Silent Echo (8 page)

“You look better.”

“I feel better.”

“Unless you’re faking it.”

“I’m hurt.”

“No, you’re desperate.” He pauses and looks from me to Numi, then says, “I looked into your brother’s case, Booker. I think you’re onto something. I think we might need you.”

I nod and wait.

He pushes the file in my direction. “I want you to use the copy machine behind me and accidentally make a copy of this file.”

“I do tend to be accident-prone these days.”

The detective almost smiles. “It’s against policy for me to give you the file, as you know. But…” He raises his hands.

“Accidents do happen,” I finish.

I do not reach for the file because my hands are shaking badly. I do not want the detective to see how bad off I really am. His sudden change of heart might just swing back the other direction.

“Now, I’m going to leave my office and get a donut,” he says, standing. “I am, after all, a cop, and that’s what cops do when not chasing the bad guys. It’s in the handbook.”

“Right next to how to grow a regulation cop mustache.”

He shakes his head. “Always with my mustache. Anyway, I expressly forbid you to use the copy machine located directly behind me. I also expressly forbid you to press the green button and wait ten seconds for it to power on.” He stands. “When I come back, I want you clowns gone. And Booker?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not much of an actor, but I am sorry to hear about your brother.”

“Thank you,” I say.

He looks at me some more, then turns and leaves.

“You heard the man,” I say to Numi when the detective is gone. “Let’s hurry and not copy the file.”

“Americans are weird,” he says, and takes the file over to the copy machine and proceeds to not copy it.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Laurel Canyon.

The day is bright. A smattering of clouds. The back road is quiet when Numi stops his Cadillac.

“You sure you’re up for this, boss?” he asks.

“I’m sure.”

He gets out and comes around to my side of the car. Having a grown man help me in and out of a car is hard on the ego. When you’re sick and dying, the ego is and should be the first thing to go. I know there’re gurus who teach people how to release the ego, to conquer the ego. I get it now, but I didn’t back when I was healthy. It’s moot now. The guy who falls off the toilet and knocks himself out no longer has an ego.

Numi helps me out of the car as he wraps a blanket around me, followed by his strong arms. I’m weaker today. That happens sometimes. Weaker some days, stronger others. Admittedly, the weaker days far outnumber the strong days.

He helps me down a gentle incline and over to a bench that overlooks the canyon. Beyond are trails and wilderness and nature at its best. Southern Californians are sort of nature-deprived, but Laurel Canyon is a fair substitute.

Before the drive out here, Numi gave me one of his natural body cleanses to extricate the toxins. The cleanse consisted of green tea with organic honey, and he also made me a lentil soup he insists will help me feel better. I do not tell Numi that I don’t feel better. I act as if I do, although I’m certain he sees through my charade. Mostly, though, he sees in me a renewed purpose. A reason for living. And Numi is all for me living.

It’s been two days since my visit with Detective Dobbs and I’ve read and reread Olivia’s police file, making notes until I couldn’t write any more. I feel even closer to Olivia now. Which is odd to say. Once I study up on them and the case, I always feel closer to the victims. That closeness drives me to find them or their killers. As if the dead speak to me from within the pages of the case files.

As Numi and I sit together, I shrug off his arm that’s around my shoulder. I need my space, dammit. Of course, that’s the ego talking. Maybe I haven’t eradicated it yet, after all.

Fifty feet below us is a trail through the canyon. One of many trails. Olivia’s body was found not too far from here, just off the trail.

The location is just feet from where my own brother’s body was found nearly twenty-two years ago. The same canyon. The same damn hillside. I am stunned by the proximity of two bodies found not far apart, but twenty-two years apart. There were, of course, more similarities. Disturbing similarities. My gut instincts wake up.

Something scurries in the brush nearby. In the branches above, a crow caws incessantly. A small wind lifts my just-trimmed hair. My head feels lighter since Numi’s haircut. On the wind are many scents, juniper being the only one that I recognize.

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.