Eyes of Darkness Read online

  She didn’t remember doing it. If she had left this message, she must be having blackouts, temporary amnesia of which she was totally unaware. Or she was walking in her sleep. Either possibility was unacceptable.

  Dear God, unthinkable.

  Therefore, the words must have been here all along. Danny must have left them before he died. His printing was neat, like everything else about him, not sloppy like this scrawled message. Nevertheless, he must have done it. Must have.

  And the obvious reference that those two words made to the bus accident in which he had perished?

  Coincidence. Danny, of course, had been writing about something else, and the dark interpretation that could be drawn from those two words now, after his death, was just a macabre coincidence.

  She refused to consider any other possibility because the alternatives were too frightening.

  She hugged herself. Her hands were icy; they chilled her sides even through her nightgown.

  Shivering, she thoroughly erased the words on the chalkboard, retrieved her handgun, and left the room, pulling the door shut behind her.

  She was wide awake, but she had to get some sleep. There was so much to do in the morning. Big day.

  In the kitchen, she withdrew a bottle of Wild Turkey from the cupboard by the sink. It was Michael’s favorite bourbon. She poured two ounces into a water glass. Although she wasn’t much of a drinker, indulging in nothing more than a glass of wine now and then, with no capacity whatsoever for hard liquor, she finished the bourbon in two swallows. Grimacing at the bitterness of the spirits, wondering why Michael had extolled this brand’s smoothness, she hesitated, then poured another ounce. She finished it quickly, as though she were a child taking medicine, and then put the bottle away.

  In bed again she snuggled in the covers and closed her eyes and tried not to think about the chalkboard. But an image of it appeared behind her eyes. When she couldn’t banish that image, she attempted to alter it, mentally wiping the words away. But in her mind’s eye, the seven letters reappeared on the chalkboard: NOT DEAD. Although she repeatedly erased them, they stubbornly returned. She grew dizzy from the bourbon and finally slipped into welcome oblivion.

  3

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON TINA WATCHED THE FINAL dress rehearsal of Magyck! from a seat in the middle of the Golden Pyramid showroom.

  The theater was shaped like an enormous fan, spreading under a high domed ceiling. The room stepped down toward the stage in alternating wide and narrow galleries. On the wider levels, long dinner tables, covered with white linen, were set at right angles to the stage. Each narrow gallery consisted of a three-foot-wide aisle with a low railing on one side and a curving row of raised, plushly padded booths on the other side. The focus of all the seats was the immense stage, a marvel of the size required for a Las Vegas spectacular, more than half again as large as the largest stage on Broadway. It was so huge that a DC-9 airliner could be rolled onto it without using half the space available — a feat that had been accomplished as part of a production number on a similar stage at a hotel in Reno several years ago. A lavish use of blue velvet, dark leather, crystal chandeliers, and thick blue carpet, plus an excellent sense of dramatic lighting, gave the mammoth chamber some of the feeling of a cozy cabaret in spite of its size.

  Tina sat in one of the third-tier booths, nervously sipping ice water as she watched her show.

  The dress rehearsal ran without a problem. With seven massive production numbers, five major variety acts, forty-two girl dancers, forty-two boy dancers, fifteen showgirls, two boy singers, two girl singers (one temperamental), forty-seven crewmen and technicians, a twenty-piece orchestra, one elephant, one lion, two black panthers, six golden retrievers, and twelve white doves, the logistics were mind-numbingly complicated, but a year of arduous labor was evident in the slick and faultless unfolding of the program.

  At the end, the cast and crew gathered onstage and applauded themselves, hugged and kissed one another. There was electricity in the air, a feeling of triumph, a nervous expectation of success.

  Joel Bandiri, Tina’s co-producer, had watched the show from a booth in the first tier, the VIP row, where high rollers and other friends of the hotel would be seated every night of the run. As soon as the rehearsal ended, Joel sprang out of his seat, raced to the aisle, climbed the steps to the third tier, and hurried to Tina.

  “We did it!” Joel shouted as he approached her. “We made the damn thing work!”

  Tina slid out of her booth to meet him.

  “We got a hit, kid!” Joel said, and he hugged her fiercely, planting a wet kiss on her cheek.

  She hugged him enthusiastically. “You think so? Really?”

  “Think? I know! A giant. That’s what we’ve got. A real giant! A gargantua!”

  “Thank you, Joel. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “Me? What are you thanking me for?”

  “For giving me a chance to prove myself.”

  “Hey, I did you no favors, kid. You worked your butt off. You earned every penny you’re gonna make out of this baby, just like I knew you would. We’re a great team. Anybody else tried to handle all this, they’d just end up with one goddamn big mishkadenze on their hands. But you and me, we made it into a hit.”

  Joel was an odd little man: five-feet-four, slightly chubby but not fat, with curly brown hair that appeared to have frizzed and kinked in response to a jolt of electricity. His face, which was as broad and comic as that of a clown, could stretch into an endless series of rubbery expressions. He wore blue jeans, a cheap blue workshirt—and about two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of rings. Six rings bedecked each of his hands, some with diamonds, some with emeralds, one with a large ruby, one with an even larger opal. As always, he seemed to be high on something, bursting with energy. When he finally stopped hugging Tina, he could not stand still. He shifted from foot to foot as he talked about Magyck!, turned this way and that, gestured expansively with his quick, gem-speckled hands, virtually doing a jig.

  At forty-six he was the most successful producer in Las Vegas, with twenty years of hit shows behind him. The words “Joel Bandiri Presents” on a marquee were a guarantee of first-rate entertainment. He had plowed some of his substantial earnings into Las Vegas real estate, parts of two hotels, an automobile dealership, and a slot-machine casino downtown. He was so rich that he could retire and live the rest of his life in the high style and splendor for which he had a taste. But Joel would never stop willingly. He loved his work. He would most likely die on the stage, in the middle of puzzling out a tricky production problem.

  He had seen Tina’s work in some lounges around town, and he had surprised her when he’d offered her the chance to co-produce Magyck! At first she hadn’t been sure if she should take the job. She was aware of his reputation as a perfectionist who demanded superhuman efforts from his people. She was also worried about being responsible for a ten-million-dollar budget. Working with that kind of money wasn’t merely a step up for her; it was a giant leap.

  Joel had convinced her that she’d have no difficulty matching his pace or meeting his standards, and that she was equal to the challenge. He helped her to discover new reserves of energy, new areas of competence in herself. He had become not just a valued business associate, but a good friend as well, a big brother.

  Now they seemed to have shaped a hit show together.

  As Tina stood in this beautiful theater, glancing down at the colorfully costumed people milling about on the stage, then looking at Joel’s rubbery face, listening as her co-producer unblushingly raved about their handiwork, she was happier than she had been in a long time. If the audience at this evening’s VIP premiere reacted enthusiastically, she might have to buy lead weights to keep herself from floating off the floor when she walked.

  Twenty minutes later, at 3:45, she stepped onto the smooth cobblestones in front of the hotel’s main entrance and handed her claim check to the valet parking attendant. While he went to fetch her Honda, she
stood in the warm late-afternoon sunshine, unable to stop grinning.

  She turned and looked back at the Golden Pyramid Hotel-Casino. Her future was inextricably linked to that gaudy but undeniably impressive pile of concrete and steel. The heavy bronze and glass revolving doors glittered as they spun with a steady flow of people. Ramparts of pale pink stone stretched hundreds of feet on both sides of the entrance; those walls were windowless and garishly decorated with giant stone coins, a gushing torrent of coins flooding from a stone cornucopia. Directly overhead, the ceiling of the immense porte cochere was lined with hundreds of lights; none of the bulbs were burning now, but after nightfall they would rain dazzling, golden luminosity upon the glossy cobblestones below. The Pyramid had been built at a cost in excess of four hundred million dollars, and the owners had made certain that every last dime showed. Tina supposed that some people would say this hotel was gross, crass, tasteless, ugly—but she loved the place because it was here that she had been given her big chance.

  Thus far, the thirtieth of December had been a busy, noisy, exciting day at the Pyramid. After the relative quiet of Christmas week, an uninterrupted stream of guests was pouring through the front doors. Advance bookings indicated a record New Year’s holiday crowd for Las Vegas. The Pyramid, with almost three thousand rooms, was booked to capacity, as was every hotel in the city. At a few minutes past eleven o’clock, a secretary from San Diego put five dollars in a slot machine and hit a jackpot worth $495,000; word of that even reached backstage in the showroom. Shortly before noon, two high rollers from Dallas sat down at a blackjack table and, in three hours, lost a quarter of a million bucks; they were laughing and joking when they left the table to try another game. Carol Hirson, a cocktail waitress who was a friend of Tina’s, had told her about the unlucky Texans a few minutes ago. Carol had been shiny-eyed and breathless because the high rollers had tipped her with green chips, as if they’d been winning instead of losing; for bringing them half a dozen drinks, she had collected twelve hundred dollars.

  Sinatra was in town, at Caesar’s Palace, perhaps for the last time, and even at eighty years of age, he generated more excitement in Vegas than any other famous name. Along the entire Strip and in the less posh but nonetheless jammed casinos downtown, things were jumping, sparking.

  And in just four hours Magyck! would premiere.

  The valet brought Tina’s car, and she tipped him.

  He said, “Break a leg tonight, Tina.”

  “God, I hope so.”

  She was home by 4:15. She had two and a half hours to fill before she had to leave for the hotel again.

  She didn’t need that much time to shower, apply her makeup, and dress, so she decided to pack some of Danny’s belongings. Now was the right time to begin the unpleasant chore. She was in such an excellent mood that she didn’t think even the sight of his room would be able to bring her down, as it usually did. No use putting it off until Thursday, as she had planned. She had at least enough time to make a start, box up the boy’s clothes, if nothing else.

  When she went into Danny’s bedroom, she saw at once that the easel-chalkboard had been knocked over again. She put it right.

  Two words were printed on the slate:

  NOT DEAD

  A chill swept down her back.

  Last night, after drinking the bourbon, had she come back here in some kind of fugue and . . . ?

  No.

  She hadn’t blacked out. She had not printed those words. She wasn’t going crazy. She wasn’t the sort of person who would snap over a thing like this. Not even a thing like this. She was tough. She had always prided herself on her toughness and her resiliency.

  Snatching up the felt eraser, she vigorously wiped the slate clean.

  Someone was playing a sick, nasty trick on her. Someone had come into the house while she was out and had printed those two words on the chalkboard again. Whoever it was, he wanted to rub her face in the tragedy that she was trying so hard to forget.

  The only other person who had a right to be in the house was the cleaning woman, Vivienne Neddler. Vivienne had been scheduled to work this afternoon, but she’d canceled. Instead, she was coming in for a few hours this evening, while Tina was at the premiere.

  But even if Vivienne had kept her scheduled appointment, she never would have written those words on the chalkboard. She was a sweet old woman, feisty and independent-minded but not the type to play cruel pranks.

  For a moment Tina racked her mind, searching for someone to blame, and then a name occurred to her. It was the only possible suspect. Michael. Her ex-husband. There was no sign that anyone had broken into the house, no obvious evidence of forced entry, and Michael was the only other person with a key. She hadn’t changed the locks after the divorce.

  Shattered by the loss of his son, Michael had been irrationally vicious with Tina for months after the funeral, accusing her of being responsible for Danny’s death. She had given Danny permission to go on the field trip, and as far as Michael was concerned, that had been equivalent to driving the bus off the cliff. But Danny had wanted to go to the mountains more than anything else in the world. Besides, Mr. Jaborski, the scoutmaster, had taken other groups of scouts on winter survival hikes every year for sixteen years, and no one had been even slightly injured. They didn’t hike all the way into the true wilderness, just a reasonable distance off the beaten path, and they planned for every contingency. The experience was supposed to be good for a boy. Safe. Carefully managed. Everyone assured her there was no chance of trouble. She’d had no way of knowing that Jaborski’s seventeenth trip would end in disaster, yet Michael blamed her. She’d thought he had regained his perspective during the last few months, but evidently not.

  She stared at the chalkboard, thought of the two words that had been printed there, and anger swelled in her. Michael was behaving like a spiteful child. Didn’t he realize that her grief was as difficult to bear as his? What was he trying to prove?

  Furious, she went into the kitchen, picked up the telephone, and dialed Michael’s number. After five rings she realized that he was at work, and she hung up.

  In her mind the two words burned, white on black: NOT DEAD.

  This evening she would call Michael, when she got home from the premiere and the party afterward. She was certain to be quite late, but she wasn’t going to worry about waking him.

  She stood indecisively in the center of the small kitchen, trying to find the willpower to go to Danny’s room and box his clothes, as she had planned. But she had lost her nerve. She couldn’t go in there again. Not today. Maybe not for a few days.

  Damn Michael.

  In the refrigerator was a half-empty bottle of white wine. She poured a glassful and carried it into the master bath.

  She was drinking too much. Bourbon last night. Wine now. Until recently, she had rarely used alcohol to calm her nerves—but now it was her cure of first resort. Once she had gotten through the premiere of Magyck!, she’d better start cutting back on the booze. Now she desperately needed it.

  She took a long shower. She let the hot water beat down on her neck for several minutes, until the stiffness in her muscles melted and flowed away.

  After the shower, the chilled wine further relaxed her body, although it did little to calm her mind and allay her anxiety. She kept thinking of the chalkboard.

  NOT DEAD.

  4

  AT 6:50 TINA WAS AGAIN BACKSTAGE IN THE showroom. The place was relatively quiet, except for the muffled oceanic roar of the VIP crowd that waited in the main showroom, beyond the velvet curtains.

  Eighteen hundred guests had been invited—Las Vegas movers and shakers, plus high rollers from out of town. More than fifteen hundred had returned their RSVP cards.

  Already, a platoon of white-coated waiters, waitresses in crisp blue uniforms, and scurrying busboys had begun serving the dinners. The choice was filet mignon with Bernaise sauce or lobster in butter sauce, because Las Vegas was the one place in the United States
where people at least temporarily set aside concerns about cholesterol. In the health-obsessed final decade of the century, eating fatty foods was widely regarded as a far more delicious—and more damning—sin than envy, sloth, thievery, and adultery.

  By seven-thirty the backstage area was bustling. Technicians double-checked the motorized sets, the electrical connections, and the hydraulic pumps that raised and lowered portions of the stage. Stagehands counted and arranged props. Wardrobe women mended tears and sewed up unraveled hems that had been discovered at the last minute. Hairdressers and lighting technicians rushed about on urgent tasks. Male dancers, wearing black tuxedos for the opening number, stood tensely, an eye-pleasing collection of lean, handsome types.

  Dozens of beautiful dancers and showgirls were backstage too. Some wore satin and lace. Others wore velvet and rhinestones—or feathers or sequins or furs, and a few were topless. Many were still in the communal dressing rooms, while other girls, already costumed, waited in the halls or at the edge of the big stage, talking about children and husbands and boyfriends and recipes, as if they were secretaries on a coffee break and not some of the most beautiful women in the world.

  Tina wanted to stay in the wings throughout the performance, but she could do nothing more behind the curtains. Magyck! was now in the hands of the performers and technicians.

  Twenty-five minutes before showtime Tina left the stage and went into the noisy showroom. She headed toward the center booth in the VIP row, where Charles Mainway, general manager and principal stockholder of the Golden Pyramid Hotel, waited for her.

  She stopped first at the booth next to Mainway’s. Joel Bandiri was with Eva, his wife of eight years, and two of their friends. Eva was twenty-nine, seventeen years younger than Joel, and at five foot eight, she was also four inches taller than he was. She was an ex-showgirl, blond, willowy, delicately beautiful. She gently squeezed Tina’s hand. “Don’t worry. You’re too good to fail.”