James Grippando - When Darkness Falls

“Okay. What of it?”

Jack checked over his shoulder, making sure no one was around. He waited for two patrol officers to disappear inside the restaurant before continuing. “What would you say if I told you that the mayor’s bodyguard was seen down by the river, near Falcon’s car, right about that same time?”

“I’d probably want to ask the guy what he was doing down there.”

“Let’s assume he’s not talking. And neither is the mayor. Then who do you ask?”

“Crazy as he might be, I suppose you would ask Falcon.”

“Yeah,” said Jack. “Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless they take Falcon out of that hotel room feet first.”

Harry paused, seeming to process what his son was implying. “That’s a very serious accusation, if you’re making it.”

“Yeah,” said Jack. “It is.”

“So…are you making it?”

“Do you think it sounds crazy?”

Again, there was silence. Jack thought he was about to get the patented Harry Swyteck lecture again-how the whole world thought there was a “conspiracy” out there. Finally, Harry said, “Let me do some checking. Call me in a couple hours.”

“No, don’t do that.”

“I want to help you.”

“You already have. Just the fact that you’re willing to check into it tells me that I’m onto something. It’s best if I follow up from the inside. Maybe through Paulo. Or maybe even Barber.”

“I think you should pick one or the other.”

“I agree.”

“So which one is it going to be?” asked Harry.

“I don’t know yet. I’ll see how it plays out over the next couple of hours and just go with my instincts.”

“Okay. But son?”

“Yeah?”

“Be very careful with this.”

“I will,” he said, then hung up the pay phone.

V ince could smell the rain approaching.

He was standing outside the mobile command center, getting some fresh air. A northwesterly breeze caressed his face and ran through his hair. Rain was on the way, no doubt about it. His nose picked it up with ease, and it had nothing to do with any souped-up olfactory senses that came with blindness. The smells that warned of rain in Miami were as portentous as the sight of thunderclouds over the Everglades. With eyes closed, even those with perfect vision could sense a coming storm.

Rain was Vince’s new best friend. The bond had formed on his first rainy day without sight, just moments after he’d stepped out the front door and onto his porch. His mind was gearing up for the usual mental exercise, the memorized flower-beds, shrubbery, and footpaths that defined his morning walk. But the rain changed all that. More precisely, it was the sound of falling rain that brought the outdoors and all of its shapes, textures, and contours back into his world. Where there was once only blackness, suddenly there was water sloshing down a drainpipe. The patter of raindrops on the broad, thick leaves of the almond tree. The hiss of automobiles on wet streets. Even the grass emitted its own peculiar expression of gratitude as it drank up the morning shower. A sighted person would have heard nothing more than rainfall in its most generic sense, a white noise of sorts. To Vince, it was a symphony, and he reveled in his newly discovered power to appreciate the beautiful nuances of each and every instrument. Nature and his old neighborhood were working together, calling out to him, telling him that everything was still there for his enjoyment. He heard the drumlike beating on his mailbox, the gentle splashing on concrete sidewalks, and even the ping of dripping water on an iron fence that separated his yard from his neighbor’s. Rain, wonderful rain. It made him smile to find this new friend.

Rain, however, was no amigo to a negotiator. It made everything that much more complicated, especially with a hostage-taker wrapped in explosives. If things went south and they were forced to neutralize him, it would have to be a head shot. Snipers worked in a world of zero margin for error. A precision shot from atop a building, a hundred yards away, through a hotel window, was tricky but doable. Even to the skilled marksman, ambient conditions mattered. Nobody liked rain-except Vince, who knew better than any sighted person that sometimes the only opportunity to see things clearly was in the midst of the storm, that you might never find answers if you hide away in a shelter until after the rain.

Vince heard footsteps, then Alicia’s voice. “I need to speak to you,” she said. “Inside.”

They retreated into the mobile command center, and before Vince could ask what this was about, Alicia said, “Did you see the TV broadcast?”

A month earlier, he would have corrected her and said, no, he’d only listened to it. He was maturing as a blind person, he supposed. “Yeah,” he said.

“Then you caught what my father said. About the assurances he received from you that I would not under any circumstances talk to Falcon.”

“I was hanging on his every syllable.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Nope. Never told Chief Renfro that, either.”

He heard her sigh and take a seat. “Now if I have to talk to him, everyone on the force is going to assume that you broke your word to Chief Renfro and the mayor. Why is he tying your hands like that?”

Vince could tell that she was upset, and he was absolutely certain that his answer to her question would only upset her more. It might even insult her. He tried a less direct approach. “Did I tell you about the dream I had after you called to invite me to the jazz festival?”

She hesitated long enough for Vince to know that she was shooting him an incredulous look. “Vince, can we focus on what I’m talking about?”

“No, this is important. I need to tell you this.”

She breathed out a little noise that Vince took for reluctant acquiescence. “Okay,” she said. “Tell me about your dream.”

“I’ve actually had it a couple of times, twice in the same night. It’s kind of weird because it’s one of the few dreams I’ve had where I’m blind. I’m married to you.”

He stopped right there. He hadn’t intended to create such a dramatic pause, but he suddenly wasn’t sure if sharing this dream was such a great idea, after all.

“We’re married?” she said.

“Yeah. And we take our daughter to the park. She’s maybe four years old. Kids are playing all around us. I can hear them all happy and squealing with delight on the monkey bars. Little pockets of conversation surrounding me. Music is playing from the band shell in the distance. I’m tired and have to sit down on a bench. Then all of a sudden, a child comes and sits in my lap. I’m pretty sure it’s a girl, because of the length of her hair, but she doesn’t say a word. She just slides into my lap and nuzzles up against me. I wait for her to say something, but she’s completely silent. I don’t know what to do. I think it’s our daughter, but without the sound of her voice, I can’t be sure. Of course, I’m afraid to come right out and ask if it’s her. What would that make her think, if her own father can’t even recognize her when she’s sitting right in his lap? And so we just sit there, this child in my lap, and me in the dark, not knowing who she is or what to do.”

Silence. Insufferable silence. He’d thought that telling her about it would loosen the emotional knot in his stomach, but it was only worse to have it out there with no reaction at all. Now, more than ever, it was driving Vince crazy that he couldn’t see Alicia’s face.

Finally, she said, “That child will speak to you, but only if you let her.”

“In my dream I want her to speak.”

“No. She’s just going to sit there and be quiet, until you’re ready. Until you decide what you want to do. About us.”