Sleep With The Lights On (4 page)

Not rats, though. Once you’ve got a rat, you’ve got a rat, that’s all there is to that that that.

He went out the front door, barely making a sound. He knew how to move in silence. He was a predator, after all. A hunter.

He got into his ’03 F-150, and drove back the way he’d come, over the bridge onto 81, and twenty minutes south to Binghamton. To his brother’s apartment. Mason let him in, groggy, only a little curious, but too tired to stay up long enough to grill him. Just pointed at the couch and scuffed back to his bedroom. A minute later he brought out a pillow and a blanket. “You need to talk, bro?”

“No. Maybe tomorrow.”

“All right. Get some sleep, okay?” Mason handed him the bedding, and went back to his room.

Eric hadn’t slept, though. He’d thought. All night long, he’d paced and he’d thought.

He guessed he’d probably been hoping to stumble onto another solution. A different answer. But he knew down deep that there wasn’t one.

And now it was morning. He’d pretended to be asleep while Mason was getting ready to go to work, knowing his brother wouldn’t wake him. Better that way. If he spoke to Mason first, his detective instincts would tell him something was wrong. So he faked sleep and waited until Mason left.

And now he was alone, and he was ready. Everything was done. He’d showered, and he’d gone down to his pickup to get his stuff out of the locked toolbox where he kept it. A man’s toolbox was sacred. Like a woman’s purse, according to Marie. People didn’t snoop in a man’s toolbox. Not without a damn good reason, anyway, and he’d always been careful never to provide one.

So he was ready. His duffel bag was on the floor, up against the wall on the far side of the room. He’d returned the blanket and pillow to Mason’s bedroom, and unrolled a sheet of plastic on the sofa and out across the floor for several feet all around it, because this was his brother’s place, after all. He didn’t want to ruin it entirely. And he always had plastic in his truck. For moving them. His letter was written, and though it was short, that had taken the longest, ’cause what could you say, really?
Sorry?
Sorry didn’t even begin...

Didn’t matter.

The long line of driver’s licenses was on the coffee table, one neat straight row. He’d texted Mason. Mason would know what to do. He would take care of everything. He always did.

So...it was time.

He picked up the gun in his right hand. It was heavy. He’d rarely used the thing, kept it just in case. He’d avoided the question, in case of what? It wasn’t really his gun. It belonged to the rat. But he was going to use it now.

He was shaking hard as he pressed the barrel to his temple. It worried him how hard he was shaking. He didn’t want to mess this up. He didn’t want to suffer. He didn’t want to feel it. Barrel in the mouth didn’t always work. He’d read that somewhere, hadn’t he? So, to the temple. And it wasn’t like he had to be too precise, anyway. The gun was a .44. He wrapped his left hand around the barrel to keep it from bucking with the recoil and just blowing off the top of his head. And yeah, it would burn his hand—that barrel would be hot. But he didn’t think he’d feel it for more than a second or two, and it was better than letting the gun buck and not getting the job done. That wouldn’t be pleasant. He might survive that.

Gotta do what must be done, burn my hand on the red-hot gun.

God, I’m scared.

He had to do it. Mason would be here soon. It had to be done before Mason got here to stop him.

Is there really a hell? God, what if there is?

He took a deep breath. Then another.

It’s gonna hurt. I know it’s gonna hurt.

He heard footsteps outside. Hell, Mason was already here.

Just do it. It’ll only hurt for a second. Just do it already. For Jeremy.

“Yes, for Jeremy.”

The rat was scratching frantically now. Its claws had broken through. It was ripping away the plaster. If it got out, it wouldn’t let him go through with it. He knew that.

Do it do it do it!

Mason’s heavy steps came to a stop just outside the door. Then the door opened and his brother’s eyes found him sitting there. They went wide with horror as Mason lurched forward, reaching out with both hands, yelling, “No, no, no!”

Eric squeezed the trigger, felt his brain explode in one all-consuming white-hot mixture of deafening noise and blinding pain. And then as blackness descended, he felt the rat squeeze through the hole in the wall and plop onto the floor. Or
was that a handful of his brain?

He never did feel the hot barrel burning his hand.

2

A
cop came to the hospital to take my statement. It wasn’t Detective Brown, though.

My imagination and sixth sense had joined forces and decided to visualize Mason Brown as gorgeous, buff and sexy as hell. He probably had a wide, strong jaw and a corded neck. No long rock-star hair, though. Not on a cop.

Another cop, a short fat one, I guessed, was sitting in a chair by my bed writing down my answers to his questions. He wore glasses. I could hear him adjusting them over and over, up on his head, then down on his nose again. Up when he was addressing me, down when his pen went scritching across the notepad.

“You should just give in and get bifocals,” I said.

He looked up, or that was what I guessed by the sound: movement, then stillness.

I loved this. Shocking people by showing off. It was almost like I was a magician doing parlor tricks for the crowd. Some of the blind—okay, visually impaired is the PC term, but I’m not
visually impaired,
I’m fucking blind—hated being underestimated by the sighted. I enjoyed letting them think I was some kind of wonder kid. It was good PR and amused me to boot. And amusing myself was hard when I was in the hospital and therefore in public, and therefore forced to play my Positive Polly role to the hilt. No slips allowed. BW would have my head.

BW, by the way, was my agent. Belinda Waubach, aka Barracuda Woman.

“Those are store-bought glasses, right? You got them off a rack at a Walmart or a CVS, didn’t you?”

“Price Chopper. I only need them for close-up stuff.”

“It’s the corneas. You need a transplant to fix it. Sadly, they save them all for people like me—not me specifically, of course. My body hates foreign corneas. Rejects them almost before the surgery’s over.” I smelled sweet pea and jasmine. “Are we about finished? My sister’s here to see me.”

“You—” He stopped, and I heard him shift positions, probably to look behind him at the doorway where Sandra stood.

“Is she messing with your head, Officer?” she asked.

“She’s amazing,” the cop said, thereby taking off ten pounds in my mental image-maker. Hell, he’d earned it. He still had bad acne scars and a hint of rosacea, though.

“Amazing my ass, she smelled my body wash.” Sandra came close, leaned over, we hugged, yada yada. “One of these days I’ll switch brands and screw you up royally, Rache,” she threatened.

“It’s not bad enough you pick a fragrance worn by a third of the women who shop at Bath & Body Works?”

She straightened, and I pasted a smile on my face and hoped my eyes weren’t doing anything stupid. Sandra and others had assured me that they didn’t, but I didn’t believe them, which is why I am rarely seen without sunglasses. I mean, why tell me, right? It’s not like I could check in the mirror and prove them liars.

“How are you, sis?” she asked softly.

My sister, Sandra, was my only claim to normal. She was a soccer mom in the best sense of the word. She had twin teenage daughters bearing the ridiculous names of Christy and Misty—no, I am
not
kidding—and a husband named Jim who worshipped at her feet. And why is it every great husband I know is named Jim? Anyway, this particular Jim was a pharmacist. Sandra was a real estate agent. Independent. Office in her basement and doing pretty damn well for herself. She and her family were so perfect, it was amazing I didn’t have to check my blood sugar around them.

“Bruised rib and a concussion,” I said. “Nothing big, but they want me overnight and they took my fu
—
”
Oops.
Cop’s still sitting there.
“They took my darn glasses.”

“Did you give them hell?”

“Only a little,” I lied.

“We need to get you home before you destroy your career.”

“You’re right. I’m not even gonna argue. I was going to go hunt the glasses down myself as soon as Officer Bob here finishes with me.” I tilted my head his way. “That was your cue,” I whispered.

He laughed a nervous laugh. “Okay, I have all I need. And, uh—here.” He moved again, getting up, and then a plastic bag rattled. “It says personal effects, and I see some sunglasses in the bottom of the bag.”

I took it from him, and felt my glasses in the bottom. “Hey, thanks. I guess I should have asked you to begin with.” I fished them out fast and pushed them onto my face. My relief was so intense I felt like I melted in the bed a little.

“I hope you recover fast, Ms. de Luca.” Sincere and mildly amused. He thought I was cute. I hated being thought of as cute.

“Oh, I know I will,” I told him. “I’ll just raise my vibe until my body has to rise up to match it.” Oh, my agent would have
kissed
me for that one. Funny how no one ever responded with the obvious question: “Why the hell are you blind, then?” Maybe they did, behind my back. Who knew? I didn’t care, as long as they kept buying the books. And the affirmation cards, and the annual calendar.

The cop should have left then. He really should have.

But instead he said, “If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to call.”

“I need my brother found, Officer. I think I’ve told you that already.”

“I know, I know. Look, it’s not my case, but I’ll see who I can nudge, all right?”

“No. It’s nowhere near all right.”

My sister swung her hip sideways, bumping my bed hard enough to shake it.

“But it’ll do for now,” I added. “Thanks, Officer.”

“You’re welcome, Ms. de Luca.”

I waited until I knew he was gone. It’s funny how you can feel a person’s presence or absence. Human beings give off some kind of...I don’t know, energy or force field or something. You can sense it clearly and easily if you aren’t too busy looking for them with your eyes. At least, that was my explanation for it. I didn’t remember noticing it until I’d gone blind. Then again, who remembered details like that prior to age twelve?

“So?” Sandra took the cop’s former chair. “What happened?”

I told her what she already knew from my phone call. “Got run over by a cop. Not that one, though. A much better-looking one, according to my built-in TV. A detective, even.”

“You should sue,” she said. She reached out to take my glasses from my face, then put them back a second later. “Crooked,” she said. “You’d get a zillion.”

“I already
have
a zillion. You know, give or take. Besides, it was my fault, so—”

“You weren’t in the crosswalk?”

“I speed-walked into the crosswalk without even pausing. The guy couldn’t stop. I was pissed. About Tommy.”

“I know.”

“Besides, how is the ‘make peace with the pain’ guru going to look in a big messy lawsuit? It would cost me more than I’d gain.”

She sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

“So I’m here for the night.”

“Yeah, well, you’d better stow the attitude, then. People talk.” And then she was leaning over the bed, apparently forgetting the part where I’d mentioned that I had a bruised rib, and hugging me again. “God, when I think what could’ve happened... We don’t know where Tommy is. Mom and Dad have been gone ten years now. I don’t want to lose you, too.”

“Mom and Dad went the way they would’ve wanted to. Together and on vacation.” Cruise ship capsized. It was all over the news. “And we almost never know where Tommy is, so we should be used to it by now.”

“I know.”

“You won’t lose me, too. I promise.” I grunted, because she was still hugging me and the rib was still bruised. “I’m fine. And I’ll stay that way if you’ll quit trying to break the rest of my ribs.”

Warmth on my face. Tears. Hers, not mine. I didn’t believe in them. They didn’t serve a hell of a lot of purpose except to rinse the eyes, and I could do that with Visine, thanks.

“So they’re letting you go tomorrow, then?” she asked, sniffling, unbending, releasing me from her killer hug.

“Probably tomorrow, they said.”

“Why only probably?”

“I don’t know.”

“I want to talk to the doctor.”

“Well, you can’t, big sis, because I’m of age, and that health-care proxy I gave you doesn’t kick in unless I’m incapacitated. So you’re going to have to take my word on this. I’m fine.”

“Hell.”

“I’m
fine,
” I repeated. “And the last thing I want is a fan club vigil in the waiting room or, God forbid, the press showing up. So keep this to yourself and tell my right-hand Goth to do the same. Got it?”

“Of course I’ve got it. And I’ll tell Amy. You know me, honey.”

Yeah,
I thought.
That’s what I’m afraid of.

* * *

Mason had worried all the way to his place. He’d jogged up the stairs with his heart in his throat, assuring himself that Eric was fine, but something—that same intuition that made him an uncannily successful detective, maybe—was telling him that he wasn’t okay at all. The apartment was the second floor of a two-family house, and the family who owned it rarely used the ground floor but kept it vacant just in case.

More money than brains, maybe, Mason didn’t know. He’d always figured if he held out long enough, they would get sick of keeping it and rent him the whole damn thing.

When he got to the top step his heart was pounding and his mouth was dry. Then he opened the door.

It was like a curtain parting on a nightmare. His brother was on the couch with a .44 Magnum jammed to the side of his head, just above the ear, awkwardly holding the piece with both hands, tears streaming from his reddened eyes. Eyes that shot to Mason’s for an instant, eyes so full of pain Mason could feel it himself.

He lunged and shouted and the gun went off. Earsplitting, that shot in the confines of the small room. The blood spray was like an explosion.

He halted midway to his brother, tripping over himself and falling to his knees in time with Eric falling over sideways on the couch. Rumpling the plastic with which he’d covered it.

“Ahh, God, what the fuck, Eric,
whatthefuck...?
” He scrambled closer on hands and knees, over more plastic on the floor. There was very little left of his brother’s skull, and he just knelt there with it at eye level, shaking all over, frozen. He was also at eye level with the coffee table, so he saw the note and an odd row of driver’s licenses. And then he started moving again, fumbling for the cell phone in his pocket. Somehow he punched in 911. And then he was talking, giving the address, automatic functions kicking in while his mind reeled, as scrambled as if the bullet had gone into his own brain.
Why? Mother. Marie. The boys. Why?

Putting the phone back into his pocket, Mason blinked again at those driver’s licenses.

Then he went still, and so did his reeling brain. Everything stopped. Time froze, a moment drawn out into what felt like eternity. He knew most of those faces. They were the same faces currently pinned up on the bulletin board in his office. All young men, all missing, all presumed dead. No bodies, though. Just empty wallets found in each man’s last known location.

What the hell was Eric doing with these?

Frowning, he looked around the room. Everything was just the way he’d left it this morning, except for the plastic and that duffel bag on the floor, way over by the far wall. He didn’t think that had been there when he’d left. Letter on the table. Eric’s handwriting, always as sloppy and uneven as a third grader’s. Swallowing hard, Mason looked at the note, didn’t touch, just looked.

I am a monster. I kill. Over and over again, I kill. I’m the guy you’re looking for, Mason, and I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. God, you must be so mad at me right now. But I stopped. I made myself stop. I did the right thing...finally. I know you’ll take care of the boys. It had to be over. Now it is. It’s over. Thank God. Pray I don’t go to hell. It wouldn’t be fair. I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t my fault. I just...couldn’t stop.

Eric looked from the note to his brother, lying in a soup of brain matter and blood on the plastic-covered sofa. He thought about Eric’s sons, Josh and Jeremy. Mason loved those two boys like they were his own. Now he was supposed to tell them their dad was...

...a murderer?

...
a
serial killer?

His mind rejected the notion even though it was right there in blue ink on a white, blood-spattered sheet of printer paper.

And Marie, what about Marie? She was heavily pregnant with a little girl.

And Mother. God, this would kill Mother.

Was he really going to tell them what was in this note?

He looked at the driver’s licenses again. The practical part of his brain said it had to be true. Otherwise, how would Eric have all those IDs? Trophies.

So he would have to tell them.

For what? It’s not like Eric’s going to kill anyone else. The murders will stop now. No more harm will be done. And I don’t have time to sit here debating this.