My hand is drawn, inexorably, down.

  Down, down…

  Her lower lip is everything I’d hoped it would be and more. Then again, any lower lip would have done. But this…wow…this is fascinating.

  It is exactly twice as big as the upper. Thicker, wetter, somehow softer. I stroke it with my thumb and forefinger, pinching it slightly, pulling it out slightly. Her lower lip, if anything, seems separate from her body, a full, pliant, pillowy strip of flesh that seems made to be loved, to be kissed, to be played with, to be explored. I can feel her hot breath blasting over my knuckles, down from her nose and sometimes through her mouth. But not just breathing, panting. Her lower lip is wetter, more inviting, and my thumb now glides over her lubricated skin, and now something is happening to me, a reaction I am not entirely prepared for, a reaction that I am certain I need to stop, to somehow control.

  I have no business doing any of this. Except this wasn’t just my business, was it? It was her business, too, and she was here and pushing her face into my hands and breathing hard and I could feel her heart beating through her damn lips, although I know that is impossible, or is it?

  I am breathing harder, too. I know I should move my hand away from her lips, except I don’t want to move my hand, and I don’t think she wants me to, either, but what do I know? My instincts are so far off that for all I know she’s screaming for help.

  Except I’m pretty sure she’s not screaming. No, she’s moving into my hands, undulating a little, writhing a little, and now, she does something I am certain I imagined. Yes, surely this is my imagination.

  This can’t be real…

  Except she does it again and again, and I am left reeling, beyond thinking and feeling.

  She’s kissing my thumb and finger, pressing her lips against them, even sucking on them a little. Had I ears to hear, I am certain I would be hearing small smacking sounds. Now, I imagine the sounds. I hear them as if they are happening, small, sweet, hungry smacking sounds, of lips coming together and then opening again, of saliva sealing and unsealing.

  And now, I am doing something I didn’t think I would ever do again—especially after yesterday.

  I move forward toward her. Toward her face, even as hers moves towards mine. I guide her lips to me, and briefly imagine a space shuttle precariously docking with the International Space Station, and when the connection is made, when my lips melt into hers, I sink into heaven.

  So deep I never want to return.

  Chapter Twenty

  It is the next day.

  I am sitting with Betsie in the sunlight, in Griffith Park, not too far from where Jesse DeFranco was last seen, one of the original disappearances in the Big Case, and the only one, so far, to turn up dead.

  Turns out Griffith Park doesn’t have surveillance cameras, but the adjoining Greek Theatre does. Griffith Park is huge. There are many entrances and many roads. Perhaps the most popular entrance is the one that leads past the Greek Theatre, and on up to the Griffith Observatory, made popular by a handful of rebels back in the day.

  Detective Hammer had scouted the location and found the camera, positioned nicely in front of the theater…and along the major walkway into the park. These days, most video is stored permanently on cloud servers. Easy enough to access. Anyway, he’d gone back to the day Jesse had disappeared, and proceeded to review the digital files, and lo, there was our guy, heading into the park, bearing a backpack and a water bottle and shades and a hat. The clothing matched what his wife reported he had been wearing. It was him.

  His disappearance followed the same pattern—only his murder was the aberration. His disappearance and death could have nothing to do with the other ten. Except I think it did.

  I scratch Betsie between her ears. She is panting steadily. The day is too hot for late fall, but welcome to Los Angeles. I am wearing a bowling shirt and cargo shorts and sneakers with low socks. I feel my legs heating up, perhaps even burning. In a few minutes, I will do my best to find some shade, but for now, I am enjoying the burn. I know this park well enough, but I do not know it so well that I know where the benches in the shade are.

  Were the other ten murdered as well? I suspect not. These were designed disappearances. All pre-planned, all staged to look like true disappearances. According to Hammer, none of the bank accounts were drawn from again. No credits cards were used. No phone calls were made from known phones. No tell-tale signs of cash were withdrawn over time.

  Maybe they were all killed. Maybe they were all dumped into the ocean, and only Jesse washed ashore.

  Maybe, but I doubted it.

  I lift my face to the heat of the sun and think of Rachel and our kiss…and smile bigger than anyone who is blind, deaf and nonverbal should smile. She left quickly after the kiss, but not before we made loose plans to see each other again, for dinner. Date and time to be determined.

  I smile at that and turn my thoughts back to the case. People disappear for any number of reasons. From the law, from gangs, from life, from bad marriages, from boring marriages, from alimony, from abusive husbands. In some cases, there are programs in place to help some people disappear, especially women in bad relationships. Very, very bad relationships. So bad I have seen case workers plan a woman’s escape as carefully as anything in the special ops. Many of these women are controlled and abused by very powerful men, men who are often beyond the law. There are people out there who will help liberate such women. The women go on to start new lives with new identities, far away from those who wish to control them and abuse them.

  Yes, there are many, many reasons to seek escape. Some run from responsibility. Some run for their lives. Some run from the law. Some do it well, and truly disappear. Some not so well. Some are found by the very people they hope to disappear from. In most cases, the police are involved. Some people can slip away quietly, to never be seen or heard from again. Most are single, without family and friends. True drifters. Indeed, some might have changed their identities countless times.

  And then there are those who help them disappear. Those who will provide false identities, forged paperwork. Many of the documents are crap, but sometimes a forger proves to be particularly good. New identities are purchased. And people disappear to lead new lives. Or so they hope.

  Many go as far as to change their appearances, too. Some will gain weight or lose weight, change hair color and even get plastic surgery. Many leave the country, disappear to tropical islands or to South American jungles. Some disappear into the wilds of Alaska. I hope they find peace. I hope they find safety. I hope they can live out their days with some modicum of joy.

  Many, of course, leave behind broken hearts. A mother who will never see her son or daughter again. Brothers and sisters and friends who are left with questions. If done right, the missing will leave no trail, no inkling as to where they might have gone. Most do not do it well. Most screw it up somewhere. It takes a clever, clever person to continuously fool police, investigators, border inspectors, new friends, new spouses, new employers. Somewhere, there’s a slip up. And one such slip up is what I suspect happened here.

  Jesse DeFranco came back for a reason. And the reason he came back had gotten him killed. I had Detective Hammer looking again into Jesse’s personal life. We would see if any contact was made.

  The person who helped Jesse disappear—and the other nine—probably wasn’t a bad person. They were doing some good in this world. Helping others find new lives. And they were good at what they did. That is, until Jesse showed up dead. Many staged disappearances are obvious. Some are not. Some really do look like a true mystery, with the victim seemingly vanishing forever. Hell, maybe some of them really do vanish. Or have been abducted by aliens or were dragged off into the forests and feasted upon by Bigfoot. Others wind up in shallow graves at the side of a highway, their murders unsolved, their bodies rarely found, their stories forgotten.

  Every staged disappearance is different. Investigators know what to look for. There are tells, as we call them. Signs, evidence. Some will take a plane somewhere, or a train or a bus. Others let it slip to friends and family. Many of the dumber ones will leave Internet browser clues, receipts, credit card trails.

  Apparently, in this case, all the missing victims have disappeared from this city and this city only. None have left behind telling receipts. No whispers to friends or acquaintances that they will be going. No abandoned cars in parking lots. All seemingly walk into oblivion.

  Then Jesse DeFranco shows up a year later, floating in the harbor with a bullet behind his ear, execution style.

  So what the hell is going on? I think, and reach down and pat Betsie’s head. I’ve never been able to tell if Betsie enjoys being patted or scratched. I think she puts up with being patted, while secretly hoping for more scratches.

  We’re not dealing with a serial killer, I think. Someone helped these people disappear, and then someone killed Jesse when he tried to come back. More than likely, those are two separate cases, not one and the same. More than likely Jesse was killed by whoever he was running from…if he was running from someone.

  The exterior camera of the Greek Theatre had picked up Jesse walking alone, along a sidewalk in the late evening, wearing a hat and backpack. The entrance into the park goes well past the Greek, and winds through the hills all the way up to the Griffith Observatory. Jesse could have met someone at any point along that winding road. There are many dozens of picnic tables and parking spots. Dozens of turnouts.

  Yes, Jesse could have very easily met the person who would ultimately help him disappear here in this park. Not very far from where I’m sitting now. Or, perhaps, in this very spot, too. Perhaps the person had picked him up. Taken him to a safe place. Given him the necessary paperwork and money and credit cards. Perhaps helped him cut his hair, dyed his hair. The preliminaries to disappearing.

  Of course, I could have this all wrong. Maybe there really was a serial killer. Maybe someone was luring people up into these hills and killing. Maybe. Then why did Jesse show up a year later, shot and dumped in the harbor?

  Not a serial killer.

  His murder is, more than likely, related to why he needed to run in the first place.

  Then why had he come back?

  Did he think the heat had passed? That everything was hunky-dory? Did anyone say hunky-dory any more?

  So, then, why am I sitting here, in this park that sits at the foot of the Griffith Observatory, in the hot sun, while my dog no doubt wishes like hell she was anywhere but here? A park that was, by all standards, huge. Hell, it even sported it’s own mountain chain, let alone the Los Angeles Zoo, Griffith Observatory and thousands of acres of hills and trails.

  Anything could be out here, I think.

  Back in the day, I often hung out at the location of a crime. I immersed myself in the scene, especially when I didn’t have all the answers yet. I mostly had the answers now, except who had killed Jesse and who was helping people disappear.

  Okay, maybe I don’t have all the answers now.

  How did Jesse and the others meet this contact? A friend of a friend knows someone who knows something about something? Probably. Sooner or later, with enough palms being greased, you make the right—or wrong—connections, and such a deal goes down. I also know there are dark places on the Internet where some people go looking. A man offering new identities could presumably be on such a site. I wasn’t too worried about how the missing found their contact. No, I was wondering what happened to them after they met him here in this park.

  If the guy is legit, he’s offering them the kind of services that will truly help them disappear.

  Except…

  Ah, yes…except most people want to be paid for such services. And, no doubt, paid a lot.

  Except, yes, and here’s the crux of the matter—and the reason I’m here now, puzzled. There is no evidence of such services being paid for. No large sums of money going missing from bank accounts.

  So, then, how do these eleven missing people—all of whom were from average incomes—pay for help to disappear?

  There it is. The reason I am here in the park. This reason, and no other.

  They never paid for their contact’s services. At least, not in cash.

  So, how, then, are they paying him? Or her?

  I nod, rub my face, and I’m about to really think this through when Betsie leaps to her feet, ears alert, tail wagging.

  Someone’s coming.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Now Betsie is fighting against the leash, which she never, ever does, and I turn toward whoever is approaching, more curious now than ever—even as I do my best to restrain my clearly excited dog, a dog who had been trained by the best to control her excitement.

  All bets are off. All training has been forgotten. My dog is beside herself…with joy.

  Now, I can feel the stranger patting my dog, who is now standing on her hind legs, her thick tail smacking and swooshing over my bare calves. I stand at the commotion and try my best to rein her in, but there’s just no denying Betsie. As I hold her back, I can feel a stranger heartily patting her sides. Betsie tries to jump up, and it’s all I can do to keep her from knocking over whoever’s here, whoever is petting her and patting her and getting her so worked up—more worked up than I have ever seen her. I just stand there, holding the leash, cocking my head, utterly stunned and totally helpless.

  Finally, the patting stops and Betsie settles down, but barely. I do the only thing I can think of. I remove the notepad from my shirt pocket and hold the cover out to the stranger.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m blind, deaf and mute.”

  There is a pause, and even Betsie seems to finally settle down. A moment later, her furry butt plops down on my shoes. This is followed by a hand on my shoulder, a hand that turns into a gentle pat. It is, in fact, the only polite way to get my attention. After all, I’m not going to see an extended hand for me to shake.

  After the gentle pat, I smile and nod and hold out my hand. Anyone my dog likes is all right by me. Besides, I am eager to see who had swung by to say hi, eager to see who had gotten my dog so excited.

  A warm, small, and gentle hand takes my own extended hand. There is a strength to the hand. An edge. As if the hand has experienced life to the fullest and has come out the other end a warmer and wiser and gentler person.

  I have no idea whose hand I am shaking. Hands, for me, are the only identification I have for most people. I know hands. I remember hands. I remember their size and shape and temperature. This hand is a new hand to me…and yet…

  And yet Betsie knows the man well.

  The hand grips me in a warm and friendly way, too. And then the man’s second hand closes over the back of my own, cocooning mine in both of his…holding me firmly but gently. I sense gentleness in his hands, understanding, and something close to, well, love.

  He turns my hand over and signs into my open palm: “Let’s sit.”

  I think my mouth dropped open, but, of course, no words come out. I nod and sit again. He sits, too, and Betsie is between us, hunkered down on my shoes, alert and excited and watching us.

  We sit quietly for a few seconds. The stranger has not yet released my hand, and that is okay with me. His touch seems natural, comforting, even a little intoxicating.

  What’s going on?

  The wind is cool and the sun is warm, and I detect a hint of freshly cut grass on the wind. A minute or two passes. I am looking forward, toward what I think is a sharply angled hillside that leads up to the Griffith Observatory. I breathe slowly, evenly, through the tube in my neck. I often wonder if I ever make any sounds as I breathe. Does the hole occasionally whistle? Gurgle? Do I breathe loudly, or softly? I know for me that breathing is sometimes an effort. Sometimes, I fear the hole will fail or collapse or get filled with so much mucus that I can’t draw in enough air. Sometimes I panic and scare myself. I remind myself at those times that I am safe and that my tracheal tube has been carefully constructed. I remind myself that there is always an answer. And if I can’t find an answer…or if it somehow eludes me…I have a final answer waiting for me next to my bed.

  The wind picks up and lifts my hair and moves through my bowling shirt. It is only later, perhaps after a few minutes, that I realize I am still holding the stranger’s hand.

  Just as this dawns on me, he turns my hand over and spells into it slowly with a firm, steady finger: “Hi, I am Jack.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I reach for the notepad in my pocket again, but the same gentle hand stops me. He turns my hand over again, and spells out a single word in my palm: “Sign.”

  I nod, and sign: “Do I know you?” Jack sounds an awful lot like Jacky, the old Irish boxing trainer. Except, I am certain this Jack is not the Jacky I had recently met. Very certain, in fact.

  I hold out my hand for him to sign into. Instead of signing, he continues spelling out the letters, which, for me, is sometimes just as easy—and more accurate. He taps my palm with the tips of three of his fingers to indicate a space in the words. It is an efficient way of communicating, and he does so easily, fluidly. The words seem to flow to me readily, easy to absorb, appearing in my mind’s eye like a ticker-tape at the bottom of a CNN broadcast.

  “A part of you knows me well.”

  I use both hands to sign: “I do not know what that means.”

  “Few do—and those who do, know me well.”

  I cock my head a little, then sign: “That was a lot of fancy doublespeak.”

  I sense him laughing, and then feel a hearty pat on my back. “Let’s start over. I am Jack. You do not remember me, but that’s okay. It is as it should be.”

  “But you remember me?” I ask, signing, still confused.

  “Oh, yes, Lee. I remember you well.”