Amanda's Eyes (13 page)

“No.  We made love; it was
wonderful.  Afterwards, he wrapped me in his arms and we fell asleep.”  The
tears she had fought so hard to contain finally broke free on a ragged sob.  “I
don’t understand this.  He was so full of life and … and …
joy
!  Dirk
never hurt a living soul!  He only wanted to help people!  What kind of animals
murder a man like that?”

The worst kind.

“Still soaking up the local ambience,
I see.”

Ellison’s voice snapped the thread
between past and present, transporting me from Pinnacle House to Hobson’s Hope
in the blink of an eye.  Unfortunately, the bleak anger that ate at me during the
interview with Rita came along for the ride.  But that was private business,
and I intended to keep it that way.

I forced my lips to curve lazily.  “You
know what they say, Hank.  It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s gotta do it.”  A
tantalizing aroma reached out to pry my eyes open.  “That smells good,” I said,
zeroing in on the white sack dangling from his left hand.

“One of Rodney’s special Southwestern
Chicken Wraps.”  When my stomach rumbled with its usual greedy enthusiasm, Hank
grinned evilly and waved the sack in my face.  “Succulent chicken breast.  Smothered
in red peppers and onions. 
Guacamole and greeeeen chilies.
”

“All right, Ellison.  Either hand
over the bag or point me towards Rodney.”

“Place is called Half-Wrapped,” Hank
said, plopping his lunch on the table.  “Turn left out of the alley, take
another left two blocks down on Orange.  But don’t let the grass grow.  He
closes at two.”  I was on my feet and half-way to the street when he called
after me, “Hey, if you’re interested in local color, Rodney’s your man.”

I lifted a hand in acknowledgement.

Half-Wrapped was a warm, yeasty
cubbyhole opening off a canopied entrance on the ground floor of a three-story
building.  The retro, greasy spoon décor included a scattering of cheap tables
and chairs, a rack crammed with bags of chips in front of a wide counter, and a
well-used grill tucked under two massive ovens set in the back wall.

The man behind the counter was big
and potbellied, his black hair pulled into a ponytail that corkscrewed halfway
down his back.  Even in the dim light I could understand how Rodney rated the
tag
local color
.  He was a walking PSA, inked from the tips of his toes
(I assumed) to his hairline.  The tats lit up in random sequence.  “Recycle
Space Junk.”  “Earth to Earthlings:  Am I Getting Warmer?”  “Get A Life:  Clone
Now.”

I was admiring a sad-eyed baby seal
perched atop the words “How Could You?” when Rodney trilled in a surprisingly
high voice, “What’ll it be?”

“Southwestern Chicken Wrap with
chips and a large iced tea.”

“For here, or to go?”

“To go.”  In no time at all he
handed me a fragrant bag and a tall Styrofoam cup.  “Thanks.  Nice ink,” I said
as I paid.

He glanced down at a beefy bicep.  “You
like it?”

“Sure.  It’s … thought provoking.”

He looked gratified.  “Right. 
People see body art like this, they’re gonna think long and hard.  They’re
gonna remember.”

“Absolutely.”

“Guy’s gotta take a stand for what’s
important, ya know?”

“You bet.”

“Hey, wow!  Was that your stomach?  I
better let you go so you can feed it.  Besides, don’t want that wrap to get cold. 
Stop by again sometime.”

I hefted the bag.  “Count on it.”

The day was radiant, and the
temperature had climbed into the fifties, so I decided to dine
al fresco
in
the tiny green quadrangle located a block beyond the
Herald
building. 
Heading back the way I had come, I sauntered along in no particular hurry, perversely
prolonging the anticipation as I savored the delectable
je ne sais quoi
Rodney’s
Southwestern added to the fall air.  The windows I passed danced with sunlight
and the ghostly doppelgängers of my fellow pedestrians.

Saunter slowed to amble when I
spotted a curbside fender-bender in front of the
Herald
.  Aside from the
vehicles involved, it didn’t look like much of an accident.  Of course, any
time an extremely pricey Grimaldi meets a boxy rattletrap, resulting in a deep crease
in the former’s rear aerodynamics,
somebody
is going to be unhappy.  In
this case,
somebody
was a middle-aged gent in an impeccably tailored gray,
Glen plaid suit.  The object of his wrath was a Caspar Milquetoast in
off-the-rack khaki slacks, a white button-down shirt, red bow tie, and shapeless
chocolate brown cardigan.

The sidewalk was clotted with
gawkers.  Happy Li and his partner, Sheila Preston, were already at the scene. 
She was mid-intersection, directing traffic in an attempt to speed up the
rubberneck crawl of motorists ogling the confrontation.  Apparently armed with
nothing more than his irrepressible smile, Happy had placed himself squarely
between the antagonists.

Hank Ellison lifted a hand in a
come-on gesture, inviting me to join him near the corner of the building.  He
nodded in greeting, then turned a rueful gaze on the accident.

“A Grimaldi, yet.”  He shook his
head and sighed.  “Bumbling Benjie strikes again.”

“The guy in the sweater?”

“Yep.  Full name, Benjamin Palmer.  Works
in our archives.  A bigger doofus you never met.  He’s the butt of every
practical joker on staff.  Never so much as says boo about it.  I can’t help
but feel sorry for him.  Fifty-three years old, and he still lives with his
mother, if you can believe that.”

Eyeing Palmer’s baby face, apologetic
demeanor, and maiden-aunt hand-wringing, I decided I could.

“Why Bumbling Benjie?”

“Because the man is a born
stumblebum.  I swear, that poor klutz could trip over his two left feet sitting
down.”  Hank gestured toward the hapless Palmer.  “Take this latest disaster,
for example.  Seems Benjie bobbled his hot chocolate while parking.  Burned the
crap out of himself and rear-ended the Grimaldi.”  Hank grimaced like a man in
pain.  “A three-million-credit Grimaldi, for God’s sake!”

A shout drew our attention back to
the affluent complainant.  Happy had him by both shoulders now, as the man
shook a fist at Palmer.

“Do you have any
idea
what
you’ve done?”  Benjie darted a furtive, humiliated glance at the rapidly
growing crowd and stuttered an apology.  “
Sorry? 
You’re
sorry?
 
You moron!  You pea-brained excuse for a human being!”  The aggrieved party flung
a hand toward his mangled vehicle.  “Custom-made.  Do you know what that
means?  Replacement parts will have to be ordered from the dealer!  It will
take months!  We’re talking
fifty thousand
in parts and labor!  That’s
more money than you
and
that fly-by-night insurance agent you mentioned
will make in your entire miserable lives!”

I don’t know what Happy said to him
then.  Probably words to the effect of,
You’re making an ass of yourself
,
because the Grimaldi’s owner suddenly seemed to notice his avid audience.  He pulled
away from Li, squared his shoulders, and tugged at the lapels of his suit
coat.  Straightening his silk tie and running a hand over his neatly barbered
hair, he shot a parting glare toward Palmer.

“Look at him,” he sneered.  My gaze and
everyone else’s automatically shifted to the deathly pale
him
in
question, now reduced to staring at his penny loafers.  “The man is a joke.  A
living joke.”

And that’s when it happened.

The earth moved.

That’s how it felt, anyway—like the patch
of sidewalk I was standing on took me on a slow glissade left.  The smooth, swift
sense of displacement made me dizzy.  I blinked and shook my head as my vision
blurred, shapes and colors blending into an indistinct smear.

I’m having a
stroke.  That was my first thought. 
Followed closely by,
Call 911.

I opened my mouth to say it, but closed
it with a toothy
click
when Benjamin Palmer snapped back into focus.  The
rest of the world remained a blur—like when you shoot a photo with the lens
wide open so everything but the subject is in soft focus?  Palmer alone stood
in vivid relief; I could see him with hyper-clarity.  The spot he had missed
shaving that morning, his ragged cuticles, the pearly button hanging by a
thread in the middle of the chocolate stain on his shirt.  His red bowtie,
brown sweater, and green eyes sizzled with color.

I almost swallowed my tongue when Palmer
erupted, morphing from five-foot-six-inch mouse to ten-foot-six-inch monster
faster than you can say growth spurt.  Bug-eyed and slack-jawed, I watched his muscles
bulk and swell until he had biceps like bowling balls and legs like tree trunks. 
His massive head swung between his antagonist and the onlookers as broad,
powerful hands with thick fingers balled into pile-driver fists.  His lips drew
back, barring oversized teeth in a savage snarl.  His eyes broadcast a
murderous rage.

I felt my hair stand on end.  Managed
a strangled, “
OhmyGod!
”

“I know.  Poor schmuck probably
wishes the earth would open up and swallow him.  Think I should go over there?”

Huh?

I dragged my goggle eyes away from
Palmer to stare at Ellison, whose face reflected only  pity.  My gaze flew back
to the
Herald’s
archivist.  I blinked, hard.  Blinked again.  But the hallucination
hung on.

This is not happening!

“—wrong?”  Hank’s fingers wrapped
around my upper arm.  He gave it a gentle shake.  “Hey, are you okay?”

The second Ellison touched me,
Palmer downsized to Bumbling Benjie, and the world eased back into focus.

“Good question,” I rasped.

“For a minute there, you looked like
you saw a ghost.”

“Or something,” was my dazed reply.

“Maybe you should sit down for a
while,” he said, towing me toward the building’s entrance.  “Put your head
between your knees.”

Houston, we have a problem. 
And whatever it was, I doubted
putting my head between my knees would make it go away.  Maybe that concussion
I had was worse than anybody thought.  Like permanent-brain-damage worse.

The possibilities seemed endless and
increasingly dire.  When a tightness in my chest made me realize I was holding
my breath, I grabbed the reins of my galloping imagination and hauled back hard
.

“I’ll take you to my office,” Hank
was saying.

We were almost at the doors.  I
planted my feet, forcing him to stop.  When I tugged on my arm he let go, but
his worried frown said he wasn’t sure turning me loose was such a good idea.

“I’m all right, Hank.”  Not even,
but I prefer my panic attacks in private.

He dipped his chin and eyed me
dubiously.  “You sure about that?  I’ve seen skim milk with more color than you
had a minute ago.”

“I look okay now, don’t I?”

“Depends.  If by
okay
you
mean you don’t look like you’re about to keel over right this
second
,
then yeah, you look terrific.”

He made another grab for my arm, but
I stepped back out of reach.

“Look, I swear I’ll go straight back
to Sadie’s.”  I held up my sack and jiggled it.  My smile was probably on the
anemic side, but it was the best I could do.  “Got to reheat my Southwestern.” 
When he grunted skeptically, I figured I had to go one better.  “Okay, what if I
promise to take it easy for the rest of the day?”

He mulled it over for a second. 
“All right, but I’m driving you back there.”

“Hank—”

“It’s either that, or I call Sadie
to come pick you up.”

Yielding to the lesser of two evils,
I shrugged.  “Hey, you want to play gallant knight to my damsel in distress,
it’s no skin off my nose.”

He latched on to my arm again and
started toward the nearest parking garage.  “Anybody ever tell you you’re a
real smart ass?”

“All the time, Ellison, all the
time.”

By the time we got to the boarding
house I had settled on
too much too soon
as the logical explanation for
the Palmer-and-Hyde Show.  I wrote the incident off as a bizarre fluke, an
optical illusion caused by me pushing the research harder than I should have. 
(As anybody who knows me will tell you, pushing too hard is my default mode of
operation.)  I promised myself I would pare my work sessions down to an hour with
an hour of rest between.

For added insurance I decided to
start wearing the glasses again.

Then I tried to put the entire
episode behind me, and for the most part, I succeeded.

Until it happened again.

Wednesday it rained, so I decided to
work at the library.

The building was four stories, limestone
with a classical façade that included three Corinthian columns, a wide flight
of steps, and enormous arched windows.  Spacious, high-ceilinged rooms were
seamed with tall shelving units dense with books.  I didn’t know how many
volumes they had, but given the fact that hard copy publishers are few and far
between these days, the Abigail Hobson Municipal Library’s stacks had to be
worth billions.

I had filched some of Sadie’s baklava
on my way out the door that morning and polished off the last bite before I
pushed through the library’s heavy double doors.  Checking out the key to one
of the fourth-floor study carrels, I jogged up the wide marble steps, key in my
left hand, because the fingers on my right were sticky with honey.

The ladies’ room at the top of the
stairs was occupied by two teenage girls and the ten pounds of makeup they had
strewn across the counter.  My arrival didn’t rate more than a dismissive
glance as one of them, a cute, curvy brunette who wore her thick hair in a bob,
leaned into the mural-sized mirror to touch up her lipstick.

The other teen reminded me of a
nymph—slender build, silky blond curls, wide blue-green eyes, and skin like
porcelain.  She wore designer jeans and a form-fitting lime-green pullover, and
her hands waved all over the place as she talked.

“I worked my butt off for that
paper, and I deserved an A!  Mean, ugly old witch!  Who ever heard of taking thirty
points off for a poorly structured bibliography?”  She tossed up her hands.  “
Thirty
points? 
Not fair!”

The brunette slid her lips together to
even out the color, then shook her head.  “How many times do I have to tell
you?  Life isn’t fair.”  She used her pinky to clean up the line of her
lipstick.  “You know what your problem is?  You’re an overachiever.  Tina
Nelson, Type A brainiac.  Me?  I would give my right arm for a C from old Mrs.
Venable.”

“Do you think it would help if I
talked to her?”  Tina sounded almost pleading.

The brunette rolled her eyes.  “Give
me a break, okay?  It’s one lousy C!  Probably the first C you’ve ever made in
your whole life!”

“I can’t afford Cs.  Not even one. 
Not if I want to get accepted by UC Davis.”

“There are other schools.”

“Not for me, and you know it.  I
want to get as far away from this town as I can.  I’d go to college on the
other side of the planet, if I had the money.”  She paused.  “God, Margo, my
dad will kill me when he sees that paper!”

Maybe it was the way she said it,
but her words pulled my gaze from my soapy hands to her reflection in the
mirror.  As soon as my eyes locked on her face that sliding, shifting sensation
hit me and the scene slipped out of focus.  I almost groaned out loud.

Not again!

Then Tina’s reflection popped into
sharp relief, and almost immediately a rainbow of bruises blossomed on her face
and neck, some fresh black-and-blue, a few aged yellow-green.  A bloody seam
widened to a fissure under her right eye.  Her lower lip ballooned, then split
like an overripe melon, sending a trickle of blood down her chin.  I stared,
torn between fascination and revulsion at the delicate features now bruised and
bloody, battered almost beyond recognition.  The eyes were the worst—blackened whirlpools
of pain, terror, and resignation that threatened to suck me under.

“—staring at?”

At the sound of Tina’s voice, the
vision started to fade.  A second or two later, it was gone.  I blinked rapidly,
then glanced from one young face to the other, trying to hide my
there are
more things under heaven, Horatio
stupefaction.  Both girls were eyeballing
me like I was an escaped mental patient.  And maybe they weren’t far off.

“What are you staring at?” Tina
repeated a tad suspiciously.

The best I could come up with was
the not-so-artful dodge, “Oh, was I staring?”

“Yeah.  You were looking at me like
… well, like ….”

“Like she had two heads,” Margo
chimed in helpfully.

“Sorry.  I was actually … uh …
thinking
. 
Thinking about something.  Else.”  I gestured vaguely, water and suds running
off my hands and down my forearms to soak the pushed-up sleeves of my dark blue
sweatshirt.  “I didn’t mean to stare.”

They weren’t buying, and who could
blame them?  I sounded like a half-wit.  Deciding to quit while I was behind, I
got busy at the sink.  The silence was deafening as I hurriedly rinsed my hands
and shoved them under the radiant drier.  I’m not the type to spook easily, but
this business was throwing me into a tailspin, and it showed.  No wonder Tina
and Margo continued to watch me warily until the door closed between us.

The rain had let up while I was hallucinating
and terrifying adolescents, so I decided to walk back to the boarding house.  I
was wound tight enough to snap, and the long hike home would both bleed off
some of the tension and give me a chance to get my thoughts in order.

I had to see a doctor.
 
That much
was obvious.  What I had to figure out was how to get to one and how to best describe
what was happening to me.

If I had my druthers, I would set up
an appointment myself, strictly on the QT, with nobody but the me and the doc
in the loop.  No use freaking out the family, right?  But I was supposed to
keep a low profile.  Maybe the Ferrymen
were
looking for me.  Maybe Klein’s
UpLink had been hacked.  Maybe they had him under surveillance.

Maybe I should get a grip.

And help.  I could definitely use
some of that.  Let somebody else worry about the integrity of Klein’s
communications.  Lucky me, I knew just the man for the job.