Chapter Forty-four

  We are in Rachel’s car when I ask her to make a call to the detective and to relay to him, as best as she can, everything she just heard.

  I wait quietly while I assume she is on the phone. The windows are up and the air conditioner is on and the car is running; I feel the small vibrations and thumping of an engine that might need to be tuned. The cool air feels very nice.

  All of my senses are crackling, and I am flying high. Everything I know tells me we are onto something big, and that there is something very, very strange brewing here at the Los Angeles Zoo…or near the zoo. Or, at one time at the zoo.

  Dr. Nathan Diamond…what the devil was going on?

  I think back to my brother.

  “Once I passed the tests…”

  I should have pushed for more information, for him to explain himself. Jesus, I had dropped the ball.

  That is, until I remember my brother had blindsided me, sucker-punched me, and had left me reeling gasping and grasping. Still, I should have seen it and pressed him for something, anything.

  Too late now.

  No, definitely not too late.

  My brother is out there, not very far away, perhaps. Somewhere nearby, in fact, if I have to guess. And guessing is all I have.

  I think about the old veterinarian…if the old man is behind the disappearances, what on God’s earth is he promising? A new lifestyle, a new beginning, if one just…what? Partakes in a few harmless tests. Was that the old vet’s angle? Had his inhumane animal testing now graduated to human testing?

  If so, I doubt he worded it in such a way. I am certain he painted a much prettier picture. We are doing some innocent safety tests, and all I ask is a few hours of your participation. Once you are done, we will provide all the legal documents you will need to start a new life. Oh, and we will throw in twenty thousand United States dollars for your efforts, so no need to bring any money. Oh, and here is a checklist of how to permanently disappear. Which would explain why all the disappearances—except his own—have been nearly identical.

  I consider how desperate one needs to be to agree to such terms. I am certain there are many who would take the good doctor up on his offer. The money would be enough. The lure of starting a new life would be almost irresistible for those who need or want or have to do so.

  And my next thought sickens me to my core: those who want to disappear are exactly the kind of patients—or test subjects—the doctor wants. Yes, I suspect they are very much disappearing. I also suspect they are not leaving his lab, ever, wherever it might be.

  I am feeling sick to my stomach, certain I must be wrong, certain that there is a flaw in my line of thinking, but the depths of my nausea, the sickening in my stomach, suggest otherwise.

  And just as I am about to open the door to get some fresh air, Rachel touches my wrist…and opens my palm. “Are you okay?”

  “No. I am scared.”

  She pats me and squeezes my hand in both of hers, then opens my palm again and signs: “Hammer is putting together a search warrant.”

  I nod and sign weakly: “The zoo’s facilities?”

  “Right. Everything is going to be okay, Lee.”

  I take in some air and nod, and suggest we head back to my place. The warrant will take a few hours to get from a judge, and Hammer and his team certainly don’t need us here getting in the way.

  We had done our job.

  I hoped.

  Chapter Forty-five

  We are back at my apartment, on my couch, drinking hot tea and honey.

  Rachel had made the hot tea with honey while I had cleaned my tracheal tube in the bathroom. Not exactly a girl’s dream date, but what else can I do?

  Now, we are sitting together, drinking, and she uses my free hand to spell out: “When will we know something?”

  “Tomorrow,” I sign with my right hand, which is easy enough to do with one hand, rotating my thumb up from my chin, up and over, rolling my wrist in the process. A fast gesture that’s unmistakable.

  “What do you think they will find?”

  I set my tea down. “My guess?” I begin, and these days I never wait for a response for a rhetorical question. “Nothing. I doubt he’s there. Crazy, remember?”

  “But it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” I sign, “…to a crazy person.”

  “Which Dr. Nathan Diamond just might be.”

  I shrug and reach for my tea and sip. My throat is often raw and sore and dry…and, well, just beat up. The tea and honey helps and I revel in it, until Rachel taps my shoulder and I hold out my right hand.

  “It does make a sick sense that he would want to experiment on those who want to disappear. After all, if some of the missing accidentally die in the testing phase, there’s no repercussions for him. They’ve already disappeared.”

  I nod, feeling sick all over again. Jesus, Robert, what have you gotten yourself into?

  She continues: “But how does he find them?”

  “My guess: the Internet. A cleverly placed ad. Even back in the day, I’d heard of the darker corners of the Internet, the Dark Net as we called it. From what I’m told, one can find anything there. Anything crazy and illegal. I am sure it has evolved now, into what, I wouldn’t know.”

  “Maybe how he found them isn’t as important as finding them now,” she signs.

  I nod and rub my head and use one hand to sign: “Exactly.”

  A moment later, she takes my hand. “Maybe they will find something, Lee.”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “But you don’t think it likely.”

  “I think this guy is a sick son of a bitch and he won’t be easy to find. The zoo might be big, but not that big. They would have seen or heard something suspicious.”

  “Perhaps they don’t look into every building. Perhaps some buildings have gone forgotten.”

  I nod. “That’s what I’m banking on.”

  “But you think it unlikely?”

  “I do,” I sign. “But it’s a start. We’ll have some answers tomorrow.”

  “What about the Old Zoo?”

  “You heard her,” I sign. “Abandoned, filled with graffiti and not many buildings.”

  “Sounds creepy.”

  I nod and think about it, and as I think about it, her small hand travels up from my own, up my arm and over my shoulder and to my face, which she cradles, and then leans in and gives me a soft kiss.

  Chapter Forty-six

  We are in bed together.

  It is just after. Just after we have been together intimately. Or, more accurately, just after I have thrashed and flailed about, and no doubt, made a fool of myself. Luckily, she is still by my side, naked and a little sweaty. I’m naked and dripping and nearly out of breath. My heart is hammering hard enough that I am concerned. I suck wind steadily through the tube in my throat and, of all things, wonder what Betsie thinks of what just happened. I hope I haven’t traumatized her. Or, for that matter, traumatized Rachel.

  And we lay there—catching our breaths and cooling off and wondering what just happened—I am certain I am going to hell. My brother, for all I knew, is in a very, very bad place…and I’m sleeping with the first girl who gives me the time of day?

  All while my brother might be in a very, very bad situation. My brother who had told me he was leaving me, perhaps forever. My brother who had abandoned me.

  I don’t fault him, but I damn well wasn’t going to give up living, and if someone out there was hurting him, or had hurt him, then that someone had hell to pay, one way or another.

  For now, though…for now, I was gasping and trying not to pass out and reliving every single, beautiful moment of the last seventeen minutes.

  When my panting and heart rate return to something resembling normal, I discover that we are holding hands, fingers interlaced, which rules out small talk. I do not know if the lights are on or not, but I suspect we are in the dark. At least, I hoped we were in the dark. Other than my daily walks and my recent boxing sessions, I had long ago given up on exercise. My body, I knew, was scarred. I had serious damage to my throat, shoulder, chest, and some of my face. Mercifully, the wounds on my face had mostly healed, or so I had been told.

  So, yeah, I hoped to God the lights were out. As far as I could remember, I hadn’t had a light bulb in my bedroom for five years. Or had I? In any event, they felt out, and that’s something only one blind person can say to another…and understand exactly what they mean.

  She turns over on her side, and presses her own naked body against mine. I am still on my back, my sunglasses off, my eyes closed. Always closed. Permanently closed.

  Rachel’s warm breasts are pressed against my arm, and I feel myself reacting to them. She trails her fingers along my mostly smooth chest. Some chest hair, nothing to write home about…just enough, apparently, for Rachel to play with. I lay there and revel in her touch, her attention, the waves of love that seem to pour from her, although that might be my imagination. Then again, what else did I have if not for my imagination?

  And as her hand glides over my chest, as she soothes and caresses me, it happens.

  The blue-green light appears, even as Rachel’s intoxicating touch seems to recede. Even her scent and warmth seem to take a backseat to the shining, beautiful, living light. My perspective is from my bed, but from about where my headboard would be if I had a headboard. I don’t. My perspective seems higher than my prostrate form. Higher, but just the same too. So weird, but somehow perfect.

  I should be a little higher, I decide. I should have a broader perspective—especially if I’m looking outside of myself, or standing outside of myself, or whatever the hell is happening here.

  My soul’s perspective.

  The light flows through the room silently, from a source that seems everywhere at once. It flows in rolling waves, and each wave is composed of many thousands—tens of thousands—of separate light particles that come together to form images. In this case, the various objects in my room. My dresser, my bed, the two forms lying together on the bed beneath me.

  Not light. Vibration.

  Indeed, according to John Wang, I am seeing vibration, which only appears to me as light. I am also seeing source energy flowing. Source energy may or may not be God. But it’s something, and it’s powerful, and it’s everywhere. Everywhere.

  It is in all things, surrounding all things, filling all things.

  No. It is all things—and all things are it.

  I am contemplating this as I watch Rachel’s fingers leave behind glowing trails along my chest. Trail after trail, pulsing, burning furrows that disperse a few seconds later. More intriguing is the bare arm that leads to a long, bare body. All of which glows brightly—and I can’t help but feel a little guilty soaking her in. After all, Rachel doesn’t know about the Winter Wind…or that I can see her now.

  I am feeling at peace. I shouldn’t feel at peace. My brother could be in a bad way. My brother doesn’t deserve to be in a bad way. Yes, he was a shithead for leaving me, but he doesn’t deserve to be where I think he might be. And so I am at peace, but also know my brother may not be at peace. He might be hurting and scared…or worse.

  I am at peace, but not at peace. I am content, but distracted. I want to soak in this beautiful moment, but my brother’s plight gnaws at me.

  I am about to sit, maybe pace the room a little, about to break my connection with the Winter Wind, when I see it. There, the right side of her face, the side that is mostly turned away from me. Turned away, I am certain, on purpose.

  I shift my focus fully to the side of her face, even though I do not move from my prone position on the bed. If I move, I break my connection. As my perspective swings around, I feel a discombobulating jolt…and feel more out of my body than ever. I should not be able to see from this perspective. After all, my physical body is on one side of her face…and yet the camera of my focus is now swinging out to the opposite, further and further away from me. Remarkably, the movement feels natural. Once I get used to the initial jolt, I focus on what I am seeing…What I am seeing doesn’t make sense at all. What I am seeing looks a lot like my own wounds. So much so that I gasp sharply, sucking hard at the hole in my throat, and then coughing violently because my tracheal tube needs to be cleaned in a bad way, all of which jolts me right out of the Winter Wind and back into reality.

  Rachel pats my back as I sit up, cough up the mucus, and clear my lungs. I slip out of bed and head over to the bathroom, which is out through the bedroom door and at the end of a short hallway, a path I have taken thousands of times before. I splash cold water on my face and wipe my throat clean—all while reliving what I had just seen.

  Shortly, I am back in bed. Rachel is sitting up, propped up on her elbow. I feel her eyes on me, studying me, worried about me. The room is dark, I know, but there would be enough ambient light for her to make me out. Or try to make me out.

  “Are you okay?” she signs into my hand.

  I nod, but I’m not okay. Not after what I had just seen. An irrational, sickening dread is coming over me. Irrational, because this cannot be true. What I saw cannot be true. Sick…because it was all my fault.

  I am not very surprised that the hand I am reaching up with is now shaking. Or that the rest of me is shivering, too.

  Please let this not be true. Please.

  My fingertips graze her left cheek, and she flinches. The flinching is common. In fact, she often flinches whenever I touch her face.

  But I have never touched the right side of her face. Even my initial exploration of her face a few nights ago had been only the left side. Even earlier, as we were making love, she had kept my hands away from her face, redirecting them elsewhere on her body.

  No. Please…

  I cup her left cheek gently, even as I feel her pulling away. She’s taking short breaths. Gasps, if I had to guess. The proximity of my hand is making her nervous, I think. She reaches up and gently guides it away—or tries to—but I am persistent and won’t be denied. I slip my fingers out of hers and keep them right there on her face.

  Her breathing is coming sharper and faster. She is tense and I sense her wanting to get up, to get away from me. But I hold her cheek, I hold her here with me. My hand is moving away from her left cheek, and over to her right. Her rapidly rising-and-falling chest stops altogether. Her warm breath against my neck stops altogether. She’s holding her breath, tense.

  There…a row of fleshy bumps along her right temple, bumps that are surprisingly hard, too. I shouldn’t have been surprised; after all, I had them myself, along my neck and eyes. My own scars had healed better than I could have hoped. Rachel’s scars? Not so much. Everyone heals differently. Everyone reacts to trauma different. And Rachel had been through some serious trauma.

  My fingertips move from the bumps along her temple to the outside corner of her right eye where the damage is worst. The scar tissue is thick and tangled, seemingly crisscrossed. Whatever had happened had torn up her face…and no doubt, her eye as well.

  Now, I feel her tears, working through the corrugated scar tissue, and I feel her take a short, sharp inhalation. She lays there and weeps as my hand continues over her face, following a trail of scars from her eyes to her right ear, which, I note is mostly missing. I carefully, carefully run my fingers over the damaged flesh, the ragged, yet smooth contour of her mostly missing ear, and as I do so, her body convulses and heaves and now, my own tears are running free…and I know….

  I know.

  There were three victims in the bombing. My dead partner, myself, and…

  I take a deep breath—or as deep as I can through the opening in my throat—and hold Rachel tight as I can as she weeps into my neck. I do not know what to say or think or feel or do, but my own tears flow…

  And flow.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  We are sitting up in bed, legs crossed, knees touching, facing each other.

  She returns from the bathroom where, I assume she freshened up and, perhaps, considered fleeing. I am glad she did not flee. I am glad she is back and sitting with me and holding my hands.

  Whether we are sitting in the dark or not, I do not know, but I suspect she has turned on a light or two somewhere in the apartment. I don’t know. I don’t care. We sit there for a long time, until I use my right hand to sign: “I’m sorry.”

  She squeezes my left hand, but I pull it away, and sign: “I’m so sorry you got hurt—”

  Now, she takes my hands and holds them in hers, tightly, so tightly she is shaking, but not from tears. Just emotion. I do not know how long we sit like that, but it is significant. Maybe even thirty minutes, maybe longer. I weep some of the time, and sometimes, she brings my knuckles up to her lips and kisses them, and each time she does, I weep a little harder.

  Now, I take in air, feel her heartbeat through her hands, and feel a draft of air moving over my back from my open bedroom window. Our knees are still touching. She has not stopped holding my hands, squeezing them. Only occasionally will she lessen her grip to rub my knuckles with her thumbs.

  It is much later when she turns my right hand over and opens my palm and signs into it: “But I am not sorry, Lee.”

  I wait, with open palm, and know I need to clean my tracheal tube in a bad way, but I power through. I can feel mucus seeping out and sliding down my throat.

  She continues: “I am not sorry because I would never have met you. I would never have gotten close to you. I would never have…”

  I wait, and as I wait, more mucus seeps out, but I do not care. More tears flow, too, because I can hardly believe what I am about to hear…

  “Because I would never have fallen in love with you.” I pull her into me, hold her tight, and weep into her neck, shoulder, and mouth. Over and over again I mouth how sorry I am, but I know she cannot hear me and that’s probably just as well. Finally, I pull back, and point to my heart and cross my arms over my chest and open my hand to her. It is, I am certain, the first time I have made the sign, ever.