Free The Disappearance of Grace by Vincent Zandri Page B

like, “Watch your step,” and “Watch your head.” They walk me up the three flights of stairs to Grace’s and my studio. I open the door for them and let them in. Since I don’t require light, I don’t bother with turning any on. But one of the cops hits the wall-mounted switch and the overhead comes on. Since the blindness I’m experiencing this late afternoon is not entirely complete, I sense the light as soon as it’s triggered.
    â€œWhere is your phone, Captain Angel?” one of them poses.
    I point to the wall beside the apartment door.
    â€œHelp yourself,” I say, cocking my head in the direction of the wall-mounted unit.
    I hear the handset being plucked off the wall and some numbers being punched in. That’s followed by a pause until the cop starts barking something in rapid-fire Italian into the phone. My guess is he’s speaking with the operator. The phone is hung up with a heavy plastic slap. The cop approaches me.
    â€œWe have a trace being conducted on the last number to have called this line,” he informs me. “The detective will contact you with the information when he receives it. In the meantime, is there anything we can get for you? Food? Water? Wine?”
    â€œToilet paper?” barks the second cop.
    The two officers laugh, like this is one hell of a party.
    â€œMy fiancée,” I say. “You can find her and bring her back.”
    â€œWe will find her,” he swears. “If she wants to be found.”
    With that, the two officers leave, closing the door behind them.
    I make my way around to the couch and sit down. The heavy silence bears its weight upon my shoulders. I feel numb and suddenly, beyond exhausted. I lie down on the couch and close my eyes.
    As always, darkness prevails.

Chapter 17
    IN MY DREAM I am walking the perimeter of the village. Already flies have gathered all around the dead cow. Gathered in swarms. Men are moaning and women are crying. They wail for the dead. From down on their knees the women pound their chests with their fists. They are draped in burkas, their faces hidden, but their striking blue eyes swelled and glossy form the tears. No amount of cloth can hide a mother’s love and a mother’s grief.
    Some of my men are busy breaking down doors and gathering the people who hide inside the stone buildings that haven’t been hit or are not engulfed in fire. The soldiers drag them out and make them assemble near the well in the center of the village. The soldiers scream at the frightened people in pidgin Tajik, let them know who’s boss. Some of the soldiers search the untouched buildings for contraband. Weapons, bombs, and bullets hidden inside the walls and under the floorboards. When they find them, they will toss in a live grenade and blow the structure sky high.
    We always find contraband amongst the Tajiks, even if they are, for the most part, poets, musicians, and philosophers. Peaceful people. But they also hate the invaders who have been attacking this barren landscape for thousands of years. Me. Us. This war…we are just but a blip on the Afghan battlefront timeline. This war will be remembered until it is forgotten when the next one comes along. Like all the wars waged here to stalemate, it will be fought on horseback.
    Small arms fire erupts.
    I hear some screams.
    Then an explosion.
    The door to one of the stone huts is blown off and a fire flashes.
    One of my men, a corporal, appears. He’s got his M4 carbine poised in one hand, and he’s dragging an impossibly thin old man by the collar of his tunic. He tosses the man onto the ground near the well.
    â€œS.O.B. tried to stab me, Captain,” he grouses, half out of breath.
    I take a good look at the old man and discover he’s not old at all. Nor is he a man. The person being dragged along the ground is a woman. When I see her face, I see my Grace.

Chapter 18
    WHEN I WAKE I find myself not on the