Hide Your Eyes (10 page)

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Authors: Alison Gaylin

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

BOOK: Hide Your Eyes
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I reached into my bag, handed him the card just as the waitress set down our drinks and food. I gave him the
Book of Practical Cats
, wondering how I was going to distract the kids into not asking for it at story time tomorrow.
I didn’t want to think about Peter. I didn’t want to think that I could’ve sat down next to a child murderer and eaten lunch, didn’t want to think Yale could’ve slept with one. I picked up my drink, emptied half of it down my throat. ‘Hey, try to eat something,’ Krull said. ‘Your blood/Scotch ratio is starting to disturb me.’
‘I’m not an alcoholic.’ I leaned forward and tried to focus on his face, but Krull’s eyes blurred into one and back again, as if to illustrate his point. Reluctantly, I picked up a wing. ‘You have beautiful eyelashes.’ I couldn’t believe I had just said that.
‘Alcoholics can handle their booze better than you,’ he said. ‘Now, take a bite.’
I did. It wasn’t bad.
‘Good. How about one more?’
‘You know what my grandmother used to do when I wouldn’t eat my vegetables? “One bite for your grandpa up in heaven,” she’d say. “One more bite for your great uncle Charlie who was cursed with the cancer. One for your poor cousin Lucille who got run over by a bus.” For a long time, I couldn’t look at vegetables without thinking of dead relatives.’
‘I promise I won’t make you eat vegetables.’
I dug into the nachos. ‘I appreciate that, Detective.’
‘John.’
‘Right . . . How come you care so much about whether or not I eat something?’
‘Because I’d rather not get puked on.’
‘And . . . because you like me.’ I couldn’t believe I had just said that either. This last round had been a bad idea, I decided, but still I felt myself leaning closer to him, attempting to look seductively into his eyes. My gaze settled on his nose instead. ‘You said you did, and I think I believe you now. Don’t you like me, John?’ I licked my lips. [ick se ‘You’re not married, are you?’
Krull squinted at me as if I were a foreign language he was trying, unsuccessfully, to decipher.
Why was I doing this? Why did I want this cop to come home with me so badly that I was willing to make a complete ass out of myself? It wasn’t his broad shoulders. It wasn’t his kind smile or his powerful neck or his big hands or the sense that there might be an actual soul somewhere in that hard detective’s body. It wasn’t even the Scotch. It was, I realized, fear. It was the fear of remembering everything Krull had told me and everything I’d read in the article, sober and alone in my dark apartment, where I knew the silence would hum in my ears, where I knew my mind would create images of dead children with X’s branded into their eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ve obviously had too much to drink.’
Krull slowly raised his beer to his lips and took a swallow. ‘I’m not married,’ he said with a slight smile, and I felt my cheeks color. ‘Look. I know you drank too much because you’re scared and I don’t blame you. All I can tell you is we’re going to get this asshole. The ice chest and the body are with the Crime Scene Unit. You wouldn’t believe the kind of evidence murderers leave on their victims, and CSU can do so much with one hair, one tiny piece of fiber. Plus, there’s Art and me. Amanda too. When she heard about this, it was all we could do to get her to stay in the hospital.’
I finished the rest of my Scotch. ‘That makes me feel better,’ I said, rather unconvincingly. ‘And thanks for being so understanding.’
Krull said, ‘By the way, I really do like you.’ Before I could reply, his cell phone rang. ‘Yeah?’ he said. ‘Interesting. Wonder why he did that. Okay. Okay. Bye.’
‘That was Art,’ Krull said. ‘He was supposed to question Peter Steele tonight at ten o’clock at the restaurant where he works. Steele stood him up.’
¢>
9
Ariel’s Grave
Detective John Krull was lying next to me on my pullout bed. We were both naked and I could feel the warmth coming off his body, but I wasn’t sure how we’d gotten there or where our clothes had gone. Must be the Scotch, I thought, must be the Scotch . . .
Krull was stroking my chin with the back of his index finger. His black eyes glowed, as if they held lit matches.
‘You want them?’ he asked, his lips curling into a grin. His finger traced the outline of my mouth. ‘You want them?’
Want what?
‘You want them?’ Like a caress. But what did he mean? I couldn’t answer. Not until I knew. His face began to change. ‘You want them?’ His voice now sounded different - flat, inflectionless.
‘
You want them
.’ I realized it had been him all along as I looked into Peter Steele’s mirrored irises. ‘YOU WANT THEM!’ shou ^ou ted the bloated mouth. The hand went to my neck, tightened around it as the other shot in front of my face; a clenched fist opening. ‘WANT THEM!’ Opening to reveal two bloody eyeballs.
‘NO!’ I screamed, wrenching my eyes open, waking up on my pullout couch, heart pounding, pouring sweat, naked and disoriented but alone. All alone. ‘Holy fucking shit.’
I patted around in the dark next to the bed and found an empty trash can on the floor, next to a full glass of water, which I gulped down greedily. Nobody had put a trash can next to my bed since college. ‘What the hell?’ I said, but then I remembered Krull’s voice.
I’m putting this here just in case
.
I rubbed my eyes. Slowly, they began to adjust to the darkness. I spotted the digital clock on my VCR. 5:00 a.m. What had happened to me? An unpleasant stiffness settled into my muscles, intensifying as the rest of the evening replayed itself, like scenes from a movie on which I deeply regretted spending money.
Me, reaching across the table, grabbing Krull’s bottle of beer and draining it
.
Krull taking out his wallet, saying, ‘My treat.’ Saying, ‘We should get you home
.’
‘
How about you get me into bed?
’
‘
Hey, are you okay? Let me help you up
.’
My face smashed into Krull’s chest in the cold night air
. ‘
I think I drank too much
.’
‘I know you drank too much
.’
‘Can you please walk me into my apartment and make sure there aren’t any murderers in there?’
‘Sure.’
Krull turning on the lights in my apartment, pulling out the bed.
Me, toppling forward, the pillow slamming into my face.
‘Samantha? You should at least take off your sweater and shoes.’
‘I can’t move.’
‘Can you breathe?’
‘I don’t think so.’
My shoes coming off, then my sweater. ‘Try and roll over. That’s good. Can you get under the covers?’
‘Get under the covers with me.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’ Footsteps, retreating into the kitchen, water running.
Me under th c
nnie covers, pulling off my jeans, my shirt, my bra, my panties.
Krull’s footsteps returning from the kitchen. ‘I’m putting this here just in case. And water, which you’ll want later.’
‘I’m totally naked under here.’
‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’
‘I’m not wearing panties anymore
.’
‘
Good night, Samantha.
’
The soft click of the light switch. The thump of the door closing
.
I moved my hands up and down the cool sheets, felt my balled-up jeans next to my hip, my shirt draped over the upper edge of the bed. I sensed cloth wrapped around my left ankle and identified it as my underwear.
Oh no, no, no
. . .
At least I wasn’t afraid. I was too embarrassed to be afraid. I should’ve enjoyed the feeling.
 
The girl in the ice chest was wearing purple jeans and a
Little Mermaid
T-shirt. A sad bit of irony for a three-year-old whose final destination was under water. Until they had an official identity for her, the
Post
would refer to her by the mermaid’s name, Ariel. None of this information was in Boyle’s advance copy of the article, but it was in the version I saw on page three of the newspaper, which I bought the following morning at the Happy Face Deli. The headline had been changed to ‘Watery Grave for “Little Mermaid.” ’
Purple jeans
. One day, about a month earlier, Serena had shown up at school dressed entirely in the color - bright purple tights and turtleneck, lavender jumper, deep grape sweater, three or four violet ribbons tied haphazardly in her short, curly hair. ‘My mommy let me pick my clothes today,’ she’d announced, at which Nancy had started to cry. ‘That’s not fair. I wanna be purple.’
Purple was a color made for little girls, and I was sure Ariel had loved it too. Loved it right up until she could no longer see it. I folded up the paper, stuffed it into my bag, pulled my coat closer around me.
It was only a few minutes after 6:00 a.m. and barely light outside. The sidewalk was empty, and what few cars were on the road buzzed by with a luxurious speed. I knew I was very early for work, but I’d already been up an hour and I couldn’t stay in my apartment anymore. Making my bed and folding it back up had been close to torturous when I remembered, again and again, what I had said and done in it the night before.
I’m not wearing panties anymore. Jesus.
During the moments when I was able to put my own humiliation out of my mind, other thoughts replaced it. Thoughts of devil worship, ritual murder, dead children with damaged eyes. Peter Steele.
In the shower, all I could think of was the pale blue ice chest, sinking into cold, dirty water.
oul="1em" width="1em" align="justify">
So I’d dressed and left early. If I was lucky, maybe I could find an all-night bookstore and replace the
Book of Practical Cats
. Otherwise, I’d just get breakfast at a diner. There was a good one called Brugerman’s a block and a half away from Sunny Side. Big menu. Excellent ham and eggs. I’d been there a bunch of times with Yale because it wasn’t far from his apartment. Maybe, after breakfast, I’d stop by.
The more I walked, the less the all-night bookstore appealed and the more my empty stomach took precedence. Thanks to four glasses of water and a couple Advil, my hangover wasn’t as debilitating as the one from the previous day. But a big, fatty breakfast - eaten nowhere near Ruby Redd’s Brewing Company - was becoming increasingly necessary.
I finally got to Brugerman’s, sat at the counter, ordered coffee, ham steak, fried eggs over easy and buttered rye toast. I took the
Post
out of my bag, but I avoided page three and went straight for Liz Smith. Liz never said anything frightening.
My breakfast arrived, quick and hot and better than anything I’d ever eaten in my life. As Liz was waxing on about some gorgeous Spanish pop star, the waitress said, ‘Can I get you anything else, honey?’ and for a few minutes, it seemed like everything was going to be all right.
Then I heard a man’s voice behind me, so close it made my shoulders shoot up.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ It was Yale, and he looked awful.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I tried calling you all night. Your phone was off the hook. Then I go to your apartment and buzz you, and no one answers.’
I stared at Yale’s face. His skin was dead white, his eyes puffy and red rimmed. Tufts of his blond hair stuck out at eccentric angles, dotted with odd, white flecks. ‘I was at a bar,’ I said. ‘What happened to you?’
‘I’ve been out all night,’ he said. ‘Feel free to say I told you so.’
‘What do you mean?’
Yale sighed. ‘I had a date with Peter last night.’
‘But you said I scared him off.’
‘Yeah, well, what was I supposed to tell you?’
‘Oh, Christ, Yale—’
‘Peter and I were supposed to meet at Temple Bar at ten o’clock. So I go there, and I wait for two fucking hours and he never shows up. Don’t waste your breath because everything you’re going to say to me I’ve already said to myself about five hundred thousand times.’
‘At ten o’clock last night—’
‘I figure, whatever, he’s a huge flake. c a iv So I go back to my apartment, and it seems the lock has been picked.’
‘No.’
‘Yes. And after I walk in, I discover that every breakable thing I own has been smashed to bits - my dishware, my glass-topped coffee table, my Tiffany-style lamps, my comedy/tragedy masks. That asinine porcelain dog I won on
Wheel of Fortune
during my trip to Hollywood five years ago. Oh, no, he did not discriminate at all.’
‘You think it was Peter?’
‘Who else would it be? He knows where I live, and he knew I wouldn’t be there. And besides, he left his stupid checkered waiter’s bow tie on the kitchen floor. It must’ve fallen off while he was decimating my china.’
‘Did you call the police?’
‘I was too humiliated.’
‘You should’ve—’
‘I went to your place and you weren’t there and I wanted to be with
people
, that’s all, and I certainly didn’t feel like going to another bar . . . So I saw the second half of
Rocky Horror
.’
‘That’s still playing?’
‘At certain theaters, yes.
Rocky Horror
, Sam. I hated that movie in high school, and it’s just . . . gotten . . . worse.’
I reached over, plucked a white fleck out of his hair. ‘Rice.’
‘I’ve got rice in my hair from
Rocky Horror
. God help me, I’ve hit rock bottom.’
‘Yale—’
‘After the movie was over, I . . . I needed to talk to someone. And . . . I wanted to feel safe, so I went to David’s.’
‘David?’
‘Rum Tum Tugger.’
‘Oh, no.’
‘And he’s got a new boyfriend.’
‘Oh no.’
‘Who lives with him. I show up at his apartment at three in the fucking morning with
rice in my hair
, and his personal trainer boyfriend answers the door in a jock strap. Life does not get worse than that. I’ve been wandering from diner to diner ever since.’
‘Yale. It’s my fault.’
‘No, it isn’t. You were a little rude to him at the restaurant. Big deal. That’s no reason to trash all of my—’
‘I ct s tothink he trashed your stuff because I called the police on him. I think he saw me going into the station to report him. It’s practically across the street from Ruby Redd’s Brewing Company, and this incredibly loud soap opera actress called attention to me.’
‘You called the police on him?’
I turned to page three of the
Post
, showed him the article.
‘That’s horrible, but of course it’s a coincidence, Sam. You don’t honestly think Peter would—’
‘It’s not, and I do. Honestly.’ I told him the whole story, from my conversation with Tredwell to my visit to the Sixth Precinct to the discovery of the ice chest, and how Krull had said my description had matched the one found by the construction workers. I told him about Peter’s proclivity for devil worship and sadomasochism and the ritualistic nature of the girl’s death. How something had been done to her eyes - just like something had been done to Sydney’s eyes in the valentine photo. I told him how Peter had skipped out on Detective Boyle, who was also scheduled to meet him at ten o’clock the previous evening.
Yale just stared at me, his skin growing even paler. When I was finished, he asked if he could have a sip of my water, and when he took the glass, I noticed his hand was trembling. He drank all of it before he was able to speak. ‘I had sex with a murderer.’
I put my arm around his shoulders. ‘You didn’t know.’
‘A . . . a sick fuck who k-kills little kids.’
‘You didn’t know, Yale. You had no idea.’
‘But that doesn’t change the
fact
.’
He put his head down on the counter, and I patted his back. I wished I could change the fact. I wished I could change everything, or at least make it go away for a while. ‘You want to know what I did last night? I asked Krull to walk me home, and when he was getting me a glass of water, I took off all my clothes and begged him to get into bed with me.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ Yale said into his hands.
‘Oh, yes I did.’
When he looked up at me, I saw that his eyes were moist. ‘You stripped in front of an NYPD detective? The same one you screamed at?’
‘Yep, and you know what else? He turned me down.’
‘We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?’
‘You want some of my ham and eggs?’

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