A/N: Thanks again for reading!


Part 7: Enjoy the Silence

Chapter 20

Thursday, March 18th, 1982

Before the police and ambulance arrived, I limped to my car and stashed my gun before limping back out of the parking garage to collapse against a tree. It hurt to walk, and my head was killing me. There were a lot of bystanders and witnesses, and I didn't know if any of them saw me with a gun. It was a risk I had to take to keep from getting arrested. All I was at the moment was a deaf guy who got hit by a car. I also wasn't sure if the shooting above the teahouse was going to be reported or not. What was happening on the second floor of that building was illegal. They wouldn't want the cops called.

I was finally taken to the hospital and got looked at. They made sure I didn't have a concussion or internal damage to my body and head. They checked my legs. My left side was bruised, but otherwise in good shape. My ulna bone in my left forearm was fractured. I thought they were going to put it in a cast, but instead the nurse fastened a brace around my left arm. It was white, with holes to ventilate the padding underneath, and Velcro straps.

The nurse wiggled his fingers. I did the same. He moved his elbow. Monkey see, monkey do. I repeated the action. He smiled and gave me a thumbs up. I nodded. After being given a prescription for antibiotics and pain medication, I was sent on my way.

I took a cab back to my car and drove to the nearest pharmacy before heading home. Walking into my apartment, I shed my clothes and got into the shower. My head wound didn't require stitches, and I could use butterfly band-aids to keep it covered. My right ear took most of the impact. It was bruised and swollen. Good thing I didn't use it.

After downing a couple of ibuprofens, I took a nap on the couch. I knew if I got into bed, with how cool my bedroom got and that nice comfortable bed, I would sleep the entire day. The couch wasn't too comfortable to sleep on and after a few hours, I was up with the morning sun. I made coffee, a couple of eggs and toast, and ate while standing at the kitchen counter. My mind was on the night before. The rooms above the teahouse, and what I saw there. I've known of brothels but never actually seen one. If that was even what it was. The man I killed, Mr. Loud Shirt was either the pimp or the protection, or both. I didn't understand that kind of vile perversion and was glad I didn't.

Sitting on the counter beside the empty plate was the photograph of Sara that I'd taken. She was smiling behind those big heart-shaped sunglasses giving me the peace sign. Tears blurred the picture as I thought of what the past week had been like for her. Had Booker done that with her as well? Had he forced her, drugged her, to do those things with other men while he watched?

Shaking my head from those awful thoughts, I took my coffee out on the terrace. I ached for a cigarette as I sipped the coffee and watched the fog start to lift from out of the basin of the city below me. From my perch on the hill, I had a straight view across the entire city towards the South Bay. Up there, I never thought of myself as a criminal. I always stood upon the terrace and when I looked out saw the possibilities of what my life could be. I could finish school. I could go to college, get a degree. I could work some office jobs, maybe. Or in a lab somewhere. There were always possibilities.

However, after last night, all I saw was more of the same. What I saw was the hunt. I found that I liked it. I liked working with Catherine as we tracked down Booker. I liked studying him as I followed him through the streets. I liked discovering what had been hidden behind those doors. I wanted to know. I had to know. It was the only way to stop it. Sun Tzu also wrote that in order to understand your enemy, you must become your enemy.

If I wanted to stop men like Harvey Lee Booker, if I wanted to not only save Sara but other innocent children like Abigail, then I couldn't look away. I couldn't run away. I had to keep opening doors. I had to keep looking into red lighted rooms that I had no business looking into. Was I willing to do that? Was I willing to throw away all the thoughts I had of my future to do something that could possibly get me killed? I could've died last night, but I knew I would do it all over again if given the choice.

The criminal underbelly of this city wasn't a pretty sight. It was dark, it was ugly, and I knew not everyone could look. Not everyone wanted to look. Above the depression that was L.A. was the Hollywood sign and all the money, glitz, and glamour that sign promised for the disillusioned hopeful. I also stood above the city, and what I saw was the truth of this city. The murky underbelly of dirty children begging on the streets, the forgotten homeless living in tents and under overpasses, the pimps and dealers on the corners, and the serial killer that moved between it all and got away with murder.

In the South Bay, San Pedro, they already knew me. They knew what I was. I've been hiding from it all this time, hoping I'd be forgotten, and all this would just get better once I found Sara. That I could be redeemed. I could find my salvation, serve my penance, and hope that my good merit would be met with leniency.

That was a dream. A fantasy. I didn't know why I was putting my hope in an end result that wasn't even promised. I could go to prison for the rest of my life. But I couldn't just do nothing. I wasn't built for nothing. I knew I could do something. This was it.

I showered, shaved, took more pain reliever, and then dressed into a pair of jeans and a white buttoned-down shirt and black tie. Grabbing my leather jacket, keys, and wallet, I left the apartment. Instead of taking the elevator down, I took the steps as I slipped on my sunglasses as I crossed under a stone walkway and out into the morning light.

The lights of the Mercedes lit up the inside of the garage as I turned it on. The green, orange, and red colors on the equalizer bounced up and down as I turned on the radio before backing out. I shifted it into drive and headed off down the street. Harvey Lee Booker wasn't going anywhere just yet. He'd be at Mary Star of the Sea Catholic Church. I could pick him up there again later today, but for now, I had a future to secure, and I knew just how to do it. But I knew in the deepest depths of my soul that no matter what my future was, it'd mean absolutely nothing if I didn't save Sara.

Once on the 101, I hit the gas and sped along the freeway. I merged onto the 110 but got off almost immediately in downtown Los Angeles at Beaudry Avenue and 3rd. Since 3rd Street was a one way going west, I had to go down to 4th to go east. When I got to Hill Street, I glanced down towards Angel's Flight and saw a line already gathering at the railway station. Crossing Hill, I continued down to Broadway. The Bradbury Building was on the corner of 3rd and Broadway. I lucked out and found a parking spot on the street.

The five-story office building was an historical and architectural landmark having been built in 1893 by George Wyman and commissioned by millionaire Lewis L. Bradbury. It had a skylit atrium of access walkways, stairs, and open caged elevators, all made of iron. The Victorian-style court central court held meeting spaces, lounge chairs and couches. The bottom floor was mainly for retail stores but there was also a real estate office.

I took the iron elevator up to the fourth floor and around the walkway to the Office of Marvin Irvin, the District Attorney of Los Angeles County. I pulled open the old wooden glass door using the iron handle and walked up to the secretary's desk. The nameplate read: Cynthia Rosenthal. Cynthia had her hair up into a bun, her glasses were perched high on her nose, and she wore a nice grey blazer over her white blouse with a purple scarf. She was writing on the calendar and checking a rolodex before picking up the telephone. She punched in some numbers and placed the phone to her ear. Then she started typing on the typewriter.

While she did all of that, I surveyed the desk. There was a stack of papers and file folders in the 'In' box and only a few files in the 'Out'. Reading the calendar upside down, I saw Mr. Irvin had an appointment with IBM at 9 o'clock. She also had a stamp for notarizations. As I looked around the office, I spotted the empty leather chairs and a sofa along the wall for clients. There was a small antenna TV in the corner showing the live morning news report. There was a helicopter circling a crash on the I-5 freeway.

A long table held a coffee machine full of freshly brewed coffee and a stack of paper cups. A bag of Monarch Coffee was on the table beside the machine. A box of donuts was next to it. Beside the box was a fax machine. There were rows of filing cabinets on the wall opposite the table with stacks of binders all labeled by month and year on top. Above the filing cabinets were framed photos of the city of Los Angeles along with ones of Mr. Irvin as he shook hands with various people from top Judges to the Mayor and celebrities.

When I looked back at Cynthia behind the desk, she was staring at me. She started to speak. I read her crimson lips as she said, "I don't have all day. Do you have an appointment?"

I shook my head as I pulled out my pen and notepad.

She said, "Mr. Irvin's a busy man. He's booked up all morning." I handed her my note. Cynthia read it, shook her head, and handed it back. "Sorry, we can't help you." She pointed behind me, towards the door.

Dismissing me, she got back on the phone. I wasn't going to take no for an answer, so I wrote another note and held it in front of her face. She nearly dropped the phone as she snatched the note out of my hand. Her face was angry as her eyes got as big as her mouth. I couldn't read her lips if she was yelling. I also couldn't hear her.

/I can't hear you/ I told her. Pointing to Mr. Irvin's office, I waited.

She said, "I said he's busy. He has a meeting."

The calendar was on the desk, pointing to today's date, I tapped the time of the meeting. Mr. Irvin had an appointment with IBM at nine o'clock. It was only eight. Using my pen, I wrote: 8 AM, Grissom.

Cynthia was steaming. Her jaw was tight as she pointed at me. I smirked as she went off on me. She was cute when she was mad. I wrote on the notepad again. 'After my meeting with Mr. Irvin, do you want to get lunch?'

She took a swing at me. I stepped back. By that time, Mr. Irvin was out of his office as his door opened at the end of the room behind Cynthia. Mr. Irvin was a tall black man with a narrow face and large eyes. He wore a black suit, white shirt, and blue tie. Stepping up behind Cynthia, he spoke to her.

They were talking about me. I showed him the first note that I had written to Cynthia. 'My name's Gil Grissom. My father was Arthur Grissom. I'm deaf. I would like to speak with Mr. Irvin about my father's business.'

Mr. Irvin read my words and placed a hand on Cynthia's shoulder. He told her, "It's all right. I have a few minutes before the members of IBM arrive. I'll have a talk with him." He leveled me with a stare as he rounded the desk. "Outside."

I didn't much care where we talked, as long as we talked. I smiled back at Cynthia as we headed towards the door. She really was cute, and feisty. I bet she could've knocked me out had a desk not been between us.

Once out onto the walkway, Mr. Irvin gestured for us to continue along to the open atrium where there were two leather sofas facing one another. Between the sofas was a coffee table and on the table was an ashtray. I sat on one sofa while Mr. Irvin sat on the other. From his pockets he removed a pack of cigarettes and lighter.

I wrote, 'Is the meeting with IBM about obtaining a personal computer for the law office?'

Irvin read the note as he stared at me across the bloom of smoke. "It is," he said. "There's been developments. Lotus 1-2-3 and software for time recording and case management. I thought it couldn't get any better when Lexus came out with the red "UBIQ" terminal to let us lawyers search case files on the computer instead of pouring through books." He then smiled slightly as he leaned back on the sofa, stretching his left arm out over the back of it. "You're pretty clever. Getting Miss Rosenthal riled up, causing a big enough scene to get me to come out of my office. And now, you're getting me comfortable talking to you by asking me about the IBM meeting. All you're missing is the part where you buy me a drink." He seemed like a man who enjoyed hearing himself talk, even to a man who couldn't hear him speaking. "Are you really deaf?"

I nodded. I pointed to his mouth and my eyes then signed, /I read lips./

He understood as he nodded while rolling the cigarette back-and-forth between his left index and thumb. He wore a gold wedding band on his ring finger. A tie-clip on his tie with the initials M.A.I. His leather shoes were polished. There were gold cufflinks in his shirt's cuffs. This was a very successful and accomplished man. Elected to the position of District Attorney only two years ago. He was in it for position and status, and the money, which told me that he was a man who made deals if it got him what he wanted.

"I only have a few minutes. Are you going to tell me why I should care about your father's business? He imports and distributes coffee. We're already a buyer."

He was fishing–I could tell–but he didn't even need to cast out a line. I was there because I was willing to let myself get caught. If I wanted a deal for my freedom, I had to go to the source. The District Attorney himself.

I showed him the note I wrote. 'We sold coffee out of the Port of Los Angeles. The warehouse we have at the Port of Long Beach, we imported and distributed cocaine.'

Irvin sat forward as he tapped the ash off the cigarette into the ashtray. He took a puff and blew it out as he read my note. There was serious contemplation in eyes. He nodded before asking, "Why are you telling me this?"

'My father's gone. It's just me now. I don't want it. I've done things, know things, and I'm willing to help you, but first I need to know that I'll be protected. No jail time. I want a deal.'

"There's no bullshit with you, is there, Mr. Grissom? You get right to the point." He kept me waiting for his answer as the seconds ticked by and he finished his smoke. "No." He stood.

I stood as I said, /Please, one minute—/

"You can't hear me, and I can't read your signs."

I stuck out my hand for him to shake. He eyed my hand as I eyed him. I held up my index finger on my left hand, telling him 'one'. Irvin seemed highly impatient as he glanced around the open floor before sitting back down and crossing his legs at the ankles without shaking my hand. I sat back down and let out a breath.

Irvin wasn't me. He didn't think like me. There was no empathy. Empathy was only a projection. I knew I wouldn't get him to at least consider a deal with a hard luck story. That was for a jury of my peers, and not a seasoned D.A. I had to give him something he wanted more than me.

Focusing on my notepad, I started writing. 'A new party is interested in taking over the business. A man named Anton Fedorov. You know who that is?'

Irvin flinched at the name on the paper. He knew Anton. His white whale, perhaps?

'Do you have a case against him?'

Irvin's eyes narrowed as he sat forward on his knees and read the note. The anticipation stretched on for what felt like hours. "I do not, but I know a detective in the Narcotics Division who's working on trying to nail that bastard."

'If I give you Anton, I want a deal.' I tapped the note and placed it on the table between us.

Irvin read the note and said, "That's a big if."

I wrote on the note, 'Do you want me, or Anton?'

"You're the one sitting here telling me that you sell cocaine."

'You already knew that, but if you had proof, you wouldn't be negotiating.'

Irvin's body stilled; his shoulders rolled back as he realized that I knew what he was doing. This was the art of negotiation. You didn't start with a 'yes'. You always start with a 'no' and then work towards an agreement. We were in agreement as I held out my hand for him to shake once again. He eyed my hand and a few seconds later he shook it.

I wrote him one last note. 'I want it in writing. Notarized by Cynthia Rosenthal.'

"Fine. Then once we do that, I want to cut the shit. You tell me everything. You got it?"

I was fine with that. It was about time someone heard it.

Almost an hour later, I stepped out of Mr. Irvin's office. Seated in the client chairs in the reception area were the members of IBM. All three of them stood and walked by me to the office. Stopping beside Cynthia's desk, I showed her a note.

It read, 'I want to apologize for earlier. I was only trying to make a scene to get Mr. Irvin's attention without barging into his office.' She tossed the note down on the desk and went back to ignoring me. I slid another note under her nose. 'I need to make a phone call, but I don't speak, or hear.'

She finally met my eyes. I signed /I'm sorry/ as I sat on the edge of the desk. I really was sorry. I wrote another note and showed it to her. /I really do think you're attractive. I wasn't just telling you that to get a reaction. You don't have to have lunch with me. However, I would like it very much if you could make a call for me. It'll be quick. I read lips, so you don't have to write anything down.'

Cynthia read the note before glancing back over her shoulder to Mr. Irvin's office. "Say I make the call for you, what do I get in return?"

I nearly gasped, then I remembered that she did work in a law office. Most secretaries were also law clerks, paralegals, legal researchers, or interns working on becoming a lawyer themselves. She had already mastered bargaining. 'Lunch,' I told her. 'At Bunker Hill. We can take Angel's Flight up to Olive Street. There's a nice outdoor restaurant there I'd like to take you to.'

She accepted and then made my phone call, which turned into a relay of calls until we finally got ahold of the man I needed to see. We set a meeting time and place, which was soon, less than twenty minutes. Once off the phone, I left the law office and headed to the Rosslyn Hotel between 4th and 5th street off Main.

The once tallest building in Los Angeles, and a luxury hotel, was now a shithole. The Rosslyn was split into two buildings. The Rosslyn Hotel and the Frontier. On top of the roofs of each building were massive signboards. One read: Rosslyn Hotel. The other read: New Million Dollar Hotel Rosslyn, Fireproof, Popular Prices.

I figured that a hotel being fireproof was a big deal back in the day when it was built. I circled the block and parked along the alley between the hotel and the arts theater. I didn't enter through the front door but a side door that led immediately into a sprayed painted and urine-soaked stairwell. I almost turned around but held my breath as I ventured upstairs. The hotel now housed the poor, only charging $85 a week. Much like most of the downtown Los Angeles hotels in this neighborhood, it was now riddled with drugs and prostitution, and poor living conditions.

As I passed the fifth floor, I saw a couple of kids coming down the steps. They were skin and bone, absolutely malnourished, and I wouldn't be surprised if they were also addicted to the same drugs as their parents. They didn't even glance my way as they continued down and I continued up. Getting to the roof, I was able to breathe relatively fresh air again.

The entire roof was spray painted with broken bottles, needles, and used blankets and condoms scattered over every inch. I had to watch where I stepped. It was disgusting, but also the realness of the city that most didn't want to see. The neighborhood directly on the other side of Main Street was called Skid Row and I hate to admit that my father's business contributed to the decline of the city. There were probably people in that hotel living off the cocaine we distributed. I wish I could light a match and burn it all down, but I couldn't. The fire that was needed to get rid of all the drugs and filth in this city would cause an inferno. Nothing would be left.

I wasn't saying there weren't good people and things about the city, there were, but at times it seemed like the dirtiness of it was everywhere. One of the good people of the city was waiting for me on top of that filthy roof. At least, he wanted to be one of the good ones.

My former co-worker Nicholas Foster was leaning up against one of the legs of the signboard. He was smoking a cigarette. Pointing out across the street, towards a group of buildings a few blocks over, he said, "That's where I work now. Corner of Wall Street and Winston. Have you heard of Saul Caine? The 'King of Closeouts'? We sell everything. And I mean everything. From TVs to radios, to furniture and appliances. I'm a delivery driver. Drive a box truck. Load, unload, from sunup to sundown, man." He eyed me as he dropped the finished cigarette butt to the rooftop and stepped on it. "He's a piece of shit. I know half his inventory is hot. Stolen merchandise. That's why he can keep his prices so low."

From the inside of my jacket pocket, I pulled out a contract. Part of my deal with Mr. District Attorney Irvin. I handed it to Nicholas along with my pen. He eyed me, and then the contract, before taking both. I had already signed where I needed to sign.

He took his time reading it over. His hand rubbing over his head as he paced the roof's edge. "Are you serious?"

I nodded. Signing to him, I said, /You can go look at warehouses for the new location. Somewhere far away from Skid Row./

Nicholas shook his head as he reread the contract. He was in disbelief. "It's mine? I mean, you're staying on as President of the company, but…you want me to run it? Everything?"

/Yeah/ I told him. /You're the businessman. I was always the janitor./

"You were more than that."

I shook my head. Even when I was, I knew I wasn't. All I ever did was clean up Arthur's messes, as well as my own. This was me cleaning it up and keeping it clean. /Monarch Coffee is now completely separated from the drug business. There will be no ramifications. Keep it that way./

"Of course. I never wanted that life anyway. I just didn't have anything else, and you're my friend."

I didn't know why I never really considered Nicholas a friend before. There was always a distance I put between myself and everyone else. Whether born out of the need for self-protection or a sense of not belonging, it had always been there. But as Nicholas signed the papers and shook my hand, I knew that he was, indeed, my friend.

/This is the last time we meet here./

He nodded as he looked around. "Good, I always hated this place, but it was home. My pops was the maintenance man here for decades, but we were never given an upgraded suite or penthouse. We lived on the bottom floor, in a one-bedroom apartment. My parents and three kids. Right next to the boilers. It got hot."

I could only imagine. That sounded like hell. We walked back down the stairwell together and out the broken spray-painted door. My car was still there, thankfully.

"I can't believe you drove this here. Surprised it still has its wheels."

I shrugged. It was just a car. /Ride?/

He gestured to a box truck on the corner. "I gotta get back to work. My last day."

As I got into my car, Nicholas waved out the driver's seat of the box truck. I waved back. Then, I went back to the law office to finalize and file the contract before taking Cynthia to lunch.

After lunch, I drove to Mary Star church, spotted the Chevy Impala in the parking lot, and then found a spot across the street. I shut off the car and got out. From my trunk I removed a slim jim. Crossing the street, I walked into the parking lot and over to the Impala. I didn't even hesitate as I used the slim jim to break into the car by slipping it between the window and car door on the passenger side.

Once I had the door open, I opened the glove box and removed the car rental agreement. Printed on the agreement were many things, one of which was Harvey Lee Booker's current address and a copy of his driver's license. No wonder Sam Braun couldn't find a Los Angeles driver's license for Booker. It was from Arizona. Arizona's driver's license was valid until the owner turned 65 years old, meaning he never had to get it renewed. Never had to update his address when he moved.

I returned the rental agreement and locked the door before shutting it. Once back in my car, I started the engine and drove back to downtown L.A. The apartment he'd rented was on the corner of Pico and Maple in the Fashion District. It was a ten-story building where businesses were on the same floor as apartments. Where people lived in their art studios or fashion boutiques. Zig-zagging down the middle of the building were the fire escape stairs and at the bottom a ladder that ended on a balcony above the front door.

There was an alleyway between it and another building. I drove down the shadowed alley and pulled around to the back of the building. There was another alleyway that exited out onto Maple, and one that ran back along the tall buildings, creating a maze of narrow dark roads that lead between the buildings and out onto the main roads and into parking lots.

I got out and locked the car door before pocketing the keys and removing my sunglasses. The alley was so dark I didn't need them. Checking my watch, I saw it was two in the afternoon. If Booker kept the same schedule, he wouldn't be home until much later, after dark.

The backdoor was propped open. I easily slipped inside and started searching out halls for the elevator. Booker lived on the ninth floor. The only elevator in the place was a freight elevator that ran up the back of the building. A staircase wound up and around it all the way to the top floor. The freight was only to be used to transport heavy items and wasn't meant for people. The inside and outside of the elevator was spray painted, and it appeared to be in bad shape. It was rusty.

It wasn't any better nor worse than the High Tower elevator. I ignored the signs that warned that it wasn't for passenger use and took it up to the ninth floor. The car vibrated and was jittery the entire ride up. I had to manually open and then shut the doors behind me.

Apartment 9201 was at the end of the hall at the front of the building. I looked out of the tall windows and saw the fire escape and the buildings and cars down below on the street. It was a long way down. Staring at the door, I had no idea how to break into it. The doorframe was well enforced, and the door was solid, unlike the door I'd kicked in last night.

I could shoot the lock, but that'd attract attention. It would also send a stray bullet into the room. I didn't know what was on the other side of the door. I could accidentally kill someone. I looked at the window once again that led out to the fire escape. Pulling the window open, I climbed outside.

Leaning on the edge of the railing, I saw the window was open to the apartment. The windows were called awning windows as they were hinged at the top and opened out from the bottom. The ledge below the window wasn't wide, but it wasn't too thin either. The indentations along the parking garage wall at the airport had been thinner. If I were Spiderman I could do it, but I had no superhuman strength, or webbing, and my left arm was in a brace. The drop would kill me.

Back to square one. I left the hallway and went back down to the first floor. I went in search of the leasing office or a maintenance man. The leasing office was next to a door that entered into a thrift shop. A man was seated at the counter. He was watching the small antenna television stacked on the phone books in the corner.

He didn't smile as he turned to face me. His brown hair was dyed blond at the ends, his face was tanned, and he was wearing surfer shorts and a white tank top. I was certain he was wearing flip-flops. This must have been a part time job because I was certain his full-time job was surfing. Handing him the note I wrote, he read, 'I'm running an errand for my friend. Mr. Booker. Apartment 9201. I got all the way here and realized I forgot to get the key. Can you help me out?'

"Why the note, dude?" he asked as he handed it back.

I signed, /I'm deaf./ When I got a blank stare, I wrote it down and showed it to him.

His eyes shot up as he said, "Oh, oh, okay. Um…You need the key?" he asked. I could tell that he had yelled the words.

Why did people do that? I nodded anyway. He seemed to not care as he found the spare key to apartment 9201 and handed it over. That was easy.

Going back up to the ninth floor, I felt the anticipation building in my chest. I nearly dropped the key as I put it into the lock and turned it. The door handle turned. The door opened, and I walked into Harvey Lee Booker's apartment and shut the door.

I relocked it as I took in the place. It was a huge loft apartment with areas separated using room dividers and furniture. There was nothing personal in the open room that I saw. Seeing how Booker traveled over the world for a year before returning, this was probably an already furnished apartment.

The kitchen held dirty dishes. The couch was dented and held a sheet covering the back and seats. Coffee table was littered with beer cans and an empty pizza box. The man was a slob. I took the steps up to the loft and saw the unmade bed. There was no closest. His clothes were all hung up on a railing drilled into the wall. A dresser was next to it. There was mail on top of the dresser.

I shuffled through it and came across an envelope addressed from the Merchant Marines. It was an itinerary and boarding pass dated for tomorrow night. Harvey Lee Booker was scheduled to depart the Port of Los Angeles, Friday, March 19th at 11:00 PM on the Alba Varden cargo ship. Its destination was Cape Town, South Africa.

Going back down the steps, I saw the door that was under it. There was a slide lock on it. It was unlocked. My heart sank in my chest. I knew before I opened it. This was where she'd been. Pushing open the door, I stopped just inside the bathroom. There was a dirty old mattress on the floor next to the tub. On top of it were pillows and an old blanket. There were no children, but I knew from seeing it that this was where they slept. I glanced around the bathroom and in the mirror above the sink I saw the back of the door.

Moving around to look at it, I saw the bloody handprints and claw marks. The dents at the bottom from being kicked. I could see it in my head. Sara's desperate panic and anger as she fought to get out of the room. She beat the door so hard she split open her hand. Tears blurred my eyes as I took a deep breath. She wasn't there, but she had been.

Searching the room, I looked in the linen closet, under the skin, and the medicine cabinet. Then I flipped over the mattress before getting down onto my hands and knees to look under the clawfoot tub. That's when I found it. It was a journal. 'The Next to Nothing Book'.

I grabbed it and pulled it out from under the tub. Opening it, I saw that it was Sara's. Her mother had written a declaration on the front page. I flipped through it and got to the last couple of pages. What I read broke me. She was desperate, and pleading, as she wrote a message out into the universe, hoping upon hope that it was heard.

I heard it. On Wednesday, March 10th, one week ago, she had written: 'Valjean, please, you're the only friend I have left! I know you're out there! He said he killed my mom…' and then at the end, 'Please, please, Valjean, find me.'

Reading back through her journal entries, I discovered that I was Valjean. I was her only friend left.

I kept the key and returned to my car. Rolling down the alley, I turned onto Maple and drove back to the church. The Chevy Impala was still parked in the same spot. I parked a few rows behind it and there I waited until Booker left the church. If he was leaving tomorrow night, then he had to be planning to kill Abigail soon if he hadn't done so already. For all I knew, she was already dead.

TBC…