Eye for an Eye is not so much about America as it is a book of America; a story that grows organically out of the ongoing American obsession with law and order. Erika Holzer, an attorney, understands the system, and more importantly she understands the society she and the rest of us live in. She has created a plot from what could be, and often is, any newspaper headline, and carried it a step further, a step many of us would not take but think about in our darkest moments.
Holzer’s characters are vividly created, impassioned, and interestingly flawed so that we relate to them and believe they exist. The writing is sharp and terse, moves at a fast pace, and the dialogue is snappy and to the point.
Prologue
Reflections. The diamond at her throat, flashing splinters of orange. The crystal chandelier, out of range of her roaring fire but dancing with candlelight.
Her tight grip on the telephone?
Reflection of a holiday mood gone sour…
“Karen, for God’s sake,” she protested into the phone. “What are you trying to do, scare me to death? Tonight of all nights,” she said, willing her voice to turn calm.
“Utter privacy is a mixed blessing, isn’t it?”
“I love it now,” she lied. “After three years, even a city dweller gets used to the Westchester woods.”
But she never had.
“So much crime, these days. It worries me. I was reading—”
“On the West Side of Manhattan, maybe,” she cut in, “not out here.”
But she’d been reading about it, too. Burglars from New York and NewJersey heading for the suburbs. Looking for bigger game. Burglars with wheels… and what else, guns? Knives?
“Sarah, your alarm system—”
“My security blanket, you mean,” she admitted drily. “We had it upgraded while you were away. Goes off in the police station now. The cops are on the scene in five minutes tops. Hold on while I check the roast.”
On the way to the kitchen, she glanced in the mirror. The full treatment, she thought, pleased with this reflection, at least. Black satin lounging pajamas. Slippers with stiletto-thin heels. Blonde hair looking sleek, straight, and sexy, just the way Mark liked it.
All’s well in the dinner department, she thought, sniffing and prodding, practically sailing back to the living room, her festive mood restored.
“Listen, killjoy,” she said, cocking an ear to the phone, “no more raining on my parade, okay? You’re supposed to say—”
“Happy anniversary, I know. Don’t mind me, dear. Tonight will be very special.”
“Starting with my table. Wish you could see it!”
“As exquisite as that? Draw me a picture.”
“My centerpiece would knock your socks off. Mark’s too, I hope. Masses of tiger lilies, the most glorious shade of orange—”
“In a black vase, of course.”
“Darn right.”
“What else?”
“Candlelight, crystal, and the good china.” She smiled. “Artfully arranged on a lace tablecloth—that wispy silvery one, remember? Goes with the glasses.”
She touched the delicate rim of a smoky, long-stemmed champagne glass. Ran a finger along the intricate pattern of a sterling-silver knife. Picked up the knife just to enjoy the weight of it in her hand.
“I even liberated a couple of place settings from the safe-deposit box—”
She could have bitten her tongue.
“Since when do you keep your sterling in the bank? Have there been any burglaries near you, Sarah?”
“Don’t be silly. People around here play it safe, that’s all.”
People around here don’t want their sterling—not to mention their jewelry—carted off in a pillowcase while they’re out to dinner.
“What are you sighing about?” she asked.
“I just wish Mark didn’t take these night classes.”
“Mark doesn’t take them. They’re assigned. Besides, I’ve never minded.” Another lie. “Don’t start, Karen. You’re making me jumpy all over again.”
“Don’t blame me. You were always jumpy on Halloween.”
“And you’re a big help. Hold on again, okay? I had a hard time getting the fire started and it’s looking a bit feeble.”
Lie number three. She was having a hard time holding her temper. She took her impatience out on a log that her robust fire didn’t need, teetering on the damn heels as she struggled with the iron tongs, hair rippling around her shoulders.
Like liquid gold, Mark would say.
The tongs back in place, she gave the radio dial a defiant twist, then said into the phone, “Mood music.”
“I can hear the lyrics all the way down here. So could your neighbors if you had any.”
“Wise guy. Don’t worry, I switch to Brahms the minute Mark walks in the door.”
“When is he walking in?”
“Best guess? Half an hour. Why don’t we play catch-up while we’re waiting? Tell me about your presentation. Bet you snared the account.”
“Before I even took off my coat.”
“They don’t pay you enough, you know that? When I think—”
“Boo, mommy, boo!”
She whirled around, almost dropping the phone, then laughed at the small masked figure in the doorway above.
“Only ghosts say ‘boo,’ darling.”
“Oink, oink.”
“Thata girl. Now off to bed, Miss Piggy.”
“Rhyme, rhyme, you owe me a dime!”
“Stop stalling, Susie. Tell you what. You get three dimes for three rhymes under the pillow by morning—if you’re in bed by the count of five. Ready? One… two… three… ”
She retrieved the phone. “Susie is still keyed up. Lots of little trick-or-treaters made house calls.”
“Ghost and hobgoblin time…”
“You’re dating yourself, kiddo. These days, it’s characters out of Star Wars and the Muppets. Me, I’m nostalgic. I prefer ghosts and hobgoblins.”
“Isn’t that your doorbell?”
“What’s on the other end of that line, Karen, an amplifier?”
“Why would Mark ring? Could he have forgotten his keys?”
“Not likely. Probably some last-minute trick-or-treaters. No home-by-eight in the suburbs. Be right back.”
She pressed her face to frosted glass and grinned, feeling like a kid again as she picked out the slightly distorted shapes. Kids draped in sheets, clustered around one little Muppet in green. All of them were holding tight to their goody bags.
“Would you believe old-fashioned ghosts outside my door?” she chuckled into the phone. “Takes me all the way back.”
“Sarah, maybe you better—”
“Oh, and one modern touch,” she said. “An adorable little Muppet frog. Hang in there while I distribute the loot. Homemade candied apples this year, if you please!”
She held a silver platter of apples in one hand. With the other, she turned a key. A chip of light next to the doorknob went from unblinking red to bright yellow. She opened the door.
They pushed in on her so that she teetered precariously, almost dropping the platter. “Hey you little roughnecks,” she scolded, “I was about to hand you—”
Except for the frog, they weren’t so little, she thought. She counted seven ghosts as they fanned out into the foyer… the dining area… the living room.
She opened her mouth to yell at them—
And was cut off by a howl. They were howling and whooping!
A brown hand flipped the radio dial, turning up the volume.