I stare into her green eyes, take in her black hair, her thick lips, her slightly blushed cheeks. I see tears begin to slowly fall down those cheeks and I want to swallow them. Swim in them.
Behind us, a boy has begun to kick a soccer ball in the square. He’s kicking the ball against the fountain, in the rain. Some of the people who occupy the surrounding tables take notice of him, and they begin to laugh and smile.
Grace turns and eyes the boy. He’s dressed in a button-down shirt, a blue crewneck sweater with a small square patch with the name of his school embossed in its center over his heart, short pants, and black shoes over ankle socks the color of red wine. A boy who’s just gotten out of school for the day and who now wants to play in the rain.
Grace turns back to me.
“Well,” she says, “shall we?”
I toss a twenty-euro note onto the table and together we stand, head out from under the awning and into the rainy square. As if anticipating us, the little boy kicks the ball to me and I kick it to Grace. She laughs and kicks the ball back to the boy and the rain begins to soak her hair. It begins to soak my leather coat and pelt the cropped hair on my head. I look up at the sky and I see the clouds and the raindrops falling from them. Every one of them is for Grace and for me. I let the rain soak my face. Let the raindrops fall into my open eyes.
I see now. See with full clarity. See the meaning of it all.
I see my life flash before my eyes like a lightning strike off in a distant horizon. I am haunted by its fleeting essence, tremble at the thought of losing this moment forever. But then, it is already gone.
Grace continues to kick the ball back and forth with the little boy. I reach into my pocket then, pull out a plain envelope with my name scrawled on it in blue ballpoint. I tear open the envelope and pull out its contents. It’s a small photograph. A handwritten note is attached to the photo with a paper clip. It reads, “Graham asked me to pass this on to you.” The note is signed “Carbone.” I stare down at the photo as the raindrops pelt it. I see a much younger version of myself standing beside three men. Heath Lowrance, Ben Sobieck, and Dave Graham. We’re dressed in our desert combat gear, M4s slung over our shoulders, helmets stuffed under our arms, thick heads of hair disheveled, week-long beards sprouted on our fresh faces. Behind us is the never-ending desert and there’s a plume of black smoke rising up from the burning oil fields in the distance. But the smiles on our faces are unmistakable. Victory smiles. Turning the photo over, I see another note written in a different script. It says, Brothers in arms, Kuwait, 1991.
Standing together in the rain in the square, I lock eyes with Grace. She smiles and so do I. We’re learning how to love one another again. We’re learning to love. We’re making progress. Seeing one another for the very first time.
Going to her, I hold out my free hand. She takes it in hers as she bids the now-drenched little boy a heartfelt good-bye. Together, we head out across the square toward the stony banks of the canal that will lead us back to our hotel. I feel her hand in mine and I hold it tight. I hold on to my state of Grace like she is the last breath in my lungs and just as dear.
Over my shoulder, just beyond the corner of a crumbling brick building, the Grand Canal appears for us. The boats and gondolas bob in a thick green wake that never sleeps. The water flows in from the sea through channels and feeder canals like blood through arteries and veins. It splashes up against the stone walls and wooden piers and it seems to speak to me. I toss the photograph in and watch it float away on a ripple that blends in with a thousand other ripples just like it. The water destroys the memories and it cleanses, makes things new again.
It belongs to me, to Grace.
And it is eternal.
Author’s Note
The CIA’s selective amnesia project, Perfect Concussion, also known as Subproject 54, is said to have been canceled and therefore, never carried out. However, detailed information on the psychotronic weapon development program has been systematically erased by the editors of Wikipedia as well as numerous other online information sources over the course of several years.
Acknowledgments
It might come as a surprise that When Shadows Come started out as a short story called “Portrait,” which I wrote prior to entering the MFA in Writing program at Vermont College back in the mid-1990s. Apart from being my most anthologized piece to this day, one of my then writing professors suggested I consider fleshing it out for a novel. Something that seemed logical to me at the time, but also a frightening task of gargantuan proportions. After all, when a writing prof suggests a project, you know it’s going to be not easy, but impossibly hard.
That said, I wrote nineteen novels before I was able to take on the task of “fleshing out” the short story. But in the end, I’m glad I took up the challenge, as exhausting as it was. And as for that encouraging professor, wherever you are, a long-overdue thank-you!
But I also owe a whole bunch of deserving literary pros a profound thank-you as well, not the least of whom is my T&M developmental editor, Caitlin Alexander, whose guidance and vision allowed me to shape this novel into something extraordinary and hopefully, timeless. Along editorial lines, I’d also like to extend heartfelt thanks to Kjersti Egerdahl for being the first person to recognize the possibilities of this book. Also Alan Turkus, for encouraging me to raise the bar higher with each attempt at one of these Hitchcock-inspired psychological literary thrillers. Also JoVon Sotak, my new editor, friend, and cheerleader. The title When Shadows Come did not arrive easily, but it was honed from the brilliant mind of my publicist and bud, Jacque Ben-Zekry. No surprise there. I also owe a shout-out to development editor Holly Lorincz, agents Chip MacGregor and David Hale Smith, my boyos, Jack and Harrison, and my favorite daughter, Ava.
Lastly, thanks to everyone who has supported me over the past twenty years and twenty novels, be it in the form of encouragement, food, drinks, cold hard cash, or all of the above. I couldn’t have broken through without you. Here’s to the next twenty books.
Cheers,
Vince
November 13, 2015
Florence, Italy
About the Author
Photo © 2013 Jessica Painter
Winner of both the 2015 ITW Thriller Award for Best Paperback Original and the 2015 PWA Shamus Award for Best Paperback PI Original, Vincent Zandri is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than twenty novels, including Everything Burns, The Innocent, The Remains, Orchard Grove, and The Shroud Key. He is also the author of the Dick Moonlight PI series and the Chase Baker Thriller series. A freelance photojournalist and solo traveler, he is the founder of the blog The Vincent Zandri Vox. He lives in New York. For more, go to http://www.vincentzandri.com/.
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