Scanned & Semi-proofed by Cozette
Eyes Of Night
Beth Amos
Abducted - A woman is missing. There is no evidence of foul play, but certain small disturbing signs indicate that the
young mother didn't leave of her own volition. The only answer to the mystery lies locked in the mind of her terrified, silent child. When the police bring little Jace Johansen to psychiatrist Kerri Whitaker for assessment, she knows that her own troubled past should prevent her from taking on Jace as a patient. But the child's anguish is a wordless plea for help that instantly moves her. Then she coaxes him to speak and his story seems a nightmare impossible to believe. But as the people around them start to die, Kerri realizes that if she doesn't act soon, she and Jace will be next to disappear...forever.
Wake up, Jace pleaded silently. Please, wake up.
He wanted to yell at them, but didn't—in part because he was scared, but also because his brain felt so sluggish and fuzzy.
Then one of the intruders leaned over his mother's chest and did something so awful, Jace took a tentative step forward, thinking he should try to stop it. But as his foot swept across the floor, it connected with a small toy truck, knocking it with a clatter. Convinced the intruders had heard, he ran for his bed. Pulling the covers up over his head, he curled himself into a tight ball.
Frightened and trembling, he huddled beneath the covers. When the sounds finally stopped, he still stayed hidden. It was half an hour before he finally summoned up the courage to peek beyond the covers.
The house was deathly quiet. With as little noise as possible, Jace tiptoed to the door, peeking around the edge. The strange light and the intruders were gone.
But so was his mother.
Praise for Cold White Fury
"[A] first-rate supernatural thriller . . .a novel filled with convincing twists . . .that lead to a knockout ending."
—Publishers Weekly
HarperChoice
Books by Beth Amos
Cold White Fury
Eyes of Night
Second Sight
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EYES 0F Night
BETH AMOS
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This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are
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Copyright © 1997 by Beth Amos
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For Harry Arnston—
author, mentor, gentleman, and friend.
Though sorely missed, you live on
in the hearts, minds, and words
of so many.
A special nod of thanks to Ed "Dr. Dirt" Schreiner, Research Biologist and Naturalist for the Olympic National Park; to Dr. Art Kruckeberg, Professor Emeritus with the Department of Botany at the University of Washington; to Barb Masaki, surely the best tour guide Bill Speidel's Underground Tour ever had; and to Ken Dilling, for sharing your vacation, the whales, and most of all, your pictures.
A warmhearted thank you to my good friends: Dr. James T. "Buzzy" May, III, both for helping me to explore the scientific possibilities and for maintaining a level of enthusiasm that often exceeded my own; to Jerilyn Dufresne and Nelson Thurman, my faithful readers and critics; and to all the wonderful, supportive folks on the Prodigy Books and Writing bulletin board.
A big hug of thanks to my parents, Frank and Laura Webb, for their neverending love and support. And to Dad, a special nod for being one of my most reliable sources for information and technical advice. Much love to you both and the rest of my family.
My final thanks go to the two women who helped make it all possible. To my editor, Jessica Lichtenstein, for her support, enthusiasm, and patience; and last, but hardly least, my agent, Linda Hayes. I am forever indebted.
Jace Johansen awoke with a suddenness that made him gasp for air. The way his heart bounced inside his chest, he thought he'd had another bad dream. Except he couldn't remember one.
Puzzled, he rolled his head to the side to look for bogeymen who might be hiding in the corners. The movement made him wince as he felt a throbbing ache in his neck. His head hurt, too, and he wondered if he was sick. A few of the kids at school had something called chicken pox, and his mom had said he might get it. He didn't know what chicken pox was exactly, and as he stared into the shifting shadows of his room, he tried to imagine a bunch of huge monster chickens silently creeping up to his bed.
But even in the dark, monster chickens seemed silly, and Jace managed a sleepy smile. He thought about calling out to his mother, but hesitated. She kept telling him he was a big boy now that he was in the first grade, and he really wanted that to be true. This time I'll be brave, he thought. Which wasn't terribly difficult, seeing as how he wasn't all that scared in the first place.
He heard a noise—a soft rustling kind of thump.
Mommy.
If she was up anyway, he might as well join her. She would probably just send him back to bed, but maybe she would tuck him in. Or better yet, snuggle up beside him. He loved it when she did that, her breath warm on his hair, her arm soft beneath his shoulders. Sometimes she sang to him or told him stories.
It was the possibility of a story that convinced him. He threw the covers aside, climbed out of bed, and padded across the room, his gait shuffling and sleepy. In the doorway he paused, gazing bleary-eyed down the hall toward his parents' room and steadying himself with one hand on the doorframe.
A strange light shone from the other end of the hall, and puzzled, Jace rubbed a fist in his eye before looking again. He blinked slowly, heavily, tilting his head to one side to ease the ache in his neck, his brow furrowing. Then a shadow moved across the light and Jace's head snapped up, his eyes growing wide. Instinctively, he backed up a step.
Hugging the doorjamb, he peeked around its edge and watched.
There were three of them, and as he thought this the fingers on his right hand ticked off the numbers: one, two, three. The intruders hovered around his parents' bed, and Jace could see his mother lying on her back, almost naked, her nightgown pushed up around her neck. He wondered why she didn't yell at the intruders and tell them to go away. Or why his father didn't. But they both lay still and quiet, sleeping while the intruders moved about the room.
He thought about yelling to his parents, but didn't—in part because he was scared, but also because his brain felt so sluggish and fuzzy, he wondered if this might not be a bad dream after all.
Then one of the intruders leaned over his mother's chest and did something so awful, Jace took a tentative step forward, thinking he should try to stop it. But as his foot swept across the floor, it connected with a small toy truck, knocking it into the baseboard with a clatter. He pulled back from the door, holding his breath and feeling a shiver of fear race down his spine. Convinced the intruders had heard him and would now come after him, he darted across the room, leaping into his bed. Pulling the covers up over his head, he curled himself into a tight ball and closed his eyes in the naive belief that if he couldn't see the bogeymen, they couldn't see him.
Frightened and trembling, he huddled beneath the covers, listening to the sounds down the hall. He fought the drowsiness that pulled at him, knowing if he went to sleep, the monsters would come and get him for sure. When the sounds finally stopped, he still stayed hidden, fearful the bogeymen were only trying to trick him. It was half an hour before he finally summoned up the courage to peek beyond the covers.
No bogeymen.
The house was deathly quiet. Slowly, and with as little noise as possible, Jace slid out of bed and tiptoed over to the door, peeking around the edge. With relief he saw that both the strange light and the intruders were gone.
Kerri Whitaker pushed through the door of the Seattle police station and approached the glassed-in reception area. Behind the bullet-proof barrier sat a uniformed woman officer, a phone held to one ear, her back to the window. Kerri tapped on the glass and the officer spun around, her face lighting with pleasure and recognition. She held up one finger to indicate she'd be just a moment, and Kerri waited, her foot tapping with impatience.
"Dr. Whitaker!" the officer said when she'd finally hung up the phone. "Long time, no see. How's everything?"
"Fine, Catherine. And you?"
"Can't complain," the woman said with a shrug. "You're here to see Kevin, right?"
Kerri nodded. "He wanted me to come down and observe an interrogation he has scheduled for uh . . ." She paused to make a pointed glance at her watch. "Five minutes ago."
"Then you best get on back there," Catherine said. The phone in front of her rang, and with a roll of her eyes, she jabbed at a button on it with one hand, while she reached beneath the desk with the other. A buzzer sounded, and Kerri stepped over to the door on her left and yanked it open. "Good to see you again," Catherine said. Then, with a little finger wave at Kerri, she snatched up the phone. Kerri returned the wave along with a smile, then headed down the hallway, letting the door clank shut behind her.
The corridor was lined with offices—most of them little more than cubbyholes—and as Kerri worked her way down the hall she saw some familiar faces. A few people hollered out to her as she went by, and it was apparent they would have liked her to stop and chat, but she was late already and kept her greetings perfunctory as she hurried on toward the interrogation rooms.
Rounding the corner at the end of the hall, she immediately recognized Kevin, even though his back was to her. His expanding girth and graying black hair didn't distinguish him all that much from a half-dozen other detectives who worked here, but his height—six six—made him easy to identify. He was leaning against the wall, talking with a baby-faced uniformed officer Kerri didn't recognize. A rookie, she thought.
"Kevin?" Kerri said softly.
Kevin spun around, an amazingly graceful gesture given his size. His blue eyes crinkled into a smile. "Kerri! Glad you made it. I was beginning to think you were going to stand me up." He settled one huge, beefy hand on her shoulder.
"I thought about it," Kerri said with a hint of annoyance. She glanced at her watch. "I don't have much time. I have another patient due at the office in just forty-five minutes."
"Well then, let's get to it," Kevin said. He gave the officer a brief "catch you later," then cupped Kerri's elbow in his palm and steered her toward a doorway just a few feet away.
They entered a narrow, darkened room that contained three chairs positioned along the wall opposite the door. In front of the chairs was a window—a two-way mirror, actually, that allowed someone to observe the interrogation room beyond. At the moment, the interrogation room was empty except for a small table scarred with numerous cigarette burns and two equally beat-up chairs. The bleakness of the furnishings was accentuated by gray cinder-block walls, a darker gray concrete floor, and the harsh light of a fluorescent fixture in the ceiling.
Kevin lifted a phone on the wall near the door, and muttered, "We're ready." When he hung up, he turned to Kerri and said, "It'll be just a moment."
Kerri gave him a cursory nod along with a look that clearly communicated her impatience. "I still don't understand all the mystery, Kevin. Why won't you tell me anything about this person you want me to evaluate? It's not like I haven't done this before."
Kevin fumbled in his shirt pocket and extracted a pack of cigarettes. He tapped one out, lit it, and after taking one long satisfied pull, blew out a trail of smoke. His eyes were focused on the other room. "This case is different," he said slowly. "It's not your run-of-the-mill interrogation. The ... uh ... person we're questioning isn't a suspect. He's a witness."
"So? I've observed and evaluated witnesses for you before, as well as suspects. What makes this one so different?"
The door in the other room opened, and Kevin gave a quick nod toward the glass. "You'll see."
Kerri turned toward the window and watched as a detective entered the interrogation room. A second later, a woman—a psychologist named Marge Turner, whom Kerri knew vaguely—steered the witness through the door and sat him in one of the chairs.
Kerri's reaction was swift and decisive.
"No way, Kevin," she said, whirling around to confront him. She shook her head vehemently to punctuate the statement, an angry glint in her green eyes. "I've told you I can't do any more kids." She promptly headed for the door, but Kevin made a quick sidestep and blocked her way. Stopping just short of a collision, Kerri rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. She glared up at him, teeth clenched, lips pursed into a thin line.
"Just wait a minute, okay?" Kevin pleaded. "I know you're probably angry with me for bringing you down here like this, but if I'd told you it was a kid beforehand, you wouldn't have come."
"Damn right, I wouldn't have! How can you do this, Kevin? You know ... how hard it's been for me." Her voice cracked on the last words and her eyes filled with the liquid sheen of tears. She turned away from him and stared at the wall, the muscles in her jaw twitching.
Kevin gave his cigarette a disgusted look, then dropped it to the floor and snuffed it out with his foot. He, too, crossed his arms over his chest as he let out a heavy sigh and studied Kerri's profile. "Look," he said finally. "I know things have been rough for you lately. But it's been over a year since Mandy's death. Don't you think it's about time you got back into it again?"
Kerri shot him a nasty look. "Who's the psychiatrist here, Kevin? You or me? Don't you think I'm capable of judging when I'm ready?"
"No, I'm not sure you are," Kevin shot back. His eyes narrowed. "How much longer are you going to wallow in this grief of yours?"
Kerri's jaw dropped with disbelief; her arms fell to her sides. She turned to face him head-on, her eyes wide. "Wallow? You think I'm wallowing? Jesus Christ, Kevin! You try losing your six-year-old daughter and your husband all in the period of a few months. You try sitting at the bedside of the one person in the world you love most of all, feeling helpless as you watch her waste away. You try sitting around wishing for some horrendous tragedy to befall someone else's child so that your own might live." Tears coursed down her face, leaving a silvery trail along her cheeks. She sagged momentarily, her anger draining away with the tears. More quietly, her voice wavering as she struggled to maintain control, she said, "You try all that, Kevin. Then talk to me about wallowing." She turned away from him and stared at the wall.
Kevin looked into the other room. "I didn't mean to belittle your feelings," he said heavily. "I wouldn't have asked you to come down here if I wasn't desperate."
He glanced back toward Kerri, his expression softening at the sight of her tear-stained face. "Look," he said, "Marge Turner has tried for the past two days to get the kid to open up. But all he does is sit there like that, staring off into space, rocking back and forth. He's got this hyperactive thing and can't sit still for two minutes." He paused. "The kid needs help, Kerri. And getting him to talk may mean saving someone's life— his mother's to be exact."
Kerri's eyebrows shot up at that, and Kevin, sensing a weakening in her resistance, p...
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