Don't Close Your Eyes (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 1) (15 page)

Clovin hated the paint, a gritty, caustic emulsion that stained his skin and burned the mucous membranes of his sinuses.
He found the work embarrassing as well. It was beneath a man of such grandiose intellect, but it paid well. More importantly, it was off the books. Between his military disability and the painting job, Clovin was getting on quite well. It allowed him the indulgence of his hobbies and vices: gadgets, guns, and above all else, LSD.

It was only that morning that he had finalized his plans for Hilary Glenn’s murder. Standing beneath the rusted beams, power sprayer in hand, he felt the powerful rattle of the compressor’s engine feed through the sprayer wand and knew how he would do it. The pulse of the paint through the wand reminded him of his days in the military and the feel of an automatic weapon discharging in his hands. It was a feeling of great power, a feeling he longed for. It brought him a satisfied grin.

It took a long moment for him to return to the present. Staring into the bathroom mirror, it dawned on him that circumstances had changed. He was no longer in the army, but he was on a mission all the same. First Hilary Glenn and then . . . it was almost over. The moment of resolution was fast approaching.

The protective garb helped, but did not prohibit a bloom of reddish brown paint from encircling his face. It started at his cheek, a clearly delineated line that began where his mask ended and grew darker toward his ear. His wrists were stained where the mist had seeped between his gloves and the elasticized sleeve cuff. The commercial material he deployed to inhibit rust had to be delivered under pressure. Clovin knew that despite precautions, the material was everywhere, impregnating his skin, the mucous membranes that lined his lungs, his hair, and his eyes.

Working methodically, he began to rub his skin in a circular motion with a cotton ball saturated with an acetone-based solvent. He started with his face and then worked on his wrists and ankles. Thirty minutes later, standing naked before the bathroom mirror, Clovin was satisfied. He ran the shower until the water was scalding, and stepped in armed with a brush and pumice soap. He emerged at four-thirty, raw and adequately cleansed. The paint pigment was still there, embedded where the brush could not reach. It was in him, like a cancer, replacing healthy cells with prostrate. He could not see it or smell it, but knew that it was there.

The task had left him ravenous. He prepared a ritualistic meal: vanilla-flavored soymilk and high-fiber cereal. He consumed half a quart of milk and one third of a box of cereal. He believed that dinner should be the lightest meal of the day.

He napped until seven and then did his last tab of Alice in Wonderland. Lying in bed, he saw the spring sky begin to darken, and felt the need to kill well up within him once again.

Dawn was on the rise. Clovin reveled in hypnagogic sleep, lavished in the bliss of an LSD-induced stupor. It had hit him just right, the orange tint of morning sky, chemical tranquility, stupor, and bliss. He was feeling no pain. The demons had released him, his flesh slipped, uncharred, from the fiery dragon’s mouth. He turned his head from the light. Hilary Glenn was next to him in bed, naked, sleeping soundly on her side, a sheet hanging limply from her hip.

He touched her shoulder; her flesh turned purple beneath his fingertips. He could see waves of energy radiating out from beneath them. He slid his hand down her arm and watched it turn magenta and then bright red. He slid the sheet from her hip. There was only blackness beneath it, absolute blackness. He stared at the void until it began to undulate and grow into a shimmering, milky white. He drank from it. His lips tingled and soon began to burn. The burning intensified as it traveled toward his stomach. He tried calling to her through sealed lips, but was unable to produce an intelligible sound. He began to rock furiously and slam his hands down on the mattress around him, pounding it forcefully. He had to get her attention. He couldn’t kill her until he saw her eyes, her unsuspecting eyes. Only then could he end her life, hold her in his arms and smother her, bar the air from her lungs until she withered and died.

She seemed to stir. It was coming, the moment he had waited for like seeing a deer through a rifle site . . . at last. He felt himself tense in expectation. Hilary Glenn rolled over and faced him. Her eyes were cool green eyes. They were devoid of warmth, but unsuspecting. He pulled her closer. She snuggled against him like a child.

He placed his hand against her cheek. She was illusionary, ghostlike. How could he smother that which he could not hold? He screamed. This time he heard himself bellowing furiously at the top of his lungs firing resentment. He reached for her arm, but that too was insubstantial. His hand fell through her, touching the sheet.

Hilary glared at him. Blinding beams of light projected from her eyes, scorching him, burning away his flesh. He covered his face until the pain subsided. He looked again. Hilary Glenn was gone.

He heard a tapping on the window. She was there, sitting outside on the ledge as he had at her office. She was laughing at him, mocking him. He flew from the bed, bringing his mass against the glass, but it would not shatter. Hilary’s mouth opened. It was black and cavernous. The void grew, and then she disappeared again.

He felt himself heaving, spent with exhaustion. Sweat poured from his brow, scalding his raw skin.

“Daddy? Daddy, I’m here.”

Clovin turned. Sheryl was in his bed, looking as she had on the last night he had seen her alive, pigtails broadcast over the pillow, wearing the printed nightgown they had purchased for her in Charleston.

“Where have you been, Daddy? I’ve been looking for you.” She extended her arms. Her eyes were dark and lifeless. Clovin sighed. She had been dead for thirty years, but she had never gone away.

Tony Scosdolocus aka Tony Skuz opened the door of his canary-yellow Mustang.
Before stepping out, he checked himself in the rearview mirror. His thick black hair and mustache had been freshly shorn that morning. He had restyled his hair using an excessive amount of gel. He’d combed every last hair methodically, until his mane had the appearance of molded plastic.

He got out and tugged on his jacket. He had never worn a tux before and loved the cummerbund. It held in his beer belly better than his Sans-a-Belt slacks ever had. “Yeah, I’m telling ya, we gotta take up golf. That’s where the money’s at.”

Alex Pareya sneered at Tony Skuz as he got out of the car. Julio Vargas, his usual partner, had called in sick at the last moment. Pareya knew better. He knew Vargas was shacked up with his girlfriend and just wasn’t getting out of bed. Tony Skuz was the resident joke at Prestige Security, the guy no one wanted to partner with. Now he was Pareya’s joke.

Tony Skuz came around the car. Pareya grabbed his tuxedo jacket from behind the front seat and put it on. Skuz pointed at Pareya’s hair. Pareya glanced up. “Oh yeah, thanks,” he replied resentfully, before pulling off his doo-rag and tossing it into the car. Being told anything by Skuz bothered him.

Pareya checked his hair in the side mirror. When he looked up, Skuz was fitting an earpiece. “Hey, c’mon, no fucking toys, man.” The earpiece had come from an old transistor radio. Tony Skuz had wrapped the cord around a pencil and baked it in a toaster oven so that it remained coiled and had the appearance of a Secret Service ear set. The end of the cord was tucked into his shorts. “You look like a fool, man. Take it off!”

“No way. It looks good,” Skuz said.

Pareya cursed under his breath. He wanted to kill Vargas for saddling him with the buffoon. “You think that’s gonna get you laid, man? You think the girls gonna mistake you for some kind of tacky, out of shape James Bond or something?” He sighed with disgust before turning and walking off.

Tony Skuz was hot on his heels. “You’re fuckin’ A, I look like a million bucks. This place will be crammed with eligible snatch.” Skuz began to strut. “And the pussy king is here to pillage.”

Pareya waved him off, dismissing him. “You aggravate me, man. You want these saggy, old, society bitches? Good luck, man.” Pareya, like most of his Dominican friends, was partial to fifteen-year-olds and not the least bit interested in mature women despite their ample endowment with coin of the realm.

Tony Skuz was not fazed by his partner’s unhappiness. As always, he thought better of his own ideas. This was his first assignment in Manhattan and Skuz was electrified with excitement. He’d seen Hilary Glenn’s picture in the news. The papers had reported that the private fundraiser hoped to raise a half a million for the Glenn campaign. It was a small black-tie affair, an intimate group of well-heeled supporters. Tony Scosdolocus was thrilled over his newly found celebrity. Working security for swanky politicians was far better than his day job.

Make sure the Motorola unit works,” Pareya barked.

Skuz pulled a handheld narrow-band radio from his jacket pocket and turned it on.

A street person was camped out not far from the entrance to the supper club in which the fundraiser was being held. Skuz wrinkled his nose as he walked past. “Filthy bum. Get the fuck outta here.” He shot the derelict a distasteful look, dusted himself off, and continued on inside.

“My partner will cover the door. I’ll work inside.” Alex Pareya spoke to Alice Tate in a professional manner. He had already decided to station Skuz by the front door, therefore limiting his exposure to the guests.

“Please be discreet,” she replied. “Blend in. I don’t want the guests to notice the two of you at all. I want them concentrating on their generosity, not the security. I don’t want them distracted or bothered in any way. Are we clear on this?” Pareya nodded.

Tony Skuz walked through the door. He heard Alice Tate’s remark and ignored it. “Tony Scosdolocus,” he boomed as he extended his hand. “Good to meet you.”

Alice Tate, Evan Wainright’s right hand, declined the handshake, smiled quaintly and replied, “My, my, aren’t you hot shit?” She turned back to Pareya. “Be invisible,” she demanded, before racing off.

“You got your gun?” Pareya asked.

Tony Skuz patted his ankle and winked. “That’s affirmative.”

“Good,” Pareya replied. “Don’t use it. No one gets in without an invitation. Can you handle that?” Skuz nodded. “If you need me, I’ll be inside. One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t need me.”

Hilary Glenn emerged from her limousine looking radiant and supremely self-confident, on the verge of cocky. A barrage of camera flashes greeted her. Reporters holding foam-clad microphones, each stenciled with a TV station logo, pressed in on her. She glowed with self-importance as she encountered them.

“Ms. Glenn, what do you think of your chances now that Mayor Rubio has bowed out of the race? Do you think it’s a sure thing?” Michelle Wong, the ABC reporter, posed the question.

“We take nothing for granted,” Glenn replied modestly. “There’s still a long road ahead of us.”

“Ms. Glenn, how much money do you expect to raise at this evening’s event?” asked a reporter from the Post.

“As much as humanly possible.” Her response raised a flurry of laughter. Her years in corporate life had prepared her for this. She was such a polished phony, it took your breath away.

Evan Wainright was now out of the limo. No one even noticed him emerge. “That’s all for now,” he announced. “There are a hundred hungry supporters inside and I want to make sure they’ve got the strength to take their checkbooks out of their pockets. We can’t keep them waiting, now, can we?”

Hilary looked stunning in her beaded Armani evening gown as she draped a hand crocheted shawl over her bare shoulders. The back was cut away in a provocative wedge. It was taut at the waist, accentuating her splendid figure. She had begun pushing her way through the crowd of reporters when she noticed the vagrant huddled against the adjacent store’s façade. She smiled inwardly—the political wheels were turning. “Just a moment,” she announced. She began walking in the derelict’s direction. The press followed her. “Give me a little space, please. I don’t want to frighten him.”
God, I’m good.

Two of the reporters looked at each other. They hung back with the rest of their colleagues, allowing Hilary Glenn ten feet of privacy.

“Hilary, do you think that’s a good—” Wainright warned. A scowl cut him down quickly.

“Are you hungry?” she asked. The vagrant nodded, never lifting his head or exposing his face. Hilary turned back to the press. “The homeless deserve our help,” she announced in a sympathetic voice. “I’m going to take care of this as one of my first orders of business.” She turned back to the vagrant. “I’ll have something brought out for you to eat. Would you like that?” She regarded the urchin, covered in rags, all of his worldly possessions in a torn duffle bag at his side.

The vagrant buried his face more deeply into folded arms. His reply was muffled but understandable. “Blow me.”

Tony Skuz wandered into the kitchen.
A half-consumed tray of canapés had been abandoned and was within his reach. He popped a crab cake into his mouth and wolfed it down. “Fuckin’ A,” he opined. He dipped a second into a dish of dill mayonnaise and smiled with delight upon tasting it. The pastry chef eyed the freeloader with outrage. “Hey, you make these? They’re fucking terrific.” The pastry chef grumbled heatedly and dashed away. Tony Skuz placed several crab cakes on a napkin and continued to whittle down the supply.

A smack on the back of his head induced a choking spasm. “What the hell are you doing in here, man? Didn’t I tell you to stay out front?” Alex Pareya didn’t care to be a babysitter, not for a fat, overstuffed fool like Tony Skuz. His dark complexion flushed an unsightly red.

Tony Skuz coughed, dislodging a chunk of crabcake into his hand. “You almost killed me, you Dominican asshole.”

Pareya glanced in disgust at the glob of partially consumed fish in Skuz’s hand. “Throw that away and get back outside!” he ordered.

“What’s the rush? Most everyone’s here that’s supposed to be here. They’re supposed to feed us, aren’t they?”

“No. Go wash up. I’ll cover the front door until you get back. Make it fast.”

Pareya disappeared through the kitchen’s swinging doors. “Asshole!” Skuz reiterated. He cleaned his hand with a linen cocktail napkin, picked up a used champagne flute and swallowed its contents. “Kiss my big fat ass, you piece of garbage.”

He strolled leisurely through the dining area, checking out the food and the cling of evening attire over the derrieres of the female attendees. He caught a scowl from an outraged husband before finding his way to the men’s room. Standing before the lavatory mirror, he patted his hair. It was still as hard as nails.

A distinguished gray-haired gentleman stood alongside him, using the adjacent sink. Tony Skuz thought that he looked every bit as good as the man he shared the room with. He was younger too, which meant better. “They got some high-class snatch out there,” he offered.

“You’re observant,” the elderly man replied.

“Security,” Skuz replied haughtily.

“Good, I’ll rest easy.” The older gent rolled his eyes before refocusing on himself in the mirror.

~~~

Hilary Glenn slid into the seat next to Evan Wainright. “How are we doing, darling?”

“Like taking candy from a baby,” Wainright cooed. His lower lip was still red and puffy.

She continued to focus on her guests as she waved to a couple on the dance floor and discreetly placed her hand over Wainright’s fly. “I hope you’ve got a nice, large figure for me.”

Wainright tensed reflexively. He couldn’t help turning toward her in bewilderment. “Hilary!”

“How much?” she insisted. He could hear the teeth of his zipper tick open one by one.

“My goddamn wife’s here,” he blustered past gritted teeth.

“Relax. I just saw the good Mrs. Wainright in the ladies’ room. How much?” Her hand was inside now, stroking him deftly.

“Three hundred sixty-four thousand,” he whispered. “I’ve still got half the crowd to work.” His eyes darted nervously around the room.

Glenn’s eyes widened. She looked at Wainright gleefully as she withdrew her hand, leaned over, and whispered in his ear, “Before you leave tonight, I’m going to give you the blowjob of the century.” She winked and then stood abruptly. “What did Stuart Isaacs shuck out?”

“Nothing yet,” he replied.

“I’ll go work him over.” She waved at NASDAQ’s Vice Chairman and discreetly adjusted her cleavage. “We’ll see if this really is a Miracle Bra. Don’t forget to zip,” she reminded him.

Wainright was doing so when the terror of a gun blast tore through the room. His heart knocked against his chest. Women shrieked. A few alert men hit the floor and pulled their companions down alongside them. A few seconds passed in which nothing but horrifying silence transpired. He could hear the seconds ticking in his ears, waiting, waiting . . .

Alex Pareya’s last steps as a living being were toward the center of the restaurant. Staggering, he made it to the dance floor. The stain of fresh blood had spread across his white tuxedo shirt. He reared and collapsed face first onto the wooden floor. The air exploded with a hundred shrill screams and then fell silent.

Tony Scosdolocus tensed with nervousness. He listened at the men’s room door as the inner room erupted in hysteria. He grabbed at his ankle, tearing his slacks as he gained his Browning 9mm. He heard the hysteria die down, opened the door fractionally and peered out. The street bum he had encountered on the way into the supper club was standing twelve feet away with his back to him. Alice Tate was standing just in front of the bum. Skuz recognized her immediately, the cut of her gown from the rear, her long leg, cast askew from the gown’s thigh-high slit.
The fuckin’ bum?
he said to himself. He remembered Alex Pareya’s instructions about not using his gun.
I don’t need the Browning to toss this crud.
He holstered the 9mm.

“Hey! I thought I told you—” Tony Skuz grabbed the vagrant’s shoulder and spun him around. The muzzle of the MAC-10 jabbed him sharply in the belly as it discharged twelve rounds, tearing his torso to shreds and punching him forcefully back into the wall.

Zachary Clovin spun back around in an instant, his eyes flashed maniacally, the muzzle of the assault rifle smoked in his hands. Alice Tate was now unwanted baggage. He pushed her away and fired a short burst into her back. She staggered, twitched, and collapsed. He glared at everyone in the room; motionless, petrified people. The weeping was music to his ears. “Three dead, I don’t know . . . fifty to go?” He began firing singles around the room. The first shot caught a waiter in the face, the next punctured Stuart Isaacs’s right ventricle, killing him instantly.

Clovin fired a burst at the ceiling, cutting the chain that secured a massive chandelier. It plummeted twenty feet to the floor, pinning Evan Wainright’s leg beneath it. “Fucking ouch!” Clovin confronted Wainright and stood over the cowering politician. Wainright’s wife defied fear and ran to her husband’s side. “He’s been a bad boy. The boss has been sucking his dick.” Celia Wainright stared at Clovin in fright and disbelief. He put the MAC-10 to Wainright’s temple and squeezed the trigger. Her husband’s skull exploded, covering her with his blood and brain tissue. “Judge, jury, and
exe-fucking-cutioner
.” Celia Wainright blacked out and rolled over the body of her decapitated husband.

The next burst sprayed bullets across the room. A wall-length mirror shattered. A million glass shards rained down, halting Hilary Glenn in her tracks. “How long do I have to wait for my dinner, bitch? You weren’t even sincere about that, were you?” He approached her as if he were stalking prey, grabbed her by her dress and pinned her up against the wall. “I can be a gracious host too.” He put the muzzle of the MAC-10 to her lips. “Getting excited? It’s big, black, and hard.”

Hilary Glenn’s face was a portrait of terror. She saw her own terrified reflection in Clovin’s eyes. She’d remember it forever.

“Are you ready for it, Hilary? Here it comes.” Clovin brought the weapon up to eye level.

“Jesus Christ.” Glenn shuddered.

“Ba-boom!” Clovin thundered, simulating the explosion of a MAC-10 blast. The blood drained from Glenn’s face and her eyes began to roll up into her head, but the back of Clovin’s hand brought her back. “Not until I tell you,” he snarled. Then he reversed the MAC-10 and brought the butt crashing down on her head.