Close Your Eyes Read online

  For Sherry Tillinger

  Who made the world a brighter and more loving place

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Also by Iris Johansen and Roy Johansen

  About the Authors

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  IT WASN’T JUST her imagination.

  Stephanie Marsh looked back as she walked through the second level of the parking garage for Gold’s Gym. She wasn’t alone.

  She had been aware of distant footsteps attempting to fall in time with her own, but she had told herself that they were just echoes reverberating off the empty garage’s concrete walls.

  No such luck. There was definitely someone in the shadows behind her.

  Or was he in front of her?

  Stay calm, she told herself. It wasn’t as if she were one of the gym’s perfect tens who were weirdo magnets in their skimpy, formfitting workout wear.

  But since when did a psycho need a reason to attack a woman at 10 P.M. in an empty parking garage?

  She was okay, she told herself. Everything would be fine. As long as those security cameras were—

  Her heart jumped into her throat.

  Shit. The cameras were in place, but the reassuring red glow of their power lights were nowhere to be seen.

  She did not break stride as she reached into her purse and gripped the rubber case of her mobile phone. She raised the phone and stared in disbelief at its illuminated screen.

  NO CARRIER.

  She was accustomed to losing her signal, but not her entire freaking phone company.

  This couldn’t be happening.

  “Need help, young lady?”

  A man stepped from the shadows in front of her. He wore dark tennis shoes, khakis, a T-shirt, and a pullover sweater similar to the one her grandfather wore. The man was probably over sixty, and his entire face crinkled as he smiled.

  He looked like a nice man, but she knew better than to lower her guard. Jeffrey Dahmer might have looked like a hell of a nice guy.

  She kept walking. “No problem. Have a good night.”

  “You, too.” He smiled again. “The Portland Street exit is closed. You’ll have to go out on Wesleyan.”

  She nodded and walked faster. This wasn’t news. The Portland Street exit was always closed after eight.

  Just a few more yards to her car …

  The man held a map of some kind. “Could you help me out with this? I’ve been wandering around this cockamamie garage for ten minutes trying to find a—”

  She made a wide arc around him as she neared her car. “I’m sorry, I’m in a hurry.”

  He took a step closer. And then another. “If you’ll just take a look at this…”

  The map fell away, revealing a glint of steel.

  Pain.

  She shuddered, unable to move.

  The man now stood next to her. He shook his head as he slowly pulled the blade from her abdomen. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You don’t deserve this.”

  She stared at him in disbelief, trying to reconcile the kind, regretful face with the horrible thing that was happening to her. She was falling, the floor of the parking garage rising up to meet her. She scarcely felt the impact. Her insides felt like cold concrete, hardening and making it impossible for her to move.

  Or breathe. She tried to scream, but there were only gurgling sounds in the back of her throat.

  The man wiped his bloody knife with a bandana. “Shh. It will be over soon, Stephanie.”

  He knew who she was.

  Then it hit her.

  They had found out.

  “Schuyler.” She pushed out the word.

  “Just relax.”

  “Tell Schuyler…” Darkness crept over her, from the back of her neck, over her skull, taking away thought, taking away everything that she was.

  She had to say it. Gotta get this out …

  “Yes, dear?” he asked gently.

  Her eyes fluttered as she summoned the last bit of energy her body would ever give her.

  “Tell Schuyler I said … to go to hell.”

  CHAPTER

  1

  KENDRA MICHAELS PULLED the strap over her head and adjusted her guitar in front of her. “We’re going to do something different today, Jimmy.”

  “No!”

  She ignored the outburst. Twelve-year-old Jimmy Matthews hated any variation in his routine, but she was determined to coax him, ever so slightly, from his comfort zone. “Look at me, okay?”

  Jimmy looked up at her, his dark eyes glittering with defiance. He was autistic, and it had taken weeks for him to feel comfortable enough to make eye contact with her. She’d regarded that as a major victory. She knew there were other breakthroughs to come, if only she could unlock the secrets of that bewildering yet fascinating mind of his.

  She held his gaze. “Jimmy, remember when I had you put your hand on my guitar last week? When I told you to feel the music?”

  He nodded.

  “You liked that, didn’t you?”

  He shrugged.

  “You could feel it, couldn’t you? I saw you tapping your fingers and moving your feet.”

  He thought for a moment. “I felt it all over.”

  “I know. And I thought to myself, this guy has rhythm. You know what that means, don’t you? It means you can feel the beat. You can feel it in your bones … and in your soul.”

  He looked away again. “I want to sing. I always sing.”

  “And you’re a really good singer. And you can keep singing, but I want you to do something else.”

  She turned and walked across her small studio. It was a carpeted, octagonal-shaped room with a whiteboard, a piano, several colorful music-themed posters, and a large mirrored panel at the far end. “Come here, I want to show you something.”

  Jimmy hesitated.

  She smiled luminously at him. “I promise that you’re going to like this, honey. Don’t you trust me?”

  He didn’t answer, then nodded jerkily. “I … trust you.”

  Her heart melted. Another victory.

  “That means a lot to me, Jimmy.” She gripped the corner of a white tarp and pulled it away to reveal a percussion kit.

  His eyes widened. “Drums!”

  “Do you like it?”

  He bit his lip. “Why should I like it? I don’t know how to play drums.”

  “Anybody can play drums. Whether they can play them well, that’s another matter.” She picked up a pair of drumsticks and placed them in Jimmy’s hands, curling the fingers around in a matched grip. She pulled him around to the other side of the drum set. “Now sit down. This will be fun.”

  Jimmy slowly sat, holding the drumsticks in front of him as if they were sticks of unstable dynamite.

  “You don’t have to hold them so tightly. Loosen up, feel the beat like you did last time.”

  He looked at the various surfaces around him. “But what do I do?”

  She strummed the guitar. “Whatever you feel like doing. Whatever sounds and feels good to you.” She played George Harrison’s “Got My Mind Set on You,” accenting the song’s strong and clean rhythms.

  Jimmy held the sticks over the snare d
rum.

  “Anytime.”

  He struck the drum’s surface tentatively.

  “Both sticks, Jimmy … Come on, it’s fun!”

  He used both sticks to accompany her on the snare, striking with a not-entirely-unrhythmic beat.

  “That’s fantastic!”

  He closed his eyes and nodded. He branched out to the tom-tom on his left, accenting his stylings with the lower-pitched drum.

  “Good!” She pointed down to the pedal on the floor. “That’s for the bass drum. Want to try it?”

  He pressed the pedal and reacted with a start as the kicker struck the drum surface. He stepped on it again and again, repeating the motion until he found the rhythm she had set.

  He continued on the bass drum as he struck the snare and tom-tom with increased vigor.

  Kendra studied him. Could it be?

  Ever so slightly, a faint smile was pulling at the corners of his mouth.

  Yes.

  * * *

  KENDRA MICHAELS DIDN’T appear to be the bitch he’d thought she’d be, Adam Lynch thought, as he watched her through the one-way glass in the observation room as she interacted with the child. What he’d heard about her had been far from complimentary, but that could be due to jealousy. Her work had completely overshadowed that of the FBI agents from whom he’d received reports. Evidently, she had not done it diplomatically.

  Yet every move, every expression, was warm and gentle as she taught that troubled boy. A puzzle. If he was going to use her, he had to know which buttons to push to do it. He had no doubt he’d find a way to do it. It was a skill that had earned him both applause and hatred over the years. But it was annoying that he’d been given the wrong information with which to develop a method to do it. He studied her, looking for an answer to the paradox.

  Though she was of middle height and slim, she did not appear fragile at all. When she walked or moved, she had a litheness that spoke of strength and suppleness earned by frequent exercise. Her shoulder-length, pale brown hair was sun-streaked in places. Her face … Strength there, too. A strong chin, well-formed lips that still spoke of control and discipline, large hazel eyes that were set far apart and seemed to hold intelligence as well as humor. Not a pretty face, but for an instant, when she smiled at the boy, he had seen a flash, a beauty. It was the most dangerous form of allure, which could challenge a man to try to make that elusive beauty reappear again and again. She wouldn’t appeal to everyone. She was too strong, too confident, but Lynch was drawn to that challenge.

  He felt a rush of sudden eagerness at the thought of dealing with Kendra Michaels. She was interesting. He had grown so accustomed to successfully manipulating his targets that any change, any stretch, was welcome.

  What was the key that he could use to make her go in the direction he wanted? Sympathy? She obviously had a warm attachment to children. But would that extend to adults? Anger? Fear? Sex? No, that last choice had popped up out of nowhere and probably had nothing to do with logical reasoning and everything to do with his physical response. The other two were possibilities, but he would have to see if they were necessary tools.

  Oh well, it would come to him. He leaned back against the wall, his gaze intent on Kendra Michaels. In the meantime, he would enjoy watching her. She was like a kaleidoscope, with different shadings and settings shifting before his eyes.

  Yes, Kendra Michaels was going to be an interesting project.

  * * *

  THE HOUR-LONG SESSION with Jimmy stretched to an hour and fifteen minutes, violating Kendra’s own rule about her enforced stopping times. She wanted to leave her clients wanting more, eagerly anticipating their next session together. It was always tempting to keep going when she saw them enjoying themselves, but Jimmy had hit such a joyful groove in his drum playing that she knew he wouldn’t tire of an extra quarter hour.

  Kendra opened the door to the waiting room, where Jimmy’s mother, Tina, had watched from behind the large one-way glass.

  As Tina entered, Jimmy rushed toward her. “Mom, I played the drums!” He pounded his drumsticks into the air.

  Tina laughed and hugged him. “I saw! You were amazing!” She glanced at Kendra. “I can’t believe the way he lit up!”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “I actually think … he’s getting better.”

  “He could be.” Kendra managed a smile. She knew that Tina wanted more confirmation than that. All the parents did. They spent their lives searching for some sign—any sign—that their children might finally be turning the corner in their afflictions, but it was rarely that clear-cut. It was a marathon, not a sprint, she liked to say, and this race could go on for the rest of their lives.

  But once in a while, there could be an exception. And who was to say that exception couldn’t be Jimmy?

  “It was a good day,” Kendra said. She gently took the drumsticks from Jimmy. “I’ll see you Friday?”

  “Yes!” He pounded the air again, still playing to the song in his head as his mother escorted him out.

  It had been a good day, Kendra thought. Maybe she should have been more—

  “So this is what you do for a living.”

  The voice came from behind her. She spun around to see a man strolling toward her from the waiting room. “How did you get in here?”

  The man was fortyish, tall, well dressed, and his dark hair was cropped short. Ice blue eyes lit a craggy face that was as tanned as if he’d spent the winter in the Caribbean. He jerked his thumb back toward the waiting room. “The main entrance was locked, so I tapped on the door from the hallway. That nice woman let me in. She may have had the impression that I worked with you.”

  “Maybe because that’s what you told her?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “It doesn’t take so many words if you choose the right ones. Who are you?”

  The man walked toward the piano and idly plunked a few notes on the keyboard. “If what I’ve heard about you is true, you already know quite a bit about me.” He turned back to her. “Why don’t you tell me who I am?”

  She gazed warily at him. She had been acquiring information about him since he walked into the room, but she realized it was being submerged by the sheer impact of his personality. There weren’t many people who possessed that instant magnetism, and she had an idea that he used it with the deftness and skill of long practice. Complicated. She had no need of any more complications in her life.

  She checked the screen of her cell phone. “I have another appointment coming. Sorry, I don’t have time for games. You should go now.”

  “This is no game. Humor me, Dr. Michaels.” He smiled.

  It was a charming smile, she thought, meant to put her at ease and draw her closer into the web. Oh yes, she had to be very careful with him.

  “It’s the quickest way to get me out of your hair,” he continued. “Much easier than calling security. I’m curious to see—”

  Kendra cut him off. “You’re right, let’s get to it. Who are you? Let’s see. I know you have a background in law enforcement, probably the FBI.” She walked around the studio, straightening it for her next client. “But I’m fairly certain you don’t work for them now, though you are consulting for them in some capacity. As a matter of fact, you were at the downtown FBI branch office earlier today. And I agree with you that the third-floor conference room is quite stuffy and warm.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze narrowed. “Amazing. I would say that they called and tipped you off, but I didn’t tell anyone that I was even considering coming here.”

  “No one tipped me off. I had no idea you were coming, and I’m sure they didn’t either.” She covered the drum kit as she continued her assessment. “When you were with the Bureau, you carried two guns, one in your left shoulder holster and the other on your right ankle. Now you’re only carrying one, in the shoulder holster. I guess getting shot wasn’t quite enough to put you off guns entirely, was it?”

  He smiled. “Go
on. I’m enjoying this.”

  “I’m sure everyone told you to spend more time recuperating, but you couldn’t stand to sit still, could you? That wheelchair drove you crazy, almost as much as the crutches did.”

  “Anybody would feel that way.”

  “You more than most. Is that why your wife left you?”

  He raised his left hand, where a slight indention still appeared on his ring finger. “That’s an easy one.”

  “It’s all easy. That ring indention is tanned, but not nearly as tanned as the skin around it. I’d say you took it off two years ago.”

  “Two and a half years.”

  “I stand corrected. I’m assuming you don’t have children. If you did, that Italian sports car you drive wouldn’t be very practical.”

  “I know you didn’t see me drive up.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t. Not very inconspicuous for someone in your line of work, is it?”

  “I’m entitled to my indulgences. I have another, much more boring, car at home. No kids, by the way.”

  “You’ve been in this area for a while, but not always. You grew up in the Midwest. Wisconsin, I’d say. You probably even went to college there. After that, you spent a few years in the Northeast. Then you came here.”

  “In-freaking-credible,” he said softly. “I do believe that everything I’ve heard about you is true.”

  “I’m so happy I didn’t disappoint you,” she said sarcastically. “Will you please leave now? I’m very busy.”

  “And more than a little hostile. Now why is that? Could it be because I’m FBI?”

  “Possibly. If you’re here, I’m sure you know I’ve had a few problems with the Bureau.”

  “I’ve heard rumors.” He crossed his arms and leaned against a table. “But there’s no way I can leave without finding out how you knew all that.”

  “I didn’t know. There’s no way I could know unless someone told me.”

  “But you were right on the money with everything you told me.”

  “It’s all a matter of probability. With the information I had, the likelihood of each of the things I said was high. But I really didn’t know. Will you please leave? You’re taking up valuable time.”

  “You didn’t tell me who I am. What’s my name?”