed on his morning walk. He stripped off his slacks and placed them on a hanger before picking up his newspapers and lying down on the bed with them.

He lay on his side, his head supported by his hand, his arm bent at the elbow. Clovin stroked each sheet of the newspaper as he turned the pages, gliding his fingers over the pulpy surface of the paper, allowing its texture to stimulate his raw fingertips. His temperature was rising. His senses were acute. He could smell the faint aroma of kerosene waft up from the newspaper’s cheap ink.

Clovin flipped another page. His eyes enlarged when he saw the headline. He read the story six times, until finally he had committed all of it to memory. Each word, the exact pronunciation of every name, the place, the time of day, and the covering reporter had become as one with him.

The story was not covered in the Post but he found it in the New York Times. The Times article was lengthier and far more detailed than the one he had read in the Daily News. He read it eight times, growing excited, until once again, it had been totally committed to memory. He pleasured himself by rubbing his hand over his boxers, rapidly stroking. He jumped off the bed and sprinted the short distance to the bathroom. He pushed his shorts down to his knees before discharging himself into the toilet. Clovin wrapped a Kleenex around his penis so that it wouldn’t drip onto his boxers and then propped himself up against the wall, exhaling heavily, savoring, waiting to settle down.

A moment later, he tossed his socks and boxers into his laundry basket and showered for the third time. He wrung every last drop of ejaculate from himself. After removing the drain plate, he aimed carefully, urinating into the drain before stepping from the shower. Once out, he turned the hot water in the shower on full blast. He put on fresh boxers and socks. He let the scalding water run a good ten minutes so that it would sanitize the shower floor. He poured Clorox over the drain for good measure.

Clovin got back into bed with sharp scissors and a dispenser of Scotch Tape. He clipped the two articles from the newspapers and taped them to the wall alongside the others: Sandra Desmore, Mary Beth Samuels, Amy Pollack, Ellen Redner, and finally Samantha Harris.

He had murdered them all, suffocated each one in the same fashion. He blocked the air from their noses with one hand and their mouths with the other. He had supported their lifeless bodies in his arms and kissed them gently on their cheeks before laying them to rest.

He got off the bed and glared at the pictures on the wall, the faces of the lives he had taken. He spat at them with loathing. His lungs seized while they were full of air. He could feel his blood pressure skyrocket. He started to shake and tremble until his knees buckled and he collapsed onto the floor breathless and sobbing.

He took a hinged picture frame off the dresser and held it in his hands like a delicate flower. His darling daughter Sheryl had died so young. She had possessed such intelligence and such warmth . . . such disappointment. She had been only twelve years old when God had received her back into His kingdom. He pressed the glass of the picture frame against his face. Tears dripped from his eyes and ran onto the glass, pooled there, and then trickled onto the floor. Poor Sheryl. It was such a tragic story, one that had haunted him for thirty years.

Five women had died and yet it seemed the police had nary a clue. The first three murders had been far too subtle. In a city like New York, three dead women found in random settings did little more than raise an iota of attention. He needed to make the killing more obvious.

The next two killings were more dramatic. A man had been killed with each of the next two women. He was not only choosing victims, he was creating his own crime scene. There was no doubt anymore. The last two murders had been reported in the news. The police had not reported a connection between the two, but Clovin knew that the disassociation was intentional. There was no mention of the clues he had left or of the fact that the incidents were virtually identical.

A moment later, he switched his gaze to the newspaper article that occupied the other side of the picture frame. His lip curled in anger, his tears dried, and his face reddened with contempt. “The devil,” he swore. The photo in the newspaper article depicted New York City Detective Stephanie Chalice taking Gamal Haddad into custody on New Year’s Eve.

Howls, the sick old doctor, had betrayed Chalice and confessed to his crimes on his deathbed. Clovin had waited three decades to approach the man and found him rotting in the penitentiary.

The military had kept Clovin focused, or rather, distracted. They say an idle mind is the devil’s playground. The last thing Clovin needed was time to think about the voices, the memories, and the pain—burnt and bloody flesh, tortured souls screaming in his head. She had caused them and there was but one way to put the pain to rest. It had taken him thirty years to realize that his job was only half done.