Morgan Hayes - See No Evil

SHE’D BEEN DREAMING about being in the kitchen of the old house on Cicero Avenue. Her mother was baking bread and bottling tomato sauce the way she always did on Sunday afternoons. Stevie had almost been able to smell the sweet aroma of spices and the yeast from the rising dough, when a voice broke the spell.

“I think she’s finally coming to.” It was a female voice-distant, as though it traveled down a long hollow tunnel. “Stay with her. I’ll get Dr. Sterling.” The voice was closer now. It sounded as thick and heavy as the pain that throbbed in her head.

And then she heard the door. It slapped in its frame, just like the two-way door that separated her mother’s kitchen from the family room. It swung a couple of times, and in between, she could make out other sounds: ringing phones and buzzers, and something that sounded like the chime of an elevator.

Then there was silence again. Silence and the stringent odor of antiseptic. This was not her mother’s kitchen.

“Stevie?” A different voice this time, but familiar.

There was a hand on hers. She tried to pull away. She didn’t want to be dragged from this warm place. She wanted to stay in the kitchen. It was safe there. Her father was in the family room, listening to the Sunday opera on the radio. The final act of Tosca was playing, and he’d promised that as soon as it was over, he’d show her how to develop the film from her camera.

“Stevie? Honey? Can you hear me?”

Perhaps if she kept her eyes closed, she’d be able to go back to the kitchen, to linger in its warm memories. Her head—it hurt so much. It hadn’t hurt when she was in the kitchen.

“Stevie, come on. I know you can hear me. You’ve got to snap out of this. Please.”

And then there was another voice. A man’s this time.

“Stephanie?”

Her father? No, it couldn’t be. He was dead. He died three years ago, the day after her twenty-seventh birthday. She’d gone home to Chicago for a visit. It had rained the whole weekend. A cold late-September drizzle that hadn’t let up until after the funeral.

“Stephanie? Can you hear me? I’m Dr. Sterling. Can you open your eyes, Stephanie?”

“Her name’s Stevie.”

Now she recognized the quiet soothing voice. It was Paige.

“Stevie, you’re at Danby General Hospital. You’ve had us all pretty worried. Stevie? Can you hear me?” he asked again.

She tried to nod, but pain hammered through her head. She wanted to answer him, but her mouth felt dry, her tongue swollen.

“Yeah.” The word rasped in her throat.

“I knew you’d come around sooner or later,” the man said, a smile in his voice. “Paige here tells me you can develop quite the appetite when you miss meals. I figured you’d be getting pretty hungry by now.”

She attempted a smile, surprised that the effort didn’t hurt as much as she’d anticipated.

“Can you open your eyes, Stevie?”

She licked her lips and finally opened her eyes a crack, expecting shards of light to pierce her already throbbing headache. There was only darkness. She opened them farther. Still darkness. And then there was Paige’s voice again.

“Hey, Stevie. How’re you feeling, honey?”

“Paige?”

She felt a hand take hers. “I’m right here.”

“Where?”

“Right…right beside you.”

Stevie squeezed the hand. She blinked several times. Or at least, she thought she did. But all she saw was darkness.

“Man, this is one strange dream.” She let out a weak laugh.

“Stevie?” The hand tightened around hers. “Honey, it’s…it’s not a dream.”

She blinked again and was met by the same chasm of utter blackness—a dizzying abyss.

“Paige, what are you saying?”

“Stevie, listen to me…”

She tried to sit up. Instantly there were hands on her shoulders, on her chest, holding her down, forcing her back into the pillows. And she felt something sharp pull on her arm.

Then there was Paige’s voice again. “Stevie, just take it easy. You’re going to be all right. Dr. Sterling’s here, and—”

“I can’t see!” Panic coursed through her, and another wave of nauseating pain knifed along the back of her head. “Paige, what’s going on? I can’t see you!”

DETECTIVE JACKSON was a man of few words, Allister decided as Jackson perused Gary’s collection of bottled ships on the mantel of the flagstone fireplace. It was Detective Devane, the older of the pair, who was the lead man in the investigation into Gary’s murder and who had taken an almost immediate dislike to Allister. Last night after they’d identified Gary’s body, the gruff detective had undoubtedly recognized Allister from six years ago. When he’d asked Allister his whereabouts at the time of Gary’s death, Devane had shot him a look of distrust across the corridor outside the morgue. And later, as Allister ushered Barb out the door and to the car, Devane had said good-night with a definite “don’t leave town” tone in his voice.

Today, the detectives had asked to speak with Barb alone. But she’d remained firm in her demand that Allister be present, and Devane had had no choice. He eased his broad muscular frame farther back into the striped wing chair across from the couch where Allister and Barb sat. Her hand hadn’t left Allister’s the whole time.

“And you were home in your apartment last night, is that correct, Mr. Quaid?” Devane turned his questions to Allister now.

“That’s what I said, Detective. I already told you, the last time I saw Gary was yesterday morning. We spoke in his office about a couple of late shipments. I ran a number of errands for the company in the afternoon, and then I went home.”

“But there’s nobody who can confirm you were there?”

Allister shook his head. “No, I don’t suppose there is. It’s a big building. The neighbors pretty much keep to themselves.”

“Did you receive any phone calls last night?”

“Phone calls?”

“Yeah, you know, did anyone call when you were home? Anyone who can vouch for you?”

“No. No one called. Not until Barb rang me around three.”

Devane nodded wordlessly, but continued to squint distrustfully at Allister. No doubt, if Barb wasn’t present, Devane would not be holding back the accusations Allister sensed beneath the detective’s reserved composure.

Barb, however, was quite aware of what was going on.

She squeezed his hand. “What is this all about, Detective?” she asked, disbelief lifting her tone slightly. “Is…is Allister a suspect here?”

“At this point, Mrs. Palmer, everyone is a suspect. And quite frankly, considering Mr. Quaid’s record—”

“Oh, my God!” Barb bolted from the couch. She stalked to the other side of the room, and when she turned again, even Allister was surprised at the fury that had flared across her previous calm. “I don’t believe this! You’ve really got some nerve, you know that, Detective? Coming in here and accusing Allister after everything you people have already put him through.”

“Barb.” Allister went to her. He felt her tremble when he placed his hands on her shoulders, and when she looked up at him, he wondered if she was going to cry. “Barb, it’s all right,” he whispered.

“It’s wrong, Allister. What they’re doing, what they’re implying, it’s wrong.”

“Barb, trust me, it’ll be all right,” he said again, wishing he had faith in his own words. “Don’t worry.”

She relaxed somewhat, and in time she followed him back to the couch.

Detective Jackson paced behind them before stopping to gaze out the patio doors.

Devane was loosening the tie around the yellowed collar of his shirt. He scratched at a day’s growth of stubble on his chin, and then ran a hand over his silver-flecked hair. Last night, when the early-morning hour and the harsh lights of the morgue had been unkind to everyone’s appearance, Allister had pegged the senior detective in his early fifties. Still, he was a commanding presence—muscular and fit, almost a full head taller than his younger and slighter partner.