Don't Close Your Eyes (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 1) (19 page)

In his phobic mind, it was as if he were reaching for the head of a venomous snake. I counted to three and then made the decision for him. I lurched out the window and seized his free hand. I grunted as his weight registered with me. He was hanging like meat on a slaughterhouse hook, a look of abject hopelessness on his face. “Come on, Nigel. Come on, Nigel . . . I can’t hold you forever.”

And then he came to life. His arm tensed as if a pneumatic winch had kicked in. In a second, both of his hands were on the window ledge and he was pulling himself up.

I scanned the pavement for Richard’s lifeless body, but couldn’t find it. I had my bloody hands on Twain’s coat as I yanked him back into my apartment.

I needed a vacation after that night.
I’m not talking a weekend in Atlantic City; I’m talking the whole damn summer, so that I could chill, decompress, veg out, and what have you.

Chief of Detectives, Sonellio, good as gold, granted my request for a two-month leave of absence. The summer was mine, to put my life back into order. God only knew, I needed it. Twain’s story had come as a terrible blow and it was a long time before I was able to accept it. He had provided all the paperwork necessary to support his claim. I pored through it over and over again. In the end, I was unable to refute his findings.

In exchange for the father he had taken from me, God had given me a brother. Richard survived. A tree limb had broken his fall. He was still hobbling around and his arm was in a sling throughout the summer. Lord knew he’d never regain that which had been taken from him: a legitimate life, his mother, and kid sister, Sheryl. He was an interesting man, forty-five years old, an oxygen-starved ember striving to become a brilliant flame. I didn’t know if he’d ever be able to overcome all that he had been through, but with God’s help and my own, we’d give it a hell of a try. He’s a sweet and loving man. He calls me the replacement baby, for I had been brought into the world to replace his dearly loved sister, that poor unfortunate girl. I accepted her legacy with pride.

Zachary Clovin, whatever he had been, was no more. And the few of us who knew who he really was would take that terrifying truth to our graves. I’m no longer worried about my genetics, the threat of diabetes, or anything that had carried across to me from Zachary Clovin. I’m a product of my environment. Looking back, my environment had been pretty damn good.

I thought that attending his funeral would kill me, but it didn’t. As strong as I was before this all happened, I was stronger now and thoroughly convinced to continue my career in law enforcement. I now had a new reason for being a cop. I wanted to make up for the horrible acts Zachary Clovin had committed. Justice had become my mission.

The nightmares have finally stopped. Modern psychiatry will tell you that it’s just not possible, but somehow, I had seen what my biological mother, burnt, bloody, and pregnant, had seen almost thirty years ago as she was being rushed into the emergency room. Doc Howls had falsified a slew of documents. He had pronounced mother and unborn child dead on arrival. I now know that my biological mother had survived long enough to see me born.

I guess what they say is true: God works in mysterious ways. Doc Howls must have collected a bundle for illegally orchestrating my adoption, as I’m sure he did with all the other babies he had sold. I was brought up by fine people who taught me the value of freedom. Howls ended up losing his own.

My relationship with Ma would remain unchanged and cherished for the rest of our lives. My parents had no knowledge of Howls’ illegal activities. As far as they and the state of New York were concerned, everything was completely legitimate. I would have liked to know my biological mother. I would have liked to have found out the truth much sooner, but I have no complaints about who I am or how I got here. I was loved and nurtured by two of the finest people who ever walked the Earth. As an added benefit, I can now eat Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food with reckless abandon. Case closed.

Dr. Nigel Twain had performed an amazing piece of detective work, piecing together Pruett’s story: Doc Howls’ foul crimes and the secret of my adoption.

Perhaps the years of LSD-expanded consciousness had helped him. If you believe as he does that life is preordained, then perhaps he was born specifically for this reason, to reunite me with my brother and bring an end to the misery and madness of Zachary Clovin. Of course, he should have told me that Ma couldn’t be my biological mother because of our different blood types. Oh, and sharing his other discovery with me would have been nice too. You know which one, the picture of my parents taken shortly before my birth, the one in which Ma wasn’t pregnant.

Twain took a real chance playing detective on his own. He could have gotten himself killed and jeopardized the case. God knows I’ll never forgive him for breaking into my apartment. But Twain had acted out of love and his devotion to healing and righteousness. He proved to be a true friend, one I was counting on to help me overcome the enormous emotional burden, newly weighted upon my shoulders. His odd brand of medicine had proven most effective.

I lifted my head off the towel. The sun was baking me like a clam as I rested on the deck of my new boat, Ma’s fifty-thousand-dollar contribution toward my emotional health and well being. I peered over the railing at Richard and Twain from where we were anchored, just a few hundred feet from the jetty. Twain had promised Pruett that Richard would be in good hands. After all, Pruett had raised Richard as if he were his own and spared him the pain of growing up as a murderer’s son. Although Zachary Clovin did not stand trial thirty years ago, the people of Quarrier knew the truth. Pruett had promised to visit, but had yet to specify a date. I didn’t know if we’d ever see that country boy in the big city, but if he wasn’t coming, I’d go to him. I owed that man a righteous hug and then some.

The boys were fishing off the pier. Richard was showing Twain how to bait a hook. Yes, Twain had been rewarded for his efforts. His life or death decision not only saved Richard’s life, it ended Twain’s years of seclusion and phobia. For years, men have been telling me that I have a magical touch. Perhaps there’s some truth to it, one touch and Nigel Twain was cured forever. Yes, of course, I saved his life, but you know that already.

I waved to them and they both waved back. Twain was grinning happily and fitting an earthworm over the end of his fishing hook.

My Saint Christopher medal was hot as a stone, but now that I had it back, I would never take it off again. I slid it along its chain until it rested alongside me on the deck. It meant more to me than ever, for it had been given to me by a very special friend.

Gus was lying facedown on a towel just a foot or so away. “You’d better turn over,” I instructed. “I’m going to need that body tonight and I don’t want to hear about your terrible sunburn.” Gus winked at me, then closed his eyes. He was proving to be the man I knew he could be. His hair was mussed from swimming. It was the little-boy look on the body of a real man, a man with a heart and soul. It didn’t take much getting used to.

A stiff breeze whipped by, cooling the moisture on my skin. I felt so good, I almost wanted to cry, but I didn’t. I don’t believe in sappy endings. Life is to be enjoyed unconditionally. Remember that and have a great life.

~~~

I hope that you enjoyed Don’t Close Your Eyes. I always like hearing your comments and questions. I hope that you’ll write to me at
[email protected]
. Please page down for information on the Stephanie Chalice Mystery Series and upcoming releases. For more information please visit my website: lawrencekelter.com.

Don’t Close Your Eyes

Ransom Beach

The Brain Vault

Our Honored Dead

Baby Girl Doe

(Release Date: January 31, 2014)

A resident New Yorker, Kelter often uses Manhattan and Long Island as backdrops for his stories. He is the author of the Stephanie Chalice Mystery Series and other works of fiction.

Early in his writing career, he received support from bestselling novelist, Nelson DeMille, who reviewed his work and actually put pencil to paper to assist in the editing of the first novel. DeMille said, “Lawrence Kelter is an exciting new novelist, who reminds me of an early Robert Ludlum.”

His novels are quickly paced and feature a twist ending.