“What was that?” I ask.
“Looking like a day at the park.”
“That puts a different spin on things,” I say. “What’s up?”
My partner shakes his head and shrugs. “Sounds like a body.”
* * *
We pull into the lot adjacent to the park. The sprawling lawn is empty, except for a flock of seagulls scavenging near a garbage can, and what appears to be a human form splayed out on the grass beyond the commotion.
“Any idea who called it in?” I ask, scanning the expanse.
“Whoever it was didn’t bother to stick around, I guess.”
Silvestri and I climb out and approach the lawn, which sends the birds packing. “Looks like she’s left the building,” I say as my partner and I pull pairs of nitrile gloves out of our pockets and stretch them over our fingers. I drop into a squat position and press two fingers gently against her carotid artery. After a moment, I look up and offer Silvestri a solemn shake of the head.
He drops down to get a better view of our victim. “Man, she looks young,” he observes, a frown on his face. He shakes his head as he studies her. “What a shame.”
He’s not wrong. The woman appears to be in her midthirties. She’s dressed in spandex pants, a thin hooded sweatshirt, and running shoes. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail and secured with an elastic band. The position of her body is consistent with someone having suffered a sudden physical collapse. I examine her face. The color has drained, but I don’t pick up on any overt signs of trauma. Her clothing appears to be undisturbed. I examine her hands. The unpolished nails are clipped short but evenly, with smooth edges. The wrists and forearms that extend from beneath the rolled-up sleeves of her sweatshirt are free of bruises and marks, save for a couple of light superficial scratches. I pull out my pen light and shine it into her eyes, and I catch a whiff of vomit on her breath as I lean in. I check the surrounding area but see no pools of sickness close by.
“How’s she looking?” he asks.
“Pupils look dilated,” I say. “Smells like she’s thrown up recently. That’s what’s jumping out at me.”
“You thinking natural? Some cardiac issue? Out for a jog, and then this?”
“Could be,” I answer, shaking my head.
He studies the length of her body carefully, then moves his hand toward the front of her sweatshirt, where he’s located the lone pocket on her outfit. He slips his hand inside and fishes out some loose cash and an inhaler.
“Damn,” I say. “Asthma attack, maybe.”
“Could be,” he says with a forlorn expression. As he counts out twelve dollars in fives and singles, a card falls out from among the cash. “Coffee money?” he guesses as he sets down the bills and inspects the card.
“What do you got there?”
He looks at it, then flips it and hands it to me. “Just this.”
TWO
CHARLOTTE
“Today is the day,” I say loudly, using volume as much as enthusiasm in my attempt to conjure Peter. He said he would be back this week, and I am running out of days on the calendar and doubling down on positivity.
When I woke up this morning, my intuition was strong. For the first morning since he went away, I genuinely felt the hopeful excitement of finally seeing him outweighing the negative, nagging pull that he’s gone away for good.
“He will come for me today.” I am specific in my intention. I close my eyes and picture a strong white light entering my body and radiating through me while time is suspended in the red traffic light, and I relish a few composing breaths before I start my day of interactions. The only sound I can hear is the soothing metronomic turn signal, click, click, click, click.
It’s a quieter-than-usual suburban weekday afternoon at the mouth of the parking lot, and I’m alone at the intersection. There is no one to look at me in judgment for talking to myself at full volume. Not a harried mom on her way to Pilates, or a car full of teenagers side-eyeing me, thinking, Crazy.
Then, as I enter the lot and near my corner of the complex, I practically jump out of the moving car when I see a man standing in front of my office, his back to me. He is tall with dark hair, too far away to positively identify, but it has to be him. I slow the car and squint, my heart blooming with hope, and I bounce in my seat like an excited toddler, but he’s moved out of sight behind one of the storefront pillars.
“Wait!” I bellow, then whip into a lane of open spaces. He’s already walked a good distance away by the time I pull into a parking spot mercifully close to my office door. I barely remember to shut off the engine and unfasten my seat belt before I’m out of the car.
“Peter!” I call after the steadily shrinking figure. He doesn’t hesitate in his next step or turn around. My heart sinks.
“Peter?” I say a little louder in volume, but lower in hope. He’s disappeared around a corner before the “er” leaves my lips. I check the time on my phone to see if I have a few extra minutes before my next patient to give chase, but I only have two minutes until the appointment is scheduled to begin. I chastise myself for getting out of the car; I could have driven alongside him and easily caught up.
Fuck. I want to follow him, but I’m out of time. He’ll come back. Of course he will. I pull out my phone in the hope of a text from him, asking where I am. Nothing.
I shakily put the key in the door. Was it really him? My desperation may be distorting my ability to see people clearly. I’m doubting everything lately. I should be able to recognize him by now, even at a distance. I fight against the negative self-talk that is bubbling over.
“Honestly, Charlotte. You can barely recognize yourself anymore. Get your shit together,” I mutter as the door glides open with an easy push.
“Excuse me? What did you just say to me?” The voice is so close, I feel the hair on the back of my head stand up.
I pivot sharply and we are face-to-face.
* * *
My hand is steady and I am poised to strike. The sun through the window glints off the tip of the metal. Her blue eyes are wide with fear at the sharp point moving toward her chest. She swallows hard and looks away. In one quick move, I push the tip into her skin. She exhales sharply. I smile.
There are points on the outside of the human body where if you apply enough pressure, say, with a sharp object, you can change an entire internal energy flow. You can turn someone into wet spaghetti or bring them to unconsciousness with the know-how. I pride myself on having mastered these vital points, outside and in.
I’ve never lost the thrill of seeing how they respond the first time. It’s a reminder of how powerful what I’m doing can be, and how powerless people are. How they confront the things that scare them tells a lot about their personality. In this case, she is openly afraid. I have only known her for inside an hour, but she already is an open book of insecurity and fear. It’s a large part of what has brought her to me. And makes her an ideal candidate for what I do. I keep one hand on her arm to comfort her while I home in on the next entry point.