David Ellis - Eye of the Beholder

But now he was awake. The voices. Gwendolyn, Gwendolyn Lake, was back home again, the second time since Leo had come to America to live here.

His room was behind the main house. He walked up to a window to check. He saw them, playing the stereo, drinking and smoking, Cassie and her friend, Ellie, and Gwendolyn and a boy. The window was open, and he could hear them laughing, the music blaring.

Oh, hey. Cassie waved to him. Did we wake you?

He shook his head and smiled.

This is my friend Brandon. She pointed at the boy. Leo waved and walked away.

But he heard them. Ellie’s voice, he knew it well by now.

That’s Leo, my boyfriend, she said. They all laughed. Even Cassie.

He went back to bed. But he didn’t sleep. He opened his window and listened.

No, BRANDON, you won’t remember me. No one remembers me. Bend at the waist to stretch the hamstring, then keep going, hit the landing on the third floor.

The door to the right is ajar. A face is peeking through.

“What is this about, Officer?”

Officer. Good.

“What happened to Evelyn?”

Dead. A word he can say well.

Hold out the wallet, focus on the wallet-

Mitchum glances at the badge but looks longer at Leo.

Do you remember me, Brandon?

I remember you.

Mitchum opens the door but keeps the entrance blocked. “What happened?”

He can’t turn back now. This isn’t how he does this but here he is, he won’t get another chance-

Murdered. Another word he knows well.

Mitchum looks over Leo hard, then down at his wallet, which is closed again. “What did you say your name was?”

I didn‘t, Brandon.

Leo hands him the wallet, just like with the woman in the parking lot, simple misdirection, Brandon, while you’re opening the wallet to check the badge-remove the straight razor, flip it open while I step on your foot, so you can’t move, then the blade under your chin, and if you move, if you move, Brandon-

Mitchum’s eyes are frozen with terror. He gets it.

Grab his hair with the free hand for leverage, force him back, an awkward dance, until you’re in, close the door, push it closed behind you, the smell, that smell, marijuana, yeah, like in Lefortovo, smuggled in, supposed to help the time pass but it always seemed to slow things down, slow, slow, like this last hour of your life, Brandon, so very slow.

I REMEMBER STOLETTI’S WORDS, about liking witnesses fresh, unprepared, unrehearsed. I decide to skip the buzzer to announce my presence, given that the security door is off its lock. As I take the final staircase, I hear voices in Brandon Mitchum’s apartment. I knock on the door and hear a harsh whisper, then utter silence.

My breathing halts. My chest fills with heat.

“Brandon Mitchum?” I call out. I move to the side of the door, reach over and knock again, as I hear more noise above the pounding of my fist. A crashing sound, then violent footsteps across a hardwood floor.

I take a deep breath and brace my voice to keep it free from a mounting fear.

“Police!” I yell.

I turn the knob. The door’s unlocked. I look into a loft, a twelve-foot ceiling, a couch, and a large window overlooking the street. A man lying on a rug near the couch, blood spraying from his face.

Someone is running toward the back door, his sport coat flapping. I give chase, without thinking. The man is shorter than me, a little wider, but he isn’t moving well, a bad leg, and the adrenaline pours through me as I realize, in the space of a second or two, that I will catch him.

In the time he takes to open the back door, I lunge into him from behind with a bear hug, hoping to freeze him in place and keep his arms at his side. His body gyrates to the right, trying to shake me off. I try to hang on tight, but his right arm frees up and he jerks an elbow back into my face, an overwhelming force to my forehead. Stars flash through my eyelids, but my left arm comes up around his neck. He tries again with the right elbow, but I’m too far to his left now. I throw a punch into the base of his skull. I rear back again, but he spins before I know it, facing me now, putting a hand on my throat and throwing me backward-

I think of Shelly. I remember the first time I met her, in court, as opposing counsel, that crusading stride, that force of conviction. I loved her before I even knew her.

– My head slams against the wall. I fall into a heap on the floor. Through bleary eyes, I look up at the man, the same man in that photograph, behind Harland Bentley and the group of reporters. His eyes are lifeless, dead, but then he cocks his head and blinks his eyes.

“You,” he says.

I try to gather myself into a defense, but he rushes out the door and down the fire escape. I struggle to stay conscious, try to focus, thinking of the phone, searching for it, from the kitchen floor, as I hear the man’s footsteps barreling down the fire escape. I hear the screams from the other room, from Brandon Mitchum.

I don’t try to stand, not sure that I could handle it. I crawl across the kitchen floor and reach up to the kitchen counter, sweeping my hand as I lose balance. I knock to the floor a pen, paper, and portable phone. The back of the phone breaks off, exposing the battery pack, which, luckily, is still intact. I lift the phone as I fall on my back. I dial the three numbers, and struggle for just those few seconds I need. The words come out, in no particular order- intruder, attacker, someone’s hurt, ambulance, police -and then I go black.

LEO TURNS THE CORNER of the alley and stops, clutching his hamstring. He heads back toward McRae Street, running in front of Mitchum’s building. They could be anywhere, he knows it, but he doesn’t have a choice.

Traitor. Fucking traitor.

He keeps close to the building so anyone looking out, from Brandon’s place, won’t see him. But they already saw him, they already saw him.

I don’t understand. I don’t understand.

He starts up the car and drives off, keeping the speed under the limit.

Hands. Hands. He knows it. Prints. No time to clean up. He left his prints. Prints on the door. They’ll know now. They’ll know it’s me.

All right, Paul Riley. You’ve made your choice.

I know how to hurt you.

“BRANDON,” I say, fighting to wipe the darkness from my eyes. I struggle to my feet, staggering toward the cries in the front room of the condo. I find him in the fetal position, blood squirting between his fingers, which are covering his face.

“Tell me where he cut you,” I say.

“My cheek,” he shouts, his voice muffled with his hand. “Help me!”

“Ambulance is coming. Hang on, Brandon, you’ll be okay.” I manage my way back to the kitchen and find a damp rag, resting in the sink. I bring it to Brandon and press it against his face. He tries to sit up, pressing the rag against the wound, blood all over his shirt and the rug. I squat over him, examining him. Looks like it’s just the cheek. Shouldn’t be fatal, but the face has a lot of blood vessels and you bleed like hell. “Keep the pressure on it.”

“Oh, my God,” Brandon mumbles, gripping my sleeve with his free hand. “Oh, my God, thank-thank you.”

“Do you know him?” I sit on the couch near him.

“A-cop,” he manages, spitting the words out, unable to control his breathing.

I put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s gone now, Brandon, okay? You’re safe. This guy was a cop? Or he said he was?”

Brandon nods, his body shivering, both hands now on the rag against his cheek. This guy must have pretended to be a cop. I look back at the door, then around the place.