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    Trace the Dead Eye
    Trace the Dead Eye
    Trace the Dead Eye
    Ebook264 pages3 hours

    Trace the Dead Eye

    By Steven D. Bennett

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    About this ebook

    Trace is out to find a murderer, not an unusual task for a private eye. There’s only one problem: he was the victim. Now he wanders the streets searching for his killer, hampered by the additional task of helping a young Hispanic girl out of the life of drugs and prostitution into which she has fallen. This he tends to, grudgingly, but his true desire is to reconnect with his family and be the husband and father in death that he wasn't in life. As his search continues, he finds the safe world of his family and the violent world of the streets begin to slide closer together, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSteven D. Bennett
    Release dateAug 22, 2010
    ISBN9781458179197
    Trace the Dead Eye
    Author

    Steven D. Bennett

    I was born in Boston and grew up in Connecticut and San Diego, which gave me a good background in both history and tanning. I have four children and six grand-children, remarkable in that I am only 35. The fact that I have been married for almost 36 years is the result of an in-utero wedding and honeymoon.I have published many short stories, poems, songs, and recently wrote and directed a musical melodrama that was performed in the San Diego area. With six books under my belt (THE PATH OF DAYS, TRACE THE DEAD EYE, HUMOR OF THE GOSPELS, HUMOR OF THE GOSPELS Daily Study, THRONE and THE CHUCK-IT LIST) I am looking for a bigger belt to stuff the seventh, which hopefully will be completed in time for the Christmas season. It is about a writer who finds to his horror that a mistake he made on page 47 completely invalidates the plot, forcing him to thus track down and kill anyone who has bought the book lest they spread the truth about his miniscule talent. It is titled DON'T READ THIS! and looks to be a best-seller, unless people take the title literally. Fortunately, nothing I write can be taken literally. It is also fortunate I did not stay with the working title: DON'T BUY THIS! Personally, I don't buy a word of it.I also have a blog, I Wandered Off the Tour: A Journey In Self-Publishing, which contains my thoughts and experiences through the tormenting process of creation.Other than writing, I like listening to the same dozen albums and re-runs of the same dozen TV shows I've heard and seen hundreds of times, to the endless delight of my wife.

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      Book preview

      Trace the Dead Eye - Steven D. Bennett

      Trace the Dead Eye

      Smashwords Edition

      Steven D. Bennett

      Trace is out to find a murderer, not an unusual task for a private eye. There's just one problem: he was the victim.

      Now he walks the streets searching for his killer, his only help from Rollins, an emissary sent from above to help him in his quest. But his quest is in question as he's given the task of watching over Teresa, a young Hispanic girl caught in the world of drugs and prostitution. This he does—grudgingly—but his real desire is to reconnect with his wife and son and be the husband and father in death that he wasn't in life.

      As the search for his killer intensifies, he finds the violent world of the streets and the safe world of his family begin to slide closer together, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.

      STEVE BENNETT was born in Boston and has remained literary ever since, even after moving to Southern California. He has written short stories, novels, humorous commentaries, light verse and songs. You can follow him on Twitter at: www.twitter.com/SBennettWriter

      or on his Facebook Fan Page at:

      www.facebook.com/StevenDBennettWriter.

      Email: deadllifebooks@gmail.com

      Also by Steven D. Bennett

      Throne

      The Chuck-It List

      Trace the Dead Eye

      Humor of the Gospels

      Humor of the Gospels – Daily Study

      Thadeus Cochran Comes to Town

      *****

      Cursed

      Better Verse

      The Fear of E

      Cat Had a Tail

      Love in the Timeline

      Rosarita Rendezvous

      She's All I Can Think About

      Welcome to Mom's Diner!

      Teddy's Family, Now in Its Sixth Season!

      For Sandi

      And for four who deserve more than a passing reference:

      Ray Bradbury -- Harlan Ellison

      Raymond Chandler -- Cornell Woolrich

      It's a lesson too late for the learnin'

      Made of sand, made of sand

      In the wink of an eye my soul is turnin'

      In your hands, in your hands

      Are you going away with no word of farewell?

      Will there be not a trace left behind?

      Well, I didn't mean to hurt you

      Didn't mean to be unkind

      You know that was the last thing on my mind.

      THE LAST THING ON MY MIND

      Tom Paxton

      Trace the Dead Eye

      Copyright © 2010 by Steven D. Bennett

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in a manner whatsoever without written permission by the author.

      Published by DeadLife Books, P.O. Box 2008, Julian, CA 92036

      ISBN 1-45-059248-1

      EAN-13: 978-1-45059-248-2

      THE LAST THING ON MY MIND

      Words and Music by TOM PAXTON

      © 1964 (Renewed) UNITED ARTISTS MUSIC CO.

      All rights controlled by EMI U CATALOG, INC. (Publishing) and ALFRED PUBLISHING CO., INC (Print)

      All Rights Reserved

      Used by permission of ALFRED PUBLISHING CO., INC.

      CHAPTER ONE

      TERESA

      She looked right through me as I stared into her brown eyes...two lifeless, dilated holes which reflected the world as it passed by her feet.

      Want a date?

      She wore dirty pink sneakers with white lace laces. Ankle-length white socks. Cut-off blue jeans with a hole on the left buttock. A dirty pink halter with black polka dots. She had a tattoo of a sword on her left shoulder. She had black hair, natural brown skin, and a big smile. There was a tooth missing on the upper right side of her mouth. There always was.

      Want a date?

      A date, I thought, standing next to her at the trolley station, was just what I needed. Maybe two, but not with her. There was too much experience on her end for my liking. Make that both ends. Because none of it was real. The clothes, the time, the place, the line, the life: all a cover. Only the smile revealed truth, for though it was fixed, meaningless, part of the hook, it was the key. It was apologetic in a way, demure in another, with hints of contrition around the edges. Mona Lisa on meth. It also held the last remnants of youth and innocence for this girl of twenty-one or two. All that was left was the face of an angel, beneath several layers of hell.

      I stared into her eyes, searching. But those windows had been slammed shut; shattered, broken and fragmented too often on the cold concrete. The world she saw now was from a perspective of kaleidoscopic innocence.

      Want a date?

      Then, in a temporary flash of an instant, I saw the flicker of a light, a candle dancing in the deep abyss of her soul. Hope.

      I peered deeper.

      Trace.

      It's her, isn't it?

      I didn't need or expect an answer. One came: Yes.

      I turned to the voice behind me. Rollins, of course. No one else could see or hear me, and if the people on the sidewalk had the same view I did they would have taken a tentative step or two around instead of walking through him as they were. A bulk of a man, his black, muscular body straining against a white t-shirt, his camouflage pants and Marine-cut hair outlining his squarish head with that deadly serious expression which rarely changed. The veins in his neck seemed to surge on their own, adding to the rage. But a more peaceful man I'd never met. Not being fully part of his world and unable to return to my own, he was the bridge, the life hutch, the only person I was able to speak to who would actually hear and respond. Whether friendship was possible on this side of life or simply an unnecessary reminder of the other, I didn't know, but I'd never depended on anyone as much.

      I turned back to the girl with relief. I’d been staring into the eyes of prostitutes for so long I couldn’t tell the difference between a hooker and a hole in the ground. It was some type of test he was putting me through, though stumbling upon this girl seemed more dumb luck than plan or Providence. Maybe I'd run through the mill and come to the bottom of the barrel. Whatever the reality, all the eyes I'd looked into prior were dead mirrors, but she was different. She had it. I just hoped it wasn’t catching.

      What do I do now? I asked.

      Find the reasons.

      For what?

      For everything.

      I groaned. Why?

      Why not? You’ve got time.

      That reminder I didn’t need. I reached out and put my hand on her chest, dead center, and pushed...

      ...and fell...

      ...into the arms of a tall man whose face I couldn't see because my own was pressed hard against the scratchy white hair on his chest as he held me down then tossed me away to be held by another who spun me and slapped me and pushed me to another who held me--and my cheeks were wet as I was now her, crying in terror at the thought of being her forever, struggling to get free but unable--as I felt the rip of clothes and an inside tearing...

      ...then thrown to another place...

      ...with a creaking bed in a small room with stained curtains and an old sailing ship bobbing violently on the unwashed walls. My face was turned sideways, voluntarily this time, as I lay on my stomach and the fat man on top of me groaned, Teresa as that was my name, repulsive coming from him. I heard other voices laughing and yelling as children played outside the window and I prayed I could be out there with them as I gasped for breath in the heat of the summer's day...

      ...then done, tossed to oblivion, crumpled...

      ...against the cold vinyl seat of an old Ford pick-up reeking of Marlboro cigarettes and burnt fluids and the feel of the metal ash tray butting against of my head while pale arms with scattered brown spots inbetween purple tattoos swung back and forth as each movement brought nausea to my stomach while cramps grabbed hard at my back...

      The scattering of a thousand faces blowing by in a hot, sweaty wind; a crowd of men--all different, all the same—stopping only to smile or moan or laugh or grin. A handful of money and a slap in the face, a slap in the face and a laugh on the lips, a kiss on the mouth and a slap on the knee and a tear in the heart as pieces of my soul whirled into the air.

      Mercifully, the images and feelings faded and I left Teresa to her memories, detaching from them to watch the pin-wheeled pieces collect themselves like a cloud to float down to the ground where they dissolved around...

      ...a young girl playing alone on soft grass in warm sun, counting blades, watching bugs, picking daffodils, doing nothing but being alone on the soft grass and counting and watching and being.

      Then hands lifting, squirming against them, the warm sun fading to cold night and the soft grass hardening to black asphalt and the young girl being held down to the hardness as her face aged with each thrust and she screamed and cried and crushed daffodils in her clenched fists.

      I clamped my eyes shut and pushed back with all my strength, straining to get away from the endless hell of her life, but it held me tight. A sudden terror brought extra strength, and I pushed harder. Something snapped and I broke free, leaving her trapped in her life while I hurtled peacefully toward what could only be a better destination.

      I fell back on the sidewalk hard, the breath knocked out of me as I lay on my back. I opened my eyes in time to see a black stiletto step through my face before walking casually on. Teresa was standing over me. Want a date? she asked the wearer, oblivious to gender.

      A large hand reached down and I grabbed it. Rollins. He pulled me to my feet.

      That was pleasant, I mumbled groggily.

      You know, he said, smiling, I think you're getting better at this.

      I tottered, getting my balance. Where do I sign up to quit?

      What did you see?

      I shook my head, feeling queasy. Too much. I'd rather not go into it on an empty stomach. That's a joke, by the way.

      I thought jokes were supposed to be funny.

      Rollins making mirth? That won’t sit well with the boss.

      What did you see? he repeated.

      I exhaled to purge the memory. Prelude to a snuff film. Everything I hoped life would be. He waited. I don’t know, I said. Young girl abused, young girl raped, young girl on the streets. Your basic love story. Boy meets girl, boy rapes girl, boy pimps girl.

      See what she's thinking.

      "Don’t you mean, see if she’s thinking?"

      Be brave. Just remember, knowing her isn’t as bad as being her.

      Yeah, I said, but it comes in a close second. I took a step forward, hesitated, looked back. He prodded me along with a nod. I put my hands on her head and pushed...

      ...and felt hunger and a throbbing and a numbing in my left leg as I...as we...as she...shifted her weight to let the blood flow. Images and impressions came with a foggy haze. A salty taste in my mouth and a picture of a refrigerator with a can of Coke on the second shelf. A half jar of peanut butter. A crumpled bag of Lays chips in a cupboard with a handful of crumbs inside. The beginnings of shaking in my hands and a smoky cloud to take care of it later. The day winding down and the weariness of walking the short distance to a beat-up couch and TV that was dying by the channel. Messy sheets on a small bed and a pile of clothes on the floor. A loud voice, greasy skin and unwashed hair. A place away from the hell of the streets but no closer to heaven. Yet, it was sanctuary.

      I pulled out as if drunk. Sobriety came slowly.

      So?

      So she’s hungry and tired. She wants to go home. So do I.

      You both will, eventually.

      My look held as much annoyance as I could muster. Eventually, I hear, can be a long time.

      As I told you it would be. What else have you got to do?

      I’m getting tired of that question. Teresa was doing her best to blend into the wall she leaned on, but beside the bleak world passing by she stood out like a tacky piñata.

      I could be with my family, but no, I have to waste my time here. What’s so special about her?

      What’s so special about anybody?

      I’ve got nothing against prostitutes, I said. Some of my best friends were prostitutes...some of my best girl friends, come to think of it. But why her? She’ll just end up dying a horrible death.

      As did you.

      I shot him another look. Which reminds me, oh, great guardian, where were you that night?

      Where I was supposed to be, he said simply. Then he said something not so simply: Where were you that night?

      I muttered some words not meant for the hearing. Two hands immediately clamped on my shoulder, causing my knees to buckle.

      What was that?

      I turned around and forced a smile. "I said, ‘Thank you,’ thank you, Massa Rollins, for that reminder. Now when do I stop paying for that mistake?"

      Mistakes are rarely planned, he said, always correcting. What you have are consequences.

      Fine. When?

      Eventually. He drew the word out for emphasis. Now you stay with her, I’ve got to go.

      To where?

      He didn’t answer. He’s good at that. So I repeated myself. I was getting good at that. Like he said, we had a lot of time to kill.

      It makes no difference.

      If it makes no difference, I said, then why not tell me?

      It would only distract you from your job, which is to stay with her.

      What’s the point? What’s the point of any of it?

      He looked thoughtful, then scanned the streets. Look around. What do you see?

      I looked. Same thing I had seen every day, alive or dead. People; walking, eating, working, driving. Same as yesterday. And the day before that and the day before that. And the day–

      How many?

      I breathed out, considering. Hundreds. Thousands. Millions, if I weren’t near-sighted.

      And who of those millions is the most important?

      Me.

      Rollins teeth were like a bear trap sprung shut. Not today. Today you pick one person and you make them the most important person in the universe. And it can never be you. Tomorrow you do the same.

      My eyes moved over the rabble. I don’t like this game.

      We’ll play it until you do.

      I moaned, looking up the sidewalk. I moaned again. They had distinctly different meanings, for half a block away a young girl was coming toward us. It was one of those all-too-rare times when you’re not running after beauty but beauty, by its own accord, is about to pass by and all you have to do is wait for the blessing. And the closer she got, the more I was blessed. She had dark black hair parted in the middle and hanging long and straight, blowing across her face as if Nature itself was intent on keeping such pure artistry hidden from the unworthy. But the girl had no intention of being so veiled, as was obvious by her dress. She wore black mesh leggings visible to mid-thigh where they met a tiny black skirt, a thin compliance to a school dress code and city obscenity law and dispelling any fear of sexual restraint. A few inches of flat stomach, from hip bones to just above belly button, offset the ensemble where it met an unzipped black jacket over a tight black shirt which had the outline of a kitten in blood red thread matching her lipstick. Underneath that, difficult to read as it caressed the side of her left breast--forcing one to examine deeper--were two words: Gatito Caliente.

      I let out a slow whistle I wished she could hear. How about I pick her to spend the day with? At least she showered. She approached us with the exuberant bounce of youth untouched. Fifteen, sixteen maybe, with a demure smile that, unlike Teresa, hid a shy sensuality and not a bargain. Her energy radiated outward with every step, infectious and inviting. She held a small cup of coffee in her left hand she wasn’t drinking and a cell phone in the other she plinked at with her thumb, and over her left shoulder a miniature backpack big enough for a few items of make-up and not much else. I marveled at her flawless brown skin, the perfectly shaped body and muscular legs trying to burn the last ounces of baby fat while her small breasts, pushed up and almost out, straining toward the future. I was taken away for a moment in a cloud of strawberry-scented shampoo and I breathed deep and watched her walk for a few magical moments before turning. Now why couldn’t she be the one–?

      His expression stopped me short. His face was darker than usual, and in turn forlorn, perplexed, uneasy, as if caught in an awkward moment. I wondered briefly if he had the same thoughts I did and was embarrassed. But there was something else.

      What?

      She, he said after a moment, would be a bad choice.

      Why?

      What made her stand out, of all the people around?

      Rollins, I said. I know you’re dead, but you’re not blind.

      Besides that.

      What else is there?

      Think, he said with a mild intensity.

      Well, I began. She was there, for one. I don’t know. She seemed so-- I watched her walk, in a less lascivious light this time. Radiant. Cute. Alive, fresh, young. I sighed the sigh of approaching middle age that would, fortunately, never come. She’s happy, that always helps. Her skin is smooth. Her face doesn't have the deep lines from years of bad relationships. My wife came to mind, for no reason. I guess she reminds me of what I had, what I’ve lost. Of when I was her age. A better time, better days, with everything new, everything exciting. Who wouldn't want to be that age again? Go back do things over, avoiding the mistakes, your biggest concern being the latest pimple. That’s what she has. Your whole life ahead of you instead of behind, too eager to see the morning to be afraid of the night.

      I exhaled. I know I’m just projecting a fantasy. She’s still a woman, after all. I’m sure there’s a string of abusive boyfriends and an unwanted pregnancy in her immediate future. So why would she be a bad choice? Because she’s underage?

      No, he said. Because she’s going to die today.

      Something moved in my stomach.

      The girl seemed to almost skip down the sidewalk, giggling into her phone as she hopped off the curb to cross the busy street with the careless invincibility of youth, unmindful of the truck speeding her way.

      Rollins!

      Not yet, he said.

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