Her response comes a few minutes later. “He says to quit making him look bad, that he would have thought of that on his own.”

  “Tell him there’s no room for hurt feelings when working a case.”

  “He says you need to get laid.”

  “Is he offering?”

  “Guys are pigs,” she signs into my hand and sits back, but I feel her chuckling to herself.

  I smile and turn to the warmth, to the light, and find myself thinking about the case. There is an answer here. I can feel it.

  And it’s close.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  It is afternoon when I get home.

  I am eager to get my hands on that list. I should have asked for it earlier. I had assumed the victims weren’t victims. That, in fact, they had perpetrated their own disappearance. I am beginning to think differently. How differently, I don’t know. What the hell is going on, I don’t know that either. There is more here, I am sure of it.

  Rat and possum meat? Tuberculosis? What the hell was going on?

  I turn this over in my mind, over and over, as I pour myself a bowl of cereal, resting my hand mostly over the lip of the bowl, gauging when to stop the milk. I give it a half inch from the lip, and cap the bottle and replace the box of cereal over the refrigerator, exactly where I always keep it, and the milk on the lower right-hand corner of the refrigerator, exactly where I always keep it. Both cereal and milk had been low. I would have to go shopping again. My brother and I should have gone shopping yesterday. The selfish fucker could have at least gone shopping with me one last time before dropping his bomb.

  For the first time, I let myself get mad. Raging mad. I don’t break things; I don’t throw things. I just stand there and feel the anger wash over me, through me, and it quickly morphs to sadness, as I think about the hard decision my brother made. It couldn’t have been easy on him. He had reached his limits. I had broken him.

  I breathe through the tracheal tube. Mucus rattles. I’ll have to clean it soon. But not right now. No. Right now, I want to eat my cereal and think, which is what I always did when working cases. Food and thinking. Food and thinking.

  And so, I sit in my living room and think in complete darkness, carefully eating my bowl of Wheaties and considering the full implications of what I’d learned today.

  A man had been on the run, had called his closest friend. A number he had probably known. Presumably, he had borrowed a phone. The victim was scared. The victim had no known reason to be scared, no known reason to be on the run. He was malnourished, with rat and possum meat in his stomach. He had contracted tuberculosis. How?

  I shake my head, eat my cereal.

  I would like to know where he placed that call from. I nod to myself. Yes, that would be very, very important to know. And so, I set aside my bowl of Wheaties and take out my cell phone, and text the detective, carefully pushing each raised button, silently thanking again the inventor of such a device. I ask my question, then rest the phone on my lap. For me, there is nothing more lost than a misplaced cell phone.

  I am three bites into my next round of Wheaties when the cell buzzes in my lap. I don’t need to pick it up to piece together the coded message that comes through.

  Yes, Hammer had gotten a hold of the owner of the phone number. Apparently, the owner had been approached by a wild man who begged to use his phone. It had happened at the entrance to Griffith Park.

  Exactly where I had been yesterday.

  I thought about that as I finished my cereal, letting my pooch lick the bowl clean.

  I’m cool like that.

  Chapter Thirty

  A busy day.

  I’m not used to busy days. I’m used to my morning walks to Chango. I’m used to sitting on my balcony and feeling the sun on my face. I’m used to reading in braille. I’m used to re-reading that week’s newspaper. I’m used to cleaning my tracheal tube, of petting Betsie, of the occasional neighbor who stops by just to give me a hug. I’m used to my showers and dinners and walking the interior of my apartment, touching everything, picking up everything—from books I can’t read, to picture frames I can’t see—and then putting them down again. I’m used to sitting quietly, hours on end. I’m used to dozing off and wondering what time it is, and am often surprised that it is either later at night or early in the morning or sometimes just a few minutes later, too. My days are simple. They have to be. Or, at least, I have convinced myself they have to be.

  Now, just as I settle down with the latest James Rollins adventure—well, the latest release from my braille book club—my cell phone vibrates at my hip.

  Busy, busy day. At least for me.

  At the closed front door, with Betsie by my side, I lower my face to the peephole—grin to myself at my private joke—and open the door, holding my dog firmly by the collar.

  Her reaction is what I’m waiting for. Her reaction is what I need to help gauge the intent of the visitor. Will Betsie recognize them? Will she feel threatened? Cautious? Excited?

  Betsie doesn’t move, not at first. A man, then? But then Betsie warms up quickly, and I feel her tail wag once, twice, slapping against my ankles. A woman, perhaps? Maybe a stranger? I raise my hand and motion ‘Hi’ and lift out the small notebook from my breast pocket. I show the unknown visitor the pre-written cover: “I’m sorry, but I’m blind, deaf and mute.”

  There is a slight pause, and I am about to show the stranger the nearby table of plastic letters, when I feel strong arms around my neck and shoulder and I gasp, which doesn’t quite have the same meaning when it’s through your tracheal tube. Betsie lunges at first, barking, but she settles almost immediately; I settle, too, because the arms are now holding me close, a hot face pressed into my neck, the smell of jasmine and a hint of maple syrup wafting up. The weeping is powerful and long and I hold the stranger in return, as Betsie wedges between us.

  I stand there, flummoxed—and wondering if flummoxed is even a real word.

  My first thought is that it is Gwen, regretting her decision, but the woman is too small. My next thought is that it might be Rachel, but the woman is too stout. After that, I’m out of suggestions. Not to mention, Betsie’s own reaction. Betsie would have been growling had it been Gwen, and far more excited had it been Rachel.

  When the woman is done sobbing, as my hand pats her thick hair and thick shoulders, as I mentally check off the list of all the women I know, of all the women who know where I live, of all the women I know who might suddenly appear at my door, weeping, one name finally rises to the surface, and when it does, I gasp for the second time.

  When the full realization hits me, when all the pieces become painfully clear, I find myself fighting tears, too—and not succeeding very well. When we are done holding each other tight, I show her the table of plastic letters near the door, and she releases me and I stand there breathing deeply through my tracheal tube, trying not to show that each breath is a struggle, trying to be strong for the woman in front of me.

  I sense her working the letters. Finally, when she is done, she touches my hand and guides me to the first letter.

  “I miss him so much,” it spells.

  I remove my notepad again, and flip to the first blank page—as indicated by the dog-eared corner—and use my felt-tip pen to write: “I do, too.”

  We stand like that for maybe a minute. I might have thought she left, if not for the fact that Betsie is still sitting next to me, tail still wagging intermittently.

  A few months after the accident, after I had mostly healed into the monster that I am, I had asked my brother to take me to visit someone. He had, although he had resisted, which is the story of our past five years. Anyway, with my brother waiting outside, I had met with the family I had torn apart. I had written my apology beforehand and presented it to them. I had waited, seemingly forever, until I had felt a hand on my shoulder, then an arm around both shoulders, and, before I had known it, the wife of my now-dead partner hugged me harder than I deserved. That’s all, a single hug. I never heard from his two teenage daughters. If they forgave me, I don’t know. But her hug had sustained me all these years. It had been enough, even if I never knew the exact meaning behind the hug. But I had felt forgiveness and sympathy, and it was more than I could ask for.

  And now, here she is again.

  I put pen to paper and write: “Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him.”

  She takes my hand, notepad and all, in both of hers, and holds it warmly. She’d been holding a tissue in one of her hands, damp with tears.

  When she releases me a minute or two later, I write: “I am so sorry—”

  But she stops my hand, apparently reading my words upside down. I feel her brush past me, leaning over the table, spelling out words for me to read.

  “No more apologies, Lee. It was an accident.”

  I absorb her words and then nod. I wonder what her life has been like these past five years, without her husband. How were the kids coping? Did they forgive me as readily? Mitch had not just been a partner. We had been friends. Gwen and I often did things together with his family. I had known his little girls well. I had felt a part of his family.

  Over the years, I had often wondered if I would feel Mitch around me. I never had. No surprise there. People move on when they die, don’t they? They don’t stick around and torment their disabled ex-partners. Then again, maybe he was presently haunting me and I don’t know it. Maybe he swung by every once in a while, hung out in the far corner and watched me sadly before disappearing again. Maybe that’s why Betsie would look up every now and then and seemingly bark, although she seems to be doing this less and less these days. Maybe she had gotten used to him.

  I keep these thoughts to myself, as I keep most thoughts. I live in a world of eternal, internal dialogue. If I don’t like the way my own thoughts flow, or the kind of thoughts I thought, I would have surely gone mad by now. Then again, the jury is still out.

  We continue standing there, facing each other, one of us, no doubt, looking at the other, perhaps sympathetically, perhaps pitifully, undoubtedly with a heavy heart, while the other just stands there, sunglasses covering his eyeless eyes, oblivious to everything but his own never-ending thoughts and his own beating heart.

  Now I feel Shanna step past me again, working the plastic letters on the table. I wait and breathe and listen to the silence and listen to my heart and feel Betsie wiggle a little against my foot. I hadn’t noticed, but one of her big, undoubtedly stinky, paws is plopped right on top of my big toe. I wiggle my toe and she shifts her weight but doesn’t move.

  Finally, after a few minutes of what I can only imagine is spent in concentrated spelling, Shanna takes my hand and guides me to the first letter, a letter that spells out a long sentence:

  “You have suffered enough, Lee. Let Mitch’s death go. He is in a better place. Rebuild your life. You have been given a second chance. Do something. Do something great. Don’t be afraid to live. Mitch would want that.”

  And with that, she gives me another hug, not quite as full-bodied as the first, cradles my face with both hands, and leaves.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Jacky doesn’t come alone.

  Apparently, my brother, in his haste to leave me, had forgotten to cancel his deal with the old Irish boxer. Then again, Jacky had taken it upon himself to show up unannounced.

  At the door, and trying my best to comprehend the situation, I realize that it’s Jacky my boxing trainer, and a friend. I soon find myself, after a slightly awkward exchange using the plastic letters on the table, pumping the hand of a man named John Wang.

  It is early. I had been sleeping just moments ago. In fact, I am not one hundred percent certain that I’m not dreaming. One minute, I had been asleep—and the next my hip was buzzing. Betsie is at my feet, tail wagging excitedly. At least she is wide awake.

  It takes me a moment to realize that John Wang is still holding my hand. In both of his, no less, reminding me a bit of the old man Jack in Griffith Park, the old man who had seemed to know all my secrets. Or one big one:

  My prayer.

  Now, while John Wang continues holding my hand in both of his—and while I continue trying to wake up and ascertain what the hell is happening—Jacky is busy working the letters at the table. John Wang continues to shake my hand, although his shake has turned into something much more than a shake. He’s outright holding my hand, whoever he is. I smile and try to pull back, but he doesn’t release it, not yet. His hands are warm, kind, strong, firm. And, if I had to take a stab at another adjective, I would say…electric. Indeed, his hands seem to be alive with…energy. Something, something I can’t quite place my finger on, although my whole damn hand is on it, apparently.

  Finally, Jacky takes my elbow, and John Wang releases my hand. A sort of connection is broken, and I am left reeling a little as Jacky guides me over to the table and plastic letters.

  Definitely dreaming.

  The old boxer leads me to the first plastic letter. I pick up each in turn, spelling out: “John is an old friend of mine. A martial arts expert. A true master’s master. He was in town, and I asked him to see you.”

  I hold up the letter “Y” as my notepad is in my bedroom, next to my dresser.

  Jacky gets busy spelling with the letters again. “Never mind that. He will teach you much. I have to leave. You are in good hands, lad.”

  And, as my mouth drops open, the old Irishman pats me on the shoulder, gives me a half hug, and then is gone, leaving me alone with John Wang.

  A master’s master.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  I am not sure how I feel about this, but I also realize I do not have much choice in the matter. Besides, Betsie seems okay with it, although she doesn’t seem overly excited. Subdued would be the best way to describe her.

  John Wang takes my elbow gently and leads me into my living room. He then bends down and pats Betsie two or three times on the head, and she dashes off somewhere into the apartment. My guess, my bedroom, where I sometimes find her curled up on my bed. In my spot, no less. The hairy booger.

  I stand just on the edge of my living room, where I feel the floor shaking and vibrating beneath my feet, as the master’s master is moving some furniture around. Maybe I am using the title facetiously. I had never heard of a person referred to as a master’s master. What was he so damn masterful at? Kicking and punching?

  After a short wait, he takes my elbow again and guides me forward, and then down onto a cushion. My couch cushion no less. I step onto it gracelessly—story of my life—and then he guides me into a sitting position, in the center of the cushioned couch square. I note that he takes a seat on the wooden floor in front of me, bypassing the cushion. We have yet to speak directly to each other. Which might be a problem, since I don’t have my pen and notepad handy.

  I sign: “Do you know sign language?”

  I don’t get a response, nor do I really expect to. I can feel him breathing not too far away, and I am catching traces of garlic in the air. He is sitting directly in front of me. Our knees, I am certain, are almost touching. I am distinctly aware that things are about to go off script for me, into waters I suspect I am not so familiar with or comfortable with. What the hell has the little Irishman gotten me into?

  I lower my hands to my knees and wait, breathing smoothly through the hole in my trachea. I had cleaned and installed a new tube just last night. My airway is open and clear and I can almost take a full breath. I do so now, drawing it in deeply and smoothly and wondering where Betsie was and where my brother was and where Rachel was, and what John Wang wanted with me. I wondered where Rachel lived, too. Did she have roommates? Was she divorced? I knew only that she did not have kids and that she was about eight years younger than I was. I knew little of the woman I had so thoroughly kissed the other night.

  Warm hands slip into my own, lifting them, holding them, his thumbs resting on the backs of my hands. My own fingers curl over his a little, and I feel uncomfortable holding a stranger’s hands, even though the gesture isn’t intimate. He could have been a psychic or a palm reader holding my hands. Or someone in church, back when I used to go to a Pentecostal church in my teens. His gesture has little to do with showmanship either. I have a sense that he is…balancing me somehow. Steadying me. And giving me a little of himself, too, although I am not sure why I feel that way.

  He grips my hands a little tighter, raises them off my knees, up before me, supported by him. I feel his unmistakable and undeniable strength. I suspect he could leverage a lot of damage with those hands.

  He holds my hands like this for a few minutes. When my hands start to drop, he lifts them firmly, holds them before me, a gesture that seems to tell me to focus and sit still.

  I’m still dreaming.

  We sit there for Lord knows how long. Twice I might have nodded off. And once or twice, I realized I might have been in a meditative state, too. I know this state, although I don’t usually refer to it as meditative. I can slip into it often, that place between sleep and wakefulness, that place that is sometimes very, very hard for me to distinguish the real from the unreal.

  Two or three times I attempt to withdraw my hands—but there is no escaping that grip, not if I don’t want to struggle. He has my hands and, for the time being, he isn’t letting go.

  As the minutes pass and as more and more warmth and energy and God knows what else flows from the man named John Wang to me, I feel myself slip more and more out of my body, out of this world, or out of my mind. I am not sure which. A sense of dreaming, perhaps. A sense of standing back and watching something happening to me. I seem to be becoming…unmoored from this place and time.

  Maybe I’ve been drugged.

  But I doubt it.

  I’d recently had a similar experience, hadn’t I? Back when I’d felt myself expanding further and further away from the balcony, filling the parking lot, stretching out to the trees and sky beyond…