Don't Close Your Eyes (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 1) (13 page)

Zachary Clovin detested the smell of fresh rubber.
It was on his hands, in the air and in his nose. He’d have to scour his skin to the bone when he was done—six down, four more to go. The tennis balls had been expertly halved with a razor-knife, and now rested on the table before him, the last one still wobbling in place. He had traced a marker line around each of the balls. Accuracy wasn’t all that important, as long as the half-spheres fit within each other. Now, all ten balls had been dissected.

He picked up the ten-inch section of PVC pipe he had just cut through with a hacksaw. As with the tennis balls, the PVC emitted its own petrochemical stench as the friction-heated hacksaw blade cut through it. Clovin hated breathing in the tainted air and chastised himself for neglecting to buy a package of filtering masks. He was breathing in poison, pure and simple. It infuriated him to build another silencer, but they were so stupid, so backwards and stupid. How many women would he have to kill? The first silencer had been left for them to find. The stupid cops needed all the help they could get.

Clovin fastened a reduction fitting onto one end of the PVC pipe with four stainless steel self-tapping screws. He was livid as he picked up the first cluster of halved tennis balls and forced them, convex end first, into the pipe. He couldn’t stand handling the raw, freshly cut rubber. He could feel the eraser-like particles rubbing their way into his skin and into his bloodstream. Working quickly, he crammed the tennis ball halves into the pipe using the butt end of a hammer like a ramrod, until they were flush against the reduction fitting. He could see the yellow fuzz through the tapered three-quarter-inch opening in the opposite end.

He tore off a large wad of steel wool, forced it into the pipe, and packed it in good and tight. Finally, the remaining tennis ball halves were loaded into the pipe in the same direction as the first ten. A reduction fitting, identical to the one used on the other end, was secured. Clovin picked up his Feather 9mm rifle and test-fitted it through the opening in the reduction fitting. It was as good as the first. Holding the home-fashioned PVC silencer as if it were an extension of the barrel, Clovin dry-fired several rounds at the picture he had most recently taped to the wall. He finally laid down his weapon and began the arduous task of cleaning and disinfecting the table’s surface.

He swept all excess materials into a plastic grocery bag and knotted it before throwing it into the Dumpster.

Clovin undressed with care, not wanting to touch the cloth. He manipulated the buttons and hooks of his clothing with his fingertips so that the rubber particles would not penetrate the fabric. Clovin pushed his pants and boxers off with his fingertips and stepped out of them, using his bare feet to hold them in place.

Standing naked, he trained his eyes on the wall of photographs—pictures of lives taken and one yet to come. The photos had been arranged from memory, like a cliché of old police movies that had been catalogued in his mind. He did so intentionally. Homicidal murderers always taped their victims to the wall. There was to be no doubt as to whom he was or what he had done. The who and the what were simple. It was the why that demanded explanation. They were so completely stupid. He had almost drawn the police a map.

He rubbed his hand over the new picture; she was next. He read the article as he caressed her picture with his hand. She was bigger than the rest, a person of high profile, a former Fortune 100 CEO and now a political hopeful. What could be bigger? Her death would clear the cobwebs from their clouded minds. Nothing stirs the powers that be more than money, and her death would have serious financial repercussions.

When he stepped from the shower, his skin was blood red from the abuse of a cheap scrubbing brush. Water-diluted blood flowed in the crevices around his nails. The offensive odor of rubber was gone, yet in his mind it persisted.

He changed into clean boxers before securing his right wrist to the bedpost with a cloth strap. Two hits of Orange Sunshine rested on the nightstand next to a glass of water. He laid the first piece of blotter paper on the back recess of his tongue, the next just forward, contiguous with the first. The paper moistened, releasing the bitter substance. Hallucinogen-saturated saliva ran off the sides of his tongue. He tasted it at the back of his throat. He settled in and waited for the show. Two tabs of LSD, it was going to be like an E-ticket ride at Disney World.

Nigel Twain was seeing that which couldn’t be seen on the map: dirt roads, ramshackle homes, and abject poverty.
It had been that way ever since he had turned off State Road 3. Blustery winds pummeled his car. Caught in the draft of a livestock transport, dust whipped around Twain’s rental car. He viewed the ambient air as it swirled past the windshield and checked the setting on the climate control to ensure that it was set on recirculate. He was in his own little sanitary bubble, safe and protected from the filth of the outside world.

Except for getting stuck behind the transport, Twain had made good time coming down from Charleston. He had used Lysol to disinfect the rental car before setting off from the airport. The lemon scent was still discernable in the recirculating air.

His secretary had made an excellent wardrobe selection for him from a NoHo shop. Twain was now attired in black jeans and a plaid shirt. Calfskin driving gloves, which concealed the thin germicidally treated ones worn beneath, were uncommon but otherwise acceptable. A bandana, loosely tied around his neck would be brought up around his mouth and nose when required.

The honorable Scranton Franks of the New York State Surrogate Court had proved to be an invaluable association. Franks had been a patient of Twain’s many years before securing his appointment to the bench. His authority had allowed Twain access to records and documents that were sealed to the general public and otherwise beyond Twain’s reach.

Such had not been the case in Charleston. He had been barred access to the records kept at the Department of Vital Statistics. His New York State medical credentials meant nothing there. Likewise, his thinly veiled bribe of the official on duty had been received as warmly as a fart in church. Twain had left the state capital building disappointed and empty handed.

Light was ebbing as Twain approached the outskirts of Quarrier, West Virginia. Lightning crackled in the distant sky. A high-pressure system was moving in. The winds he had encountered on the drive in had intensified significantly.

With the assistance of the AAA, Twain was able to negotiate the simple town and found his way to the home of Dr. Everett Howls without difficulty.

He took a deep breath before exiting the car. He had made the transition from doctor to detective without difficulty. His incentive was great—he’d allow no harm to come to Detective Stephanie Chalice. He was not aware of when he had made the decision, but at some point he had, and now he was committed to her with all his heart and soul. Twain was convinced that New York’s murdering psychopath and Detective Chalice were on a collision course. He wondered,
What did he want with her?
He wasn’t sure about his powers as an investigator, but felt that his medical oath carried forward. She was still his patient and if it took a little detective work to solve her problem, well then, so be it.

In the span of forty-eight hours, he had successfully broken and entered, discovered information he considered vital to the investigation, coerced a high-standing New York State official, and taken possession of records he had no authority to legally possess. So far, so good.

Two hayseeds shot daggers at him as they marched past him on their way down the road to Billy Bob’s Bar and Grill. Thirty minutes and out, Twain surmised, before the boys have a chance to put on their hoods and grab the cross and gasoline can.

The next part would be more difficult. He’d never questioned anyone before, not as a cop anyway. He’d spent his professional career prying secrets from people, but for different reasons entirely. He had always acted as the healer and not as an instrument of justice. With that in mind, he kicked open the door of the rental car, secured the bandana around his face and ran frantically through the wind and dust to Dr. Everett Howls’ doorstep.

He rapped three times with the knocker, a brass horseshoe, while simultaneously pressing the bandana against his face to keep out the dust. “Come on, come on . . .  Open the door.”

A woman answered bitterly from behind the door. “Who’s there? Speak up. I don’t hear so well.”

“Mrs. Howls?” he began. “My name is Nigel Twain, Dr. Nigel Twain. May I speak with your husband?” The debris-charged air continued to attack him while he waited for her reply. “Mrs. Howls, is that you? Is this the residence of Dr. Everett Howls?” No reply. “May I speak with him?”

“Only if you’re a darned ghost.” The door opened abruptly. Mae Howls’ eyes widened with surprise at the sight of her unexpected visitor. “An English black man?” She was aghast.

“That’s Dr. English black man to you,” Twain mumbled.

“What? Speak up,” the obstinate old woman shrieked. “What’s your business?” She peered at Twain through wire-rimmed bifocals that seemed to sink into the creases in her puffy, weathered skin. “Why’re you wearing a mask? Just stick up a bank or something?”

“The dust—” The bandana attenuated his voice considerably. “May I come in? It’s the dust, you see.” He was holding his breath when possible, trying to minimize his exposure to the tainted air.

“There’s nothing in here of value and I’ve lost both my breasts to cancer.” She glared at him defiantly. “So there’s nothing in here worth stealing or fuckin’. Still want to come in?”

Twain twitched nervously. “Yes. Yes, I do,” he said after a moment. He was gasping for air. “Please,” he added with urgency, “I’m choking out here.”

Mae Howls stepped aside. Twain took a huge step past her, threw his head back, and filled his lungs with the musty air. He felt a sharp jab in the back of his leg. “Make some room for me. Think I want all this shit blowing in the door?” He turned to find the butt of her cane pressed against his leg. Charming!

“May I—”

“No. Don’t sit. Take that fool bandana off your face so I can see who I’m talking to and tell me what the hell you want.”

Twain backed away a bit and reconsidered removing the bandana after he smelled her foul body odor. “I’m harboring a nasty cold. It’ll be better if I don’t.”

“Crap.”

“Am I to understand that the good Dr. Howls has passed?”

“Yes,” came her shrill reply. “Dead two months. Don’t you Englishmen know nothing?”

“I’m sorry.” Twain thought,
why am I apologizing?
“Mrs. Howls—”

“Call me Mae,” she insisted. Suddenly they were kin.

“Mae, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your husband.”

“No! No! No! I
dern
told ‘em all, I don’t know nothing. Now
git
the hell out of my house before I start
ta hollerin’
rape.” Her face grew redder and redder until it looked as if it might burst. “I’m ‘n ole lady. Let me live out my life in peace,” she bellowed. “Was it Sheriff Wilde that put you up
ta
this?
Git
out, goddamn it and tell that
sombitch
sheriff not to send no more coloreds to my door.
Git
out!”

Twain held out his hands as a show of submission. “I’m going, dear. I’m going.”

He was in his car a moment later, doors locked, engine running, climate control engaged and set to recirculate. He stared at the Howls’ house in disbelief, wondering what he had done to release such a tidal wave of anger. He rested a moment until he saw her weary eyes lurking behind the drawn curtains. Then he put his rental into gear and drove away.

Clovin boarded the downtown N train at West Fourth Street, chin down, the brim of his cap tugged low enough to obscure his features.
Squeezing between two work-worn straphangers, Clovin found a concealed vantage point from which the young detective was visible. His secrecy permitted only fleeting glances at her. Yet, in his mind, he was able to hold and retain the split-second images and cast them into a detailed composite of his subject.

Traces of LSD were still in his system, just enough to color his perception and heighten his awareness. He could still taste the bitterness in his mouth, still the image on the blotter paper: a black and white etching of Jesus’ baptism. It had been one of the better trips, one that had left him wanting more, feeling supreme and self-confident.

It had been so easy to find her. The city unfolded before him. Like a giant blossoming flower, her nectar was easily found.

He wanted to learn everything about her: the sound of her voice, the tilt of her head, her smile, and her aura. He wanted to know them all. With his eyes closed, he could smell her, the delicate combination of perfume and perspiration. All of his senses were keen; he could select her odor at will from that of the other passengers on the train.

Snapshot by painstaking snapshot, he built his composite of her. By attuning his ears, he could separate her heartbeat from the others; hear the blood course through her veins and the breath whistle through her lungs. It was that which he longed to still, to silence forever, and in so doing, silence his own mania, decades of torture and anguish. “Silence,” he murmured. “Silence it forever.”

In this moment he knew her, who she was; her past.
Here I am. Turn and see me. How pathetic that she cannot hear me. She is not as strong and not as blessed as me. The newspapers have overstated her skills—Inflated adulation for a female cop, richly endowed with beauty.

Doc Howls had given him the name, but he would have known her without it, recognized her at first sight. It angered him that she did not represent a greater challenge. Why was she getting the attention and not him? It had always been that way.

A contingent of Chinese laborers spilled off the train at Canal Street. It had been their stench he had labored most to filter out.

With the distractions now gone, his connection with her was strong, as direct as a mother with her fetus. He could hear her pulse in his ears, and feel the beat of her heart in his chest. The signals grew in amplitude, louder and louder, louder and louder until they were deafening, until his lungs were on fire and his eardrums were ready to burst.

Silence her! Silence her now!
he ordered himself.
Do it now and be done. End it here!
He could feel the tips of his fingers tingle, aching to be at her throat. He could feel his arms around her, tendrils of destruction enshrouding her, asphyxiating her.
Vanquish the fire that burns within your lungs. Use this opportunity. Do it now!

The blackness of the subway tunnel grew brighter as they approached Whitehall Street. The station’s stark white ceramic tiles bleached his vision and clouded his mind.
No, not like this. Not here.
His alter ego reverberated in his head.
She must come to you. Be patient and stick to the plan.
He ground his nails into the palms of his hands until blood ran down his wrists. He raged within.
Quiet! I must have quiet!

His shoulder smashed into hers as he pushed through the crowd and exploded out the train door. “Hey, asshole, where’s the fire?” He could feel her eyes sear him as he escaped down the platform. He could feel the heat spread out across his skin, seething heat from her burning stare. Spontaneous combustion was mere seconds away. In a moment, the flames would consume him and she would win. He raced up the stairs, hoping God would send rain to extinguish the fire. At the base of the stairs, he could see the darkness of early evening in the unobstructed sky.

He faltered on the steps as the flames leapt up and surrounded him. He felt the fire inside him and all around, consuming him, charring and torturing him. He had underestimated her. Her beauty belied her powers. They were strong and lethal.

He lurched against the stairwell wall—his hand found support against the tiled surface. The tiles were cold to the touch.
Yes, cold. Cold to extinguish the fire.
He pressed his back flat against the tiled wall of ice.
Ah!
It was soothing. White ceramic doves interspersed between the pale, white tiles fluttered into his mind, calming him.
Better, better, much better.
He collapsed, fell unconscious on the steps, and remained there until a subway cop saw him and helped him to his feet.