When Shadows Come

by Vincent Zandri

  Grace is gone.

  I have my eyesight. I need to call her again while I have my eyesight.

  Digging into the pocket of my leather coat, I retrieve my phone. I stare down at the screen. I’ve received no phone calls in the time since I’ve returned to the studio. Nothing.

  I try speed-dialing her.

  But I get the same automated “mailbox full” message I got before. I set the phone down on the harvest table, beside a stack of white bowls and a tower of cereal boxes.

  Taking a step back, I survey the room.

  In the light of the naked overhead bulb, I see piles of white plates on the small kitchenette counter. In between the pillars of plates are carefully positioned boxes of pasta and rice set beside towers made from canned goods. The boxes, cans, and plates don’t seem to be randomly placed there. It’s like I was arranging them in that position on purpose.

  It’s the same story for the harvest table.

  I’ve made myself a model city of boxes, bowls, plates, with knives and forks placed end on end to mimic roads or maybe a river . . . canals. The dream I was having while I was sleepwalking must have really been something. Now I’m designing cities. Or making a map anyway. A 3-D map.

  I start to return the boxes and plates to the shelves and cupboards, but as soon as I lift the first stack, I decide to leave them be. My gut tells me that something is happening inside my head besides the effects of PTSD. I’m working out the problem of Grace’s disappearance in a somnambulant state. A sleepwalking state.

  I look at the 3-D map on the floor.

  I have no recollection of building it. I only know that I must have built it.

  But why?

  I know damn well what I’m searching for . . . what the police should be searching for. But why do I have this stone feeling inside my stomach that tells me I am hiding something from myself?

  When the phone on the wall explodes in a cacophony of ringing bells, my heart nearly pops out of my chest. I make my way to the phone, yank it off the cradle.

  “Yes!” I bark. “Grace!”

  The receiver fills again with static or bad reception. Maybe both.

  “I see,” says a voice. A man’s voice. “I see.”

  My heart pounds.

  “Is Grace with you?” I say, trying with all my strength to keep calm. Not piss him off.

  “I see.”

  “Do you have Grace?”

  “I see,” he repeats.

  “Listen to me, please. Do you have my fiancée?”

  I’m trying to hold back from screaming into the phone. If he does have Grace, I don’t want to take a chance on him causing her pain. I don’t want to give him an excuse to break off contact.

  “Please, please,” I beg. “Who are you? Have you taken my Grace? Please.”

  “I see,” he says yet again.

  “Please!” I scream, but the phone goes dead.

  I pull the phone slowly away from my ear, and my eyesight begins to bug out. Everything around me becomes clouded. Like I’m trapped in a fog.

  Chapter 17

  I pull Detective Carbone’s card from my pants pocket, stare down at it.

  You’re a dumb son of a bitch, Captain Angel . . .

  Of course I can’t read the card. My eyes won’t make out the numbers. Not even when I hold it just a few inches away from my face.

  I never thought to add his number into my mobile. But then, he never offered to do it for me. Maybe they think I’m faking it. My blindness. Maybe they think I’m making it all up. I guess I don’t look like a blind guy. If they don’t believe me, I suppose it’s possible they think I had something to do with Grace’s disappearance. Or maybe I’m just being paranoid.

  My mobile rings.

  I nearly drop the phone trying to answer it. Instead of issuing a “Hello” or the customary “Pronto,” I shout out, “Grace!”

  It’s not Grace. But by the grace of God, it’s the detective.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Captain Angel. I have some information I would like to share with you.”

  “I was just about to call you.”

  “You just received a phone call. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “We traced the number.”

  I breathe into the phone.

  “It’s a cell phone and a local number,” he goes on. “But the owner of this phone . . . one Francesco Cipriani . . . might not fit the description of the man which you provided us with earlier.”

  “I don’t understand. What are you trying to tell me?”

  “We have made contact with Mr. Cipriani. He is relieved we have found his cell phone. He and his wife spent their ten-year wedding anniversary in Venice just a couple of weeks ago. The phone was pickpocketed from out of his coat, perhaps by your overcoat man. Thousands of visitors pour into and out of Venice on a daily basis. So you can imagine the endless opportunities if you are a thief.”

  My throat constricts, chest grows tight. “Where does this leave us, Detective? What does it all mean?”

  “It means I have no reason to disbelieve Mr. Cipriani’s story. As you say in America, he checks out. I contacted the hotel where he stayed and they confirm his reservation. Mr. Cipriani is an accountant working in a private practice in Milan. He hardly fits the description of a man who would kidnap your wife, Captain.”

  “Does he have any connection to this building? Would the number have been stored in his phone?”

  “How did you find the apartment in the first place?”

  “The US Army found it for me.”

  “How very interesting. Perhaps that is the answer. Perhaps the caller is connected to the US military. Perhaps he’s even been inside the apartment in the past. In any case, it is something to ponder.” He pauses, the sound of him lighting a cigarette oozing over the receiver. “Tell me, have you received any text messages or calls from your fiancée since we last parted?”

  I tap my fingers against the phone. “I think I would have told you that already.”

  “Indeed, you are still sharp, Captain,” he exhales, “despite your blindness. We have our police keeping an eye out for her throughout Venice. But until she is missing for forty-eight hours, we do not consider her an official missing person.”

  “Well, I consider her missing. Very fucking missing. Invisible missing. Gone-baby-gone fucking missing. I consider it official that she is not sitting here safe and sound with me right this very minute.”

  “I’m sure you do. However, as difficult as it is to believe, I’m afraid it is still quite possible she has simply left you. And if that is the case, we have little right to interfere.”

  “Unbelievable.” Making a fist, I punch my thigh. I’d toss the phone against the wall if I didn’t know how stupid a move that would be. Like tossing my M4 into a river just because I missed my target.

  “But do not worry, Captain,” the detective goes on. “In consideration of your condition, and your being a member of a NATO military force, we have issued an early alert to every airport, train station, taxi operation, and bus depot in the country. Even bicycle and motorbike rentals will be notified. If your fiancée’s passport shows up at any of these places, she will be questioned and, if need be, detained.”

  “Her passport,” I repeat. “Jesus, her passport.”

  “She did take her passport with her when you went to have lunch at the caffè in Piazza San Marco?”

  I try to think. It’s been our habit since arriving in Venice to carry our passports wherever we go. It’s the safe thing to do should the studio get robbed while we’re gone. But I had no vision when we left the room earlier this afternoon and we were in a rush.

  “I can’t be sure,” I say. “I can try to check.”

  “Please do so. In the meantime, Captain, get some rest. I know this is difficult to believe, but nine times out of ten, the person who goes missing returns within twenty-four hours. It’s no different from a child running away from home.”

>   “A child,” I repeat, my blood boiling. “This is my fiancée we’re talking about here. Not a spoiled kid. She was abducted, Detective. Abducted by a creep in a long overcoat. Go find her!”

  “Keep your mobile phone charged. I will be in touch if we discover anything else.”

  He hangs up without a good-bye.

  Chapter 18

  I walk the six steps to the bed, grab hold of Grace’s suitcase, flip it back up onto the bed.

  For the second time, I open it and once more start rummaging through the neatly folded clothing. I recognize a pair of jeans and a skirt. Some T-shirts, socks, and underwear. Unlike the last time, I run my fingers along the fabric-lined interior walls and along the bottom.

  No passport.

  There’s also no sign of the emergency cash and credit card that Grace stored inside the case, which means she took that with her as well. A droplet of cold sweat slides down the length of my spine.

  I sit on the edge of the bed.

  Maybe the real question I need to ask myself is this: Did Grace leave the apartment with her passport, emergency credit card, and extra cash because it was the safe and prudent thing to do? Or did she do it because she had every intention of leaving me?

  My feet are pressed against the floorboards, but I don’t seem to feel them. My head is a buzzing beehive of adrenaline. I don’t know what feels worse, the possibility that Grace was kidnapped right before my blind eyes, or that she simply left on her own, abandoning anything she could replace.

  I think about the police. Detective Carbone believes it’s entirely possible Grace took off on her own. He’s seen it happen dozens of times, he said. Lots of lovers leave one another in Venice. Breakups happen even in the most romantic of places. Maybe it’s me who’s being blind to the possibility of Grace going because she wanted to go. Maybe it’s me who is refusing to believe the truth about Andrew.

  Maybe it’s not over between them.

  But then, if it isn’t over, wouldn’t Grace have been very unhappy with me? Wouldn’t she have wanted to run away from me instead of accompanying me to Italy? Maybe she came with me only out of loyalty. Or worse, guilt. Maybe I missed the signs with her the same way I did with Karen. I’d always assumed she was happy just because I was happy. By the time the cops fished her out of the Hudson, it was too late.

  But Detective Carbone doesn’t know Grace like I do. He doesn’t understand how in love we are. How much we need one another. Yes, the past year has been wrought with the difficulty and heartbreak caused by my being absent—and having needs go unfulfilled. From my being at war. From Grace fighting a war of loneliness.

  But I’m not at war anymore.

  Correction. That’s not exactly right.

  I’m not at war in Afghanistan, I should say. But that doesn’t mean I’m not still at war with myself. The blindness proves it. A bullet has never so much as grazed me. The shrapnel from exploded ordnance never came close. Other than a knife wound, I am a casualty of my own frayed nerves and memories that are not always complete. Not always reliable.

  I recall a time not so long ago, but that now seems like another lifetime: a warm, pitch-dark summer morning. I was packing for the embarkation to Frankfurt. I would be gone for at least six months. Grace lay on the bed, dressed in her T-shirt and panties, her face buried in the pillow.

  “Why do you have to go?” she begged, in between sobs. “Why must you keep running away from me? I fucking moved up here for you. Gave up a good life in the city. My life. Why do you have to go, Nick?”

  How do you answer a question like that when you’re going off to war?

  I remained silent while I packed. My leaving had nothing to do with what was in my heart or whether I was being selfish or not. In my head, I felt a physical need to leave. To lock and load. To defend against the enemy.

  While Grace wept I packed until my backpack could hold no more. When I was done and dressed in my travel camos and combat boots, I came around to her side of the bed and sat down beside her. For a time I held her, pressing my face into the soft space between her shoulder and her neck.

  “Listen,” I said. “I know you miss New York. I know you miss your friends. Your art shows and poetry readings.” In my head, picturing her ex-husband, his long hair, his natty attire, his brains. “But I promise, I will make it up to you when I get back. We’ll go to Paris. Or maybe we’ll rent an apartment in the city for a while.”

  “Do you know what my horoscope said today?”

  “No, what did your horoscope say?”

  “It said to beware of giving myself over entirely to a lover. That the joy would soon be replaced with heartbreak. You must give to yourself first, it said, before you can give to someone else.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  But she wouldn’t answer.

  “I love you,” I said, raising my head just a touch, whispering into her ear, feeling the wetness of her tears on my freshly shaved cheek. When she didn’t respond, I said it again. “I love you.”

  But she wouldn’t say it back.

  The horn blared outside the bedroom window, announcing the arrival of my ride, and I had no choice but to go. But then, I wanted to go. It wasn’t that I had been trained for combat. It was more a case of my having been born for it.

  I got up from the bed and left Grace alone in the cold dark silence of the morning.

  Now, I stand up from the bed, stumble the twelve steps toward the kitchenette. My right arm swipes a stack of plates on the harvest table. They come crashing down, the noise combining with a deafening click—

  —They’ve stolen my clothing again. I’m inside a square room. Not exposed concrete and steel, but padded walls and floor. Bright overhead lights flash. Piped-in battlefield noises blare. So loud, my eardrums bleed. “Stop it! You’re killing me!” But only the camera hears my screams . . .

  I make it the last few steps to the counter. My head is pounding, like I’ve just slammed my forehead against the wall. I fumble blindly for the whiskey bottle, knocking over boxes and some coffee cups, one of which shatters.

  But I find the bottle.

  Unscrewing the cap, I drink deep, set the bottle back down. The whiskey burns as it goes down, but it has an immediate calming effect on my heart.

  I slam my fist against the counter.

  My eyes well up with tears. Anger, fear, sadness, confusion, fury . . . fury . . . I am a cesspool of battered emotions. I am helpless. Grace is out there somewhere. For all I know, she’s gagged and bound, being held captive in some rancid basement. Maybe she’s hurt. Maybe she’s been raped. Maybe she’s dead already.

  Dead already . . .

  The two horrid words resonate inside my brain.

  I’m up here in this apartment by myself. I’m doing nothing while Grace is out there alone. I’m a useless sack of rags and bones. Doing nothing. It goes against everything I know . . . everything that I am . . . everything they conditioned me for.

  I slam the counter again.

  Grabbing my keys, cell phone, and coat, I leave the apartment, blind to the possibilities of what can happen.

  Chapter 19

  I step out into the cold damp darkness of Venice. The cobbles bump beneath my booted soles; the moist air coats my face. The only thing I can remotely make out are small, indiscernible blobs of light when I peer directly at a lamp or one of the moving lights mounted to one of the motorboats slowly cruising the nearby feeder canal. I hear the footsteps of tourists passing by in both directions. I feel their presence the same way a psychic feels a world full of ghosts and spirits surrounding her. They make my pulse soar and steal my oxygen.

  Taking a deep breath, I take a step forward. Then another. Until I run directly into a brick wall of a human being who is passing by. The collision nearly sends me to the ground.

  “Watch where you’re walking, mate!”

  It’s a man. An Australian, judging by the accent. I’ve fought beside hundreds of Australians over the years. They are bo
rn voyagers. Also born fighters. I regain my balance, try desperately for a point of focus. But without hearing his voice, I can only make it appear like I know where he’s standing.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, trying to pretend I’m looking into his eyes. But I could be aiming my gaze in any direction. “Clumsy of me.”

  “You okay, mate? You don’t look so great, you don’t mind my saying. Your eyes are rolling around in their sockets.”

  I tell him I’m fine. But I don’t dare take another step, or else risk knocking into someone else. I can feel the Australian standing before me. I smell the liquor on his breath. I feel stupid and exposed.

  “You sure you’re going to be all right? Because you don’t look all right. Maybe a little too much to drink.”

  I recall the whiskey I drank. Not enough to make me drunk. But he can smell it on my breath. I know the man isn’t going to leave until I walk away first. So I take a step, and then another, until I feel two hands clutching at the collar on my coat, and I’m down on my back.

  “Jesus, mate, you were about to walk right into the canal. You’re blind to the world.”

  Footsteps. A crowd is gathering. Voices. Some of them in languages I cannot understand. Others in English. This was a big mistake. Venturing out. What the hell was I thinking? I’m a soldier. I’m used to taking action, not sitting around on my ass, useless.

  “Call a cop!” somebody barks. An American.

  “Please,” I beg. But it’s no use.

  “You must be bloody soused.” The Australian laughs. “Blind and drunk. Just stay down, before you fall down again.”

  From out of the distance, sirens. Didn’t take the cops long to respond to my desperation. My stupidity. They are coming by boat. Coming for me, the blind man. The man who took aim at a little boy. The man who lost his fiancée. The man who lost his wife and unborn child. The man whose world has become a dark private hell.

  Chapter 20