by Rain, J. R.
I recall Olivia’s crime scene photos and I involuntarily gasp all over again. Ever alert, Numi glances at me when I gasp. But I don’t really see him. No, I see her. A woman I had cared for and admired. I wish like hell that these weren’t the last memories of her I would ever have.
In the pictures, Olivia’s eyes are half open. She is also smiling—a fake smile, as the corners of her lips had been forced up after her death. Just like my brother’s had been.
Sick, sick bastard.
Olivia’s smile is, of course, a mockery. She had not died smiling. She had died painfully and alone and afraid.
Just like my brother.
Both wounds, of course, had been identical: slit throats.
Tears sting my eyes. Who the fuck slits the throat of a nine-year-old boy? That single, destructive act had destroyed all the love in my heart forever. Never again did I believe in love or hope or humanity. The world and God and human nature became my enemy.
Numi thinks my piss-poor attitude about life has led to my own bad health. Too much anger, he tells me, manifests in the body as a disease.
Well, that is certifiable proof that I am very, very angry.
Olivia had brought a piece of leftover pizza for her hike but never had the chance to eat it. The pizza slice and plastic Ziploc bag had been found back in Elysian Park and dusted unsuccessfully for fingerprints. The killer had placed Olivia’s arms at her sides in Laurel Canyon, her palms turned upward. In one hand, Olivia is holding a single pepperoni; in the other, a perfect square had been carved. The killer took a piece of pepperoni from Elysian Park to Laurel Canyon. I am blown away by that knowledge.
It is, of course, this last bit of evidence that reaches inside me and takes hold and gives me renewed purpose. It is this last bit of evidence that, for me, leaves little doubt about who I’m dealing with.
The same killer.
I’m sure of it.
I keep my eyes closed. I feel the sun on the back of my neck, on my face. There is no wind now, only the heat and the damn crow and Numi breathing lightly on me.
I take a deep breath, filling my tired and diseased lungs with as much air as they can manage. I am here but not here. I am in a deeply meditative state. There is no pain here. There is no death or disease or suffering. I am free here.
The sound of Numi’s perfectly working lungs briefly makes me jealous. But only briefly. Truth be known, anyone with a pulse and a lifespan longer than three months makes me jealous these days.
My brother’s case is cold, despite my best efforts. I have memorized every notation in his file. I have talked to every investigator and witness involved, many times over. They are all sympathetic to me. But the case is cold. Very, very cold.
Until now.
I begin rocking on the bench. I can’t stop myself, don’t want to stop myself. Tears collect in the corners of my eyes. I wonder again what my brother’s last thoughts were. Had he prayed for help? Had he prayed that I would find him? His prayers, of course, had gone unanswered. God, of course, had failed him.
But I had failed him most of all.
Numi doesn’t speak as he lays a hand on my shoulder. There are no words. I am slightly distracted by his touch although not enough to stop the tears.
The square that had been carved into Olivia’s palm had been done so meticulously, perfectly, each side measuring exactly the same length. Carved, right there in the center of her palm.
I continue rocking. I really don’t have the energy to rock, but I do it anyway, faster now. I rock and huddle in on myself because my brother had been marked as well.
Yes, marked and desecrated.
I can’t afford to cry, to expend the energy on tears, but they flow anyway as I recall my brother’s crime-scene photos.
There had been, of course, a large number “8” carved deep into his chest. Perfectly carved.
As I weep silently, Numi reaches his arm around me and holds me and I let him. I let him.…
“We’ll find him, cowboy,” he whispers, and he keeps whispering it, even as I continue weeping and rocking.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It’s late afternoon and my apartment is stifling.
Except I’m deathly cold—with emphasis on the deathly. Numi systematically opens all the windows and curtains. Numi thinks that I need fresh air to help me breathe. Not to mention my place smells like death warmed over. Literally. Dying smells.
He has already placed a half-dozen pillows behind me so that I rest in a half-sitting position. This will prolong the period before my inevitable pneumonia, the doctors tell me, and so Numi takes every precaution to keep me as healthy as long as possible. I do not tell Numi that I don’t care about the room’s temperature, or about sitting up, or about the fresh air. I do not tell him mostly because I don’t have the strength to protest, and Numi wouldn’t listen anyway.
I am in his care now. I am his patient.
I am not sure how I feel about this, but what can I do? The fates placed into my life a gay African artist with a heart of gold. Go figure.
What I really want is more espresso. Now that is my drug of choice these days. I am sick of being tired. I’m sick of being sick. I want to die or get better. No more middle in-between.
Except I know how this is going to end. I have had more trouble breathing the last few days than all the other days combined. Numi knows this, too. He knows my body and habits and rhythms intimately. I’m not sure how I feel about this either. Actually, I do know how I feel about it. I’m uncomfortable about it. But also thankful. I’m not sure what I did to deserve his loyalty, but he has literally, and single-handedly, added months to my life.
I watch him as he goes about my apartment. His jaw is set. His nice shirt has untucked itself as he reaches up for my windows and curtains. There is some sweat on his brow. He doesn’t complain. He doesn’t judge. He just helps.
Always helping.
He glances at me, sees me watching him. “You appreciating my form, cowboy?” he says.
Except I don’t answer. I’m not sure what to say. I want to say thank you for giving me his time and energy—hell, his own life. Except I am uncomfortable opening up to another man. And so we look at each other some more. Numi’s hard eyes soften a little. I make a noncommittal face, and look away. I think Numi was thinking I might finally open up. I sense his disappointment as I study the window next to me.
He goes back to work on the windows.
I’m fighting for breath.
Numi is next to me in bed, willing me to breathe with his strong hands on my shoulders and his encouraging words. The need for oxygen overpowers the pain in my bones and I actually find this somewhat of a relief.
Choose your poison, I think.
“Help me, Numi.…” I gasp.
“You’re going to be okay, brother.” He says these words with strength and power and I can feel something coming from him and into me, and I know it's strength, energy, power.
“Numi.…”
“Calm down, brother. Breathe, there you go, there you go.”
There, there… there’s the breath I need, that I crave. Oh, God, so nice, so good, so beautiful.…
I breathe and weep and look into Numi’s gentle eyes and for the first time I see a tear in his eyes.
It’s beginning, I think.
Numi helps bring the glass of water to my lips.
I sip the water. It helps a little. I know I have to keep up my strength but I’m torn between keeping myself in the best health possible and just staying strong enough to solve this case. I owe it to Olivia and, more importantly, I owe it to my brother.
Numi understands this. He is my closest friend and he understands that I am walking on the edge of a knife. He sees my dilemma as clearly as I do. I need to keep myself alive long enough to find the killer. I need the espressos, if not something stronger and perhaps illegal, to think clearly. I also need to treat my body—this body that has failed me—as a temple. It is a fine line.
No
, I think again. I have failed my own body. You and you alone are the cause of this. The cause of everything.
I understand this. It has taken me some thirty-nine odd years to understand the lessons of taking responsibility. A good lesson to know, for sure, except I couldn’t do much with it. Not now.
“Rest, cowboy,” Numi says as he draws a blanket around me.
“Tell you what,” I say. “I’ll rest if you make a run to The Coffee Bean.” I try to make my voice strong but the words come out as a whisper.
“Or you will rest and do what I say, cowboy.”
“Please, Numi. Help a brother out. Caffeine.”
We are alone in my apartment. We might as well be alone in the world. It is just Numi and me. As I suspect it will be to the end. Numi’s palpable stare searches my face. As it does, the corners of his mouth begin to quiver, and then he breaks out into a wide smile, showing a lot of perfectly white teeth.
“I think I’ve helped this brother out above and beyond the call of duty.”
“Please, Numi. Coffee is life.”
He shakes his head once. Always once. Numi doesn’t waste his movements. “You need a few hours of rest, cowboy. Otherwise you won’t be help to anyone. Not Eddie, not Olivia. Not your brother.”
“If you don’t go for me, I’ll call a cab,” I threaten, but we both know this will never happen. I wouldn’t be able to walk down the stairs from my apartment to a cab without Numi’s help and he knows it. Numi leans against the wall with his strong arms crossed and one foot hiked up against the wall. He is my friend, the only friend I have left. He studies me as one studies a fine painting and I fight my discomfort.
He holds my gaze and I sense his great love for me. I am uncomfortable that a man loves me, even friendly love. Numi does not hold back his feelings. Yes, he is a man of few words, but he does not hide his emotions. They are there, on his face, in his eyes. In his touch. In his tenderness. In his sacrifice. He is his own passionate art, personified. I could learn from him. I need to learn from him.
Finally, he nods. “Okay, brother. I’ll go for you if you promise to rest while I’m gone.”
Numi doesn’t ask much of me, so when he does, I try to comply. “I promise. And I’ll drink all of this crap.” I gesture to the water and even the disgusting liquid cleanse he’s made for me again.
Numi simply nods and, with his eyes still lingering on me, finally lets himself out of the apartment.
I gave my word to Numi that I would sleep. Numi knows that I sometimes say what he wants to hear, although most of the time I try to comply. He has become more of a nurse than a friend these last couple of weeks. He doesn’t have to do it, of course. He can walk away and wish me luck, like my other friends.
Numi, of course, is not like my other friends. Numi is an angel, although I can never bring myself to tell him that.
He will be with me through to the bitter end, of this I have no doubt, and I am fortunate to have such a friend. I am undeserving of such a friend. What did I ever do to deserve such loyalty and love?
I don’t know, but I have it and I know a part of me treasures it. The part of me that is comfortable with another man’s affection. A very, very small part of me.
I nearly smile as I turn over in bed. I cannot sleep. How could I sleep when my brother’s killer is still out there? Olivia’s killer, too. The same fucking killer.
As I close my eyes and try to sleep, the chaotic images come again. They are the surest proof I have that I am going to die insane. I don’t want to die insane. But I have no choice, no choice.…
Swirling images, coming fast. So fast and strange and beautiful and surreal. Incomprehensible, comprehensible. Bright and not so bright.
One such amorphous light scatters into a school of frightened fish. Swirling mist morphs into my mom, my friends, and then a face with a beard. I have no idea who the face belongs to. I don’t have time to ponder because my mind continues to spin out of control, spinning, scattering, fragmenting, disappearing into nothing. A lost mind… the ultimate death.
And then one such image appears from the sea of insanity. It is a face that I know well, although I rarely gaze upon it without the “8” carved in his chest and the slit along his tender throat.
My brother steps forward out of the flashing brilliance of a lost mind… he steps forward and seemingly into my bedroom, although my eyes are still closed. In this image, his neck is whole and his chest is unmarked. I would like to say it is as I remember him, but he is different now. Yes, he still looks young, but I see an ancient wisdom on his young face.
He is made of light. Beautiful, pulsating light. And his image holds. It doesn’t scatter or morph into something else. He smiles upon me kindly, loving, conveying a love that I do not deserve. I deserve no love. I can accept no love from him or Numi or anyone. I failed him. Failed him worse than any brother has failed a brother, ever.
I have seen the image of my brother before, stepping through the chaos of my nearly lost mind. These days, the image seems to be coming more and more. As I have often done in the past, I try to apologize, but my mouth will not open. The words will not come. And, as I struggle for breath and will my mouth to work, for my voice to come, the image of my dead little brother fades, and Matt seems to step back into the chaos of my mind, back to wherever he came from.
I sit up now, weeping hard, although I don’t have the strength to weep. The tears and heaving wipe me out, and I do finally sleep, I think.
The sleep doesn’t last long.
I maneuver my bare feet to the soft carpet and into slippers. I don’t know why I care about slippers anymore. But I do. Slippers are civilized. I want to be civilized even in death. I rise, sway, find my balance, and move carefully to the kitchen table, where my notes are spread over the table, along with the grisly images of both police reports.
My dead brother and Olivia both stare back at me, both smiling, both carved with cryptic symbols.
The motherfucker.
The key is here somewhere. In my notes. In these photographs. In these nearly worthless witness statements. In here. Right here. Staring at me, like my brother is staring at me now.
I call silently to Olivia, willing her back onto my shoulder, but she does not come. I am on my own now.
A soft knock on the door pulls me out of my lonely thoughts. No one comes to visit me these days, except one person. One beautiful person.
I rise, pull my slender fingers through my thinning hair, and open the door for Mary.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mary stands there, smiling.
I silently thank Numi for insisting I brush my teeth and wash my face before promising to get some shut-eye. Forgotten are the ugly photos and the police reports on the table. So very, very ugly, but never forgotten for long. I think I must have my days mixed up—Mary isn’t due here today, is she?
“Well, are you going to invite me in or not, Mr. Detective Man?”
I realize I have been staring. My brain is still in the sea of light with my brother. I force myself back to the present, back to reality. A shitty reality, to be sure.
“Of course.” I smile. I try to appear normal, affable. But not cool. Never cool. I gave up looking cool the moment I discovered I had AIDS. These days, I strive for looking sane. I don’t think I’m doing a very good job of it.
It is unusual for Mary to appear anything but calm and collected but she fusses with the indigo blue scarf wrapped around her delicate neck as we move into the living room. She is dressed in jeans and a cardigan sweater—also a first. Mary has no folders or notebooks today. She seats herself on the couch instead of her usual spot in the chair.
I distantly hear myself asking if she would like anything to drink. Coffee, soda, wine?
I am now astounded that she gazes up at me and asks if a glass of wine would be too much trouble.
“Of course not.” I am equally delighted and disheartened that she wants wine. Delighted because this appears to be a social visit. Dishear
tened because I doubt that I have the strength to uncork a bottle of wine. Despite my low blood pressure, I feel the pulse drumming in my temples in excitement.
In the kitchen, I fumble with the corkscrew. I curse myself for my weakened state. Perspiration beads my forehead as I try desperately to gain some traction into the soft cork. Soft or not, I just don’t have the strength. I inhale a little too sharply as a gentle hand falls upon my shoulder.
I turn, defeated, sweating, shaking. Mary smiles up at me. I feel like weeping, to let loose. To collapse. I don’t do any of those things. I smile weakly.
“Can I help, sweetie?”
I only nod and smile. Her smile does not contain sympathy or pity, as most other smiles do these days. Her smile conveys…
I swallow.
Hard.
Her smile, I’m certain, conveys love. Real love. Romantic love.
Jesus, I think. The woman is crazier than me.
She takes the corkscrew from me and proceeds to open the bottle. Her hands are strong, lithe, dexterous. I want to do something, to help even in a small way, and so I reach for two wine glasses. My shaking hands nearly drop them as I set/slam them before her. Surely she sees my shaking hands, sees me struggling, but she says nothing. She simply purrs and smiles. I sense raw sexuality coming off her in pulsating waves. She does not comment that I shouldn’t be drinking. She pours and smiles and radiates… love.
We take our drinks back into the living room. I’m feeling more alive than I have in a long, long time. A dead part of me is awakening, too. I’m astounded at that stirring of my body. We sit closer to each other than we ever have before. I’m in love with her and I’m living on borrowed time. I am euphoric that Mary is here with her too-long nose and her straight blond hair and rose-petal lips. She’s here with me drinking wine and caring for me and loving me. There is nothing else in this moment that I want. Nothing but Mary.
Her delicate skin is flushed as she glances away shyly. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come,” she says. “I… I wanted to see how you were doing.”