Stephen White - Blinded

“Currently, South Bend.”

“Really? Do you have family there? Is that it?”

“No, my family’s up in Minnesota for the holiday. I’m following up a long shot. A tip we got. Probably a waste of time. You’re okay? You haven’t heard from Sterling? Seen him anywhere?”

“I guess I’m okay. I feel terrible that my problems have kept you away from your loved ones on Thanksgiving. You shouldn’t have to do that. I wish you’d just go get on a plane and go be with your family. I’ll pay. That would make me feel better. Will you do that? Just go to the airport right this minute?”

“No Sterling?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m fine, Gibbs. Don’t concern yourself with me. You try to make the best of your holiday, but stay vigilant, okay? You’ll do that? Keep an eye out for Sterling. Give me a call if anything makes you nervous?”

“I promise. Good-bye, Sam.”

I closed the phone. “He’s not there.”

Carmen said, “Thanks for trying.”

I’d stiffened up. Let’s say pulling myself from behind the wheel to get out of the car wasn’t one of the most graceful things I’d ever done.

Holly’s house had a three-foot chain-link fence around the backyard. Since the house was on a corner, it was possible to get a real good look around the entire property by strolling the sidewalk. With ten kids inside I could hear noise and laughter from the house half a block away. I turned around at that point and retraced my steps toward the house.

On my first pass around the corner nothing had seemed amiss. On the way back, though, the latch on the backyard gate had been moved to a different position. The gate hook was one of those horseshoe latches that raise up to allow the gate to swing open and then slide back down to horizontal to lock everything into place. I was sure it was down during my first pass.

It was up during the second.

I crossed the street and phoned Carmen.

“It’s me. The latch on the back gate. You know the one?”

“The chain link?”

“That’s the one.”

“Yeah, I know it.”

“Was it up or down when you last came by?”

“Couldn’t tell you. Why?”

“It’s up now. I thought I remembered it being down.”

“There’s a houseful of kids in there, Sam. One of them must have run outside for something.”

“I guess. Can you see it from where you are?”

She hesitated. “No, I don’t have a good view of the gate from here.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

I crossed back across the street, waiting in the dark shadows of a big tree I thought might be an oak, and I watched the rear of the house. Laughter, chatter, kitchen activity. An occasional child’s yell. Just what you’d expect.

Nothing more, nothing less.

It took me a few minutes of watching to recognize that something was missing.

Holly.

Holly was missing. Her two sisters were making frequent appearances at the sink that was under the kitchen window. But Holly hadn’t made a single appearance since my first pass around the corner.

Not one.

I felt a sharp tug just below my rib cage and reflexively reached into my pocket to find the little brown bottle of nitro.

As I rolled it back and forth between my fingers, I continued to stare at the kitchen window. It had been dark for a while. Now it wasn’t.

I saw one blond sister. Then the other blond sister.

No Holly.

I listened to the cacophony of voices.

No Holly.

That wasn’t right.

I checked my watch. Four minutes after seven. I figured it was just about time to carve the turkey. I was guessing the brother-in-law who wasn’t Artie would be doing the honors.

I strolled closer to the house and leaned against the corner of the detached garage that was about ten yards away across the little backyard. Come on, Holly. Come on. Show your face.

Talk to me.

I called Carmen again. “Holly go out the front door for any reason in the last few minutes?”

“No. What’s up?”

“Maybe nothing. I’ve lost track of her.”

“Sam, she’s inside with her family.”

“Yeah, I know that.”

I flicked my reading glasses down, hung up, and searched for another number in my cell phone’s memory. Found it.

Holly’s number.

Four rings. Finally, a kid answered.

“May I speak to Holly, please?”

“Hold on,” the child said. He or she threw the phone onto something hard. The resulting explosion in my ear was painful.

Come on, Holly. Come on.

A minute, a dozen different voices. A loud call of “Aunt Holly?” Another. Then, “Anybody seen Aunt Holly?”

Holly’s voice anywhere in the mix? I didn’t think so.

The child came back on the line, finally. “I can’t find her. Can you call back, please?”

“Sure.”

Just then someone shoved a dull knife up under my rib cage. Rotated it side to side. Did it again. Deep.

That’s what it felt like, anyway. The pain took my breath away, literally. I did an inventory.

Pain in my neck or jaw? No.

Down my arm? No.

Sweaty? Yes, a little. Okay, quite a bit.

I unscrewed the top of the little brown bottle, popped a nitro under my tongue, and braced myself for the inevitable flush.

Here we go, I was thinking. Here we go.

Tayisha was finished in five minutes.

She joined me where I was waiting for her in Diane’s office.

“Don’t be looking like your hemorrhoids are acting up,” she said. “I won’t charge you the whole thing. Tell you what, we’ll make it… we’ll make it two-fifty. How’s that?”

For five minutes? I should have been grateful. Tayisha had cut her original price in half. It still seemed like a lot of money for five minutes of anything.

I started unpeeling bills. “I only have twenties. You know, the cash machine.”

“We’ll make it two-sixty, then. That’ll work.”

I finished counting to thirteen and held out a thick stack of bills. She snapped them from my hand, folded them once, and stuffed the wad into the back pocket of her jeans.

“The thing is going to work? You’re sure?” Any enterprise that required me to turn over a large quantity of cash in total secrecy tended to leave me feeling a little bit anxious.

“I tested it; it’s all good.” She eyed me the way people eye a friend after he insists he can drive just fine after a night out drinking. “You know what you’re doing, right? You’re not planning something stupid?”

I shrugged.

“Figures. I’ll be back next week to sweep the rest of your building. Just save the equipment for me. Don’t rough it up; it’s fine stuff.”

“Sure,” I said. “Thanks. I appreciate your doing this on Thanksgiving.”

She patted the back pocket on her jeans. “That’s a car payment. It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

Diane’s office, like mine, has a solitary French door leading out to the backyard. That’s the way Tayisha left the building.

Five minutes later it was also the way that Adrienne arrived.

Adrienne was my neighbor, she was Sam’s urologist, and she was, most important, my friend. I’d chosen her to assist me that night for two reasons. One, she was a conspirator by character. Her life as a respectable, and respected, physician was a cover for her true calling as an anarchist. Second, she was on call for Thanksgiving anyway and had spent a good chunk of the day at Community Hospital, which was only ten or so blocks away. Since I’d already fed her son, I knew I wouldn’t be pulling her away from a holiday dinner with him.

She was dressed as though she’d awakened in Boulder that morning and discovered the whole town had been moved to the Arctic. Scarf, hat, gloves. A down parka that made her look like the Michelin Man’s little sister.