Eye Candy (13 page)

27

My mouth dropped open. I felt like screaming.

And then running. Yes. Jump up, turn around, and run out of the restaurant. Don't stop. Don't wait.

You said no to him—so he mentioned the note.

He wants you to know you
can't
say no to him.

Colin watched me calmly, cold-bloodedly. He knew why I suddenly looked so frightened. Was he enjoying my fear?

“Lindy, what's wrong?” All innocence suddenly.

“I . . .” My throat was clogged tight. I couldn't force out the words. “The note . . .”

He gripped the empty wineglass between his hands, smooth, long-fingered hands. Killer's hands?

“Yeah. I sent it to your office. Did you get it?”

My breath caught in my throat. “My office—?”

“It was in a gray envelope? From my company? Blauner and Field?”

“No. I . . . didn't see it.”

He wasn't talking about
that
note. He sent me a different note.

Or was he just toying with me? Playing a cat-and-mouse game?

Did he know I'd freak if he mentioned the note? Is that why he asked me about it right after I said no to him? And now he's
pretending
he meant a different note?

Is this some kind of sicko game he likes to play?

“I didn't get your note, Colin. What was it about?” Trying to keep my voice steady and calm.

He shifted in his chair. Was that a sign he was about to tell a lie?

“My company is having a big thing. You know, an office party. For the whole national sales staff. It's like the major party of the year. They're having it at the Met, do you believe it?”

He's telling the truth, I decided. No way he's making this up.

“I wrote this all in the note,” he continued. “I wondered if you'd go with me. But if you don't like that kind of thing . . .”

“Well . . .” I hesitated. You might be in prison by then, Colin. “It would be a good excuse to buy a dress,” I said, still struggling to make normal conversation.

He scratched his stubbly beard. “Is that a yes?”

“Let me think about it.”

I studied his face. It wasn't a twisted person's face. He seemed so sincere. What if I was wrong about him?

No, Lindy. That's not the way to think. You've got to think this way: What if I am
right
about him?

“Is that a maybe?”

I nodded. “Yes. A definite maybe.”

He paid the check.

I stood up and glanced around. “I'm going to the ladies' room.”

“I'll meet you outside,” Colin said. “I'll try to get us a taxi. We're so far downtown it might take awhile.”

When I pushed open the front door and stepped out onto the sidewalk, I noticed that the red lights from the restaurant window spilled onto the sidewalk, like puddles of blood. God, now I'm paranoid
and
morbid!

A hot wind blew down the street, fluttering my hair. I shielded my eyes from the dust in the air and waited for them to adjust to the darkness. All the stores were dark and shuttered. No one on the street.

A streetlamp across from the restaurant was out. I could hear the roar of traffic uptown, but no cars moved on this block.

“Colin?” I didn't see him. I took a few steps toward the corner, my shoes thudding the pavement noisily, breaking the silence of the narrow street.

“Colin? Where are you?”

Was he still in the restaurant? Had he gone to the rest-room, too?

The wind stopped suddenly, as if someone had turned it off. I could hear tinny music from somewhere far away. A window opened above me at the end of the block.

“Colin? Are you out here?”

I felt a tingle of fear at the back of my neck. We were so far downtown, nearly at the tip of the island, and no one was around. No cars or taxis. No people on the sidewalk.

Where was my police protection? Tommy had promised someone would be here.

“Hey—Colin!” My voice echoed off the gated store-fronts.

I turned back to the restaurant. And saw a figure step into the red puddle of light on the sidewalk.

“Colin—?”

No. The man wore a hood over his head. Squinting hard, I could make out a dark sweatshirt, the hood up, hiding his face, baggy jeans. He moved toward me quickly, arms stiff at his sides.

“Oh. No. Please.” I felt my throat tighten.

I knew the safest place to go was back into the crowded restaurant. But I'd have to run past him to get there. So I turned and started to jog to the corner. Behind me, I heard the hooded man pick up his pace, sneakers slapping the sidewalk.

He's coming after me.

I turned the corner, glancing both ways. No sign of Colin. No taxis. No one on the sidewalk. A scrawny black cat darted between parked cars and shot across the street.

I started to run full speed now.

Was the hooded guy still chasing after me? Yes. Running slow and steady, as if he knew he had me.

The paved sidewalk gave way to a walkway of wooden planks. My eyes caught the temporary plywood wall beside me. Ground Zero. I was running beside the burial ground for thousands of people, running next to the spot where the towers had come down and the people inside . . .

“Colin? Colin?” His name escaped my throat in a shrill, desperate cry.

Where is he? Did he really leave me down here?

My shoes clonked on the wooden walkway as I ran, gasping for breath. No one around. No one to help me. Running along the side of the deep hole, the enormous graveyard. I heard car horns blaring, but so far away, a million miles away.

The wind picked up again with a low howl, blowing hot against my face. I spun away. I squeezed between two parked cars and darted like the black cat to the other side of the street. Too close. I'd been standing too close to all that death.

My chest heaving, I glanced back. “Ohhh.” A low moan escaped my throat as I saw him trotting slowly, steadily toward me. The hood covered his face. He raised one hand. And in the yellow glare of a streetlamp, I saw a dark, slender object in his hand.

A knife? No. I squinted hard as he moved closer. A box cutter?

Oh God.

I spun away, turned to run, and my heel caught— jammed in a grate. I twisted my foot and let out a cry as wrenching pain shot up my leg. I tumbled forward, hit the pavement hard.

Panic swept through my body as I struggled to pull myself up.

Footsteps thudded the pavement behind me.

Before I could move, strong hands grabbed my shoulders.

“No—!” I screamed. “Please—not my face! Not my face!”

28

To my shock, the hands released me. I whirled around.

“Huh?
You?
” I whispered. “What are
you
doing here?”

Tommy Foster took a step back, his eyes locked on mine. He wore a tight-fitting, white dress shirt, halfuntucked from black denim jeans. Beads of sweat had formed along his thinning hairline. I could smell the sour aroma of beer on his breath.

“Tommy, what are you doing here?” I forced the words out, still struggling to catch my breath.

“Did I scare you? I'm sorry.” He held his hands awkwardly out at his sides, as if he didn't know what to do with them. He had stains on both shirt cuffs.

“S-Someone was chasing me,” I stammered. “Did you see him? Where did he go? He was right behind me. He . . . he had a box cutter, Tommy. He—” The words caught in my throat.

Tommy frowned and glanced over my shoulder. “I didn't see anyone. Are you sure?”

I swallowed. My throat ached from my scream. “A man in a dark hood.”

Tommy shook his head. “No. I came around the corner, and I saw you running. I didn't see anyone else.” He helped me to my feet.

“I don't understand. He was right behind me. I was so terrified. I couldn't see his face. But I saw the thing in his hand.”

Tommy shook his head. “I'm sorry. Good thing I showed up, huh? I must have scared him away.”

I stared at Tommy, still trying to catch my breath. “Yeah. Good thing. You . . . you may have saved my life. Why are you down here?”

“I drew Lindy duty tonight,” he said, with a crooked smile. “My other guys are off on other cases. Saturday night. Busy night. So I'm your guy tonight.”

I began walking slowly back toward the restaurant, the only place where there was light and people. The heel on my shoe wobbled a little, but at least I could walk on it.

“How's it going with Colin?”

I shrugged. “It's hard, Tommy. Hard to act normal. I always told my dad I'd be a lousy actress.”

“Any clues? Anything?”

“Not really.”

“Maybe he's a better actor than you are,” Tommy said, kicking a beer can off the sidewalk into the curb.

“Were you at the movies with Colin and me?”

“No. I've seen it.” He brushed sweat off his forehead with one hand. “Listen, I did backgrounds on all three guys.
Four
guys, I mean. Lou D'Amici, too. They all checked out okay.”

“Well . . . is that good news or bad?”

“Beats me.” Sometimes Tommy looked like one of those cartoon bloodhounds, all drooping jowls and mournful eyes.

“I'm all confused, Tommy. Did you follow me to tell me that?”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “No. I'm shadowing you, Lindy. I want to catch this creep. Sooner rather than later.”

“But, Tommy, listen—”

He raised a hand. “Don't say anything. I feel I . . . well . . . I owe it to Ben to . . . you know . . . kinda look after you.”

Was he blushing or was it just the lights from the restaurant window?

“Well, thank you,” I said. “I'm happy you're on the case, Tommy. It makes me feel a lot safer. How will I be able to repay you?”

“Repay me? I'm doing my job, you know. But . . . well . . . maybe you'll have dinner with me some night.”

Whoa.

Is Tommy interested in me?

I didn't have time to think about it. The restaurant door swung open, and Colin came walking out.

“Colin—where were you?”

“Lindy, I'm sorry. Have you been out here long? I told the waiter how much we enjoyed dinner, and he dragged me into the kitchen to meet the chef. They wouldn't let me out of there.”

I turned to Tommy. How would I ever explain him to Colin? But Tommy was already hurrying away, ducking his head low, so Colin wouldn't see his face, I guessed.

Colin pointed. “Who was that?”

“Just a guy asking directions,” I lied. “He was looking for a bar on West Broadway.”

Colin snickered. “He's got a long walk.” He slid his hand casually over my shoulder. “Let's find a taxi. I'll take you home.” He smiled, bringing his face close to mine. “Unless you've changed your mind about coming to my apartment?”

He didn't give me a chance to answer. He pressed his mouth against mine and kissed me. He wrapped his arms around me, held me tightly, and we kissed in the bleeding red light from the window.

“Not tonight,” I whispered. “Sorry. Not tonight.”

Please, don't let it be Colin. Please . . .

But in my heart, I knew he was the one.

29

She says her name is Ellen. Is anyone really named Ellen anymore? It doesn't matter. She's hot.

Yes, I was out with another hottie last night.

Lindy . . . Lindy . . .

No way I'm going to let Lindy get away. Once I hook them, I know how to keep my little fishies on the line.

And now here I am in Ellen's sparkling, little town house apartment, all white—the walls, the couch, the shag rug in front of the couch—just right for
shagging
? Ha ha.

We're on the low, white couch, making out like two horny teenagers who've never had sex before. We were sitting up, but now I'm on my back and Ellen is on top of me, kissing me like crazy with hot, wet lips, her tongue checking to make sure I have my back molars, her hands playing with my hair, sending chills to the back of my neck.

Wow.

I'm like ready to come in my pants, and she won't quit. I hardly know the girl. I met her after work at J.J.'s, the little bar tucked in between the two enormous skyscrapers on Third Avenue. She said she was a something-or-other at Bloomingdale's. I didn't hear. I was probably studying her tits. Nice ones. The black tube top she was wearing didn't leave much to the imagination.

I think she liked me right from the beginning. Or maybe she was just horny. She kept grabbing my arm and touching my chest, laughing at every dumb joke I made, pressing her head against my shoulder as she laughed. A clear invitation, right?

I knew I was in—even before dinner.

She had dark red lipstick on her full lips, a dimple in one cheek, black eyes that caught the light, all sparkly. She wore her straight, black hair tied in a French braid behind her back. And what else can I tell you? It was lust at first sight.

I let her drag me home after dinner. We both knew what we wanted to do to each other. Yeah, I had fun with Lindy last night. But tonight I knew I was ready for a workout. You're only young once, right?

We're still lip-locked as we make our way to her bedroom. Also white! White walls, white bedspread, white wall-to-wall carpeting, a bleached blond-wood dresser . . . What is this girl's problem? Did someone at Bloomingdale's tell her white was chic?

I check out the room over her shoulder. She won't let go of me. I have to peel her off me to get undressed. I pull off my shoes and toss them across the white carpet. I can barely stand up, I've got a hard-on the size of Cleveland.

She's suddenly got music on. I don't know where it's coming from.

No. Oh, please no. Barry Manilow.

Strike one, right?

Ellen has disappeared into the bathroom. I search around for the stereo to turn that wimp off, but I can't find it.

Okay. Whatever. I can deal with Barry Manilow. This girl is so hot, we could do it to Gregorian chants.

I tear off the rest of my clothes and throw them in a heap, pull back the white bedspread, and pile into bed. And
ta-da
—there she is, emerging from the bathroom wearing nothing but a red-lipped smile. And
what
a body.

Oh man, am I ready for her!

Her hair falls over her face as she slides toward me on the bed, and I—

I—

Ohh, I feel sick.

She's untied her braid. She's let her hair loose.

And as she turns out the bed table light, it's Mom. Yes. Mom's hair falling over her face, in shadow now but I can still see it and remember it. Her hair always too long and parted in the middle, hanging straight down like witches' hair. Mom was too old to have such long hair, all ratty and tangled. Like her brain.

Oh, Ellen.

Your hair is too long and too free.

I grab it in both hands and pull her face to mine. I kiss her hard, too hard maybe. She lets out a little cry. I keep my grip on her hair even though it makes me sick. Sick and angry.

Ellen, why did you untie it? Why did you do this to me?

Oh yes. I fuck her. But it isn't right. It isn't what I wanted. She moans and moves with me, head tossed back, long, black hair spread over the pillow like a puddle of spilled ink.

I shut my eyes and fuck her. I have to shut my eyes. Her hair is alive like a million snakes.

Eyes shut, I see each hair curling, coiling, writhing around her face, a million snakes.

I remember your hair, Mom. Does that surprise you? Does it surprise you that it still disgusts me?

I come with a soft groan, ease myself out of her quickly, and open my eyes.

The hair is all I can see. It glistens with sweat now, still fanned out on the pillow. Still breathing hard, she smiles and reaches for me, wiggling her finger.

But I raise my arm and drive my elbow hard into her larynx.

A choked whistle escapes her throat. Like the last bit of air going out of a balloon.

Her eyes bulge. She can't breathe. I drive my elbow into her throat again, and I hear something crack.

Her whole body jerks up, knees rising, arms shooting out. A reflex, I guess.

I cry out as her hair begins to move. It lifts off from the pillow, flying straight up around her face, reaching up, the long snakes reaching for me, wanting to pull me down, down, down to her face. Her face tilted at a strange angle now, eyes shut.

Is she breathing?

I don't think so.

But her hair still rises up, whipping at me, slapping at me, wrapping around my wrists, trying to grab me. What can I do about her hair?

I jump out of bed. I'm off-balance, for some reason. I glance back and see the hair standing straight up, waving in the air like black wheat.

I have to deal with it.

I find a pair of scissors in a sewing drawer. I click the scissors as I return to the bed, click them open and shut as if sharpening them.

I'm excited.

I can deal with the hair now. I have to deal with it. I can't let it stand up like that. I can't let it grab me and coil around me.

I remember this hair with such dread, such embarrassment. Mom, you are too old to leave your hair this long.

Snip, snip.

The problem is easy to solve. Why is my hand trembling? I grab Ellen's head, hold on to it to steady myself, and then continue cutting. Snip, snip. I'm cutting close to her scalp. I'm making it nice and short.

It doesn't take long. Why am I breathing so hard? It's really hard to catch my breath. I guess it's just the excitement.

When I'm finished, I toss the scissors onto the bed. I'm holding long, thick strands of her hair in each hand. It's lifeless now, like Ellen, dead and limp and oily. It doesn't wave or whip around or try to grab me.

Yes, a victory. The hair is mine. But what can I do with it? I can't leave it here. I can't carry it around.

Sometimes ideas just flash into your mind when you need them. Gripping the hair in my hands, I cross the room to Ellen's desk. I find a large, manila mailing envelope. Yes, perfect. I stuff the hair into the envelope. It makes a nice bulge. I try to flatten it.

It's a gummed, self-sticking envelope. I pull off the strip of paper and seal the envelope tight.

Very good. Very good.

Now what?

I jump as behind me, Ellen lets out a loud burp. Just air escaping.

You're dead. Leave me alone, Ellen. I'm still dealing with your hair.

Now what? Now what?

Oh, yes. I'm good under pressure.

Here is Ellen's address book. A flat, green leather book with lined pages. Her handwriting is neat and tiny.

I pick out a page at random. I run my finger down it, then stop at a name. Katie Marvin. Must be one of Ellen's friends. She lives in Quincy, Massachusetts. Excellent.

I tear out the page from the address book. I find a pen in the desk drawer. My hand trembles as I address the envelope. Katie Marvin . . . Quincy, MA. Katie, you'll receive a nice surprise in the mail.

Tomorrow I'll be sending you a souvenir of your old friend Ellen.