Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
I’d buried him in the canyons off Mulholland Drive, my hands steady despite the horror coursing through me. Not my first grave, thanks to the war, but the first I’d dug for a man I’d killed outside of combat.
The guilt should be crushing me. Instead, I feel a strange, detached unease—as if the actions were committed by someone else, someone wearing my skin.
Because it was someone else who had murdered Marco, wasn’t it?
I mean, it wasn’t me.
It can’t be.
I can’t be…a monster.
What I need are answers. Professional help. These blackouts are getting worse, the gaps in my memory growing larger.
And now people are dying during those gaps.
I dress quickly, deciding to skip breakfast. Food holds little appeal lately, though I’m consumed by a different kind of hunger I can’t name. By nine, I’m sitting in Dr. Harold Wheeler’s waiting room, an austere space that smells of antiseptic and old magazines.
Wheeler was the battalion doctor during my time in Europe. He’s seen the worst of what war does to a man’s mind—the thousand-yard stares, the night terrors, the violent outbursts. If anyone can make sense of what’s happening to me, it’s him.
“Victor Callahan,” he says, when I’m finally ushered into his office, rising from behind his desk to shake my hand. “Been a while. What brings you in today?”
I take the offered seat, studying the man before me. Wheeler looks older than I remember—hair grayer, face more lined. The war aged all of us, I suppose.
“I’ve been having blackouts,” I admit. “Losing time. Hours, sometimes a full day. No memory of where I went or what I did.”
Wheeler’s expression doesn’t change as he reaches for his notepad, which I find relieving. “How long has this been happening?”
“A few weeks. Getting worse.” I hesitate, then add, “Started around my thirty-fifth birthday.”
He nods, making a note. “Any other symptoms? Headaches? Visual disturbances? Changes in appetite?”
“All of the above. Light bothers me sometimes, sounds seem louder. Food doesn’t taste right anymore.” I don’t mention the blood I vomited after finding Marco, the metallic taste that lingers in my mouth after each episode.
Wheeler listens, his pen scratching against paper. When I finish, he leans back in his chair, studying me.
“Combat fatigue can manifest in unusual ways,” he says finally. “Delayed onset isn’t uncommon, especially when triggered by stress.”
“It’s been eight years since the war,” I point out.
“But you also lost your wife as well.”
I swallow that down. “I’ve grieved her. I’ve moved on.”
“So you say. The mind is complicated, Victor. Sometimes it holds things at bay until it can’t anymore.” He sets down his pen. “What’s your caseload like? Still working yourself to the bone?”
“I’ve taken on a high-profile case. The Black Dahlia murder.”
Wheeler’s eyebrows lift. “No wonder you’re having episodes. The whole city’s on edge about that one. Stress can do terrible things to a man, especially one with your history.”
“So that’s your diagnosis? Stress?”
“For now.” He reaches into his desk drawer, withdrawing a small bottle of pills. “These might help with the anxiety, make it easier to sleep. But honestly? What you need is rest. Step back from the case. Have some fun. Take a vacation. Fall in love.”
I pocket the pills, knowing I won’t take them. Dulling my senses seems dangerous right now, when I need every faculty sharp.
“Thanks, Doc,” I say, rising to leave.
He stops me at the door. “Victor. If the blackouts continue, or if you find yourself with…violent impulses, come back immediately. There are treatments, facilities that can help.”
The warning in his eyes is clear. He thinks I’m at risk of snapping, of becoming one of those veterans who make the papers for all the wrong reasons. If he only knew what I’ve already done.
Back at my apartment, I sit by the phone, staring at it like it might bite. I should call Norma, check in at the office. I should call Coleman, see if Marco’s disappearance has been reported yet. Instead, I find myself dialing Lena’s number, my guilt be damned.
She answers on the third ring, her voice sending an electric current down my spine—that same voice that had cried out my name in last night’s dream.
“Hello?”
“It’s Callahan,” I say, my voice sounding rough.
She lets out a shaky exhale, then: “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I know. I got your messages.” Three of them, all asking me to call, each more urgent than the last. “I’ve been…following leads.”
“We need to talk,” she says, and something in her tone sets my nerves on edge. No one ever likes to hear that phrase. “Can you meet me?”
“When?”
“Tonight. Seven p.m. Drinks at Hotel Culver City.”
I check my watch. Just past noon. “I’ll be there.”
“Victor,” she says, using my first name for the first time that I can recall. “Be careful coming over. You might be watched. Mickey’s people are looking for Marco. He’s…missing.”