Eye of the Beholder Read online

“Excellent,” said Whitney. “I don’t know much about Reiki. I’ve heard of it; it has to do with energy flow, right?” Greer nodded. Whitney finished her tea and set down her cup but kept her fingers wrapped around it.

  “And you make jewelry?” Greer asked.

  “Mostly. I work in silver and semiprecious stones. Luke is an artist; he’s a jeweler and a painter.”

  “A very creative couple. You must enjoy what you do.”

  Greer was watching the cup in Whitney’s hands, which she turned by increments as she responded. “I love what I do; hell, I love everything about my life now, finally.” Her face clouded even as the rain outside ceased to fall. “Except for Joy. I just wish I knew how to help her.” She stared down at the soggy tea leaves undulating in the last few drops of moisture in the bottom of her cup.

  Slowly Greer reached across the table and pulled the cup from Whitney’s hands. Holding the china in her right hand, she swirled it three times counterclockwise, and then turned it upside down on the saucer. “Shall we ask the cup?”

  Whitney’s eyes lit up with delight. “You read tea leaves? Cool.”

  “Keep thinking of your question,” Greer told her.

  Whitney nodded and closed her eyes. Joshua recognized this as his moment to make a quiet escape. Smiling at his mom, he whispered, “Exit, stage left,” before hurrying back to his bedroom.

  After she had waited for the remaining liquid to drain and Whitney to focus her question, Greer said, “Now, let’s see.” Whitney opened her eyes, and Greer turned the cup upright. “Tea leaves are imprecise, to say the least, but sometimes I can get a feeling from them.” She angled the cup this way and that, and then with a sharp intake of breath she said, “She’s in trouble.”

  “She’s always in trouble,” Whitney said.

  “No, I mean, there’s a very bad influence around her. And it’s not her mother,” Greer added quickly before Whitney could chime in. “It’s male. She’s drawn to him because she thinks he understands her. But you’ve got to stop this.”

  Greer’s face had gone white, and a sheen of sweat was showing on it. Whitney had thought this would be fun, but she felt a squirming in her chest. She watched Greer with a growing sense of unease.

  “It’s someone you know, but you don’t know. Like a . . .” Greer’s eyes squinted as though straining to see a face in the cup. “Like, not a friend, but someone she comes in contact with regularly. You have to . . .” She stared intently and then seemed to catch herself. “You need to keep her close to you, keep a constant eye on her.” Greer set the cup down and wiped her brow, trying to ward off the evil-tinged shakiness that had grabbed hold of her with the vision. She hadn’t expected anything so clear and intense, and she hadn’t meant to frighten Whitney. Looking up at Whitney, she saw that her eyes had grown large with trepidation.

  Greer was always careful to keep her readings optimistic and helpful. She knew the power of suggestion well enough to be careful not to reveal anything negative in case belief helped to bring it on, but she was at a loss for a way to put a positive spin on this one.

  “I’m sorry.” Greer tried to lighten the mood, at a loss for other words. “Hell, she’s a teenager. Like you said, it’s not an easy time for anyone. Just . . . keep a close eye on her, talk to her. It’s probably nothing—I get these little senses about things; I always have.”

  “How accurate are your ‘little senses’?” Whitney asked dead seriously. She was thinking that this woman looked like the real thing, and as the daughter of a full-blooded Cree medicine man, she’d seen the real thing before. Greer was clearly shaken, and it scared the hell out of Whitney.

  Greer couldn’t lie to her. “Pretty damn accurate. But you have to understand that anything I see is just one possibility.”

  “What did you see?”

  “That she needs guidance. Look,” Greer said, reaching across the table to touch the other woman’s hand. “We just met, and I didn’t mean to scare you.” She sat back and tried to detour the conversation. “Why don’t you bring your husband and Joy over to have dinner with us on Friday? Will you have Joy then?”

  “Yes,” Whitney answered slowly, watching Greer suspiciously to see if she was trying to distract her. But the truth was, while Whitney was curious to know what Greer had seen, she knew better than to ask for bad news, so she let it go.

  She said, “That is, Joy will be with us if she deigns to honor us with her presence less than four or five hours past when she’s supposed to show up. And I’m sure Luke would love to come. I do desserts, but I’m not much of a cook. Can I bring something?”

  “Dessert,” Greer said, still feeling slightly dizzy. “Just come on over. I get back from the salon around seven; is that too late?”

  “Not on a Friday.” Whitney rose from her chair and held out her hand again. “Thank you for the tea. I hope you’ll be happy here. I’ll have to come to your salon and see what your magician can do with this mop of rags.” She indicated her lusciously thick black hair, cut in a messy bob.

  “I don’t think he’d change a thing,” Greer said, feeling immensely relieved that the other woman had been astute enough not to push her.

  Whitney went to the door and then turned back and asked, “Are you all right?”

  “I’ll be fine, thank you.”

  Greer closed the door behind Whitney, leaned against it, and, covering her face with her hands, sobbed once before gathering herself together.

  What the hell was going on? There was something or someone in this small suburb that was watching, ready to prey, and she had walked right into the middle of a grisly hunting season. Maybe that was why she had come. Maybe the gift was given to her for this reason, to try to stop it.

  But what if . . . She remembered her last and only visit to the unconscious Sarah, and her throat clenched up.

  She had crept into the darkened room filled with the rasping hiss of assisted breathing, and seen a monstrous creature propped on a sterile bed, a purple and swollen thing that bore no resemblance to her pretty, laughing, lively friend.

  No. She could not stay silent this time. She would not stand helplessly by, fearing and waiting for some horrible turn of events.

  But what could she do? And what would she say to this young woman, Joy, when she met her? Greer already knew exactly what the girl would look like. She had seen her face imposed over the soggy leaves in the bottom of the teacup: a pretty girl with a bow-shaped mouth on face that might once have looked angry or animated or smiling. But Greer had not seen any of those things; she had seen the face and would know it again, indeed, would never forget it. Never forget those wide-open eyes.

  Eyes open but unseeing. Staring in horror. Surrounded by portents of death.

  Chapter 3

  He sat on his porch—a nice porch, with a pretty view, well cared for—and thought, I want a woman, and I want one tonight.

  The thought of what he’d do to her made his jeans tighten, and he reached down to adjust himself. He felt hungry, but not for food. He needed a female, preferably one who was both young and inexperienced. He liked it when they were afraid. The thought of their look of fear and the small screams brought him to his feet, his black boots hitting the ground heavily as he swung them off the railing and planted them firmly on the wooden deck. Next to him, his dog raised his massive head from the planks, growling at an imaginary movement in the trees.

  Twilight. Good, he liked the dark. He’d go hunting. He could almost smell the distinctive odor of the cold sweat of fear as he entered a woman forcefully and banged her hard, and it sent a tingling through his nostrils and into his mouth. He licked his lips. Wound up, he began to prowl, first around the outside of his house, through his groomed yard, and then into his den to pace the house, adjusting a pad of paper that was crooked on his clean desk, straightening a book that had fallen slightly to one side amongst the rows of leather-bound volumes standing with militant uniformity on the dust-free shelves.

  Then into the bathroom,
gleamingly clean, to primp for the night’s activity. He considered his reflection, attractive in a rough way that he knew women liked. Many women had told him that. Some of them had even told him they liked dangerous men. He smiled, satisfied, at that thought. They’d found out what being with a dangerous man meant. But none of them had talked about it later; he’d made sure of that.

  Choosing a cologne from an orderly row, he applied it, careful not to overdo, and winked rakishly at his reflection. Yes, tonight he’d get a young one, and he’d enjoy himself.

  He reminded himself to be especially careful with the teenagers, to leave the bruises only where they wouldn’t show. He’d gotten good at it, holding them by a fistful of hair on the back of their heads while he twisted or slapped, hard and openhanded, until the skin was red and raised in little welts that would slowly turn to shades of purple and green. He always found out first where they lived, early on, when they thought he was charming and were flattered by his attention. Then afterward, he’d let them know what he’d do to them and their families if they talked.

  But even the thought of a girl screaming as he smacked her and used whatever part of her didn’t seem quite enough. It sated him for shorter and shorter periods—hardly at all if they liked it or came back, which sometimes they did. He was hungry for more, to go further. He combed his hair and considered his new idea. He’d need to be careful, but it could be done.

  The hunger drove him out of his house. He’d start at the bar on the corner of Foothill and see what was there; it was close to the high school and a burger joint, and sometimes the kids hung around. It was easy to fraternize with them on the sidewalk without drawing too much attention. Most parents up this way didn’t notice that a kid was missing until at least midnight, and he could usually have them back by then.

  But as he climbed on his motorcycle and pressed the starter, he mused on his formulating plan, liking it more and more as the vibration of the bike massaged his thighs and his crotch, adding to the tingling warmth of rushing blood. He ground himself against the leather seat, increasing the pleasure of the fantasy, liking the allure of making it a reality. It would save a lot of trouble, and he was filled with a sense of power and excitement by the nastiness of his new idea.

  Maybe this time he wouldn’t hold back; he’d go as far as he wanted.

  And maybe next time he’d keep one.

  Chapter 4

  Monday

  “Yeah, the coffee shop next to you is in trouble.”

  Greer regarded the speaker, her mailman. Although he wore the traditional uniform of the U.S. Postal Service, his lower face was hidden behind the tangled shrubbery of a graying beard. In spite of his attempt to conceal at least half of it, the mailman had a handsome face and a strong brow that would have suited a professor of philosophy. He possessed that slightly-wild-with-pretty-eyes look that college girls found so seductive in anarchists and poets. And he was a talker. Since the first day he had come in and introduced himself as “Pete P. Pistalane, your personal postal representative, but you can call me Pistol,” she invariably had to spend at least ten minutes listening to the man gossip.

  “The coffee shop? Now, why would you think that?” Greer asked, just to be polite.

  “I’ve been delivering too many notices from the bank,” he said conspiratorially. “And,” he added, “I’m not real sure her marriage is going so great. They were engaged for years, and that’s never a good sign. Yep, and your other neighbor, the architect, he’s working on a big project for somebody overseas; lots of correspondence from Italy. Looks like we might have some I-talians moving into the area.” Pistol seemed pleased with himself, as though his gossip were little gifts he knew she would really like.

  Greer wondered what her mail was prompting him to tell everyone about her private affairs. She handed him a stack of letters that were going out; a few of them were personal, and the return address was her new home.

  Pistol sorted through and read the destinations unabashedly right in front of her. “You live out off Silver Line—nice places out there. I go riding with Mike; he lives in the last house at the end.”

  “Horses?” Greer asked playfully.

  “Harleys,” Pistol corrected.

  “Oh, you ride a motorcycle?” Greer asked in mock surprise. “I would never have guessed.” She smiled. Pistol could have been the poster boy for Harley-Davidson, less the gray-blue uniform, of course.

  The comment went over Pistol’s head. “Have you met him yet?”

  “Only through the pouring rain. I’ve heard his bike, though.” Greer grimaced. She’d moved somewhere remote for the quiet and the sounds of nature. Discovering she had a neighbor who purposely removed the muffler from his motorcycle to “impress” people had not pleased her. She just didn’t understand the need to disturb everyone in a five-mile radius. She had always assumed that these men were desperately in need of some attention and that was the only way they could get it.

  “Hard to miss it. Nice guy, though.” Pistol nodded. “Always helping people out at his shop even when they can’t afford it. He’ll even take trades. Hell, I once saw him take a stack of old Playboys for a new drive chain.”

  A woman had come in the door and was standing behind Pistol waiting a bit impatiently. Greer let her eyes go to the woman very deliberately, and Pistol seemed to notice. “May I help you?” she asked the woman. It worked; Pistol was out of his element when the woman started asking about pedicures and highlights. He waved and left.

  When she had finished making appointments for the new customer she glanced up at the clock: eleven twenty-five, fifteen minutes until her next treatment. She thought about Pistol saying that the woman next door might be having trouble, and even though the salon had a full kitchen in the back, complete with gourmet coffeemaker, she decided to buy a coffee next door. She knew what it was to struggle to get a new business going.

  The shop was charming and smelled deliciously of brewing coffee and baked goods, the latter of which were displayed in a glass cabinet and on covered cake stands on the counter. A bulletin board was covered in snapshot pictures of customers. The place was painted cheerfully, and homey furniture was covered in floral fabric; it was very welcoming.

  A man with skin like lustrous brown velvet stood alone at the counter. His arm looked so smooth and inviting that Greer longed to run her fingers down the taut bicep that emerged from a fashionable shortsleeved shirt. He turned as Greer came up next to him and she was surprised to see vibrant green eyes, lighted windows in a dark frame. “Hello,” the handsome man said in a distinctly upper-class London accent.

  “Hi.” Greer connected with his eyes, and then, feeling that she was enjoying looking at him so much that he might think she was staring, she dropped her gaze to the selection of pastries. “What’s good?” she asked.

  “All of it. I haven’t tried the quiche of the day, but if you’ll wait about thirty more seconds, I’ll have an educated opinion on that too.”

  Something about the man’s voice tickled her ear in a pleasant way, and she wanted to hear more of it, to keep that regal attention directed at her. But before she could think of anything to say, a woman came from the back carrying a plate with a generous slice of quiche and a mixed green salad.

  “Here you go, Sterling,” she said as she handed it over. “With the coffee, that’ll be eight fifty.” She turned her attention to Greer. “Hi, there, can I help you?”

  As Sterling was getting out his wallet, Greer moved closer to the counter—and the man—and she could smell the lightest hint of subtle cologne. It smelled of fresh green things with a note of spice. Nice.

  The face that beamed at her over the counter looked familiar to Greer. Not that she had ever seen it before, but she recognized her as a new friend at first glance. Greer didn’t know about love at first sight, but she was a firm believer in friendship that happened upon you. She thought, Here’s new friend number three.

  “Hi.” She beamed back. “I’m Greer Sands; I own th
e business next door, and I wanted to come in and introduce myself. And get some coffee,” she added with a laugh.

  “Oh, I’m Jenny Sanchez. I’m so glad to meet you,” the pretty young woman gushed. “And this is Sterling Fincher. He’s got the office next to you on the other side.”

  “Oh,” Greer was slightly taken aback at how pleased she felt by this little tidbit of info. “You’re the architect?”

  Sterling laughed, a quick, deep, booming sound that filled the room. “Well, landscape architect. It’s very nice to meet you.” His eye contact was as strong and warm as his handshake, which made Greer’s whole arm feel as though she’d plunged it into a bubble bath.

  “Thank God you moved in,” Jenny was saying. “My business has quadrupled in the last three days and nine out of ten people who come in here are from Eye of the Beholder.” The cinnamon eyes looked radiantly into Greer’s.

  Laughing, Greer shook the smaller woman’s hand and wondered if it was a Hispanic trait to have larger breasts—that were obviously real—on a slighter frame. Not that Jenny was skinny; she was . . . well, sexy, in stretch jeans and a T-shirt that ended about four inches shy of the low-riding pants, revealing baby-smooth skin over the ever-so-slightly rounded tummy. Jenny’s mane-thick dark brown hair was pulled up in a high ponytail, and at about thirty she was effervescently pretty. In short, Greer thought without any sense of competition, she was a pleasure to look at.

  Sterling picked up his plate and mug and made a move for the door, waving his coffee in lieu of a free hand. “Thanks, Sterling, see you later,” Jenny called after him.

  “Bye. Nice meeting you,” he said to Greer. “Stop by and say hello anytime.”

  “Okay,” Greer responded, wondering if she could work up the courage—or an excuse—to do that. She turned back to Jenny after the two of them had enjoyed watching the man’s well-shaped back move out the door and shared a smile about it. “How do you know that they’re my customers?” Greer asked her.