Eyes Wide Open

Eyes Wide Open - By Andrew Gross



Prologue





Sherry Ann Frazier knew she’d seen him somewhere before.

The gaunt, sharply cut edge of his jaw. The narrow, dimly lit eyes, staring back at her. The probing intensity of his crooked smile.

Maybe on a trip somewhere, or at an airport. You know how you pass by someone you might never see again and yet their face is permanently implanted in your mind. Or maybe she’d seen him at her shop. People were always coming in . . . She’d seen him before—that much she knew. Definitely.

She just couldn’t remember where.

She was packing her groceries into her hatchback in the lot outside Reg’s Market in the town of Redmond, Michigan. On Lake Superior on the Upper Peninsula. Sherry had a bakery there, a couple of blocks off the lake. Muffins, zucchini bread, brownies. And the best damn apple crisps on the UP, according to the Redmond Crier.

She called them Eve’s Undoing—a temptation no one could resist.

He was simply staring. Leaning in the entrance to Singer’s Pharmacy, next door. Looking very out of place. He never took his eyes off her. Initially, it gave her the chills, but nothing bad or creepy ever seemed to happen in Redmond. Maybe he was a workman at one of the marinas. Or a war veteran down on his luck. The town always had a few of those; they made their way up here in the summer, when the place was filled with vacationers. She always gave them a treat. Everyone has dignity, Sherry always maintained. Everyone was always loved by someone in their life.

In Redmond, the biggest worry was losing value on the Canadian “loonies” the tourists came here to spend.

Aware of him, she felt herself hurrying to fill up the car. Then she wheeled back the cart, telling herself not to make eye contact.

As she climbed in her Saab she allowed herself a final glance in the rearview mirror.

He was still watching her.

That’s when she had the sense that she had seen him somewhere before.

Sherry was fifty-two, youthful, still pretty, she knew, in a bohemian sort of way. She didn’t wear much makeup; she still kept her hair braided back from her days as a flower child. Still wore peasant blouses and kept herself thin. She was single again. Tom and she had divorced, though like a lot of people in her life, they remained good friends. She took art classes and yoga, studied Reiki. She fancied herself a bit of an energy healer. She even did work in Healing/Touch in the pediatric ward at the hospital in town.

Maybe that was it. Sherry brushed away her goose bumps. Maybe he just found her attractive. A lot of people did.

As soon as she pulled out of the lot and onto Kent Street, she remembered why she was there. Her daughter, Krista, was driving up from Ohio with her little four-year-old “muffin,” Kayla. Sherry had closed the shop early and had brought home some carrot muffins and cinnamon buns. She picked up Shrek Forever After and Finding Nemo. She headed out of town and put the man at the market behind her.

An hour later Sherry was at the house, a converted red barn out on Route 141. Her kitchen was filled with copper pans and her famous coffee mug collection, old Beatles and Cat Stevens albums, and an RCA record player her granddaughter referred to as a “wheelie.”

Along with Boomer, her old chocolate Lab.

She was up to her elbows in pie crust. Krista had called a while back and said they’d be arriving in another hour. The kitchen door was open; they were in the midst of a late summer heat wave and in this old house, she needed any breeze she could find. She was listening to NPR on the radio, a discussion about end-of-life medical treatment and how much it was costing. Sherry wasn’t sure where she came down on the issue, as long as you could ease people’s suffering.

Suddenly Boomer started barking.

Usually it was a car pulling up in the driveway, or maybe the UPS truck, which often came around this time. Sherry wiped her hands on her apron. Maybe Krista had surprised her and gotten there early. She was just the kind to do that.

“Boomer!” she called excitedly, hurrying to the front door.

She looked, but no one was there.

She didn’t even see the dog anywhere. Not that that mattered—the old boy didn’t go anywhere anymore. He could barely crawl onto his mat and take a nap.

Then she heard a yelp from out back.

“Boomer?”

At his age, Sherry knew a jackrabbit could scare the dog half to death. She left the front door ajar and went back into the kitchen. She wanted to have the pie done by the time the girls arrived. Get that mama into the oven . . .

As she got back to the table, her eyes were drawn to the floor.

“Boomer!”

The old dog was on his side, panting, unable to move. Sherry ran over and kneeled beside him. “Poor boy . . . Not now, baby, I’m not ready for this.” She stroked his face. “Krista and Kayla are on their way . . .”

She ran her hand along his neck and drew it back, startled.

Warm, sticky blood was all over her palm.

“Boomer, what in God’s name happened?”

Suddenly she heard the shuffle of footsteps from behind her. She looked up.

Someone was there.

A man was in her doorway. He just stood there, leaning on the door frame.

Her heart almost came up her throat when she realized just who it was. It was the man she had seen at Reg’s Market.

A shiver of fear ricocheted through her. What could he possibly be doing here?

She looked at Boomer, the dog’s blood on her hands, and glared back at him. “What the hell have you done?”

The man just stood there grinning, leaning against the door. “Hello, Sherry.”

She stood up, focusing on his face, years tumbling back, like a fog lifting over the pines and the lake coming into view.

Her hand shot to her mouth. “Mal?”

It had been such a long time ago. More than thirty years, a part of her life she had long buried. Or thought she had. Forever. She never thought she’d see any of them again. Or have to account for what she’d done. She was just a crazy kid back then . . .

“It’s been a while, huh, doll?” His dark eyes gleamed.

“What are you doing here, Mal?”

“Making amends.” He winked. “Long overdue, wouldn’t you say? The master of the house—you remember that, don’t you, Sherry? Well, he’s come home.”

He was grinning, teeth twisted, that same unsettling grin she had seen at the market, tapping something in his palm.

It was a knife. A knife with blood all over it.

Boomer’s blood.

Sherry’s heart started to pound. Her eyes shot to her dog, whose chest had now stopped moving. A chill sliced through her, and with it, a terror she hadn’t known in years.

The man stepped inside, kicking the screen door closed.

“So tell me”—he smiled, tap-tap-tapping his blade—“what’ve you been up to all these years, hon?”