Part 13 (2/2)

It was almost midnight when we said good-bye and pressed for the elevator. I felt ready for bed, but Kit was still wired, yammering on about engines and critiquing the evening's guests and events. Maybe it was wine, maybe youth. I envied him his stamina.

The rain had stopped, but a strong wind blew off the river, bouncing branches and shrubs, and swirling wet leaves across the ground. When Kit offered to get the car I carefully appraised his condition, then turned over the keys and waited inside the lobby.

In less than a minute he pulled up, then got out and circled to the pa.s.senger side. When I'd settled behind the wheel he tossed a brown envelope into my lap.

”What's this?”

”Envelope.”

”I can see that. Where did it come from?”

”It was on the winds.h.i.+eld, stuck under a wiper. You must have an admirer.”

I looked at the envelope. It was a padded mailer, stapled at one end, with a pull-tab on the back for easy opening. My name appeared in red Magic Marker.

I stared at the letters, an alarm sounding deep in my brain. Who knew I would be on the island tonight? Who could have recognized my car? Had we been followed? Watched?

Gingerly, I prodded the contents. I could feel the bulge of something hard.

”Well!”

I jumped at the sound of Kit's voice. When I turned his face looked eerily pale, his features dark and distorted in the faint yellow light seeping from the lobby doors.

”G.o.ddammit, Kit, this could be . . .” I stopped, unsure where the thought was going.

”Could be what?” Kit leaned sideways and draped his arm over the back of the seat. ”Go on. Open it,” he needled. ”I'll bet it's a prank. One of your cop friends probably spotted the car and left something stupid to creep you out.”

That was possible. Anyone on the job could have run the plate. And I had had been the b.u.t.t of jokes in the past. been the b.u.t.t of jokes in the past.

”Go on.” Kit reached up and turned on the interior light. ”Maybe it's tickets to the Expos.”

I pulled the tab and reached into the mailer. My fingers closed around a small, gla.s.s jar.

When I withdrew the container and held it up to the light I felt bile rise in my throat. The rhythmic contractions under my tongue told me I was about to be sick. I barely heard Kit as I lunged for the door handle.

”Holy s.h.i.+t, Aunt Tempe. Who did you p.i.s.s off?”

15.

THE EYEBALL RESTED ON THE BOTTOM OF THE JAR, PUPIL UP, tendrils of flesh floating in the cloudy liquid. The organ was blanched and partially collapsed, and one side appeared to have a jagged tear. Though tightly sealed, the container gave off a familiar scent. A folded paper was stuck to its bottom.

Kit reached over and pulled off the note.

”On te surveille.” The French sounded odd with his Texas drawl. ”What does that mean, Aunt Tempe?”

”We're watching you.”

With shaky hands I returned the jar and note to the mailer and placed it on the floor of the backseat. The smell of formaldehyde seemed overwhelming. I knew the odor was in my mind, but that did little to allay my nausea. Fighting to bring my gag reflex back under control, I wiped damp palms on my pants and put the car in gear.

”Think it's a joke?” Kit asked as we turned onto boulevard ile-des-Surs.

”I don't know.” My voice sounded high-pitched.

Sensing my mood, he didn't press the point.

Once home, I wrapped the jar in a series of plastic sacks and sealed it in a Tupperware canister. Then I cleaned out the vegetable drawer and placed it in the refrigerator.

Kit watched in silence, a puzzled expression on his face.

”I'll take it to the lab on Monday,” I explained.

”It's a real eye, isn't it?”

”Yes.”

”Think it's a joke?” He repeated his earlier question.

”Probably.” I didn't believe that, but had no desire to alarm him.

”I get the feeling I shouldn't ask, but, if it's a joke, why take it to the lab?”

”Maybe it will give the merry pranksters a little scare,” I said, trying to sound casual, then I hugged him. ”Now, I'm off to bed. Tomorrow we'll find something fun to do.”

”That's cool. Mind if I listen to some music?”

”Be my guest.”

When Kit's door closed I double-checked the locks on the doors and windows, and made sure the security system was functioning. I resisted the urge to check for lurkers in my closet or under the bed.

Kit's musical choice was Black Sabbath. He played it until two-fifteen.

I lay in bed for a long time listening to the thud of heavy metal, wondering if it qualified as music, wondering how many calls I'd receive from the neighbors, and wondering who felt strongly enough about sending me a message to underscore it with a human eye.

Though I'd showered for twenty minutes, the smell of formaldehyde remained lodged in my brain. I fell asleep queasy, with goose b.u.mps still p.r.i.c.kling my flesh.

I slept late the next morning. When I woke, still tired from having started awake repeatedly throughout the night, my thoughts turned at once to the thing in my produce crisper. Who? Why? Was it work-related? Was there a sicko in the neighborhood? Who was watching me?

I pushed the questions into the deep background, resolving to address them on Monday. In the meantime, I would be extra-vigilant. I checked my Mace, then the direct-dial b.u.t.tons on the phones and security box to make sure they were set to 911.

The sun shone brightly and the thermometer on my patio said five degrees Celsius. Forty Fahrenheit at 10 A.M. A.M. It was going to be a Canadian scorcher. It was going to be a Canadian scorcher.

Knowing the diurnal rhythm of teenagers I didn't expect to see Kit before noon, so I threw on my gear and hiked to the gym. I walked with more caution than usual, skin p.r.i.c.kling with tension, eyes alert for anyone or anything suspicious.

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