Dark Eye Page 2

  His eyes turned upward, tracing the rectilinear line where the horizon melted into the sky. This was his favorite kind of dusk, with no moon and just enough light to turn the sky a rich roseate blush. Gazing at this masterpiece painting, he thought: who could doubt that there was a plan for us?

  “Look at the stars,” he said after he wiped the tears and blood from her. “You can see the heavens so clearly. There must be a million of them. They’re beckoning to us, leading us to the truth, telling us how we can live among them. But so few listen. So few can.”

  “Mister,” she said. Her voice was dry and coarse, a staccato grating. “Are you going to kill me?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “Because you took me and you brought me here and I can’t move and, and-” Her voice broke down. “And I think maybe you’re going to kill me.”

  “Well, I’m not. Not precisely.”

  “Then why? Why have you kept me here so long? What are you going to do to me?”

  He pressed his head close against hers, and his eyes shone with reflected starlight. “Something wonderful.”

  2

  Am I dead? I wondered.

  My last night in detox, I woke around five A.M. and saw David standing at the foot of my bed.

  “Sugar bear?” I whispered, only marginally awake. My eyes were filmy and I knew I was mumbling, but I didn’t think it would matter.

  “I’m here, Susan,” he answered. “How are you?”

  “Not so good.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” My God, but he was handsome. Made my whole body go warm and liquid. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you.”

  “Have you? I haven’t felt it.”

  “Wasn’t sure you’d really want to.”

  “Don’t be dumb.” I tried to move but my body wasn’t responding. Just as well. I’d have been crawling all over him, probably violating several hospital regulations. “Did you see what happened?”

  “Yeah. You screwed up big-time.”

  “Didn’t mean to. I was… confused.”

  “It happens. So you’re leaving today?”

  “Thank God. I threatened to bust some doctors’ heads if they didn’t let me out.”

  He tucked his head, letting all that jet-black tousled hair cascade over his eyes. “I’m not sure that was the right thing to do.”

  “I had no choice. They’re killing me.”

  “You need help.”

  “You’ve got some nerve, saying that to me.”

  He was so strong, even when he was silent. Muscled arms. Adorable chin dimple. “I miss you.”

  I reached out to him, but it was like touching a bubble: the instant you do, the filmy surface wraps around your hand and evaporates. I wanted to feel David so much. But my fingers fluttered like butterfly wings in the empty air.

  Did I mention that I hated Dr. Coutant? Detested the man. I was only in that Popsicle joint six days, but it felt like a month in hell, thanks to Dr. Coutant.

  “Let me state again that I oppose your early release. I think you need more time.”

  “Especially when you’re billing by the hour, right, Doc?” I said it only because I knew it would infuriate him. The guy had been trying to get my goat all week-how could I resist the chance to give back a little of the same? I’ve been around doctors enough to know that they love to trash lawyers and other professional clock-watchers while ignoring the fact that their own bills are higher than anyone else’s.

  He had me at a card table in the main lobby of the detox ward, by the nurses’ station, down the hall from the private rooms. The wing was all done up in calming shades of beige, with padded sofas and soft carpets. Like an airport lounge. “As long as the city’s health insurance is footing the bill, what do you care how much I make?”

  “I was just saying-”

  “The fact is, Ms. Pulaski, you have a serious chemical addiction, and six days in detox isn’t going to cure it. You need some time in a professional rehab facility.”

  “Do tell.”

  “I don’t get the sense that you’re taking this seriously.”

  “Not as seriously as you, certainly…”

  “Your addiction, I might add, was fueled by severe emotional problems, which you also are not dealing with.” He was a stout, short man. When he went into his sapient counselor mode, he leaned back, his arms folded across a belly not even his white coat could disguise, and used an orotund, patronizing voice that affected me like teeth on tinfoil.

  “Hey, I listened to your lectures. I took notes, even.”

  “That’s not going to help when you get the urge to drink.”

  “Look, Doctor, I was never really addicted to it. I just let it get out of control. I’m not going to do that anymore.”

  He fingered the rim of his glasses. “That is, quite literally, what they all say.”

  “But in my case, it’s true. I won’t-”

  “Ms. Pulaski, you do yourself no favors by minimizing your actions. You went on what apparently was a three-day bender that culminated in serious-”

  “I made a mistake-”

  “You had an alcoholic delirium, turned violent, and nearly killed a man!”

  I clammed up. It was obvious he wouldn’t let me go until he felt I had been sufficiently punished, so I just let it ride. He could inveigh against me till his beard turned gray.

  “We need a plan,” Coutant said, frowning. “I’m never comfortable releasing a patient unless he or she has a road map for overcoming the addiction. I want you to attend classes.”

  “Classes? As in school?”

  “IOP. Intensive outpatient therapy. I’ll put the information in with your release papers. Our group leaders are very gifted. You’ll be surprised how much you’ll benefit from it. And you should supplement that by attending a registered AA group.”

  “So, we’re talking, amateur shrinks trying to get inside my head?”

  He stared down at the table. I could tell he was choosing his words carefully, being oh so tolerant, which really drove me bananas. “You have a lot of anger, Ms. Pulaski. You may not be aware of it, but you do. That’s what drives your self-destructive behavior.”

  I can’t stand this business where some guy with a beard and a Ph.D. spends an hour with you and thinks he knows your whole life story. “Look-am I getting out or not?”

  “I don’t have the power to keep you against your will. I wish I did.”

  “Then give me my Get Out of Jail card and let me go.”

  “But we need a plan.”

  “Why? So you can magnify the paper jam in your file?”

  “Because if we don’t, you’ll start drinking again. Too often alcoholics have to hit rock bottom before they stop abusing alcohol and start putting their life back together.”

  “That’s bullshit. If I say I won’t drink, I won’t drink.” I got up and walked to the door-locked, of course-making it clear I was ready to leave. Hadn’t I played his games long enough? Why was he so determined to prove that I had dark, insuperable problems that only he could solve? I had a job and a house and a niece who must be bouncing off the walls by now. Why should I let these people drain the insurance companies dry making referrals to one another? I had a life to live.

  God bless Lisa. She was waiting for me when I finally got out of the treatment facility.

  “Hail fellow well met,” I said, wiggling my fingers in the air. “Thanks for the lift.”

  “My pleasure. Missed you, sweetie.” She gave me a peck on the cheek.

  “Ditto. Now get me the hell out of here.”

  Lisa is my oldest friend. We’ve known each other since kindergarten. I stole her cookie the first day and we’ve been girlfriends ever since, through school and college and her marriage to a bodybuilder with a leather fetish and her divorce and subsequent endless string of dates to guys remembered only for their kissing ability or lack thereof. Not to mention all my little difficulties.

  She put her convertible into first and screec
hed out of the parking lot. She couldn’t begin to afford this car; it cost more per month than her apartment. But she loved it. Lisa was an inveterate speed freak, always had been. In kindergarten, it was the swings. Now it was a Porsche. I think she’s in one of those Oprah categories: Women Who Love Their Cars Too Much. And why not? We both pretended there was nothing orgasmic about the smile on her face when she shifted into high gear.

  “Jesus Christ, I can’t believe I spent six days in there.” It felt good, letting the wind rush through my hair-like being in a cool shower, that tingly sense of something cascading over your entire body. She was taking me down the Strip-what outside Vegas is called U.S. 9. Hotels and casinos. Volcanoes and pirate ships. Fabulous multicolored neon view. Bright lights, Sin City.

  “They told me they wanted you to stay longer,” Lisa said.

  “There’s no money in miracle cures.”

  “That’s a bit cynical, even by your standards.”

  “Did you ever wonder why it’s always a twelve-step program, Lisa? Three steps would be insufficiently profitable.”

  She looked gorgeous in this car, with the wind whipping her hair back like a model in a shampoo commercial, which was probably another reason it was worth the money to her. She had long hair, perfectly blond, not a trace of dishwater. Or black roots. She worked out and never ate anything and looked great. She had those wonderful slender arms with firm muscles, the telltale identifier of a gym girl. I worked out, too, but on me it looked bulky and formidable, not sleek and sexy. If Lisa weren’t my best friend, I’d hate her.

  “Anything interesting happen in there?” she asked.

  “Not much. It was evil.”

  “Evil?”

  I nodded. “Doctors with lots of questions. Nurses taking your vital signs for no apparent reason. Some old gal who gave me a daily physical and enjoyed it way too much, if you know what I mean.” Lisa giggled, which made me smile for the first time today. She was a tough audience. If I could make her laugh, I was doing something right. “Twice a day some guy would come in and lead a group session on the evils of substance abuse, and the whole time he’s drinking coffee by the gallon.” I gave her a grim look. “And they made us play games.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Scout’s honor. Monopoly. Clue. Even Scrabble. It was compulsory.”

  “Now that’s evil.”

  I hesitated a moment. “I saw David.”

  Her reaction was just a beat delayed, though she tried to act as if I had said nothing unusual at all. “You did?”

  “Yeah. In my room.”

  “Were you having, um, dreams?”

  A nice way of putting it. “I don’t know. I guess. Didn’t seem like it.”

  “But Susan, you know…”

  “Yeah. I’m not that far gone yet.”

  “Well.” Lisa focused her attention on her driving.

  “He said he missed me. He said he was watching me.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “Believe what?”

  “That dead people watch us after they’re gone. That they’re up in the clouds, keeping tabs on the people they knew.”

  “Sure.”

  “I don’t.” I extended my arm out the passenger-side window, letting the wind ripple through my fingers. “I’m not even sure I believe in an afterlife. But if there is one, I can’t imagine why anyone there would waste it watching the folks back on earth. I mean, if that was what you wanted to do, why leave in the first place?”

  She didn’t have an answer, so she concentrated on her driving, which was just as well.

  He managed to get Helen into the back of his pickup, but just barely. Even though she was wrapped securely and he was using the flatbed dolly, it was hard work. But no matter, he consoled himself. At the end of days, one does not dwell on the mundane.

  Afterward, he washed his hands, then dried them with a daisy-pattern dish towel, one of the few possessions of Nana’s he had saved. She had taken such pride in those towels, he recalled, back when they were new. A small token of simple beauty in a life of utter squalor, he supposed. Where had she gotten them, anyway? Had the bank been giving them away? The gas station? A free gift in a box of detergent? He couldn’t remember.

  He walked back out the front door, whistling. Whistle while you work-that was what those dwarves said. He chuckled. And people called him short.

  Ginny had loved that movie. Nana had the tape and they’d watched it together, over and over. He preferred livelier fare, truth be told, but his sweet Virginia loved it, and that was good enough for him.

  It was a radiant night, almost a cerulean blue, and teeming with shadows. Perfect for his appointed task. Of course, he had planned it that way. Every detail in place, every jot and tittle. Just as it should be. As it was destined to be.

  He had almost returned to his truck when he spotted the redheaded woman from the house next door. Divorcée, mid-thirties. Camille, she was called, like the victim in “Rue Morgue.” Happily, she did not have her boyfriend with her today.

  “Ernie?”

  He stopped and waited as her crunched-gravel footsteps caught up to him.

  “Hey, I’m sorry about last night.”

  He pulled himself upright. “My dear, there’s nothing to be sorry about.”

  She grinned. “I love that accent. I wish Ty could do it. Gives me shivers.”

  He felt his face flushing, his stomach roiling.

  “I tried to stop him, but he had to stir things up. You know how men are. Well, maybe you don’t.” She leaned in close. “They’re all assholes. Except for you, Ernie.”

  He had been playing Mozart very loud last night. It was necessary to ensure that no one heard the screaming. In any case, it hardly merited her boyfriend’s overreaction.

  “He isn’t a bad guy,” Camille said, “not compared to some of the others I’ve had. But sometimes he can get… out of control.”

  Yes, he thought, especially when Ty was bored and hungry for a fight. He wanted an easy knock-down-drag-out he knew he could win, and since he was a big, gym-muscled black man, he felt no compunction against taking on a somewhat smaller neighbor. People always picked on short men, always had and always would. It had taken all his comity and bonhomie to get rid of the thug without an incident, but he’d managed.

  Camille stood awkwardly for a moment, her fingers fidgeting, her breasts all but spilling out of the flimsy halter top. He felt her discomfort, her longing to say something effervescent or witty, some pointed observation that would elicit his approbation. The woman liked him, strange as that seemed. Apparently Mandingo wasn’t keeping her satisfied. She yearned for something different, someone smart, someone who could elevate her life from the drudgery and banality that presently characterized it. She was vulnerable. He had once considered her for an offering, but she was too old, too large. She could never fit the specifications.

  “Say, what you got in the truck?”

  He stepped forward, blocking her approach. “Just some trash.”

  “Trash? I saw how you strained to scoot that load off the dolly. What are you throwing away, barbells?”

  “Books. Nothing in the world heavier than books, you know.”

  “And you don’t want them? Seems like I see you reading all the time.”

  “My interests have… evolved.”

  “Oh, yeah? What do you-”

  “Camille… I must beg your pardon.” He edged away. “I need to take care of this. Immediately.” He slid into the cab of the truck and started the engine.

  “You know, Ernie,” she said through the open window, “you could come over sometime. Ty isn’t around that much these days. We could have some fun, I think.” She reached out and touched him on his cheek.

  “Must dash, Camille. Please give my best to your beau.” He rolled up the window and sped away. He drove quickly, but not too quickly, making sure she wasn’t following him.

  It should take no m
ore than twenty minutes to get to the hotel, which was providential, because he had a limited window of opportunity during which he could get this bundle into his room without being spotted. From there, delivery to the ultimate destination would be a simple matter.

  He tried to whistle again, but he seemed to have lost the tune. The encounter with Camille had unnerved him. It had been a parlous moment, he realized, when she’d reached toward the bundle in the back of the truck. Not that he had done anything to betray himself, nothing she was ever likely to comprehend, this woman who couldn’t master subject-verb agreement and didn’t have the sense to dispense with the psycho stud who was servicing her. But he didn’t like the unexpected. He had planned everything with meticulous care. Any deviation from the designated path could only delay the Golden Age.

  I am the perfect passenger. Lisa has told me so on numerous occasions. The absolute antithesis of the bossy backseat driver. I figure if you’re behind the wheel, then you’re calling the shots. I don’t mess with your radio, I don’t tell you when to change lanes, and I don’t plot the course. So I sat quietly as Lisa took me all the way down the Strip, even though this was tourist season (every season is tourist season in Vegas) and the traffic was atrocious.

  I love this town. Lived here all my life; never had the desire to go anywhere else. There’s so much more to Vegas than what the tourists see. But the truth is, I love what the tourists see, too. From the austere Nevada mountaintops to the concrete palaces to the sex clubs and the gluttonous buffets, I love it all. Even the Liberace museum. Honest.

  My house was in a gorgeous neighborhood called Summerlin, near one of the area’s many man-made lakes. Okay, ponds, depending on what you’re used to. It was just down the road from the largest of Vegas’s many pet cemeteries, where all three of my German shepherds are interred. I sat quietly while Lisa cruised through the south side. But when we were a good twenty minutes or so away from where we should be, I felt I had to speak.