Chapter 47

WHEN I OPEN MY eyes again, I can still see. And daylight is pouring in through the French doors. I slide out of bed, look for any signs of an intruder. There are none. And something else. Judging by the position of the furniture, I didn’t sleepwalk last night. At least, there doesn’t seem to be any evidence that I did. Not the least of which is waking up in my own bed. Mine and Grace’s. Everything seems to be in its proper place.

I check the door.

It’s locked, the bolt engaged. I check the French doors. They are closed and locked, just like I left them last night. Standing in the studio by the couch, I recall the presence of a man standing at my bed in the middle of the night. I recall the smell of body odor and must. I recall the words he spoke.

“I. See.”

I recall not being able to move a muscle. Not being able to utter a sound. I recall being entirely paralyzed, as if I’d been injected with a drug that can render me immobile, but somehow allow my senses to thrive.

Of course, it’s entirely possible I was dreaming yet another one of my crazy dreams. I’m no stranger to vivid dreams. Soldiers who spend enough time in the field will eventually experience one or two of them. Dreams in which the line between reality and the dream world becomes confused and undefined. Exhaustion and stress will do that to a man. You find yourself standing guard in the middle of the night, then suddenly you see eyes looking back at you in the darkness and the movement of a figure. Maybe several figures. The figure is carrying a weapon and he’s about to ambush you.

You don’t think twice.

You empty an entire clip into the darkness. When the morning comes, you see that the eyes you swear you saw in the dark were nothing more than the white flowers on a bush reflecting the moonlight. The movement was nothing more than the wind on the willows.

Fear cripples.

Loneliness kills.

Sanity is fleeting when you’ve experienced enough battlefields.

Dreams will tear you apart…

…But only if you let them.

As usual, I check my cell phone.

Nothing.

I call Grace’s number.

Now I don’t even get a computer voice telling me her mailbox is full. I get only an American computer voice that tells me the number I’ve reached is out of service or temporarily disconnected. So please check the number and try calling again, or check with an operator for assistance.

Screw you and the digital line you rode in on.

I decide to calm down, before I become so frustrated and angry I do something stupid, like toss my cell phone through the French doors and into the feeder canal below. I wash my face, brush my teeth, make the coffee. While the espresso is cooking on the stove, my eye catches my laptop. I go to it and refresh the page. It’s still open to CNN and the short side-bar article about Grace’s disappearance. I peer down at it, not sure what to expect. The article is still the same article. But something is different. I see my comment, and I see the comment that the reporter, Alessandra Betti, made in response to it. But there’s a third comment.

It says, “I was there at the café. I saw what happened.”

It’s signed simply, “Geoff.”

An email follows. GeoffM@gmail.com

I feel my pulse pick up. I copy the email and paste it to the address line in the place for composing email in my AOL account. I write:

Dear Geoff,

I am Grace’s fiancé. What did you see?

Please write or call or both…Please!!!

Nick Angel

(01-518-565-4999)

I click Send and I wait for an immediate answer. Knowing that I won’t get one, I decide to drink my coffee and try to calm down. But it’s no use. I think about what day it is. It’s Wednesday. I recall when I was a child in grade school, how I would come home off the yellow school bus and watch ancient reruns of the Mickey Mouse Club. Wednesday was “Anything Can Happen Day.”

Today is Wednesday.

Soon, Alessandra will be here with the results of the print tests on Grace’s diamond. That is, if the reporter is true to her word. Perhaps at the same time, I will hear from the man who saw Grace being taken away. Maybe I’ll also hear the progress of the police investigation. My God, maybe it’s possible I’ll also hear from Grace.

Wednesday.

Today, anything can happen. Today my life will never be the same.