Don't Close Your Eyes (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 1) (14 page)

Hilary Glenn glanced at Evan Wainright as he burst through the door.
Reading the expression on his face, Hilary knew the message before it was announced. “He’s done! He’s through!” Wainright was burning the carpet to his boss’s desk. “Rubio’s thrown in the towel.”

It had been a rather somber morning, drab overcast skies, storm clouds, and the intimidation of intermittent thunderclaps. Wainright’s face brightened the room. Responding to his excitement, Hilary rose quickly, her arms opening and then closing around her campaign manager. “Thrown in the towel? More like capitulation and the abject admission of failure, don’t you think?” She gave Wainright a buss on the cheek. “You’re awesome. Did I ever tell you that? You cut Rubio’s heart out and printed it on the front page of every newspaper in New York, splayed raw, dripping blood. The man had no choice.”

Wainright licked his fingertips in mock delight. “Cut it out? I reached in and tore it from his chest.”

“How ghoulish,” she gushed.

Wainright smiled. “Anything for you, Madam Senator.”

“Not just yet. We’ve still got a long road ahead of us, a full six months of campaigning.”

“Then why is it that you can’t help blushing? You know there’s not a single candidate in the pack who’s strong enough to catch you now that Rubio’s out of the way. Come January, you’ll be the United States senator from the state of New York and then—”

“Then what?”

“Then the first female president of the United States.”

Hilary tightened her grip around Wainright and pressed against him. “Pipe dreams from a devoted campaign manager.”

“Come on, Hilary, stroke me a little.”

She pressed her mouth to his, kissing him passionately. An idle hand wandered to his groin. Wainright tried to pull away, but her grip, as her will, was ironclad. “Hilary, Jesus, I meant my ego. Stroke my ego. God, if someone walks through that door, your heart will be on the front page dripping blood next to Rubio’s.” Sweat broke out across his forehead. He tried to pull away again, but Hilary tightened her grip and then gently plucked his lower lip with her teeth. “Shit,” he swore, “that’s gonna show.”

“Power’s such a fucking turn-on. Whew!” She stole another quick kiss before letting him go. “Wasn’t it worth it?”

“Shit. We’ve got the fundraiser tomorrow night.”

“Don’t be such a baby. Put a little ice on it. It’ll be fine.”

“I hope so.” Wainright smoothed his hair and the fabric of his suit. “We can’t do this,” he warned. “There’s too much at stake.”

Hilary turned back to her desk. “I can fuck the voters of New York and if I want to, I can fuck you.” She sat down, picked up a pen and signed the document in front of her. “Don’t forget it, Evan. When you signed on as campaign manager, you signed on body and soul.”

Wainright’s jaw fell open just as he heard someone rapping on the door behind him. Thank God. It spared him the embarrassment of an innocuous and ultimately humiliating reply. “Come in,” he blurted, conjuring up an authoritative voice.

Zachary Clovin opened the door, took in the scene before him and understood exactly what had just transpired. His powers were so keen that it was as if he had just watched the entire episode on videotape.

Clovin was dressed in faded coveralls with the Harvard Services logo embroidered on a breast patch. He carried a five-gallon pail in his left hand. “Sorry to interrupt.” He spoke timidly, head buried, eyes averted. “Scheduled window wash.” He was doing everything possible to contain the contempt within him.

Hilary glanced behind her. The windows were filthy. She smiled. “Yes, by all means.” There were two large windows in Hilary Glenn’s campaign office. “Let a little light in to brighten up the place.” Clovin nodded. “Do be careful,” she continued in her pretentious politician’s manner. “Thirty-five stories is quite a ways up.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be quick.” Clovin’s eyes studied the carpet as he walked, head down, to the window. He dipped his squeegee in the pail of soapy water and began applying it to the glass.

Hilary winked at Wainright. “Thanks for the good news, Evan. Is there anything else?”

“No, no, that’s all,” he said uncomfortably. “If you’re finished signing those authorizations, I’ll drop them on Marge Caputo’s desk.”

Clovin understood the reason for Wainright’s clumsiness. He handled the squeegee deftly. The insides of the windows were done before Hilary was able to hand the documents to Wainright.

Hilary glanced at Wainright knowingly and then mouthed, “Get out,” punctuating her instructions with a warm yet forced smile. Wainright countered with a sheepish smile of his own and then walked to the door. Clovin had already fastened his harness to the outside of the window frame and was shimmying out.

Clovin watched the door close behind Wainright. He slid the window down until it made contact with his legs and then pressed down a little farther for an added feeling of security. Glenn was back at work. Clovin’s pulse quickened. He liked watching, planning, imagining, and fantasizing above all else.

There was no conscious connection between Clovin’s brain and the precise movements of the squeegee. All relevant thought was focused on Hilary Glenn, former CEO of Vycon Petroleum, senatorial hopeful, and his next victim.

He focused first on the back of her head, studying the apex of her parted hair. Roots of black and gray were just visible in the crevice where the beautician’s dye brush had not reached. Her hair was straight and bluntly cut. It terminated at mid-neck. Clovin was delighted at the sight of her pale and slender neck. It was almost a child’s neck, smooth and hairless. He could see her well from where he sat. He could feel himself touching her and savoring the supple tissue of her skin beneath his fingertips.

The office was thick with her perfume. He had gathered her scent in his mind and now relished it. It was a familiar bouquet that Clovin had come across before, CK something or other. All the young harlots wore it. Glenn was a bit older than the rest, closer to fifty than forty. He had to imagine her as a younger woman. It took an extra but rewarding effort.

Glenn had taken good care of herself. Clovin’s eyes ran down the back of her blouse. He had an excellent angle from which to appreciate her and familiarize himself with her contours. He lingered on the slender hollow of her waist. He closed his eyes and felt himself behind her. His arms were around her now, one around her tiny waist, his hand over her mouth. His thumb and forefinger pinching her nostrils firmly and effectively, yet not hard enough to cause a bruise. His face was buried in the recess of her sylph-like neck, the aroma of her perfume pervading him, intoxicating him. She was a child in his arms, weak and defenseless. He could feel her struggle for air, writhing against him, and stimulating him but not sexually. This was not about lust. These roots were deeper, much deeper.

She was powerful with toned, well-conditioned muscles. Her struggle was excellent, better than the rest had been. It took additional effort to keep her under control, to restrain her. He liked the fight and liked winning even more. She was exhausting herself in his arms, struggling against hope, oxygen-deprived muscles becoming fatigued, spent, and exhausted. He felt her heave. Her lungs were already filled with carbon dioxide, her own self-manufactured poison. It disappointed him when she began to abruptly weaken. A moment later he had to hold her up, as she had grown slack within his arms. She was perishing, almost lifeless. In ten seconds, it would all be over. He thought about giving her a breath, a second wind, but that would have been cruel and this was not about cruelty. This was about right and wrong. A man was meant to be king in his castle and never anything less.

A sharp rapping noise abruptly brought him to attention. Glenn was in front of him, smacking her solitaire diamond ring against the window. “Hey! Hey! Are you all right?”

Clovin’s eyes opened slowly, dreamily. A moment passed before he knew what had happened. He took a deep breath before yanking the window up. He looked ashamed. “Sorry. I guess I’m getting too old for this.”

“You’d better get in here. You scared the hell out of me!” Glenn grabbed him by his coveralls as he unfastened his safety rig.

“That’s all right,” he said as he slid off the window ledge. “I’m all right now.” He stumbled as his feet hit the ground. Glenn’s hand caught his.
No! No! Don’t touch me.
He felt the softness of her skin against his.
No! Stop!
Her embrace was provoking him, calling him into action.
Not now
, he told himself.
It’s too soon.
He looked into her eyes. His eyes were red, wild and frightening, like those of a tortured beast.

His intimidating gaze forced Glenn to take a step back. “Do you need a doctor?” she asked.
How about a straightjacket?

Clovin felt the contact break. Control returned as her hand slipped through his fingers. “No, just a little embarrassed. I’ll be fine.” He straightened. “I’ll get someone else to finish. Sorry.” He grabbed his bucket and harness and hurried to the door. It snapped shut behind him.

“No problem,” Hilary Glenn muttered. She was practicing her acceptance speech in her mind. Strange man, she thought. A moment later, she went back to work, having no idea that she had just courted disaster.

Twain leaned on the horn.
The service station looked open. He could see an attendant with his feet up on the desk in the office some thirty feet away. He’d been waiting several minutes and no one had come out to take care of him.
What does it take to get a tank of gas anyway?

Another moment passed before Twain hit the switch that electrically lowered the window. “Pardon me. Pardon me.”
Opie is either deaf or ignoring me.
Twain was really starting to hate the small West Virginia town. It had taken him half the night to disinfect his motel room.
Thank God I packed my own linens, towels, and pillows.
The motel’s name was the Weathervane, but Twain had dubbed it the Malarial Vector. A full can of Lysol and half a box of alcohol wipes had been exhausted and yet he still felt as if the night had left him contaminated.

A twister had set down overnight and torn up part of the town. Though the Weathervane was well out of harm’s way, Twain had thought the rickety motel door might come apart at any time. The fear of having the filth-saturated wind howl into his room made for particularly poor sleeping. Although the morning was clear and sunny, Twain was not.

Twain leaned on the horn again. This time the attendant got off of his chair. He came to the door and hollered, “We ain’t got no
gazz
.” He looked at Twain with pity.
Darn fool.

Twain’s temper boiled over. He slammed the gear selector into park, shut off the engine, and jumped out of the car. As he did, an electronic voice reminded him to take the keys out of the ignition. “Is everyone in this town rude?” he muttered. He stomped off toward the office. Ten feet in front of it, he halted in his tracks and reached for his bandana. He considered his proximity to the bumpkin, about ten feet away in bright sun with no wind. There was no need for it; even redneck microbes couldn’t jump that far. All the same, he tugged it into place. It was time Nigel Twain made a statement of his own. “Why don’t you put up a sign if you’re out of gas?” Twain swore.

“Ain’t got no sign,” the attendant explained.

Naturally.
Twain fumed while he considered his alternatives. “Where’s the next station?” Exasperation seasoned his words.

The attendant pondered the simple question. “About twenty miles up the road.”

Twain did some quick calculations.
The low fuel light will be flashing the entire time. I’ll have to listen to that stupid electronic warning voice for half an hour, but I’ll probably make it.
He eyed the attendant and assessed that he was in his mid-forties with thinning hair and bad posture. He was muscular with broad shoulders. Twain looked into his eyes.
The bloke’s pilot light hasn’t been lit for years.

“Well, well, well. What we got here?” A man in overalls and a faded Atlanta Braves baseball cap came out of the garage wiping grease off his hands. Gray pork chop sideburns protruded from the cap and extended down the sides of his face. “Do my ears deceive me? A black man talking the King’s English?”

“Yes!” Twain replied indignantly.
How would you know the King’s English?
He was not accustomed to being such an oddity, nor was he accustomed to being in the company of those so provincial.
Remember where you are
, he told himself. “And you are?”

“Well, this is Pruett’s Repair, ain’t it? Well, I’m Pruett.” The man advanced, laughing and extending his grimy hand. He spat chewing tobacco at the ground next to Twain’s feet. “Sam Pruett, I’m pleased to
meetcha
.”

Twain sidestepped Pruett’s excreta and then eyed his filthy paw apprehensively. He began coughing violently and placed his hand over his mouth to contain it. He poured it on long enough to intimidate even the likes of dirty old Pruett, and made a face at his own slobbered-on hand. “Better not,” Twain explained. Pruett stopped advancing. Twain blew a sigh of relief.

“Are you from England?” Pruett inquired.

Twain nodded. “London, actually. Are you?”

“Me?” Pruett slapped his leg and started howling. “Me? That’s funny. A funny, black Englishman. Well, I’ll be darned.”

And you’re a bum hole
, Twain thought.

Pruett glanced off in the direction of Twain’s rental. “Is that one of those talking cars? I swear I heard it remind you to take your keys.”

“Yes, it is,” Twain replied. “Well, actually, it’s a rental.”

“Well, I’ll be darned,” Pruett commented. “My car don’t talk.”

Probably a cognitive disorder
, Twain mused.

“What’s your name?” Pruett inquired.

Twain pondered the request and then figured,
What the hell
. “Twain. Nigel Twain.”

“Nigel Twain,” Pruett repeated. “That sure sounds like an English name. Nigel, is that right? I’ve never had an Englishman in my station, let alone a black one. There many black fellas like yourself over there in London?”

No, I’m the only one.
“Several, actually.”

“Is that right? Well I’m right proud to meet an English black man.” Pruett registered his hands on his hips and then looked over his shoulder at the other attendant. “Richard, an English black man, do you believe it?” Richard stared blankly and did not comment. Apparently Richard was not the brightest bulb.

“Richard!” Pruett hollered. “This fella’s from England. Ain’t ya got nothing to say?”

Richard pondered the request. “Hi.”

“Go tote them new tires into the bay, will ya?” Pruett ordered. Richard nodded. He seemed happy to be off the hook. “Simple as a stick,” he whispered to Twain. “Been that way ever since I found him, charred from fire, scared half to death, thrashing around the woods like the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz. Po’ thing, couldn’t even remember his name. Good around the shop, though. Strong as an ox.”

“That’s sad. Did he have any psychological counseling?”

“A shrink?” Pruett slapped his leg again. “In these parts? We ain’t even got a general doctor no
mo’
. Doc Howls was the last one and he got sent to the penitentiary. And that’s been a good five years. What’s with that bandana a
yers
?
Fixin’
ta rob a bank? Ha, ha.”

“Ha, ha,” Twain mimicked.

“I’m recovering from a bit of oral surgery; afraid you might find the sight of my lip a bit unsettling.”

“I see.”

“I’m vaguely familiar with that name. Are you referring to Dr. Everett Howls?”

“You know him?” The surprise was good enough for a third slap on the leg. “What a small world, a foreigner like you knowing old Doc Howls.”

“I’m not a foreigner. I’m from New York. I came down here to ask Dr. Howls a few questions. An odd matter came across my desk that required the doctor’s explanation, but I understand he passed away.”

“Has he? Ain’t heard nothing ‘bout him in years. His missus is a real mutt. I don’t waste no time trying to make conversation with that old girl.”

Amen,
Twain concurred.

“Well, I can’t say I’m sorry to see him go, seeing what he done.”

“And that was?”

Twain could see the West Virginian sun burning in the reflection in Pruett’s station window. The man smiled at him. “Come on inside and set a spell. I’ll tell ya all about it.”

An unexpected thought occurred to Twain as he entered the garage.

“Something wrong?” Pruett asked.

“No. Why do you ask?”

“You just got a funny look on your face.”

“It’s nothing,” Twain replied, but in his mind the seed of possibility had already begun to grow.