He holds me at arm’s length, no doubt staring at me, soaking in his pathetic older brother, and then he leaves.

  And just like that, my brother is gone from my life.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  I sit on the edge of my bed.

  My mind is empty. My heart feels empty, which is a new feeling for me. Not even when my brother had read Gwen’s breakup text had I experienced such emptiness. I do not know what to think, or do, or who to turn to—or even if I want to turn to anyone. I do not open the drawer with the gun in it, because I will not harm myself because of the whims of my brother.

  But the feeling of abandonment and loneliness is not to be denied. I look forward to those few hours with my brother. I know now that he did not feel the same. So much so that he is leaving the state, leaving me forever.

  I am loosely holding the bottle of beer—my last beer, the beer I would have given my brother had he wanted it. He didn’t want it. In fact, he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me again.

  And it goes like this for another half hour or so. Me, wallowing in self pity. Me, often looking toward the spot where the dresser would be, where the gun would be. Me, wanting to just hold the gun, to feel its reassuring weight, but afraid to do it. Terrified to take it out of the drawer. I suspect that if I take it out of the drawer, I will use it on myself. I don’t want to use it on myself. Not now. Not under these situations. Not ever. But I think I might. I just might. I just might put it in my mouth and pull the trigger. I’m feeling just bad enough to make a super poor decision.

  Super, super poor.

  Better to leave the gun in the drawer. Better to not feel its comforting weight, its balanced weight, its cold steel and smooth trigger and perfectly formed grip. Too perfect. Too easy to use.

  The feeling of reaching for my gun is very, very strong. So strong that I catch myself more than once leaning toward the drawer. I know in that drawer is my death. I know it. But still…

  Still, I want to hold that gun. More than anything. I want to heft it in my hand, feel the texture of it, the engineering of it. The ache I feel for that gun is real and it scares the fuck out of me. But I do not turn away. I do not stand and leave. I continue sitting there, facing the gun, staring at it as surely as if I had eyes to see.

  I find my fingers have even formed the shape of the gun handle, my index finger hovering over an invisible trigger, my thumb pressing against an invisible hammer. My hand has formed this all on its own.

  No, I mouth to no one, now rocking on the edge of my bed. No.

  I am certain that if I remove the gun from the nightstand it will be the last thing I ever do. I am certain that I will bring it to my mouth and pull the trigger, whether I want to or not. It will just happen. Automatically. As if on its own volition. Compelled by forces beyond my control.

  And all because my shithead brother bailed on me.

  I might kill myself someday. But not because of him. Not because of this.

  I know of another reason why I am not reaching for that drawer. Yes, definitely another reason. I don’t want my brother to have my suicide on his conscience, too. My brother is a shithead who makes poor decisions. Something like this, I know, might push him over the edge, too. My brother would be forever lost, I think.

  Two brothers gone.

  I should not care what happens to him, not after abandoning me, but I do.

  Let him go. Better for him to be free and alive, than to feel bound to me and miserable.

  All these thoughts and more. My mother wouldn’t be happy if I open that drawer. Neither would Betsie. Betsie is my girl. She needs me. And as I finally stand, looking down to where the nightstand would be, I feel Betsie press against my leg, tail wagging.

  I reach down and pat her and, as I leave my bedroom, I think of Rachel. She wouldn’t be happy if I open that drawer, either.

  As I exit my bedroom, I flip off the light because it feels natural to do so—and normal to do so—never mind that there hadn’t been a light bulb in my bedroom in five years.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  We are driving.

  I am sitting in the back seat of Hammer’s unmarked car. At least, I think it’s unmarked. Sitting next to me holding my hand is Rachel George. I only recently learned her last name was George. Then again, I only recently learned that she might not find me too offensive.

  We keep our hands low, resting on the seat between us, presumably so Hammer can’t see us. But Hammer is a cop. Cops notice things others miss. Anyway, I don’t give a crap what Hammer can or can’t see, but Rachel seems to care. I discovered the other day that Rachel is a freelance translator, working exclusively with sign language, and the LAPD is her major client. I assumed she felt keeping our relationship on the down low, for now, was beneficial to her business. And since this was the first time in a long, long time that I’d even formed the word ‘relationship,’ well, I was more than game to follow her lead.

  Earlier, I received a text from Hammer, which said he was on his way over with Rachel; they were going to pick me up. A witness had called and Hammer was heading to meet him and he wanted me there. I typed ‘OK.’ I almost felt normal.

  Considering I had planned to sit on my balcony and do nothing—and to definitely not think about the gun in my drawer—this was a pleasant distraction.

  Now, as I hold Rachel’s hand, the gun is all but forgotten, although my brother is still heavy on my mind. Her hand is small and timid and I begin to wonder if she is thinking the other day was a bad idea. Then again, it was her idea to hold my hand now.

  She squeezes my hand as we round a corner, and signs quickly into my palm, “Are you okay?”

  “Rough morning,” I motion back.

  “I’m sorry,” she replies. “Want to tell me about it?”

  I think about it and almost tell her, “Maybe later,” but I can feel her concern for me, the way she now squeezes my hand just a little tighter, the way her thumb works back and forth over my hand. And so, reluctantly, I release her hand and sign: “My brother is moving.”

  She pats my hand before signing into it: “Is he your only family?”

  I nod. “Both my parents have passed.”

  “No other siblings?”

  I shake my head.

  “Where is he moving?”

  “Florida,” I spell out.

  There is a long pause, and I think she understands the implication. I think she understands that my brother was, for want of a better word, my caretaker. I think she gets that my brother has abandoned me. I won’t say it, of course. I won’t badmouth my brother. Not now, not ever. He did his best. He just couldn’t do any more. I wish him the best, wherever he is.

  Instead of telling me everything is going to be all right, or that my brother is an asshole for leaving, or that I am screwed, she takes my hand again, this time in both of hers, and lowers it to her lap. She squeezes it gently, warmly, her thumbs stroking my knuckles, and holds me like that for the rest of the drive. Yes, I think, I might have fallen in love with her in that moment.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  I am led into a cool room.

  We are on the ground floor of what feels like a small home. Then again, I could have been led into a cave or into a McDonald’s. Still, the air feels stuffy, with a hint of musk and old cigarettes and mildewed carpet and furniture. At the moment, my sniffer seems to be working well enough, and that’s all I can ask.

  No, I can ask for a lot more…a lot, lot more.

  Holding the inside of my elbow, Rachel leads me deeper into the house. I am certain that, to anyone looking at us, the gesture looks innocent enough. But I can feel the way her fingertips sink in a little more than they should, the way her thumb applies enough pressure to let me know she is thinking of me, concerned about me.

  All of which is nearly too much for me to contemplate right now. I just lost my brother…and seemed to gain the love of a woman. I inhale deeply through the hole in my neck, find my balance, and allow myself to be led deeper into the home, where I am shown a chair and I sit. Betsie sits nearly on top of my feet. Where I go, she goes. Period.

  I feel a chair scraping over the wooden floor next to me, and Rachel sits next to me, takes my hand, signs: “How you doing?”

  “Good. We are in a small home?”

  “Yes. In Burbank, not far from the Toluca Lake.”

  I nod and wait. Rachel sets my hand back down on my knee, where it will remain until she’s ready to sign into it again. I sense that Hammer is probably telling the witness who I am, asking for permission to have me present, explaining my situation and putting the witness at ease. I try to look as pleasant as possible. I know my face has small puffy scars around my eyes, and bigger scars around my neck. The bowling shirt’s collar covers most of those latter scars. The big sunglasses cover, I hope, a lot of the smaller puffy scars. Although once a big man, I must surely look frail and non-intimidating.

  I do not know what’s happening in the room. I do not know where the witness is sitting or if Hammer is sitting or standing. I suspect standing. These days, I do not often go into people’s homes, let alone a stranger’s. I try to picture what the home might look like. An old afghan over a couch. A dusty piano in a corner. A cat watching me from a windowsill. I see sunlight coming in through the window and the open front door with its broken screen door, dust motes drifting in and out of the light, glowing like mini-constellations.

  Then again, I could have been in a bachelor’s home, too, with a Pulp Fiction poster up on the wall, a Foosball table in the corner, and twin recliners with built-in beer can holders. Hard to know without asking. I don’t ask. I wait. As I wait, I feel eyes on me.

  Definitely a cat.

  Now, Rachel takes my hand again—and, as always, a shiver courses through me, so strong that I am certain she feels it, too—and begins to rapidly sign into my palm.

  “The man says he’s okay with us being here, and with you listening and maybe even asking some questions.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A friend of the victim. Remember Jesse DeFranco?”

  I nod. Jesse is the floater. The only missing person to turn up in the past year. I wait and feel more eyes on me. Okay, maybe not cat eyes after all. Maybe there’s a child in the room, watching from, say, the hallway. Maybe a child and a cat.

  She takes my hand again and signs quickly, doing her best to keep up with the conversation, all while spelling one letter at a time. She uses a form of shorthand, of which I do my best to piece together into something coherent: “Hammer is asking the witness why he called for this meeting. Witness name is Arthur. He’s an older guy, gray hair, looks like hell.”

  I nod as she pauses, but then signs rapidly. She denotes Hammer’s and Arthur’s turns with only an “H” or an “A” before signing the conversation as fast as she can.

  Arthur: “Jesse called me last week, maybe a day or two before he was murdered, before I heard about him on the news.”

  Hammer: “What did Jesse say?”

  Arthur: “Said something bad had happened to him, real bad.”

  Hammer: “Did he say what?”

  Arthur: “Said not over the phone, he wanted to meet me.”

  Hammer: “Did you meet him?”

  Arthur: “No.”

  Hammer: “Why not?”

  Arthur: “Apparently, someone got to him first.”

  Hammer: “Did you hear from Jesse again?”

  Arthur: “No.”

  Hammer: “Did he say where he’d been this past year?”

  Arthur: “He didn’t, but he did say he had just escaped.”

  Hammer: “Escaped from what?”

  Arthur: “He didn’t say, but he sounded real scared.”

  Hammer: “Did he say anything else?”

  Arthur: “Just that he wanted to meet.”

  Rachel rests her hand in my own, a surprisingly intimate gesture that I hope no one else sees. That is, until I realize I don’t care if anyone else sees. She resumes signing. “Hammer wants to know if you have any questions.”

  I nod, sign: “What number did he call from?”

  There is a pause, and Rachel signs: “He’s looking at his phone now, Lee.”

  “Thank you,” I sign, then add: “Sweetie.”

  She squeezes my forearm in a manner that suggests she might really like me, which is baffling to me, but I go with it. A moment later, she releases my arm and signs into my open hand: “He doesn’t know the number. Hammer is writing it down, says he will run it.”

  I sign: “Did he say where he was calling from?”

  Rachel signs his response: “No.”

  “Did you hear any background noise?”

  “No.”

  “How long have you had your number?”

  “Eight years, maybe longer.”

  “So, it’s reasonable the victim could have remembered it?”

  “Yes, he knew my number. I know his, too.”

  “What was the duration of the call?”

  “Two minutes and seven seconds.”

  “Who hung up?”

  “He hung up on me, said he would get in touch when he could.” There’s a pause, and then Rachel continues: “I was stunned. Almost too stunned to speak. I asked him where he’d been, but he only said he would get back to me, but that he was okay.”

  I signed, “Do you have any reason to believe he disappeared on purpose?”

  “I always suspected he did. I mean, he mentioned it once or twice, years ago. I never thought he was serious.”

  “Disappeared from what?” I ask.

  “Life. His marriage. His job. His responsibilities. He always wanted to start over. Thought he would do it right the next time around. Keep in mind, he only mentioned this maybe twice, and that was years ago.”

  “Did he contact you after his disappearance?”

  “Only just a few days ago.”

  “Prior to his disappearance, did you loan him money?”

  “No.”

  “What’s your relationship with him?”

  “Friends for a few decades now, maybe longer. I’ve been sick over his disappearance this past year, always waiting to hear from him, or hear from his ex-wife. Hell, hear anything.”

  I nod when Rachel is done signing. “That’s all the questions I have.”

  I suspect Hammer is giving the man his card, telling him to call him should he hear anything else or remember anything else. And then, Rachel takes my elbow and guides me to my feet.

  And we head out. A ragtag team if ever there was one.

  The eyes watch me leave.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  We are in Hammer’s car, sitting in the heat with the windows down, as Rachel informs me the detective is calling the number. She then informs me there is no answer.

  Assuming I’m not jumping in the middle of a conversation, I sign: “Let’s go over Jesse’s personal life.”

  The car shakes as the detective, I assume, has turned in his seat and is looking back at us, speaking directly to Rachel, who relays his answer into my palm: “By all accounts, he wasn’t happy. He and his wife had talked of divorce for years.”

  “Kids?” I sign.

  “Two, in high school.”

  “Job?”

  “Worked as a city bus driver.”

  “Criminal activity?”

  “None that we know of.”

  “Debts?”

  “Typical debts. Maybe higher than most.”

  “Gambling debts?”

  “By all accounts he wasn’t a gambler.”

  “Any reason for him to fake his own death?”

  “No obvious reasons, other than he wanted out and seemed too much of a pussy—sorry Rachel—to just leave his wife.”

  I think about that, and sign: “He was scared on the phone.”

  “Seems that way.”

  “So, who scared him?”

  “Probably the same asshole who killed him.”

  Rachel taps the back of my hand, her indicator for me to wait. She rests her hand in my hand. A fat glob of drool lands on my forearm. I reach over and pat Betsie’s panting chest. Five minutes later, she comes back on the line, so to speak. “Detective just received a call. Coroner’s office. He wants you to know that the victim, Jesse DeFranco, was malnourished, starving perhaps. The man also had rat meat and possum meat in his system. The detective doesn’t know what to make of this. Wait, there’s more…you’re not going to believe this.”

  I wait, feeling the old excitement of the hunt returning.

  “The coroner just called again. The victim had tuberculosis.”

  “You’re right,” I sign back, “I don’t believe it. How long had he had it?”

  “Hold on, I’ll ask.”

  I wait while the various questions and answers are relayed via the detective to the coroner’s office, then back to the detective, to Rachel and finally, to me.

  “Seems to be a new case. The symptoms haven’t shown up yet.”

  “How long do the symptoms take to show up?” I ask.

  I wait twenty seconds for the answer. “Depends. Sometimes a year, sometimes longer.”

  “So our missing victim disappears for a year and winds up with a new case of tuberculosis and a bullet to his head.”

  “Yeah,” says Rachel, “that’s what they’re telling me.”

  I sign: “Please ask Hammer to give me a list of all the victims’ medical histories.”

  I wait while Rachel relays my request. A moment later, Rachel signs into my hand: “He wants to know who died and made you king of the world. But you’ll have them in a few days.” She pauses, then adds, “I told the detective I would bring them over to you and help you read the report.”

  I smile and squeeze her hand and turn my head, toward the window, toward the warmth, toward where the light of day would be. Something is gnawing at me.

  I sign: “Ask the good detective to check for any incidents in and around Griffith Park in the last year. I’m not talking petty crime. Something unusual, something that stands out.”