Chapter One – The Find

The Find � Chapter One

ONE

Greenwich Village, NY

Sting’s cutting voice filled the dreary loft apartment:
“A connecting principle,
Linked to the invisible,
A sleep trance, a dream dance,
A shared romance,
Synchronicity . . .”

James Brackin sat on the sofa, long legs draped over the edge. He clutched a Walther handgun in his fist. The fingers of his other hand choked a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

The loft apartment smelled like liquor and aged wood. Knotty pine bookshelves overflowed with vintage rock record albums, compact discs, and photograph albums. A Canon camera sat atop a tripod between two tungsten lights set in reflector umbrellas. A partitioned-off workspace contained two computer workstations and one printer. Behind yet another partition were Rachel’s art tools: colored pencils, dozens of horsehair brushes, calligraphy pens, and an airbrush. Everything perfectly placed, just as she liked it. The loft was a picture of simplicity. There was no television, only a Bose audio system from which Sting’s voice cried out.

Brackin brought the bottle of Jack Daniel’s to his lips and threw it back. The sharp barley alcohol bit his throat. He gasped, then lowered the bottle onto the end table. But he only caught the edge of the table, and the half empty bottle of whiskey dislodged from his grasp, hitting the hardwood floor with a loud thud.

Brackin watched the amber liquid gurgle from the neck and pool around his bare feet.

"Bye bye, Jack," he whispered sadly. “I’ll miss you.”

He reached for the framed photograph of Rachel sitting on the table and lifted the picture before his swollen eyes. He had taken it five years earlier, but it seemed like just last night. She wore only a blue cotton shirt, with her supple, bronze legs flowing out from under the shirttail. He remembered how the muscles of her inner thighs had stretched when she’d struck various poses as he’d photographed her.

“Look at me,” he had told her. Rachel had set her hands on her hips, and with a toss of her head, had swung her raven hair over a shoulder. Her spirited gaze had bored through the camera and into his heart as he’d snapped the shutter. That gaze. Taking her picture had made him feel like she belonged to him. It proved she wasn’t a figment of his imagination. He had known his ownership of her was an illusion, of course—no person could own another. Yet, she had owned him. Even after seven years of marriage, her smile had made him insanely happy, while a frown would ruin his day.

He and Rachel had first met in an espresso bar in Tel Aviv. She was sitting in the corner booth, drawing. Her silky, olive-colored fingers were guiding her pen as if it were a fine musical instrument she was playing. And there were her eyes, like droplets of dark chocolate, glancing up at what she was drawing in the distance.

James couldn't stop looking at her. He’d asked if he could sit down. Although she barely spoke English, their bond was instant. He’d never felt more himself than on that Sunday afternoon. Later, he told her she would be happy with him in New York. They would work in advertising as a team—she, the artist, he the writer/photographer. They’d be successful and grow old together. And she had left her family and joined him. Innocent and childlike, she trusted him. She had always trusted him.

Now a different picture superimposed itself over the photograph in his hand—one of Rachel's face, gaunt and pale, as she lay in a steel box.

A solitary teardrop fell from James’s eye and dotted the glass covering the photograph.

Goddamn, how he wanted the tears to flow. They were like hot acid dammed up in his eyes. But he was beyond tears. He was an emotional runaway train, motivated only by a longing to be with her. Even more maddening was his desire to punish himself for allowing her to die.

Sting's voice sliced through the air:
“If you act as you think,
The missing link,
Synchronicity.”

James put the photo back on the end table. Then he tightened his grip on the silver handgun and directed it at his temple, forcing his quivering finger to the trigger.

Don’t be a pussy, he thought. Do it just like you planned it.

Do it fast.

His sweaty finger tightened on the cold trigger.

Just do it!

Another picture flashed to mind: his brother, Peter, finding James’s body lying face down in its own blood. James was nine years older than Peter and had helped raise him from birth. He had always thought of Peter more as a son than a brother. But Peter wasn’t a baby anymore. He was in his twenties now, and perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

Damn it.  James had promised himself he wouldn’t reflect on how Peter would react to finding him dead. It’s my life. My body. I have a right to death!
James thrust Peter from his mind.

He took a quick breath. His last breath.

But Peter wouldn't go. In his mind’s eye, James saw Peter gawking down at the dead body. Crying. How could James have done this?

Suddenly, James found himself also looking down at his body, but this wasn’t a picture in his mind’s eye. He was actually out of his body, gazing down at it on the sofa. Pressed to his scull, the gun barrel shook violently. His legs were shaking too. Then a river of tears started to flow from his eyes. The dam broke. He watched his body cry as if watching someone else. It moaned like a child, although as a child he had never cried like this.

The phone rang.

He jumped back into his body.

He pried the silver handgun from his temple and collapsed onto the sofa. He curled into a fetal position and continued to cry. It was his fault Rachel was dead. 

RING . . . RING . . . RING . . .

The answering machine picked up. Rachel’s voice greeted the caller with a prerecorded message:

“James and I aren’t here right now. He’s washing the car, and then he’s going shopping for us, then he’s going to paint our bathroom, then he’s going to take me out. Me? I’m napping. Leave a message. L’Chaim!”

“Hello, James, this is Murdock Collier from American Times magazine. I’ve got an assignment for you at the Grand Canyon. Call me ASAP.”

Sting's voice cut through the sobbing that filled the air:
“If we share this nightmare,
Then we can dream
A star fall,
A phone call,
It joins all,
Synchronicity.”