Chapter Fifteen

Jim didn't sleep well that night. He kept waking up, thinking. There were never any useful revelations, leaving him tired, groggy, and frustrated by morning. He rose before Christie, as usual. He could function on little sleep, he knew. He'd never been a great sleeper, and after the shooting, when he'd started having nightmares, he'd been conflicted over whether or not he should try it at all. One the one hand, he was blind, so the less time he spent awake, the better. On the other hand, sleep offered little comfort, leaving him disoriented and often frightened.

The nightmares didn't come as frequently now, but he still found it difficult to sleep, always plagued with thoughts of how he was screwing up his life, no matter what he did.

The latest thing with Christie had been the problem last night. He just couldn't get over it. Yeah, he admitted he had enjoyed spending the weekend with her, but there was just something false about the whole thing. He could feel the tension still bubbling underneath, especially at Christie's birthday dinner, letting him know things weren't likely to stay okay much longer. It was only a matter of time.

And the Marty thing, that was just… icing. Something to top it all off.

Maybe Galloway wouldn't question another therapist's recommendations, but Jim felt he had no choice. He stepped out of the shower and heard Christie get up. Now was as good a time as any, he guessed. That way, even if the discussion went badly, they could both head off to work and cool down.

He followed her into the kitchen half-dressed, pulling his shirt over his shoulders, his tie between his teeth. He shrugged the shirt into place and removed the tie, listening carefully for his wife. She was barefoot and quiet, but he could hear her making coffee.

"Christie?" he asked as he started to button his shirt. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah," she said, her voice still rough with sleep. "Is something wrong?" She came over and finished buttoning his shirt, then started to put his tie on. He let her, even though he'd never much enjoyed her fussing over his clothes.

He cleared his throat. "Is something wrong?" he asked her back.

"What do you mean?"

"This weekend, at dinner. And the whole thing with the therapist. Don't get me wrong, it's been great, but…"

"But?"

"Did you really just… forget?"

"Forget what?"

Jim bobbed his head to one side, then the other. "Okay, forgive. Did you?"

"Forgive what?"

It was early and his interviewing skills didn't extend to his wife. It wasn't like she'd committed some crime by trying to pretend nothing had ever been wrong between them. Couldn't he just accept it and enjoy it?

But he still had that feeling that everything wasn't okay, and if they just left it, it would fester, and it would come back.

"Did you forgive me?" he asked. "Because I just didn't think you were ever going to, and you got mad at dinner over something—"

"If you don't think I'm ever going to be able to forgive you, then why am I still here? Why are you?"

"I'm still here because I don't have to forgive me—"

"You don't?" Her voice had grown cold.

"That came out wrong." He squinched up his face and moved away a step.

"Jim, I've been trying for over a year to forgive you. So why are you bringing this up when I finally did? Do you really think I'm that unforgiving of a person?"

"Christie—"

"No, you do, don't you?"

"If you've forgiven me, why are you so mad?"

"Maybe because you won't let it go."

"Then tell me, what did I do at dinner that made you so angry?"

"I wasn't angry!" She slammed a cupboard. "I am now, but I wasn't then."

"Upset, then."

"I wasn't. I was fine."

"Christie—"

She slammed the bedroom door.

Jim sighed. They really needed a mediator.

He fell back on the couch, his good intentions mashed. He sighed again. He could hear Christie getting ready for work and he didn't dare go in there. He stared at the ceiling, listening, thinking, wondering what they were going to do.

Talking to her was almost like talking to DeLana. He never got anywhere with either of them, but at least DeLana didn't explode on him.

His stomach turned. He still hadn't gotten anything useful from DeLana, and he couldn't help but wonder if they'd jeopardized her safety by going up there. Karen had said she'd make sure they weren't followed, but she'd been sick, maybe hadn't been using her best judgment.

Anne jumped into his head. He hadn't thought about her all weekend. Yet another woman in his life—or out of his life. At least he didn't have to worry about Anne anymore. He didn't have to worry about hurting her or keeping her safe or offending her, endangering her. He didn't have to keep her happy or come home to her at night or get help from her. He didn't have to rely on her. He sighed, she was sounding better all the time.

Christie, DeLana, Karen, Anne, they swam through his head.

Karen, sick at home. He'd have to manage without her for the first time.

Christie, slamming something on the counter in the bathroom, angry again. Maybe he should have just left it; maybe nothing had been wrong and he'd misread her at dinner. Maybe she'd felt sick and didn't want him to worry.

DeLana, frightened and worried about her kids and about Artez. She'd been happy to see him the day before, even if she still refused to cooperate. All he could do was hope she lived long enough to see this case solved and to see her kids through college.

And Anne, laughing at him, poking fun at him, telling him to always sit up straight. She'd always been so strong, never clingy. She'd always had this magic pull on him, and this aura of safety. Maybe because she'd never yelled at him but in jest. Maybe because she'd never cared enough to yell at him.

He couldn't let himself get wistful over Anne.

Jim found himself dozing off. He awoke when he heard the front door slam. He sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes, stretching a crick out of his neck. He had to go to work. Christie'd cool off by the time he got home.

But he didn't get off of the couch. For once, he almost dreaded going to work. The case was falling flat, even as they found information. He felt further from solving it now than ever.

Karen wasn't there.

Marty was pissed.

He couldn't rely on the guys. He'd never had to before, not really. Tom had been helpful when Karen had been mad at him that once, but he'd never had to go a full day without her. He'd once thought he couldn't do his job without Hank, but now he realized, without Karen… he was pretty helpless. So much for being a hard ass detective again. Not when he had to rely on Karen for descriptions, to drive him around, point him in the right direction.

He almost might as well stay home sick without her there.

That cockiness he'd felt the first day back, when he'd told the boss all he wanted was a chance, that was pretty much gone. It had been replaced by the realization that, yeah, he could do his job, but he needed help. He needed good will from the other detectives and his boss.

Fisk had to remind him to be careful.

Karen had to be his eyes.

Marty had to question every move he made.

Jim got off the couch, but the only reason he went into work that day was because he couldn't watch TV.

Jim picked up the phone on his desk. "8th Squad, Detective Dunbar," he said.

"Jim, Karen. I want you guys to check something out."

"You must be feeling better?"

"Worse, actually, or I'd go over there myself."

Jim leaned across his desk, resting on his elbows. "What's up?"

Karen started coughing. When she could talk again she said, "Remember that church down the street from me that I told you'd been closed for years? I've been sitting by the window all day watching people go in. No one's come out."

Jim laughed. "Is this one of those Rear Window things?"

"Jim," Karen said, sounding exasperated, "I'm not even delirious. I didn't take too many cold medications—"

"Karen, I'm sorry. It was just the way you said it—"No one's come out,"" he imitated.

"Great, Jim, thanks." She coughed again. "Good to know I have your vote of confidence."

"Karen…"

"Jim, it's the church Samantha had written in my notebook. Remember?"

Jim's mind snapped to attention and he sat up straighter. "Yeah, I remember now. You think she was trying to tell us something?"

"Maybe."

"So we'll come check it out. Give me the address."

Karen told Jim the address and he memorized it, then hung up.

"Hey," Jim said to the guys.

"How's Karen?" Tom asked.

"Worse, but she assures me she's not hallucinating. She gave us an address to check out. An old church that's been closed down. Samantha told her about it."

"A church?" Marty asked.

"Karen's channeling dead people?" Tom asked.

Jim laughed, remembering how Karen had worded everything. "Before Samantha died, Tom," Jim clarified. "Karen's been watching people go in there all day. You guys want to hit it with me?" Jim didn't want to say that if neither of them came, he wasn't sure what he'd do. He would be able to find his way there, no problem, but as for looking for things… He could ask questions, if there were really people there, but he'd definitely like someone along to lay the scene. He stood up. Even if they didn't come, he'd check it out, maybe call Karen from his cell phone for a few clues.

"I'll pass," Marty said. "I have better things to do than traipse around an old church."

Jim sighed and put on his sunglasses.

"I'm game," Tom said.

"Aren't you relieved," Marty said as Jim walked past.

"I was going anyway, Marty," Jim said, pausing momentarily.

"To do what?" Marty asked.

"Look around," Jim replied, equally snidely. "And ask questions."

"Yeah, like: where's the door."

Jim walked away.

"You must water the world…" a voice was saying. It resonated across the high rafters, oddly distorted in a place that should have had great acoustics. Tom's description had merely been "an old church." Jim's only addition to the scene was that there were no pews, probably sold off for profit long ago. Probably anything that could have been pilfered or sold had been, nailed down or not. "You must heat the world…" It was standing room only, like a palace on wedding day. They weren't close enough for Jim to feel the other people around him, but he could tell people had packed up near the front of the church. Presumably, the speaker was the infamous Uncle Josiah. They'd caught a kid on the way in and asked him what was going down. He'd excitedly told them it was speech day, but he was late and didn't want to miss Uncle Josiah. "You must communicate with the world…"

"Let's wait outside," Tom whispered.

Jim put a hand on his arm and shook his head. "Let's hear him out."

"He hasn't said anything about feeding or clothing the world."

"He might be making an analogy."

The audience must have been so rapt that no one noticed Tom and Jim whispering in back by the door. Jim crossed his arms to wait it out. Hank lay next to him. Tom shifted uncomfortably.

"I come to you with water and warmth and I teach you the ways of the world. I listen when you speak. That makes you my people; what more do you need?"

Hank yawned loudly.

"A bath," Tom whispered and Jim shushed them both.

"There is nothing holy and there is nothing sacred. That's why you're here. You're the sensitive beings downtrodden and trodden on by the people out there who just want to get ahead in life. We don't rise up, but how can we look away? We must help each other or fall to as despicable a level as the heathens outside.

"Stop praying because there's no one listening."

Two hours later the human species had been insulted to the point of being lower than demons—where the immortal demons were banished to mortality so their lives could end in an unspectacular manner buried in rotting soil. Being human was a shame.

"Geez, Jim, it sounds like he's talking them into suicide."

Jim just nodded, trying to figure this guy out. He didn't seem like a fighter of the proletariat, defender of the underdog, but he also didn't seem to be the next Hitler or Koresh. What would he have to gain if it was an elaborate mass suicide? Was he exploiting them?

"Jim, I gotta pee."

"Go. I'll be here." Jim waved him off.

Hank jumped up to leave with Tom, wagging his tail and shaking himself. Jim motioned for him to lie down and Hank sighed. If these people'd been dogs, forced to sit around listening to this guy all day, they'd have done the smart thing—reverted to primal instinct and eaten the bastard. Hank eyed Josiah distastefully—there'd be no love lost between them, he was sure. And dogs are a good judge of character. Hank rolled over on his side, kicking Jim in the ankle as revenge for being forced to stay. Hank sighed again—the big oaf of a master probably thought the kick was unintentional—probably for the best; why endanger the doggie treat rations?

"Ah, I see we have a visitor! The blind gentleman in back."

Before Jim could blink or comprehend how it happened, the voice that had been booming from the front of the crowd was beside him.

"You look like a very organized and ritualized man," the voice said quietly. "Bet you didn't see this one coming, did you, detective? Let's take you out of your comfort zone. Come."

Jim took Hank's harness and followed the dog and the man through throngs of people to the front of the church. He climbed the stairs to the pulpit.

Hank kept an eye on Josiah so closely he nearly ran himself into the makeshift pulpit. He stopped just in time and pushed against Jim.

Jim reached down to pat Hank reassuringly, but his hand was intercepted and he was spun around to face the curious audience that had started muttering. Jim dropped Hank's harness and Hank backed away. Jim turned to follow Hank's motions, punctuated by his dog tags jingling and his toenails scratching on the floor; he'd never known the dog to show an ounce of fear, much like Jim himself tried not to. It sounded like Hank was shaking and Jim could feel that fear filling him. If Hank was scared…

"My people, look at this man."

Jim turned his attention back to the speaker and the audience. If he didn't keep track of everyone, he was worried about what would happen.

"Look, because you can, and he can't. Use your gift of sight while he stands up here and listens to you look, and feels you look."

Jim had never felt uncomfortable in a crowd, but now—even as he reasoned that that was the man's goal and he shouldn't give in—he couldn't keep himself from shifting away from the pulpit. The man grabbed his arm and Jim faced the crowed, relieved for his sunglasses.

The man's grip tightened on Jim's arm, making sure he stayed in the here and now. He touched Jim's forehead, then let go. Jim felt like he was floating, like there was no floor.

"Let's pray for this man. Let's heal him."

Jim tried to focus. He couldn't hear the crowd. He couldn't feel the man standing next to him, even though he was sure there was still a hand on his arm. The room felt odd, small, like there were lights shining on him. There was warmth on his face, like a 100 watt light bulb too close to his head.

"Let's pray." The voice was suddenly distorted, unrecognizable as the man who'd pulled him onstage.

Murmuring filled the room, making it feel even smaller than before, the sound almost tangible enough to feel.

Hank whined.

Jim blinked.

Suddenly he could feel the floor beneath his feet again and the man standing only a few inches away, no longer holding him captive. Sounds became just sounds again. Jim listened as people prayed fervently for the return of his sight.

He'd prayed for that before. It had been tough, being in the hospital, not being able to see. Voices had come out of nowhere and he hadn't felt grounded, just like he'd felt he was floating a minute ago. Trying to talk to Christie, to doctors, to hold conversations without visual stimuli… Trying to remember what was going on, remember everything that happened in a day… Images had filled his head then, to the point of driving him mad, he couldn't keep them out, couldn't control them, his brain sending pictures of what it thought he should be seeing until he was so confused he cried. Feeding himself by touch… Recognizing noises, recognizing things by touch only… Keeping from crying out in the middle of the night when he awoke to noises enveloping him that he couldn't identify… It was the only time in his life he'd ever really felt fear and it had become a tangible enemy. Every little worry and fright he'd ever felt had faded into the unimportant. Christie'd been able to do nothing but sit next to him and feel his fear and cry—he'd been able to feel the remnants of tears on her face and her hands every time he'd touched her, until he didn't want to touch her anymore and had withdrawn.

Here in the church, the fear suddenly dissipated. Hope radiated through him and he didn't feel even the barest remnant of a fear. He could fly if he chose. It wasn't coming from him, it was coming from a room full of people hoping for him.

Jim shuddered.

In the hospital he'd finally accepted the fact that it was permanent. That didn't mean he still couldn't hope for a miracle, but he'd finally come to terms with what the doctors were telling him.

The man next to him moved and silence suddenly dropped. A hand was pressed over his face and then he was thrust forward so suddenly he stumbled. When he regained his balance he looked out over the crowd. Nothing had changed. He could hear gasps and sniffling.

"You tried so hard! Why didn't it work? You prayed your hearts out, yet he's still blind. So you see, no one is listening. There are no more miracles."

Jim clenched his jaw and turned toward the man. Was there anything worse than taking hope from people? Oddly, he didn't feel anger for himself, but for all the people who had been duped. He'd already known it was hopeless.

The throng dispersed and Hank lunged to Jim's side protectively.

He fought for coherent thought. "Sir?" Jim asked. He could hear footsteps walking toward the back of the stage. "You're Josiah, right?"

"Sometimes," the man replied, not turning to face Jim, just using the effect of his voice bouncing off the back wall and off the cathedral ceiling to throw a blind man off-balance. "And sometimes I'm just a Messiah."

The footsteps grew faint before Jim managed to move. "What sort of a messiah offers no hope?"

"You missed the first two hours of this meeting. Come next time and you'll see the light." He cleared his throat. "Not literally, of course." And he was gone.

Someone bumped into him as he walked off the stage and Jim suddenly found himself floating again, that fear returning. Unbalanced, lightheaded.

A hand latched onto his elbow and kept him upright, forcing him to move forward through the emptiness.

"Hey, Jim."

Jim just nodded toward Marty and kept walking down the hall. He stopped in the locker room for some aspirin. He felt… odd. The car ride back with Tom had been quiet, but not exactly comfortable. He missed Karen and wished she'd been there. She'd be able to help him sort out whatever it was he was feeling. Insulted, mocked, pitied…

He didn't want to be an example of anything, much less the example of a person whose life couldn't be complete. Someone who needed a miracle that could never come.

The weirdest part was he wasn't full of rage. He should have been slamming doors and lockers and raging about the injustice of it all.

Because, except for the lack of anger, he felt exactly the same as when he'd first lost his sight. Empty, confused, hopeful. Like he should go get a second opinion, and a third. Most of all, like he wasn't himself and never would be, didn't know who he'd ever been.

He sat down at his desk and just stared into space. He could have been taking notes or e-mailing Karen what happened, keep her up-to-date.

"Okay," Marty said, "what happened?"

"This guy does these marathon speeches," Tom said. "Jim's probably bored out of your mind, right, Jim?"

Jim barely heard him. Tom cleared his throat uncomfortably and Marty's chair creaked in Jim's direction.

"I left and when I got back, he had Jim up on stage and everyone was praying for him."

"Why'd you get up on stage, Jim?"

Jim didn't answer. He could barely form coherent thoughts. He didn't feel sick, just empty. He didn't need food or sleep, didn't feel like a full human anymore. No thoughts, no feelings.

Hank put his head on Jim's knee, but Jim ignored him.

"Okay…" Marty said slowly. "Tom? Care to enlighten me?"

"He's hardly said anything since the meeting ended. All I know is, I'd just got back. The guy watched me all the way through the door, never took his eyes off me," Tom said.

"So what'd he do to you, Jim?" Marty tried again.

Jim didn't answer, still thinking it over himself.

"His proof that there's no longer a God was that he couldn't make Jim see. If the blind can't see and the lame can't walk, you're wasting your time having faith in anything."

"Jim?"

He felt Marty's hand waving in front of his face. He could feel the air moving around it, could smell aftershave and the anti-bacterial soap from the men's room here at the squad. He couldn't get out of his own head, couldn't blink.

"Jim, you know, it's weird enough when you go all thinking on us usually, but this is just creepy."

Someone walked into the squad. Carrying a fresh cup of coffee. Jim could smell it across the room. "What's going on?" Fisk asked.

"Can you go into a coma if you're still awake?" Marty asked.

"Jim?" the lieutenant asked.

Someone smelling of spray paint was half-dragged across the room. Pigeons were landing on the windowsill. He could hear them scratching and cooing. The blind clacked against the glass as the central heating kicked on. Someone dropped a piece of paper in the hallway.

Fisk clapped a hand on Jim's shoulder and Jim blinked. The room was completely silent. "Jim, go home. Get some rest."

"Yeah, I'm fine," Jim said, but he stood up, put on his coat, and started to leave. Hank jumped up and ran after him, rubbing against him until Jim found the harness in his hand.

Christie only waited a moment for the elevator, then dashed for the stairs. It was a long way up, but she couldn't wait any longer. She kicked off her high heels and ran.

Lieutenant Fisk had called her, sounding concerned and asked her to keep an eye on Jim that night. Karen was sick and maybe he was, too. He'd barely said a word since he'd gotten back from interviewing some guy about the case. Christie knew before Fisk said it, that wasn't like Jimmy. If he talked to someone about a case, even if he didn't learn anything useful, he would talk it over and over, speculating on every tiny thing.

Panting, she threw open the door to the apartment, making sure to lock it behind her.

"Jimmy?" she called.

There was no answer. He probably should have beaten her home, though. She was sure it had taken her too long to get there.

He was sitting on the couch, staring straight head. She rushed over and felt his forehead.

Jimmy jerked back and grabbed the TV remote, turning it on.

"Are you okay?" Christie asked.

He upped the volume on the commercial.

She stepped back. He hadn't looked over at her, just stared ahead. His jaw muscles were clenched tight, one of his hands in a fist.

"Jimmy?" she tried again, quieter, and ran a hand along the hair at the back of his neck.

Again, he jerked out of her grasp, but stayed on the couch.

Was he still mad about that morning? There were things she just didn't want to talk about, their date being one of them. She'd much rather pretend everything had been great the whole time. She'd spent three days with her husband, something she might have killed for a year ago. How could she tell him she hadn't enjoyed every second? She couldn't worship him like she had before she found out about the affair. She knew now that he wasn't perfect. She just had to accept that. He didn't need to know any of that.

She grabbed the remote out of his hand and turned off the TV. "Jimmy, look at me," she ordered.

His head snapped up, he stood, reached out and grabbed the remote before she had a second to back away. He threw the remote violently against the wall, then stood there, looking down on her.

Christie stared back. For a second she thought he could see, the way he'd snatched back the remote, but in the silence, she saw his eyes shift, almost imperceptibly, outside her own gaze. "What's going on?" she asked, keeping her voice level. She'd spent the past year learning to keep emotion out of her voice the same way Jimmy kept his face unreadable.

He ignored her and sat back down on the couch.

Christie shivered in the silence, then called Dr. Galloway. She made an appointment, promising she would get him down there that evening, even as she wasn't sure how to get Jimmy to speak or move.

She climbed up next to him on the couch but didn't touch him. "Honey, your lieutenant called. What happened today?"

Jim didn't look over at her, but said, "Why'd you call Galloway?" He finally blinked.

Christie's mouth dropped a smidgen. She hadn't thought he'd be able to hear that.

Jim felt like he was fighting himself, like he was locked inside his head with all his thoughts and all his impulses. He could hear, but he couldn't respond. He still didn't know how he'd gotten home. The subway itself had been so loud he'd spent the whole ride pressed back in a seat, wondering why he couldn't see anyone.

It wasn't until he was back home on the couch that he realized he was blind. His brain felt like it was reliving that moment he found out, that horror and anger. Yet he was still functional, able to get around and do things.

There'd been a dog. It had pressed up against his legs a couple times and he'd wanted it to go away, but every time he opened his mouth to banish the dog, he'd hear a car or a truck go barreling down the street. The dog must have been like some sort of guardian angel.

If he was going to die, it wasn't going to be by throwing himself under a bus. He needed to talk to Christie first.

And she came home, despite the fight that morning and all the terrible things he'd ever subjected her to, she still came home.

He found he couldn't say a word. He wanted to ask her so many things, but the words wouldn't come out.

He heard her talking to him, but he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts, all the things he'd wanted to ask her for years. He wanted to ask why she'd stayed after Anne, especially since she obviously couldn't forgive him. He wanted to ask why she'd stayed after the shooting, when she'd always worried about his job, fought him about spending all his time and energy on the job. He wanted to ask if she still looked the same, after a year and a half. He wondered if he still looked the same. He could feel creases in his face that had deepened, and the scar at his temple, but other than that, had either of them changed yet? He'd told someone, he couldn't focus on who at the moment, that when he met people from before, he just pictured them the way they had been last time he saw them. How pathetic was that? People changed. It was ridiculous to try to pretend they hadn't.

"Why'd you call Galloway?" he found himself asking. He hadn't been paying much attention to her, and that's not really what he wanted to know. He reached out with both hands and ran them over her face, feeling as tears suddenly welled up in her eyes and her bottom lip trembled. She felt the same, but there were so many imperceptible things that he wouldn't be able to feel—

Her lips were on his, trembling and salty with tears. She had pulled him closer and kissed him, hard enough he had felt her teeth press through her lips. It took a moment, but he finally found the strength to kiss her back.

Jimmy pulled back and Christie found her hands hovering in mid-air by his face. She touched him and he cupped his hands back around her face. The look in his eyes had changed.

He kissed her tenderly a second, then pulled away again, looking lost. "I'd thought I was over it," he said quietly.

"Over what?" She sat beside him on the couch, curled around him, holding him close. He was shaking, just a little.

He didn't answer right away. "The anger. The helplessness." He shook his head. "It was like I was back in the hospital, and I was blind and that was it, like I was drowning in all the things I couldn't see."

Christie remembered the times, how she'd walk in and find her husband near tears, unable to comprehend the finality. "You aren't dead," she told him now like she had then.

"This morning, why'd you get so mad?"

Christie wanted to escape, but she didn't want to let him go. She stayed quiet.

"Christie?" He paused. "I asked what happened this weekend."

She bit her lip and buried her face in his neck. He turned around, reversing their positions so he was the one holding her. "You asked me to forgive you," she said, her voice cracking. She didn't raise her head, just spoke into his shoulder. "So I lied and said I did."

Jimmy's body tensed momentarily, his grip on her tightening. "So that whole bit about the therapist?"

"I lied."

"You didn't go see anyone?"

"No."

Jimmy sighed and squeezed her tight. "Can you forgive me? Please? It was nice, like we were married again. I really liked it. I liked who I was when I was with you."

She sniffed. "I'll try."

"Really?"

"Yes. Really. This time, I promise."