Hide Your Eyes (23 page)

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Authors: Alison Gaylin

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Contemporary, #Sagas

BOOK: Hide Your Eyes
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We were standing on the brink of the store’s three front steps. I tried calling the precinct again, but couldn’t get a connection; the phone’s battery was low.
Yale patted his pockets. ‘I left mine at Peter’s.’
‘Oh, well.’
‘Maybe we should wait for the police anyway.’
‘They might never show.’ I made myself walk up the steps. ‘What could happen anyway? It’s business hours. There are plenty of people outside.’
One, two, three
. . . I held my breath, crossed my fingers, pushed open the door.
Go!
The first thing I noticed was an electric train buzzing around a miniature, snowy mountain town atop a large table in the center of the store.
It looked like it had been set up for Christmas. There were tiny, multicolored lights in the miniature flocked evergreens, tiny people waving, frozen, out of cabin doorways, as the little train chugged by.
Glass counters encircled the train-set area, filled with colorful antique toys. Shelves full of brightly labeled paints and hobby kits lined the walls, with completed projects interspersed - candles, mini-stained-glass windows, Christmas ornaments, jewelry, dolls.
A chorus line of vintage Barbies popped cleverly out of a pink silk hatbox against a wall. One was dressed like a stewardess, another was in a nurse’s uniform, still another wore a bikini. Not a Schoolteacher Barbie in the bunch.
There were plush stuffed animals in antique chairs, model airplanes and spaceships hanging from the ceiling. It was cheerier in here than I would’ve imagined - inviting really, despite a complete lack of human life. ‘Nice place,’ said Yale. I wasn’t sure he’d followed me in until then.
There was a counter with an old-fashioned cash register and a silver bell, which I rang for assistance.
After several rings, a guy about my age lumbered into the room. He had spiky blond hair and a goatee, and he easily weighed 250 pounds. No way was he Evan. ‘Can I help you?’
I cleared my throat. ‘Does anyone work here - a man, who has Magic Mirrors contact lenses?’
His big face colored slightly. ‘No.’
‘You sure?’
‘Well . . . My girlfriend bought me a pair, and I wore ’em to work one time. Thought I looked cool until I made a little girl cry.’
Yale gave me a nudge. ‘False alarm.’
‘Excuse me?’
Make sure
. ‘You don’t happen to know an Evan Intaglio, do you?’
‘No, but I know his brother, Earl Flangeneck.’
We stared at him.
He chuckled.
‘What’s so funny?’ I asked.
‘Oh . . . Sorry. You’re seriously looking for somebody by that name?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Because Intaglio is a doll maker’s term. I’ve never heard of it as a last name.’
‘I told you it was fake,’ Yale said.
‘What . . . does it mean?’
‘Intaglio means concave in Italian, I think. It’s an effect done on antique dolls’ eyes. They scoop out the area, paint the iris in the concave space. Makes it look like the eyes are following you around the . . . Are you okay?’
The electric train whistled, turned a corner.
Chugachugachugachuga
. . .
‘Do you want to sit down or something? You look kind of—’
Scoop out the area
.
‘Sam?’
Finally, I found my voice again. ‘Have you ever heard of . . . Liquitine paint?’
‘Who hasn’t? I mean, in this business.’
‘What’s it used for?’
‘Everything, pretty much. Model building, paint by numbers, doll restoration . . .’
‘Doll restoration.’
Chugachugachugachuga
. . .
‘You can mix it with water to color dolls’ hair, use it to restore facial features or makeup. It’s pretty versatile.’
Chugachuga woooooo
.
I said, ‘They’re the right size.’
‘Who is the right size?’ said the clerk.
‘Kids. Dolls.’
Yale said, ‘He’s a doll freak?’
Have you ever touched a corpse’s skin? It’s cold and stiff. Perfect
. ‘The makeovers. He’s restoring them. The eyes . . .’
‘Intaglio.’
‘Right.’
‘What is up with you guys?’
I looked at the clerk’s name tag:
RANDY
. ‘Thanks, Randy, you’ve been a big help. See you later.’
Just outside the store, my cell phone rang. The battery was so low, I could barely hear the voice on the other end. After shouting ‘hello’ a few times, I realized it was Sam, Krull’s guard from the hospital. ‘Where . . . you?’ he said.
‘I’m—’
‘You’ve got . . . here. The . . . detective . . . see you.’
‘What?’
‘. . . nurse couldn’t find you . . . blood pressure . . . He’s really worried . . .’
‘Oh, shit.’
‘Just get back here. Please.’ He hung up.
When I told Yale, he said, ‘You go to the hospital, I’ll go to the precinct house. We’ll confab later.’
A free cab pulled up and he let me take it. Like a gift from God, the driver had an old cell phone similar to mine, and a charger plugged into the cigarette lighter.
I held out the near-dead phone. ‘Please,’ I said, and he quickly removed his cell, plugged mine in. Perfect fit.
Thank you
.
‘Where to?’ ‘Where to?’
‘St. Vincent’s.’ The driver sped off, leaving my stomach in his wake.
I read his ID tag; his first name appeared to be Enog. Gone spelled backwards.
After about a minute’s thought, I borrowed Enog’s phone, called the hospital and asked for the ICU.
‘He’s stabilized,’ said the nurse. ‘We gave him some more sedatives.’
‘Can you do me a favor and just tell him . . . tell him I’m having lunch . . . in the cafeteria.’
‘Will do.’
When I handed his phone back, Enog winked at me, as if I’d passed him a note in class, then kept driving. He jolted forward and stopped suddenly so many times, it became almost rhythmic. I found myself reminded of the train whistle at Cinderella’s.
They scoop out the area, paint the iris in the concave sp“ thtimace
.
Finally, we arrived at the hospital. Queasily, I took my cell phone and got out of the cab, paid Enog his money and listened to him rev off.
Chugchugachuga
. . .
Just I was about to enter the lobby, the phone rang. I pushed ‘Send’ and said, ‘I’m on my way up to his room.’
‘Ms. Leiffer?’ The voice was clear. I recognized it immediately.
‘Daniel?’
‘Yes . . . hi.’
I started to ask how he’d gotten this number, then remembered Krull had given it to the school. Terry must have posted it on the bulletin board.
‘I miss you,’ said Daniel.
‘Me too, honey. But I’ll be back soon. You know, you really shouldn’t be calling this number. It’s for emergencies—’
‘Ms. Leiffer, what’s your favorite color?’
‘Daniel.’
‘
Please
.’ His voice trembled when he said it.
My breath caught in my throat.
‘Please answer the question!’
‘Green, honey. It’s green. Are you okay?’
Daniel started to cry.
‘Where are you?’
‘The monster’s going to make my hair that color!’ he sobbed.
And a new voice took over. A cold whisper. ‘Gotcha.’
I could hear Daniel crying in the background. ‘Don’t you dare hurt him,’ I said.
‘More
little
corpses. I told you. Don’t you know what
klein
means in German?’
I wanted to hang up, call 911, call the Sixth Precinct, take the elevator to ICU and alert all those guards.
But he’s got Daniel. Daniel’s with him, and he’s called me. He got this number, he’s got Daniel. Calm down. Calm down and get him to talk. Calm down and
. . . ‘What do you want from me?’
‘Interesting question.’
‘Anything.’
‘You’re small.
Kleine
Samantha.’
You fucking, fucking sick fuck
. ‘Yes.’
< height="1em">
‘Not as small as Daniel. But you’re a girl and I like the girls better.’ I could barely hear him. Why the whisper? Why the need for mystery now?
I made myself say it. ‘Do you want to make a trade?’
‘Yes.’ The
s
sibilant, like the hiss of a snake. I couldn’t hear crying anymore.
‘Where is Daniel?’
‘He’s here. Say, “Hello,” Daniel.’
Daniel’s voice, a wet squeak. ‘Help.’
‘Come here, alone, we’ll make the trade. Your body for his. Tell anyone, tell a soul, I slit his little throat and leave his eyes to rot.’
‘Where do I—’
‘Go to the northeast corner of Tenth and Sixth.’
The line went dead.
I tore down the sidewalk, slamming into the shoulders and legs of strangers, Krull’s leather jacket slapping at my sides. ‘Fuckin’ watch it!’ someone said.
‘Ouch! Hey!’
‘What’s the rush, baby?’
Well, since you asked
. . .
On the northeast corner of Tenth Street and Sixth Avenue was a parking garage. I scanned the entrance for Daniel, for Mirror Eyes, but all I saw was an empty glass booth where the attendent was supposed to be. I pulled Krull’s jacket closer to me, felt a small, hard object against my chest. Making sure no one was watching, I checked the inside pocket. Miniature Swiss Army knife.
First, I tucked the tiny knife into the cuff of my sweater sleeve. Then I started toward the booth.
‘Hello?’ I said, but when I peered inside, I found no one hiding there. ‘Is anybody here?’
Like an answer, a black sedan pulled out of the garage and screeched to a halt beside me.
Behind the wheel was Randy, the toy and hobby store clerk.
¢>
16
The Last Laugh
We drove in silence, Randy and I, the garage shrinking in the rearview as the sedan headed west.
He’d taken my patchwork bag and Krull’s coat, reached into my jeans pockets to make sure they were empty. ‘Give me the cell phone,’ he’d said, just before shutting the back door. Not a w– anord since.
I tried looking at him a few times, but he kept his eyes off mine, kept his eyes on the road like any good executioner.
Nothing personal, you understand. Just doing my job
.
He stopped at a traffic light, just before a crosswalk. I watched an older woman push a stroller in front of the car, and for a moment, everything seemed to move in slow motion - the woman, the stroller, Randy’s fat hands on the steering wheel. I watched the woman, pressed my gaze on her like my eyes could emit light and heat, thinking
Look at me. Look at me and call the police
. But she didn’t turn, just kept walking, and when the light switched to green I saw Randy’s eyes fixed on me in the rearview.
‘He has a new fish,’ I said.
‘Who?’
‘Daniel.’ Without looking down, I checked my sweater cuff, touched the edge of the tiny Swiss Army knife.
The car lurched along. The street we were on was tree lined and peaceful, with brownstones and florists and specialty food shops. Then we crossed another avenue, and the buildings abruptly went boxy industrial and empty-looking. The Meatpacking district.
On the side of one windowless building was a faded mural of a pig in a chef’s hat. ‘Polowski’s Pork,’ it read. I looked at Randy, then the pig on the mural. Stupid, grinning animal, happy to cook his dead friends.
The sedan turned up another avenue, then right on a side street, left through a wide alley and right onto another street full of walk-ups and old warehouses. Where were we going? Where was Daniel?
We stopped in front of one of the walk-ups - its old exterior black from grime, who knew what color it had been originally? - and a powerful chill shot up my back. Dead Man’s Fingers. ‘Little late.’
‘What?’ said Randy.
‘Nothing.’
He double-parked, got out of the car, opened my door like a chauffeur.
We’ve arrived at your destiny, ma’am
.
This was the plan I had: Get Daniel to run away. Then scream. Then take the knife out of my cuff, stick it in the fucker’s eye.
It’s good to know how to scream
. It was good to have a knife too. Too bad it wasn’t bigger.
There were a few steps in front of the walk-up, leading down to a basement apartment. Randy nudged me toward the door, unlocked it. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said.
He ran his oily hands down the arms of my sweater, slipping his fingers into the cuffs. Out came the knife. ‘Nice try.’
Before Randy pushed me into the apartment, I stared him in the eyes - looking for some human emotion, something within him that might take that NYPD cell phone and ›celandcall for help. ‘Why would you do this for
him
?’ I said.
But Randy didn’t answer. He was wearing colored contacts - deep purple, like a bruise. Strange I hadn’t noticed them earlier.
 
Alone in the basement apartment, what reached me first was the smell - a flat, clean, unnatural odor I quickly identified as paint. It was dark here, with no lights on and the shades drawn, but it wasn’t pitch-black like a black box theater. I could see shadows. Nothing moved.
Randy had shut the door behind me and stayed outside. Probably following orders, but still, I got the feeling he was afraid to go in.
What is in here?
I felt something near my back - put my hand behind me and touched cloth, soft and inanimate, stretched against a frame.
Chair, no, longer. Couch. Okay
.
‘Hello?’ My voice came out thin, a whisper. ‘Daniel?’
Clink
. My foot knocked into it, and I felt something wet hit my sock. I looked down at a squat cylinder. Paint can. Paint on my sock.
My eyes were beginning to adjust. I looked down and saw five paint cans lined up against the back of the couch. To the right a wall of exposed brick and some kind of hallway.
I turned around, rested my hands against the back of the couch, the only thing I could trust. I could make out a more complex shape against the opposite wall. A shelf unit lined with small silhouettes, all of them perfectly still. All of them human.
Don’t scream, not yet. Where is the light? Need light. Calm, calm
. . . ‘I’m ready to make the trade!’ My voice was louder this time, and like a reward, the lights went on.
The forms on the shelves were dolls: some porcelain, some plastic. I recognized many of them as collectibles. The same collectibles I’d seen on the shopping channel, with working limbs and plush clothes and names like Clarissa and Scarlett and Sebastian. Just like on TV, only with one difference: Someone had removed all their eyes.
The couch was a spotless white, its back cushions removed to make way for a large cardboard box. From where I stood, I could see its closed top.
‘Hello?’
No answer still. I moved closer to the box and touched it. ‘Daniel?’
Holding my breath, I pulled back the cardboard folds and looked inside.
Dead white skin, bloody lips
.
‘Shit.’
I jumped back, threw my hands over my mouth.
Stay quie›3">>I t. Breathe in, breathe out. Now. Take a step. Look again
.
In the box was a face, yes. But not Daniel’s. Not human. A chalk-white doll’s face, lips painted red, resting atop many other painted dolls’ faces. Looking closer, I saw the box was packed with bald, porcelain heads, their lips gleaming and lurid, their cheeks rouged, bright blue and purple and green paint smeared generously over their eyes, which were all open, all intact.
When I closed the lid again, I noticed three words, printed on the bottom left corner in neat, capital letters:
THE BAD ONES
.
The lights flashed off, then on again.
All right, asshole, you want mind games, I’ll give you mind games
. ‘Show your face,’ I said. ‘Or I break all the
good
ones!’
I moved around the couch, headed straight for the shelving unit. But before I could get there, I slipped on something wet, fell to my hands and knees on the cold cement floor.
I got up fast, saw blood on my hands, blood on the floor. And then I saw a man’s body, lengthwise against the front of the couch with the paint cans looming over him, throat slit so deeply he’d nearly been decapitated.
His eyes were opened wide, as if he still couldn’t believe what had happened, couldn’t believe he’d seen his own death coming at him so strong, so soon. And he was still wearing his mirrored contacts.
 
‘Cinderella / dressed in yella/ Went upstairs to kiss her fella/ How many kisses did she take?’
I whirled around, and saw the girlfriend. The frightened blonde with the perfect face.
‘One, two, three, four . . .’
She wore her short-sleeved red dress, and dragged Daniel by the arm like a rag doll. Over his mouth stretched a thick piece of gaffer tape. In her other hand, she grasped the black handle of a butcher’s knife.
It hit me all at once:
The phone calls, always a whisper. Her voice, not his. Her notes, her paint, her makeovers. She’s the doll freak. She’s the murderer
.
‘It’s okay, Daniel,’ I said.
‘Don’t lie.’ She grinned. Her lips were painted a bright bloodred.
I glanced at the dead man on the floor, then back at her. ‘Why did you kill him?’
She started around the couch. I moved in front of the head, trying to block it from Daniel.
‘He was big and ugly,’ she said.
I looked at Daniel. Tears ran down his cheeks.
‘Plus, he brought me nothing but bad ones.’
‘Bad ones?’
‘The ones with the obvious flaws you can never fix, no matter how much paint you use. The oversized ones. The nasty ones that hit and bite and run away.’
‘You’re not talking about dolls. You mean children.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘
Projects
.’
‘But . . . you were crying at the river. I saw—’
‘You saw me from the back.’ She said it as if she were talking to a slow student. ‘I was
laughing
. At him, for being such a pansy. He was the one who always cried.’
She took a few more steps forward. ‘Randy will be much better. He’s not an ugly pansy like Phil.’
My eyes went back to the body. ‘Evan.’
‘
Evan
. Do you want to know who Evan is?’ She let go of Daniel’s hand for a moment, strode over to the shelf unit and picked up a male doll, with shining yellow hair and red velvet overalls. ‘This is Evan,’ she said, kissing each of its eyeholes. ‘My favorite of the boys.’
‘Run, Daniel!’ I yelled, but he just stood there, staring at me.
I know how you feel. Once upon a time, there was a princess who couldn’t move
.
‘My goodness,’ she said. ‘You are stupid.’ She stepped closer to me, touched the blade of the butcher knife to the side of my face. ‘Pretty, though.’
I thought of John Krull. Did he still think I was in the hospital cafeteria?
‘The best projects,’ the red mouth said, ‘are pretty to begin with.’ With the index finger of her other hand, she tapped my lower lip - softly, as if she were testing its resilience. ‘Close your eyes,
Kleine
Samantha.’
What else could I do, but obey? What could I do, but wait as she dragged the cool blade down the side of my face, ’til I felt the point at the hollow of my throat?
Please don’t watch this, Daniel. Please look away
.
The sharp point lingered there for several seconds and suddenly, I had her figured out: I knew she wouldn’t slit my throat. I was too pretty for that, too small for the big blade. If she did that, I’d be wrecked, like Phil, beyond restoration.
No. What she’s going to do is drop the knife and strangle me
-
just like the children. She’s going to wait
like a spider until I’m paralyzed with fear, and then she’s going to do it
.
When I felt the knife come away from my throat, I knew I was right. I knew that was exactly what she’d done with Graham, with Sarah, wit›witifyh all the others. They’d died feeling the same way I’d felt in the Pinto. Frozen.
Once upon a time there was a princess who got angry
.
At the exact same moment, my eyes flew open and my knee shot up, connecting with her stomach. ‘You . . .’ she wheezed, and the knife came at me, still clutched in her hand, point grazing my chest through the thick wool of my sweater. I felt a sting, knew I was bleeding, but not deep - at least, not deep enough to matter.
I balled my hand into a fist and socked her in the face. I’d never punched anyone before, and it was surprisingly painful, like hitting a brick wall.
She fell back, clutching her face but still holding the knife. Shaking the pain out of my hand, I turned to Daniel. Daniel, now sitting on the floor in his dapper little overcoat. I looked into his face, at the gaffer tape over the mouth, the tears still streaming down his cheeks, and thought of his mom, Erika. What she must be thinking . . .
‘Run, run, run!’ I screamed, louder and higher than I’d screamed, four days earlier, when I’d first seen John Krull. ‘Run!’
‘Shut the fuck up!’ shouted the woman, and I couldn’t help but wonder,
Where is Randy during all this?
Maybe he wasn’t standing guard. Maybe he’d betrayed her and left, maybe he had called the police. Or maybe the walls were soundproofed.
I lifted Daniel to his feet, and pushed him. Finally, he moved. He backed up, away from Phil’s body, around the side of the couch.
Atta boy. Now go faster
. She was coming at me now, knife raised, red lips stretched into a grin, like the pig on the mural.
She flew forward, and I grabbed the hand with the knife in it. But she was ready this time. She didn’t let go. I pushed the knife hand back with all my might, but still it moved closer and closer to my throat.
I could feel the huge cardboard box pressed against the small of my back, and I knew we’d reached the couch.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the little boy - still motionless, still watching.
Oh, God, Daniel, would you please just run away!
The knife moved closer until the point touched the soft tight skin above my trachea. My grip on her wrist was weakening, my arm tiring of holding her off. I looked at her face, the bright blue contacts, the lipstick smeared across her chin, the cheek purplish where my fist had made contact and thought,
This is it
.
Suddenly, she screamed and dropped the knife, and it took me a few seconds to compute what had happened. Daniel - tiny Daniel, frozen with fear - had ripped the tape off his mouth and bit her in the leg.

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