The Disappearance of Grace (9 page)

“Fifty/fifty,” I reveal.

He issues another one of those light laughs.

“If I were a betting man, Captain Angel,” he says, “I would enjoy those odds. I would be optimistic.”

As he opens the office door, I consider asking him what the odds are of finding Grace. But knowing I might not like the answer, I decide not to.

Chapter 16

I'M ESCORTED BACK TO my apartment above the bookshop in a wooden police boat that might pass for a sleek Garwood motorboat back in New York. I'm well aware of this because I've been quick to notice the boats during my brief moments of sight. They are permanent floating fixtures on the never still Grand Canal.

The two uniformed cops doing the escorting don't speak a word to me other than what's necessary. Things like, “Watch your step,” and “Watch your head.” They walk me up the three flights of stairs to Grace's and my studio. I open the door for them and let them in. Since I don't require light, I don't bother with turning any on. But one of the cops hits the wall-mounted switch and the overhead comes on. Since the blindness I'm experiencing this late afternoon is not entirely complete, I sense the light as soon as it's triggered.

“Where is your phone, Captain Angel?” one of them poses.

I point to the wall beside the apartment door.

“Help yourself,” I say, cocking my head in the direction of the wall-mounted unit.

I hear the handset being plucked off the wall and some numbers being punched in. That's followed by a pause until the cop starts barking something in rapid-fire Italian into the phone. My guess is he's speaking with the operator. The phone is hung up with a heavy plastic slap. The cop approaches me.

“We have a trace being conducted on the last number to have called this line,” he informs me. “The detective will contact you with the information when he receives it. In the meantime, is there anything we can get for you? Food? Water? Wine?”

“Toilet paper?” barks the second cop.

The two officers laugh, like this is one hell of a party.

“My fiancée,” I say. “You can find her and bring her back.”

“We will find her,” he swears. “If she
wants
to be found.”

With that, the two officers leave, closing the door behind them.

I make my way around to the couch and sit down. The heavy silence bears its weight upon my shoulders. I feel numb and suddenly, beyond exhausted. I lie down on the couch and close my eyes.

As always, darkness prevails.

Chapter 17

IN MY DREAM I am walking the perimeter of the village. Already flies have gathered all around the dead cow. Gathered in swarms. Men are moaning and women are crying. They wail for the dead. From down on their knees the women pound their chests with their fists. They are draped in burkas, their faces hidden, but their striking blue eyes swelled and glossy form the tears. No amount of cloth can hide a mother's love and a mother's grief.

Some of my men are busy breaking down doors and gathering the people who hide inside the stone buildings that haven't been hit or are not engulfed in fire. The soldiers drag them out and make them assemble near the well in the center of the village. The soldiers scream at the frightened people in pidgin Tajik, let them know who's boss. Some of the soldiers search the untouched buildings for contraband. Weapons, bombs, and bullets hidden inside the walls and under the floorboards. When they find them, they will toss in a live grenade and blow the structure sky high.

We always find contraband amongst the Tajiks, even if they are, for the most part, poets, musicians, and philosophers. Peaceful people. But they also hate the invaders who have been attacking this barren landscape for thousands of years. Me. Us. This war…we are just but a blip on the Afghan battlefront timeline. This war will be remembered until it is forgotten when the next one comes along. Like all the wars waged here to stalemate, it will be fought on horseback.

Small arms fire erupts.

I hear some screams.

Then an explosion.

The door to one of the stone huts is blown off and a fire flashes.

One of my men, a corporal, appears. He's got his M4 carbine poised in one hand, and he's dragging an impossibly thin old man by the collar of his tunic. He tosses the man onto the ground near the well.

“S.O.B. tried to stab me, Captain,” he grouses, half out of breath.

I take a good look at the old man and discover he's not old at all. Nor is he a man. The person being dragged along the ground is a woman. When I see her face, I see my Grace.

Chapter 18

WHEN I WAKE I find myself not on the couch, but standing all the way on the opposite end of the apartment at the kitchenette. I have no idea when or how I got here in my sleep. I'm in the process of stacking dishes on the counter. For now anyway, I can see. I have no idea why I am doing this or it if means anything at all. Just like the night before when I woke to find myself sleepwalking up on the roof.

I. Can. See.

I have no recollection of falling asleep. But at some point, exhaustion must have taken over, causing me to pass out on the couch. I turn away from the stacks of boxes, cans, dishes, cups, wine glasses, drinking glasses, knives and forks, peer outside the open French doors. Beyond the painting situated on the easel is the dark night of Venice. I listen to the pleasant sounds of the ever-active city of water until the realization hits me like a suddenly detonated IED..

Grace is gone.

I have my eyesight. I want to try calling her again while I have my eyesight.

I dig in the pocket of my leather coat, retrieve my phone. I stare down at the screen. I've received no phone calls in the hour since I've returned to the studio. Nothing.

I try speed-dialing her.

I get the same automated “mailbox full” message that I got before. I set the phone down on the harvest table, beside a stack of white bowls and a tower of cereal boxes beside it.

Taking a step back I take a quick survey of the room.

In the light of the naked overhead bulb I see stacks of white plates on the small kitchenette counter. In between the stacks of plates are carefully positioned boxes of pasta and rice set beside towers made from can goods. I say “carefully positioned” because the boxes, cans and plates don't seem to be randomly placed there. It's like I was placing them in that position on purpose.

It's the same story for the harvest table.

I've made myself a model city of boxes, bowels, plates, with knives and forks placed end-on-end to mimic roads or maybe rivers. The dream I was having while I was sleepwalking must have really been something. Now I am designing cities.

I go to return the boxes and plates to the shelves and cupboards, but as soon as I place my hands on them, I decide to leave them be. My gut speaks to me, tells me to listen to my dreams. In this case, it insists that I see my dreams for real.

* * *

I check the time on my watch. The vision of my hand is growing blurry, distorted, which tells me it's about to be lights out again for my eyes. Something I have to accept for now.

My malady…

I try the cell phone one more time and it's the same story. Grace's mailbox is full.

When the phone on the wall explodes in a cacophony of electronic chimes, I think my heart is about to pop out of my chest. I make my way to the phone, yank it off the cradle.

“Yes!” I bark. “Grace!”

The receiver is filled with static or a bad reception. Maybe a little of both.

“I. See.” says a voice. A man's voice. “I. See.”

My heart pumps.

“Is Grace with you?”

“I. See.”

“Do you have Grace?”

“I. See.” he repeats.

“Listen to me, please. Do you have my fiancée?”

I'm trying to hold back from screaming into the phone. Trying to stay calm and not anger the man. If he does have Grace, I don't want to risk him causing her pain. I don't want to give him an excuse to break off contact.

“Please, please,” I beg. “Who are you? Have you taken my Grace? Please.”

“I. See.” he says yet again.

“Please!” I scream.

And then the phone goes dead.

Chapter 19

I SET THE PHONE back onto the cradle and frantically check my mobile phone again. No calls. Once more I speed-dial Grace's number. The automated message is the same. Mailbox full. Grace's phone is missing or out of a charge or both.

My body is beginning to tremble over the realization that Grace's disappearance is for real. Did she walk out on me? I refuse to believe that she has. Was she taken somehow by that man in the long brown overcoat? My gut tells me it's true. Was that him on the phone? Again, I can only believe it is.

So what do I do now as my eyesight returns to a dull, fuzzy severe blur?

Contact the police. Again.

Chapter 20

I PULL THE DETECTIVE'S card from my pants pocket, stare down at it.

I'll be a dumb son of a bitch.

I can't read the card. My eyes won't make out the numbers. It's not even close.

I never thought to add his number into my mobile. But then, he never offered to do it for me. Maybe they think I'm faking it. My blindness. Maybe they think I'm making it all up. I guess I don't look like a blind guy. That's because I'm not always blind. It's possible the detective and the uniformed cops don't believe me. If they don't believe me, I suppose it's possible they will think that I had something to do with Grace's disappearance. Or maybe I don't want to go there yet. I'm just being paranoid and sick with worry. Grace's and my relationship has always been perfect. Not by a long shot.

My mobile rings.

I nearly drop the phone trying to answer it. Instead of issuing a “Hello” or the customary “Pronto,” I shout out, “Grace!”

But it's not Grace. It's the detective.

“I'm sorry to bother you, Captain Angel,” he speaks softly into the phone. “But I have some information I would like to share with you.”

“I'm listening, Detective.”

“You just received a phone call. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that's correct.”

“We traced the number.”

Me, breathing into the phone.

“It's a cell phone and a local number,” he goes on. “Which means that whoever owns the phone probably purchased it somewhere near Venice or any town north of Firenze. At the very least they live north of Firenze. Or the phone could be stolen. You can imagine how many cell phones go missing on a daily basis in Venice. The gondolas are full of them, as is the bottom of the Grand Canal.”

“I understand,” I say. “But what are you trying to tell me?”

“What I'm trying to tell you, Captain, is that the owner of this phone…a one Francesco Cipriani…might not actually fit the description of the man in the long brown overcoat which you provided us with earlier.”

“Have you contacted Mr. Cipriani, Detective?”

“We have made contact with Mr. Cipriani. He is relieved that we have found his cell phone. He and his wife spent their ten-year wedding anniversary in Venice during the Carnival back in March of this year. The phone was pick-pocketed from out of his coat pocket, perhaps by your overcoat man. Thousands of visitors pour into and out of Venice on a daily basis during Carnival. So you can imagine the endless opportunities if you are a thief.”

“So where does this leave us, Detective? What does it all mean?”

“It means that I have no reason not to believe Mr. Cipriani's story. He checks out. I contacted the hotel where he stayed and they confirm his reservation. Mr. Cipriani is an accountant working in private practice in Milan. He hardly fits the description of a man who would kidnap your wife, Captain.”

“But the overcoat man does.”

“Si, he does. A scary looking gentleman judging from your description. However, we have at present no way of finding him, other than to keep an eye out for him.” He pauses, the sound of his lighting a cigarette oozing over the receiver. “Tell me, have you received any text messages or calls from your fiancée since we last parted?”

“I think I would have told you that already, Detective.”

“Indeed you are still sharp, Captain,” he exhales, “despite your blindness. We have our police keeping an eye out for her all over Venice. But until she is missing for forty-eight hours, we do not consider her an official missing person.”

“I consider her missing. I consider it official that she is not sitting here safe and sound with me right this very minute.”

“I'm sure you do. However, as difficult as it is to believe, I'm afraid it is still quite possible that she simply has left you. And if that is the case, we have little right to interfere.”