Sherlock Holmes and the Missing Shakespeare
Page 10
Small movements next to me. The translator was relaying my signs into speech. A pause. Now, small movements. If I have to guess, the translator is nodding, and if I have to guess further, I suspect that Captain Harris is getting straight to the point, as he is wont to do.
I wait, hands folded once again in my lap. Betsie is asleep on my left foot. Her breath is hot on my bare ankle. I am in shorts.
And now, something happens that doesn’t make sense to most people at first. The translator takes my right hand carefully. I know what’s coming next, and so I open my palm. Below, Betsie looks up, undoubtedly assessing the situation, determines that all is well, and rests her chin once again on the top of my shoe.
I wait with my hand open, aware of the woman sitting close to me, aware that this is the first time in many months that a woman has sat so close to me. I am also aware of a hint of perfume. Just a hint, as my sense of smell is mostly gone, too. But sometimes, the right combination of scents makes its way through my damaged olfactory, and hers does now.
Roses. And jasmine. Something woodsy, too. The smell of rain, somehow.
I know I am smiling, and I can only wonder what the other two are thinking of me, seeing me smiling there, with my shades on and part of my face destroyed. Not all of it, granted—and, I’m told, I had lucked out. The scarring isn’t hideous. I have been told that, in the right light, I still even look somewhat handsome. I’ll gladly take the ‘somewhat handsome’ part. Then again, I would take many things at this point.
So, I am smiling as she places her hand in my hand, and what happens next has become second nature to me, although it has taken many, many tries to get it right.
Rachel—I think her name is Rachel, I am too embarrassed to ask her again—uses American Sign Language now. Pinkie up, she presses her hand into my palm and I immediately recognize the letter “I.”
She pauses, tapping my palm once to indicate a space.
A closed fist with the thumb in is pressed into my palm—then a closed fist with the thumb out.
A—M—
Another tap. More letters pressed into my palm.
S—O—R—R—Y—
Another tap, more letters.
T—O—
Tap.
S—E—E—
Tap.
Y—O—U—
Tap.
L—I—K—E—
Tap.
T—H—I—S—
And two taps to end the dialogue.
All in all, the process takes just a few seconds. I can feel the signed letters being pressed into my palm. It is a cumbersome way to communicate, true, but it is effective for someone like me who can’t see or hear.
The captain’s words sink in. I haven’t seen him in many years. Perhaps even five. I haven’t seen many of my old friends from the station, no pun intended. Few could communicate with me, and sitting with me in awkward silence is, well, awkward. Most of my friends are gone. My parents are passed, and I only have one brother, who visits me weekly. He’d long ago mastered sign language, and we have a good time together. Or as good as we can.
I use both hands to sign back: “What do you mean?” But then, I smile, or think I smile. Half of my face is mostly paralyzed, although I am told my smile is still kinda adorable, with a few new dimples thrown in for good measure. Who told me these things? Who’d blow smoke up a blind and deaf man’s ass? My ex-girlfriend, of course. My ex-girlfriend who’d cared for me for many months after the explosion. My ex-girlfriend who is now long, long gone, although I think about her often. And dream about her even more. In fact, I’ve been meaning to look her up again, crazy as that might sound.
Very, very crazy. After all, my ex had made it known that she wanted nothing to do with me after my rehab.
No, I think. Those words are too strong. She was just exhausted, overwhelmed. Maybe we can get coffee someday soon.
The idea of coffee with my ex sends a thrill through me. I have not seen her in, what, four years? Maybe she’s still single? Maybe she misses me, too? Maybe she’s waiting for me to reach out to her?
Maybe.
I suspect I know the answer to most of these questions. Still, the thought of being with her again, touching her, sends a thrill through me.
And the woman sitting next to me, with her small hand once again pressed into my hand, is, I suspect, the source of this thrill.
The explosion mercifully spared the rest of my body. My hands are intact, as are my legs. The blasts had been centered around my facial area. In particular, around my neck region. My voice box had been destroyed. My windpipe had been destroyed, too. The close proximity of the explosion had permanently damaged the inner and outer hair cells of my ears, those all-important sensory receptors that pick up sound. And there is no healing or replacing such receptors.
Shrapnel had destroyed my eyes. So much so, both eyes had been enucleated, or removed, leaving me with empty sockets. Early on I had tried orbital implants—glass eyes—but grew tired of them. Additionally, my scar tissue was such that the implants irritated me more than helped. These days, I prefer to hide behind my wraparound sunglasses…and keep my eyelids closed.
Remarkably, my esophagus had stayed intact, which allows me to still eat and drink with my mouth. However, my larynx—the organ responsible for speech—had been completely destroyed. The damage was so severe that traditional voice aids do not work. Even handheld devices, electric larynxes as they are called, were rendered ineffective due to severe scarring at my throat and my inability to hear the sounds. Such devices sent vibrating sound waves into the mouth and throat area, which, in turn, could be shaped into words with tongue, jaws, lips and teeth just as one would have done with sound from the larynx. It is an ingenious device that has been around longer than I would have guessed. With my hearing loss, I was never fully able to use the electronic larynx. After all, one needs to hear the sounds coming out to learn how to manipulate them, adjust them, correct them. For now, speech is a lost cause for me, although I tried many times to use the device, and each time, I was told I was unintelligible. I haven’t tried again, and doubt I ever will.
For now, I get by using American Sign Language, reading braille, using writing pads, blocks of plastic letters and a new phone app that converts text messages and emails into, of all things, vibrating Morse code, spelling out my texts one letter at a time, much as Rachel the translator was now spelling out words, one letter at a time.
Communication on my end is a little easier and faster, as I can use both hands to sign full words, and so I rapidly ask the captain to what did I owe the pleasure of his company?
There is a pause, and I feel her nodding her head, undoubtedly listening to the captain’s response.
Then I feel gentle hands take my own hand again. I open my fingers and she rests her palm flat against mine—and I feel another thrill that made me think of my ex-girlfriend again, and it also makes me wonder for the first time, just what Rachel looks like. That is, until I realize I would never know what she looks like, and I let the thought go.
Still, her touch is gentle and slightly…seductive, but that could just have been my imagination. Truth is, words like ‘seductive’ had long since departed my vocabulary. ‘Getting through the day’ are common words. ‘Not killing myself’ is another common phrase that runs through my mind.
Still, her touch is…pleasant, and it sends shivers through me. The first shivers, I’m certain, in nearly five years.
And now, she is spelling out the words, which she does a little faster this time around, as our connection is already growing. At least, I’d like to think so. She presses each sign firmly into my palm, then quickly forms the next, pausing and tapping between words, until the sentence is spelled out, a minute or so later.
“I need your help, Lee.”
I absorb this, and then sign: “You need a driver?”
I feel the couch shake slightly, and I think Rachel might have been laughing. A moment later, the captain’s return message arr
ives: “It’s good to see that you haven’t lost your sense of humor, Lee.”
“My sense of humor is one of the few senses I have left,” I sign back.
There is another pause—and what was meant to be another small joke suddenly turns into not such a small joke. Maybe it sounded more like a cry for help, or pity, neither of which I had intended.
Now, I feel the floorboards beneath me move and Betsie jerk her head off my foot. Someone is coming over, and that someone is the captain. He reaches around and wraps a meaty arm around my shoulder and presses his head against mine and holds me closer than anyone has held me in a long, long time.
When he is done hugging me, I can feel his tears rolling down my neck. Either that, or my trachea valve needs another cleaning.
Now, he sits next to me, his legs pressing against mine. He has Betsie’s full attention, and for now, she continues sitting up, undoubtedly staring at him, undoubtedly assessing him.
I sense he is talking, and now, Rachel lifts my hand and once again, presses hers into mine.
“I’m so fucking sorry this happened to you. You didn’t deserve this, Lee. No one deserves this.”
Except, of course, I did deserve this. I deserved this and so much more. I don’t respond and we all sit in silence again on my couch. Betsie lowers her head once again to my shoe.
After a short reprieve, the captain speaks again; as he does so, he rests his hand on my shoulder, and this, along with the hug, is the most the captain has ever touched me. My old boss has gotten sentimental over the years. Rachel promptly translates his voiced words into my open palm.
“I hate to do this to you, Lee, but we could use your help on a case. Many cases, actually. One, in particular. A case we call the Big Case, with a capital B and C.”
“What do you mean?”
“People are disappearing, Lee,” comes his response a few minutes later. “Many people, in fact. Ten, as far as we are aware.”
“Any bodies?” I ask, signing.
“None yet.”
“Tell me more,” I say, and the captain does. This is a lengthy process, one that challenges the translator and, I suspect, the captain’s patience. But when he is done, I have the full picture.
And what a crazy picture it is.
Winter Wind
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About the Authors:
J.R. Rain is the international bestselling author of over fifty novels, including his popular Samantha Moon and Jim Knighthorse series. His books are published in five languages in twelve countries, and he has sold more than 3 million copies worldwide.
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Chanel Smith was born and raised in Los Angeles, California. She has since moved to Portland, Oregon, where she lives with her husband and two dogs. When not writing, she spends her time training dogs, hiking, biking and anything else that will get her outside in nature.
Please visit her at: www.chanelsmithbooks.com
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