Silent Echo (5 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

I’m in Elysian Park, near Dodger Stadium, sitting on the side of a hill overlooking the 5 Freeway and Atwater Village far below. Well, maybe not that far. Atwater Village is considered a bit of an armpit, but from up here it doesn’t look like an armpit. From up here, maybe a thousand feet up, it looks sparkling and shimmering and beautiful.

There are horses penned in a corral not far behind me. I can hear them chewing and snorting. I sometimes give the horses carrots. There’s still a bag of carrots in my refrigerator. The carrots are rotted now, having sat forgotten for months. I should throw out the bag, buy a new bag, and feed the horses again. At least one more time.

Maybe.

It is evening and the sun is setting behind the bigger homes on the hill above me, homes that have a perfect view of downtown Los Angeles.

Although it’s raining, the wind here is warm, blowing up from the grinding freeway below, superheated by endless miles of pavement, exhaust, and angst.

Eight months ago, I had been given six months to live. If I do the math, and I have, I should have been dead a few months by now. Maybe I am dead.
Maybe I am just a spirit reliving his memories. I hate when I think that way. Such thoughts give me anxiety that I do not need.

The rain picks up a little, rattling the leaves around me, bending the branches over me.

I can feel myself dying inside. I can feel myself losing the battle. Each day I lose a little more of the battle. Each day, each hour, each minute.

It rarely rains in L.A. in July. I think I will miss the rain most of all. To think that soon I will never again feel its gentle touch is enough to bring me to tears as I sit there on this slope, overlooking the 5 Freeway, with the horses behind me and the rain on the back of my neck.

Saddest of all is that I soon will be buried six feet underground, too far to feel the rain. I do not want to be cremated. I want to rot. I deserve to rot.

I know if it wasn’t for Numi that I would be leaving this world alone. Of that, I have no doubt. Yes, I’ve had my share of women. Perhaps more than my share. I’ve loved many, perhaps too many. I’ve broken many hearts. Definitely too many.

Yes, many women have come and gone. But now they are just gone. Every last one of them.

As if they were never there.

If not for Numi, I would be doing this all alone. If not for Numi, perhaps I would be dead now, I am sure of that. I have not spoken to my mother in many years. At last count, over ten. She blamed me for my brother’s death. I blamed me, too.

Numi is different. He makes no judgment. He only loves in his own way. And his way is by being there for me. Numi holds out his hope for a cure. He believes that if there is breath still in me that I might still pull through.

I bring up my knees with some difficulty, using my hands to help, and now I rest my chin on the back of my hands as they rest on my knees. I close my eyes and listen to the rain, which drowns out the freeway sounds far below. I sit like this until I am soaked and shivering, knowing this will be my last rain.

And now my heart breaks all over again.

Finally, I stand and continue down the slope, down to the park far below, slipping once or twice in the mud. My balance has been off for many months now. Numi would be pissed if he saw me now.

I head over to the spot where my brother disappeared nearly twenty-two years ago. Disappeared, that is, for all of two weeks. He was found later, of course. In a different park.

Laurel Canyon.

Where Olivia was found.

Two bodies, both found in Laurel Canyon, separated by twenty-two years. One an adult female. One a nine-year-old boy. One was my friend. The other was my…

I take a deep, shuddering breath.

With the last of my strength, as the rain slants nearly sideways, I go to work searching the area again. For perhaps the millionth time. Always looking for clues.

Always searching for answers.

Always searching, searching…

CHAPTER EIGHT

We are sitting in my living room.

Her name is Mary Blaylock, and she is the grief counselor assigned to my case. She visits me once a week, and will do so until the case is closed. Her case is closed when I die.

Mary has long blond hair and a slightly-too-big nose. Call me superficial. I notice things. Still, the slightly-too-big nose is not a deterrent, since I find it regal and proper and confident, and there’s a lot of sexiness to those three qualities. I’m sure she can sleep well at night knowing that. Especially with that honker.

She is sitting in the love seat with her knees together and a clipboard on her lap. Her hands are folded on top of the clipboard. A black pen is Velcroed near the top of the clipboard. I can see her taking the time to buy the Velcro, to cut it carefully and apply it to both pen and clipboard. She seems like that type of person. Meticulous, exact, and…

Wonderful.

She sits with her back straight and does not lean into the cushions. She’s either had etiquette training or her posture is naturally perfect. Her nose is not that big, actually. It’s just slightly long and comes to a sort of point. Her face is lovely. Her lips are full but not too full. As the weeks keep piling up
and I keep not dying, I begin to look forward to her visits. I even look forward to her nose, which I am now rather fond of.

As she adjusts her long skirt, brushing it out from under her so that it doesn’t get wrinkled, as I look at her slender ankles and smooth calves and take in the hint of perfume that reminds me of all things woman, I realize that I just might be falling in love with her.

But what do I know of love? I spent my entire life hating myself, so much so that I never let anyone get close enough to love.

And now here is Mary with her slightly-too-big nose, perfect posture, and straight blond hair, who looks and acts professional, and says so many kind things to me.

I take a deep breath and hold it, feeling my lungs swell painfully. I watch her closely until she finally settles comfortably.

“Hi, Jim,” she says brightly. Always brightly. She tears free her Velcroed pen and clicks it on. She makes a notation on a paper clipped to the clipboard. I suspect she’s noting the time and date of her visit.

“Hi, Mary,” I say. “You look very beautiful today.”

She’s about to lean back into the loveseat when she pauses in mid-lean. I’ve never been so forward with her before. “Well, um, thank you, Jim.”

I can see she’s a little discombobulated. She wasn’t expecting a compliment. She’s been here three months now without me giving her a compliment. Hell, I am nearly as surprised myself.

But she’s a pro, and she’s certainly cute enough to have gotten her share of sweet compliments. I wonder if she feels self-conscious about her nose. Probably not. I suspect Mary the Grief Counselor is a very even-keeled, well-balanced late twentysomething woman. My guess: twenty-eight. Eleven years younger than me.

Too young,
I think.

“What would you like to talk about today, Jim?” she asks, now fully recovered from my blindsiding compliment. She always calls me Jim, even when I ask her to call me Jimmy. I don’t know why.

The sliding glass door to my balcony is open and a cool wind is making its way around the living room. No doubt she’s feeling the wind on
her slender ankles. Birds twitter in the eucalyptus trees beyond my balcony.

“I think I love you,” I say. “That’s what I want to talk about.”

She makes no other movement other than her mouth dropping open comically. Then she blinks slowly, as her occipital nerves kick into gear. As she focuses on me, her pupils shrink a little. Laser pointed.

Finally, she says, “You’re joking, right? Another one of your jokes?”

“Do I sound like I’m joking?”

She has now successfully absorbed her shock, and her training and poise kick in. She gathers herself, pressing her knees together tighter. Positions her pen on the page, and throws back her perfectly straight hair. “You do not love me, Jim Booker. It’s called emotional transference. It’s not called love.”

“Then I would like to make emotional transference to you,” I say. “All night long.”

She laughs and shakes her head. I note that she hasn’t taken her eyes off me. I see this as a good thing.

“I come here every week,” she says. “We talk about important things. I listen to you. I care for you. It’s easy to transfer your emotions onto me. In this case, love.”

“It’s very, very easy to transfer my emotions onto you.”

“Jim, I have a job to do. Please respect that.”

“I respect your job very much.”

I still notice that she hasn’t taken her eyes off me. Her fingers, I notice again, are long and thin. Her nails are painted red. Shortish nails. Not too long. Just enough length to make the nail polish worthwhile.

“Can we get back to work, Jim?” she asks.

“I’m just work to you?”

Now she looks a little put out. I think it’s some kind of defense mechanism. But what the hell do I know? I’m just a private dick. “Where’s this coming from, Jim? I come here for three months and we talk about all the women in your life. The many, many women in your life. Your self-punishment and recklessness that’s led to your current condition—”

“You mean my permanent disease,” I correct her. Always, she glosses over the disease. Which is strange. She’s trained not to gloss over such things. I know this. Why does she gloss over my disease?

“Yes,” she says, “that. For three months, I’ve been coming here and never once have you expressed any indication that you might be interested in me. Are you expecting me to believe that it appears”—she snaps her fingers—“just like that?”

“Emotional transference works in mysterious ways.”

“No, it doesn’t. It’s quite predictable. I could have predicted this outcome.”

“Oh? And did you?” I’m now sitting a little more forward on the couch. I don’t have a lot of strength to sit forward, but looking at her, at the way she’s breathing a little harder, the way her chest rises and falls a little faster, I find the strength. “Did you predict that I would find you utterly ravishing?”

“You are hardly in a condition to ravish anything, Jim.”

“I still have a good ravish or two in me.”

“Then you don’t want to waste them on me, trust me.”

And now I’m standing slowly. My legs are shaking. The chirping birds seem to disappear. I’m completely and totally absorbed by the woman sitting across from me. I say, “I can’t think of a better person on earth I would want to waste them on.”

“Jim, please. You need to rest—”

“No,” I say, sitting next to her on the loveseat.

She continues staring at me, and I can see something I hadn’t noticed until now, yet something I’m sure I felt. She has feelings for me, too. She really cares about me—and not just as another client.

“What are you doing, Jim?”

“I’m going to kiss you.”

“Jim, please.”

“Please what?”

I rest a hand on her knee and she doesn’t move, although she looks away. Her expression has changed into sadness. I know its source. My disease is her sadness. Hell, it is mine, too.

Well, screw my disease. It’s taken so much away from me. For once, it can give something back.

So I lean over, bracing one hand on the arm of the couch—a hand that quickly begins to shake—but somehow I find the energy to lean over and kiss her softly on the lips.

CHAPTER NINE

I am hanging onto Numi’s arm as we make our way through the dingy apartment complex in Echo Park. Feeble metal railings line the outdoor stairs.

“You really kissed her?” asks Numi. News of my therapy session last night has my friend perplexed. Numi doesn’t usually waste my precious energy, but for some reason today he’s asked me the same question over and over.

“Yes,” I say again. We head up the stairs together. The stairway railing appears less secure. Hanging onto Numi’s strong arm feels much safer, even if the act of holding onto him makes me feel uncomfortable. “A small kiss on her lips,” I add.

“And she didn’t, you know, seem upset?”