Amanda's Eyes (19 page)

The first-floor ladies’ lounge was
an estrogen oasis with all the frills.  Very nice, if you’re into Italian
renaissance loveseats and gilt-framed Botticelli prints of Venus rising from a
clam shell.  I’m not.

I was scrubbing my hands like Lady
McB, trying to wash away Conover’s touch when the door opened inward, admitting
a petite blond in an orchid sheath.  We traded
nobody here but us girls
smiles—hers was better than mine—as I dried my hands.  She joined me at the
vanity, pulled a lipstick and compact out of a dinky clutch and started to
freshen up. 
When in Rome
, I figured with a mental shrug, and leaned
into the mirror to fiddle with my hair, pretending to primp, while my mind
worked overtime.

The hard lefts just kept on coming.

Three weeks since the first vision,
and I still hadn’t completely adjusted to the idea that I was having them.  Some
surprises are harder to take in than others, I guess.  Harder to hide, too.  Watching
Joe Schmoe go
Portrait of Dorian Gray
is tough on your poker face.  Witness
my performances during the Palmer and Nelson makeovers.

Thank God I managed to project a
reasonable facsimile of cool, calm, and collected tonight, even though this
shockwave had been triple-strength, compared to the first two.  Of course,
self-preservation
is
a first-class motivator.  So what if my composure
was only skin deep?  It was darned near miraculous, given the who and what
involved.

The blonde stowed her makeup in her
sequined postage stamp and closed it with a dainty
snap
.  Giving me another
polite smile, she swept out the door, leaving me alone.  I crossed the room to
sit on one of the richly brocaded loveseats and leaned my head against the silk-covered
wall, estimating I had maybe five minutes before my absence provoked unwelcome
interest.  Long enough to go over the facts one more time.

Fact One:  My come-and-get-me lure
had paid off better, and sooner, than expected, netting me a bigger, wilder
fish than I bargained for.

Fact Two (and this was the kicker): 
The most generous, loved, and admired man in the world was apparently the
mastermind behind a vicious pack of assassins.  I could hardly believe it.  But
I knew it like I knew my own name.

Fact Three:  I couldn’t prove it.

Both my conscience and my instincts chorused,
Do something!  Stop him!
  I told them I was open to suggestions.  How
was I supposed to get the word out, for example?  Who would believe me?  Whatever
I decided to do would involve a mile-high limb and a laser saw.

I groaned in frustration.

What I wouldn’t give right now for a
smidgen of confirmation to reaffirm the accuracy of my so-called gift!  Was
that so much to ask before I went after an icon like Malcolm Conover armed with
no more evidence than a bogeyman nobody else could see?

I had barely asked the question when
the CIIS UpLink tickled my wrist with an incoming call. 
Doctor Samuel
Bonner
, according to the caller ID.  But the face that materialized on the flex-screen
held no trace of the easy-going old gent I had visited in the house on
Chestnut.  Gone were the relaxed smile and calm, kind warmth.  He didn’t bother
with
hello
or
how are you
.

“I got your number from Agent Eagan. 
Did you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Benjamin Palmer murdered his mother
this afternoon.  Strangled her with his bare hands.”

You wanted confirmation, A.J.?   Now
you have it.  Next time, be careful what you wish for.

I was itching to get out of Dodge,
but I needed a ride, and so far, no Eagan.  Why is there never a cheesed-off fed
around when you need one?

Anxious to avoid another
face-to-faces with Conover and his alter ego, I hovered behind the long,
paddle-like leaves of a six-foot bird of paradise near the back of the
ballroom.  Hank stood about five feet in front of me, hands tucked in his
pockets as he patiently waited for my return from the lounge.

Meanwhile, over in the far corner, the
guest of honor, the mayor, and Lavonia Hammersmith mounted the stage recently vacated
by the string quartet.  As soon as the trio got situated, Makomba launched into
a paean to Conover.  His praises were punctuated by bursts of applause meant to
honor the man of the hour, who demonstrated suitable humility with a becoming
blush.

Don’t look now
,
don’t look now,
I chanted
silently.  I didn’t want Conover to see me as I slipped up behind Ellison and
tapped him on the shoulder.  “Time to go,” I whispered.

He glanced from the stage to me and
back.  “What, now?  Malcolm’s about to make his remarks.”

“I can see that.  Look, I wouldn’t
ask, if it wasn’t important.”

He turned to study my face, then nodded. 
“Okay.”

The ten minutes it took the valet to
bring Hank’s coupe around were the longest in my life.  Waiting in the entrance
hall, I could hear Conover wax warm and folksy about how great it was to get up
close and personal with Mother Earth by doing our bit to beautify the planet.  Wall-to-wall
sunshine and butterflies.  You had to hand it to the man, he knew how to work a
crowd
. 
He even sounded like he meant it when he singled out Hobson’s
Hope as “a veritable Garden of Eden in an increasingly denaturalized world.”

I pictured him smiling as fondly as Tri-America’s
favorite uncle while he imagined filleting a certain police reporter, one
drawn-out slice at a time.

When we were finally on our way, I turned
to Hank.  “
Malcolm?
  Since when are you and Conover on a first-name basis?”

He grinned out the windshield.  “That’s
right, you missed our get-acquainted chat.  I know he’s got all the money in
the world, but Malcolm is a regular guy.  Friendly, easy to talk to.  And man,
does he know gardening!  Settled the hydrangea question once and for all. 
Turns out aged cow manure is the best way to maintain the soil acidity you need
to get blue blossoms.”

“You bonded over cow manure?”

“We talked about other stuff, too. 
Organics, hydroponics … you.”

I sat up a little straighter.  “
Me?
 
What about me?”

“He asked if I knew where you’re
staying.  Guess he really is a fan.”

My heart lurched into my throat. 
“Did you tell him?”

“Didn’t get a chance,” he replied
with a curious sideways glance.  “Lavonia showed up to drag him away for his
speech.”

“Oh.” 
Lavonia, I owe you.  Big
time.

“Why?  Is there a problem?”

“No,” I lied, “no problem.”

We rode in silence until he turned onto
Sadie’s street and asked, “So, where do you go from here?”

“I’m not sure yet.”  And wouldn’t
tell him if I knew.  It was safer that way … for both of us.

As we approached the boardinghouse,
Hank spied the vehicle parked in front and gave a low whistle.  “Well, what do
we have here?  A Shrike Mark-VI!  You don’t see one of those babies every day. 
Now, that is what I call a
ride.
”

I had to agree.  Silver, sexy, and
low-slung, the Shrike’s sleek, swept-back design screamed
fast-mover
even
when the car was in park.  If the cavalry had arrived, it had arrived in style. 
Not that I had time to
ooh
and
ah
over transportation.  I had
maybe ninety seconds to come up with a workable script for a possible showdown
with Iceman.

Hank parked behind the Shrike,
killed the engine, and popped the doors.  “I’ll walk you to the house,” he
said, climbing out.  He gave the Mark-VI a covetous one-handed caress before we
started up the walk.  “What a night, huh?”

You have no idea.
  And unless I missed my guess about
who held title on the Shrike, the excitement was far from over.

“Eventful,” I agreed.  “Thanks for
your help, Hank.  I couldn’t have done the broadcast without you.”

He smiled ruefully.  “I don’t know
about that.  From what I’ve seen, you’re one gutsy lady.  You would have
managed.  All I did was push a few buttons and fall apart afterwards.  So much
for my image as a stalwart member of the Fourth Estate.”

“You did great.”

“No,
you
did great,” he
countered as we started up the porch steps, “and I hope you bring them down. 
Meanwhile, thanks for setting the broadcast up so I stay in the clear.”  His
words no sooner registered when realization slammed into me.  If Hank hadn’t
grabbed my arm, I would have planted a facer on the porch.  “Whoa!  You all right?”

No, no I wasn’t.  And whether he knew
it or not, neither was he.  Conover had seen us together, and I had a feeling
he could add two and two quicker than most.  Given the timing of the broadcast,
he had to suspect we had come to the gala straight from the
Herald
, and that
suspicion would be more than enough to get Hank killed.  My eyes flew to
Ellison’s face.  He would have to disappear, for who knew how long.  Jack could
make it happen, but God, how was I going to break the news to him?

“Hank—”

That was as far as I got before the
front door opened and Eagan stepped out on the porch, dressed in black from
head to toe.  He ran a measuring glance over Ellison, before dismissing him to focus
on me.  The glow of the porch light warmed his white-blond hair but did nothing
to thaw his glacial gaze.  The arctic gleam in those pale-blues could have
triggered a new ice age.  I was ready with my explanations, but he got in the
first word.

“Okay, exactly what part of ‘don’t
do anything stupid’ didn’t you understand?”

Pro that she was, Sadie took our
unexpected departure for parts unknown in stride, no questions asked.  Hank, on
the other hand, threw a fit, forcing Jack to drag him out of the house.  They
played push-me-pull-you all the way down the walk, Ellison sputtering
objections and demands for an explanation with each balky step.  Finally, Jack
whipped around, hit the lanky redhead with a subzero
I would just as soon
kill you as look at you
glare, and tersely ordered him into the Shrike.

No flies on Hank.  He climbed in,
buckled up, and shut up.

Two hours later, we were in a
high-tech hideaway among the pines foresting the Selkirk Mountains in British
Columbia.  The CIIS VIP safe house, shaped like a mushroom cap perched atop
four squat legs sprouting from a square landing bay, could be relocated at will—sort
of like a glorified RV.  Thanks to some gee-whiz transformation optics and a
micro-fine plasma skin, the house and its occupants were cloaked, veiled from prying
eyes
and
sensors.  Why we needed top-flight protective shields,
intrusion detectors, and defensive weapons on top of that was anyone’s guess.

If lying low at Sadie’s had been
like being grounded, confinement here would be like prison.  Forget work.  Eagan
confiscated my disposable UL right off the bat.  Forget going outside for a
run.  According to basic safe house etiquette, I was expected to meekly hunker between
these four walls until Eagan decided I could get on with my life.  But I’m not
meek, I don’t hunker well, and I had about had my fill of hiding.

The pump was primed.  The Ferrymen
were ready to rumble, and I had a
real
lead.  Solid gold, hell, this lead
was platinum.  Inside information, literally, straight from the top.  All I had
to do now was figure out the best way to leverage the scoop.  At least this peaceful,
hopefully
brief
, Canadian interlude would give me a chance to figure it
out.  I could wait.  For a day or two.

I had certainly waited in worse
places.  The décor here would have done a five-star hotel proud.  Wide banks of
one-way windows under the domed ceiling gave the roomy interior a light, airy
feel.  Thick oriental carpets were scattered across white marble floors.  The living
room—done in green and gold with ebony wood accents and the occasional splash
of fuchsia—was furnished with plush sofas and sculpted armchairs.  My assigned
bedroom, powder-blue with white trim, included a private bath and a walk-in
closet bigger than most apartments.

“
Nice
,” I said, doing a slow three-sixty.

“So, the room is all right?” asked
my guide.

She was a nondescript woman, plain
except for wide, heavily lashed brown eyes.  She kept her sable hair
shoulder-length, her smile deferential and eager-to-please.  I guessed her to
be in her mid-twenties.  Like Ellison and I, live-in housekeeper Tanya Sidorov
would be confined to quarters for the duration.

“It’ll do in a pinch.”  Always on
the lookout for odd, potentially useful scraps of information, I asked, “You’re
not cooped up here all the time, right?  I mean, they
do
let you out
once in a while?”

“Oh, yes,” she assured me with
childlike earnestness.  I tried to place her accent.  Slavic, maybe.  “It is
only sometimes I must stay, when we have guests.  For the safety of all, you
understand, myself included.  It is not because I am not trusted,” she hurried
to add, boasting shyly, “I have a
clearance
.  Almost
two years
I
have worked for the agency.  It is a very
good
job.”

That had been an hour ago.  Now four
of us sat in high-backed chairs around an oblong conference table.  Me, Jack,
Hank, and Fred Stanhope.

Stanhope tended toward fat, balding,
loud, and obnoxious.  Smart mouth, always running.  I knew enough about the Service
to know you didn’t earn agent-in-charge of a safe house by acing your last
performance review.  No, Stanhope had screwed up somewhere, and this backwoods
baby-sitting job was his slap on the wrist.  I might have dredged up an ounce
of sympathy, if he hadn’t volunteered the opinion that reporters ranked lower
than pond scum.  As it was, it didn’t take me ten minutes to write the guy off
as a bona fide jerk.

I had just dropped the Conover
bombshell, and Stanhope was giving me that so-you-think-you’re-Jesus smirk
usually reserved for inmates at mental institutions.

Eagan said, “Run that by me again?”

“Malcolm Conover is with the
Ferrymen.  If you want to know the truth, I think he’s the head honcho.  Charon
himself.”

“And you know this, because you had
some kind of vision.”

I felt my face heat.  Even
I
had trouble believing my story.  These guys probably thought I sounded like one
of those late-night infomercials.  A.J.’s Psychic Hotline.  No reading too
bizarre.

Well, it was too late to change my
story now.  So I forced myself to meet his gaze and said, “Yeah.”

Hank goggled in disbelief.  “I’m
still in a rented tux, more than two thousand miles from home without my
toothbrush, because you thought you saw a
vision
?”

“I knew a guy who saw a vision,”
drawled Stanhope.  “Little blue men riding pink elephants.  We put
him
in a safe house, too.  You know, the one with the pretty padded walls?”

Eagan silenced him with a look and
turned back to me.  “And you say this happened before, with two other people. 
It’s the reason you went to see Bonner.”

I nodded.  “He’s the one who figured
it out.”  His probing gaze made me feel like a bug on a pin; I had to resist
the urge to squirm like one.

“You went through hell the night we
lost Cuey and Michaels,” he reminded me matter-of-factly.  “Post-traumatic
stress can cause all kinds of problems, including hallucinations.  Now, I’m not
saying Bonner doesn’t know his stuff when it comes to eyes, but maybe you need
to get a second opinion from a doc who specializes in psychological trauma.”

“
It’s not post-traumatic stress!
”
I snapped, then made a grab for my patience.  “Look, I know
this sounds
crackbrained.  As a matter of fact, that was my first thought.  Brain injury.  But
Bonner says there isn’t one, and facts are facts.  I meet a teenager.  Two
minutes later, she looks like she went ten rounds with a Louisville Slugger and
lost.  Twenty-four
hours
later, she’s in intensive care, battered to
within an inch of her life by Daddy Dearest.  Before her, Benjamin Palmer.  Another
complete stranger.”  I stared pointedly at Ellison.  “According to you, known
as a spineless klutz who couldn’t walk and chew gum.”

“Yeah.  So?”

“So while you and Conover were
talking manure, Palmer killed his mother.  Strangled her.”

Hank squawked, “
Whaaat?
”

“You heard me.”

“
Bumbling Benji?
”

“You won’t be the only one surprised. 
Almost nobody figured him for a homicide waiting to happen.  But I saw the monster
inside him.”

“Why those two?” asked Eagan.

“Three,” I shot back.  “Don’t forget
Conover.”

“Okay, why those three?  Why not
everybody?”

“I told you.  We … Bonner and I …
figure I can only see that way when a person is under psychological or
emotional strain.  Intense strain, so he or she has to siphon off some internal
energy to maintain outward appearances.”

“Emotional strain.”  He nodded. 
“You mean ready to blow a gasket like I was, when you pulled that brainless
stunt tonight?”

“
Brainless stunt?
  Listen,
Eagan—”

“How about me?” Hank interjected.  “I’m
still
under intense emotional strain.”  You wouldn’t have known it by
the way he glanced at his watch and announced, “And for the record, seeing as
how it’s now ten past two in the morning, Pacific Standard Time, she technically
pulled that brainless stunt
last
night.”

Jack ignored him to bore in on me.  “Come
on, A.J.  What did you see when I caught up with you?  Anything?”

“Other than the fact that you looked
ready to kill me yourself?  Not a thing.”

“Okay.”

“Not okay.  Come on, Eagan, you’re a
smart guy.  Try to keep up.  I didn’t see inside, because you
wanted
me
to know how you felt.  Same with Hank.  No cover up, no need to tap inner
resources, no vision.”

“All right, let’s look at it from
another angle.  There are millions of desperate, depressed, scared, lonely
people out there.  People who go through life barely holding it together.  You
pass thousands of them on the sidewalk every day.  If this …
sixth sense
of yours works the way you and Bonner say ….”  He spread his hands.

“Why don’t I see inside
those
people?”  Good question, and this was the first time it had occurred to me.  At
that moment, my face had to be a snapshot of consternation.  Caption: 
Newbie
clairvoyant ponders baffling gift.

“Well?”

“There’s obviously more to it.  A second
trigger, maybe.”

Stanhope snorted and Hank rolled his
eyes.  Eagan waited patiently, no doubt expecting me to finally come to my
senses and admit I needed therapy.

I tuned them out and ran the data.  A
minute later, the missing puzzle piece dropped into place with an almost
audible click.  “A crime,” I murmured, mostly to myself.

“Say again?” said Jack.

My heart picked up a beat as I refocused
on him.  “What if the sight only kicks in when the person I’m looking at is
either a victim, a perp, or a potential perp?”

“Oh, this just keeps getting better
and better,” Stanhope chuckled snidely.

“Can it, Fred.”

Nice of Eagan to step on Fat Freddy,
but if Jack’s gathering frown was any indication, I was losing him.  Oh.  Like
I ever had him to begin with.  He didn’t believe me, and who could blame him?  Truth
be told,
I
still wasn’t as sure as I would have liked to be.  If I
hadn’t experienced the visions myself, if I hadn’t seen two of them actually
born out ….

But I had, and I needed to earn some
credibility here.  I needed to earn it in a hurry.  Because if my gift was
real, then what I had seen was real.  We had our hook.  We could catch the bad
guys and stop the killing.  All I had to do was get Eagan to believe me.  No
pressure, right?

Will somebody please tell me how I’m
supposed to convince this guy?

Sam would have called what happened
next a case of
ask and ye shall receive
.  I call it inspiration.

“A test!” I blurted.

Jack shook his head.  “You lost me.”

“We need to run a test.”  I barreled
on, hoping to steamroll any and all objections before he could get them out.  “Let’s
put our cards on the table, okay?  Claiming to have visions is totally off the
wall.  You know that, I know that, even Hank knows that.”

“Hey,” said Hank.

“I can trot out one argument after
another, but a controlled test is the only way you’re ever going to believe
me.  You need evidence.  You need to see me in action.  Plus, a test will give
me a chance to check my theory about triggers.  Come on, Jack, you can set this
up.  What can it hurt?  What have you got to lose?”

He scowled.  “I don’t think— ”

“Good! 
Don’t
think!  Listen
to your gut.”  Like I was listening to mine.  “What does your gut tell you?”

“
My
gut says you’re a nut
job,” muttered Stanhope, but I ignored him.  Only one man in the room had the
power to make the test happen, and it wasn’t this bozo.

“What if it’s true?” I pleaded
urgently.  “What if I
do
have this crazy, impossible gift?  What if I
did
see the real Conover?  Do you know what that would mean?  We’ve got them!  We
own
the Ferrymen!  We can shut them down.  Get payback for Cuey and Michaels and
Bugsy and all the others.”

I paused to catch my breath and
gauge his reaction.  He seemed to be considering my proposition.  He wasn’t blowing
it off out of hand, anyway.  No use kidding myself, though.  If he agreed, it
would be because he expected me to fail.  Then, he could force me to admit I
needed to go a few rounds with Doctor Feel Good.  Fine.  Terrific.  I could
live with low expectations, as long as I managed to shove him across the line
between
maybe
and
let’s do it
.

“Your terms all the way,” I offered. 
“Just give me a chance.”

“And if you come up empty?”

Call and raise.
  He had me cornered.  We both knew
it, and we both knew there was only one way I could play it from here.

Drawing a breath and mentally
crossing my fingers, I tossed my last chip into the pot.  “If I come up empty,
you name the shrink.”