“Never a truer word has been spoken, Captain. We’ll be in touch.”
“Find Grace, Detective Carbone. Do your job.”
“It will be our distinct pleasure. Believe me.”
Chapter 37
Turns out I barely make it home before the lights start going out in my brain. I’m seeing through a foggy blur of distorted shapes by the time I reach the stairs up to the apartment. Unlocking the door, I step inside, feel my way to the repositioned harvest table, then feel my way to the couch and sit down.
I barely feel the blow to the back of my head before I’m face down on the floor.
Unconscious.
Chapter 38
The three of us are led outside to a yard surrounded by a concrete and razor-wire fence. From where I’m standing, it looks like a yard belonging to a maximum-security prison. Suddenly, two uniformed soldiers come out of nowhere, tackle the two men beside me, and force them down onto their knees while their wrists are bound behind their backs with plastic ties. I’m ordered to stand behind both men by the taller soldier. He pulls his sidearm, forces it into my hand.
“Do it,” he barks. “Do them both.”
I look at him, dumbfounded.
“They’re my friends,” I say. “We fought together in the Persian Gulf. We were just kids, really.”
“They’re the enemy,” he barks. “And now they’re dead.”
Heart pumping in my throat, tears blurring my vision, I slowly raise the pistol to the skull of the first man. I thumb back the hammer, release a breath, squeeze the trigger.
The hammer comes down.
I scream.
But there are no rounds in the chamber.
Chapter 39
When I come to, I’m lying on the bed, face up.
It’s dark out, the time on my watch barely five o’clock in the morning. An hour before the dawn. I’ve been asleep for more than ten hours. As usual, when I wake up these days, I can see. Perfectly. Clearly.
I reach around to the back of my head and feel for a lump, or an abrasion, or a cut. Something to confirm that I was hit over the head when I came back home by someone who’d been waiting for me. The overcoat man maybe. No, scratch that. For certain, the overcoat man.
There’s a lump rising from the back of my lower head above the spine. It’s a bruise and tender to the touch. I pull back my fingers and examine them for blood. There’s no blood, but someone definitely hit me with something.
My head throbs. Head aches.
Concussion? Maybe. Not my first.
Whoever hit me was waiting inside my apartment.
Whoever hit me has a key to the place.
Whoever hit me doesn’t want me dead. He wants to antagonize me. Torture me. Prove to me he’s more powerful than I am.
Why?
I have no idea, other than he is not satisfied with simply abducting Grace. He wants something more. But what exactly does he want?
Without a note or a phone call or an e-mail detailing a list of demands, I haven’t the slightest clue. But there’s one thing I do know. Best that I take advantage of the sight I’ve got for now.
I start by habit, speed-dialing Grace’s number, and get the usual song and dance. Setting the phone back onto the table, I slip out of bed, turn on the bedside lamp, and in the dull glow of the lamplight, view something extraordinary. The furniture has all been put back in its rightful place. The couch and the harvest table take up the center of the room, the length of the table pressed up against the back of the couch. The plates, cups, bowls, spoons, knives, and forks have been returned to the cupboards, the boxes and jars of food replaced on the shelves. Grace’s unfinished painting remains undisturbed and ready for more brushwork, should she ever return to it.
I stare out the open French doors and feel the cool, fish-tainted air seeping in. In the distance I can make out the occasional electric light, but no voices or purring motors or footsteps. No Grace.
Stepping around the table and couch, I slide past the easel and close the doors. Then I decide to take some aspirin and make some coffee. When the coffee’s done, I take it to the couch and try to figure out exactly what happened when I arrived home yesterday afternoon. Did the overcoat man hit me over the head, then leave? Or did he clean up the place and, if so, why the hell bother? Why didn’t I wake up on the floor or on the couch? How did I get to my bed? Or maybe I woke up on the floor and then, in a sleepwalking state, cleaned up the studio and got in bed, fully clothed, and fell into a deep, dreaming sleep.
I’m reminded of the Santa Lucia card I found on the floor yesterday morning.
If it wasn’t placed there by the overcoat man, then how did it get there?
Maybe it was inside the apartment all along, courtesy of the previous tenant. Maybe when I discovered it, I immediately interpreted it as a clue. Maybe the overcoat man simply followed me to the church instead of the other way around: me following him.
My mind is spinning with questions for which I have no answers. Why am I not calling the police right now? Because they’ll think I’m lying. At the very least, they’ll use the attack to detain me inside a cell. For my own protection, they’ll insist. Grace is still out there somewhere, at the mercy of the overcoat man. I can’t allow myself to be locked away. I can’t risk it.
I sip my coffee. It’s hot, but the unanswerable questions that buzz around my brain like flies around the dead fill me with an ice-cold dread.
The coffee cup nearly slips from my fingers when the phone rings. I set the cup down, sprint to the wall phone, pick it up. I don’t utter a word. I just listen. The earpiece provides a near silent static. Like air blowing through the line. Then I hear the voice.
“I see.”
“What the fuck do you see?” I respond, as if at this point, I’m going to get an answer. “Tell me what you see, you son of a bitch.”
“I see.”
His refusal to say anything but those two words is my cue to begin rattling off the obvious questions. Questions that have no chance in hell of being answered.
“Do you have Grace? Do you wear a brown overcoat? Did you follow me to San Geremia church? Have you been up in my apartment? How’d you get a key to the place? How’d you get this number? Did you hit me over the head? For Christ’s sake, answer me.”
“I see” is all he says. And then the line goes dead.
Goes . . . dead.
Chapter 40
I slam the phone into its cradle, wondering if the police have traced the call and if there is anything they can do about it at this point. I run my hand behind my head. Just touching the tender skin and flesh unleashes shock waves of pain. The smart thing to do is get myself to a hospital. But that would only waste precious time . . . prevent me from finding Grace.
Outside the French doors, past Grace’s painting, I make out the first rays of the sun exploding over the horizon. Soon it will be first light, and another day of Grace gone missing. My eyes drift to the bed and the baggage stacked beside it. I see my computer bag. It’s gone untouched since I unpacked my laptop after I first arrived in Venice.
I listen to my gut. It tells me that maybe it’s time to go online and do some detecting of my own.
Dozens of times while in Iraq and, to an extent, Afghanistan, we used the power of the press to our advantage, sending out false leads and stories on enemy combatants we wanted flushed out in the open. It didn’t always work, but the general rule is that people love fame, no matter how humble, no matter how fleeting. Maybe the asshole who took Grace is no different. So then, why don’t I put the story out there? I’ll put it up on all the social media sites. I’ll alert the news. Christ, I’ll even start a blog.
If the overcoat man is following me, he’ll take notice of it.
I set the laptop on the harvest table, boot it up, wait for an Internet connection. When it arrives, I bring up CNN world news. I scour the site for the latest headlines. I search through the global headlines and the world news. Another suicide bomber in Kabu
l. The military withdrawal from Iraq. A passenger jet crashes in Nigeria. Then I take a chance and type in, “US woman goes missing in Italy.”
At first I don’t believe Grace’s disappearance will make the news that fast. But then, unlike my memories and dreams, the words don’t deceive. The small sidebar story consists of just a few paragraphs. It’s not even accompanied by a photo.
The piece, written by a journalist named Anna Laiti, simply states that a US citizen by the name of Grace Blunt, an artist living in Troy, New York, was reported missing yesterday by authorities in Venice, Italy.
Having traveled to Italy with her fiancé, Captain Nick Angel of the US Army Reserves, Blunt is said to have disappeared from a popular tourist caffè in Piazza San Marco. It’s still too early to tell if her disappearance was the result of her own decision to leave what witnesses describe as a “troubled relationship,” or the result of foul play. The detective in charge of the matter, Detective Paulo Carbone, has reported that Blunt’s passport was located floating in the Grand Canal. While the US Embassy states no US officials have yet committed to the search for the American, they do not rule out the possibility.
That’s it.
No mention of my temporary blindness. No mention of the overcoat man. No mention of the strange phone calls. No mention of the overcoat man having followed me to the resting place of Santa Lucia. Nothing.
My heart races and my brain buzzes with adrenaline. Why didn’t the reporter contact me for my side of the story? And who fed her the not-entirely-accurate information about Grace and me having a troubled relationship?
I click on Anna Laiti’s byline.
The link offers up her bio. No contact info. Not even an e-mail address.
Maybe it would interest her to know I have an opinion on the matter of my missing fiancée. But then, how can I possibly contact her? I see a place where I am invited to comment on the above article.
It’s not the same as knocking on Anna Laiti’s front door, but it will have to do.
Chapter 41
Here’s what I write: My name is Nick Angel. The woman you are writing about, Grace Blunt, is my fiancée. She was taken from me while we were having lunch at a caffè across from the cathedral in San Marco. I have been suffering a recurring, temporary blindness since my participation in the war in Afghanistan and had no way of seeing her being taken, nor the individual who did the taking. But only moments prior to her disappearance, Grace had been complaining of a man in a long brown overcoat who was staring at her. He was a man with a cropped beard, black hair, and very dark eyes hidden behind sunglasses. He’s been following us. He approached our table, which upset Grace. Within seconds, she was gone. Please contact me here as soon as you see this. I am desperate.
I click “Send” and wait for a reply.
The e-mail comes almost two hours later, when the light of day is splashing down on the terrace.
Dear Mr. Angel, please contact me with your phone number at this e-mail address as soon as possible.
I reply with my cell phone number.
Moments later, when the phone rings with a number I do not recognize, I sense that it must be her. Holding Grace’s engagement ring in one hand, I answer the cell phone with the other. For the first time in two days, my heart begins to fill with hope.
“Hello,” I say.
“Is this Captain Angel?” the voice asks. British-accented, soft and low toned.
“It is. Thank you for calling.”
She’s not alone. Nor is she in a quiet place like her home or an office. Coming from over the phone, the sounds of a busy, congested place. People shouting in the distance. Laughing. Voices coming from over speakers, announcing arrivals and departures. An airport, more than likely.
“I’m at De Gaulle in Paris,” she explains. “I’m about to board a plane for Venice now, where I’m following up on this story and another, separate story. I cover Italy almost exclusively for CNN online.”
I glance at the article on the computer. It came out only last night. How could she write about Grace if she’s in Paris? It’s precisely what I pose to her.
“Welcome to the Internet age, Captain. I can write about anything from anywhere so long as I’ve access to the proper information. Surely you must realize that as a military officer.”
“You’re absolutely right. But what I mean is, in this case, you don’t have all the information, Ms. Laiti. You never bothered to contact me about the situation.”
“I didn’t have any way of contacting you, and police refused to give out your number. Can you meet me this afternoon?”
“I can try. If my eyes hold up.”
“Where are you located in Venice?”
I tell her.
“I’ll come to you,” she says. “Three o’clock.”
“That will work,” I tell her. But she hangs up before I get to the word “work.”
I sit in silence for the better part of an hour, stealing occasional sips of whiskey to calm my nerves. But the alcohol doesn’t prevent my heart from skipping a beat when my cell phone rings again. I fumble for the phone on the harvest table, answer it.
“Hello!”
“Nick,” the voice says. “Nick, is this you?”
A wave of confusion sweeps over my body. A man’s voice. I’ve heard the voice before, that much is for sure. But I can’t recall where or when. Until it comes to me like a slap across the face. It’s Grace’s ex, Andrew, calling from New York. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon in New York.
“Andrew,” I say, “how the hell did you get this number?”
“Grace goes missing and you don’t call me?”
I don’t have his number. Nor would I have called him anyway. I’m guessing Grace gave him my number. In case of emergency.
Emergency.
I swallow something cold and bitter, then clear my throat.
“Funny you should ask,” I say. “I thought professorial types like yourself were all-knowing.”
“Don’t start, pal. I’m not calling for a fight.”
“Then why are you calling, Professor?”
An exhale. “You really have to ask?”
I take a second to gather myself together. What’s the point of arguing with the guy? “The police asked me not to call anyone just yet. They didn’t want me to alarm anyone unnecessarily. Even you.”
“What a load of crap. I had to find out about it on CNN. The bloody Internet, for God’s sake, Nick.”
Andrew is panicked. Or still in love with Grace. Probably both. Flashing through my brain: the image of them lying in bed together. Naked. Pressed up against one another. I try to remove the image, but it’s like yanking a bullet from out of my thigh with a pair of rusty pliers.
“Calm down, Professor. The cops tell me it’s very likely she’ll show up in a day or two. In the meantime, I’m having her face printed on some milk cartons while I staple some eight by tens to the telephone poles. Oh shit, no telephone poles in Venice. I’ll just have to climb the bell tower in the piazza and shout out her name like Hansel and Gretel.”
“You’ve got real issues, Nick, you know that? Too much violence. Too much time spent with those who wish to wage war rather than seek out peace. You’re a goddamned killing machine. The United States Defense Department rings the dinner bell and you come running like Pavlov’s dog, isn’t that right?”
“You finally figured it out, Professor. I’m a slave to my work.”
“So what happened, you two have a fight? You get all fired up on Jack Daniel’s? You hit her? You try and drown her, maybe? It is Venice.”
. . . Water filling the car . . . Shouting, “Karen, get out!” But she’s calm as the water rises above her head—like she wants to die . . .
“Nick? You there?”
“None of your business,” I snap, the image of Grace’s and my argument at the caffè replacing the memory of Karen dying. “But let me tell you this: it’s a very good thing you’re thousands of miles away from me right now.”
“That’s a direct threat coming from a trained assassin, which I am jotting down for my records.”
“That’s what professors do. Jot things down at their desks.”
“You know what I hope has happened, Nick? I hope that Gracie got smart and left you for good. Maybe she got sick of waiting around while you’re off playing cowboys and Indians in some desolate country we’ve unjustly invaded.”
“Hey, wait just a minute, Professor. Only I get to call her Gracie.”
I could tell him about the overcoat man, about my fear that he’s kidnapped my love . . . his ex-love. But then he’d be on the next flight over here and the detective would have no choice but to put me in jail after I beat the professor to a pulp with my bare hands. Instead, I say, “I’m a soldier. It’s what I do. And maybe it’s time you got used to the fact that I’m with Grace now. Not you, pal.”
He’s silent for a moment. Then he lets out a deep sigh. “Tell me the truth, Nick.”
“You mean like, have Grace and I been fighting a little? Sure, we have our spats. It’s not easy coming back from the war. My eyesight comes and goes these days. But then, that’s what happens when you man up and defend freedom for asshole professors like yourself. Grace has been under a lot of pressure, too—she feels like hell about what happened with you while I was away. She knows how wrong it was. What a mistake it was.”
I feel his exhale more than I hear it. “So you think she took off to be alone?”
Though it kills me to say it, as if I believe it . . . “It’s entirely possible, if not probable.”
“And what exactly are you doing about the situation?”
I picture him with the phone pressed against his ear, running fingers through his long hair, while the other hand fingers the keys on his laptop inside his university faculty office, perhaps some adoring female students waiting outside the door. Blonde, blue-eyed, female students.
“I’m working with the police and being patient. I’m told to be patient.”
“Patient. Isn’t that what you asked of my wife when you decided to go off and be John Wayne once again?”
When Shadows Come Page 13