Even if Bravo hadn't understood every word his father used he couldn't mistake the meaning or the intent. Manifest, he thought, turning over the word in his mind. It was strange and beautiful, like a gem he'd once seen in a store window, gleaming, faceted, deeply colored and, somehow, mysterious. He could feel his father's intent, a living thing, as palpable and intimate as a heartbeat. He knew what his father wanted for him and, naturally enough, he wanted it, too.
I want to manifest myself one day, he thought, as he threw himself mind and soul into solving the puzzle his brilliant father had devised for him.
A sharp pain racked him, threatening to draw him far away, and he fought against it, fought as hard as he could. More than anything, he wanted to stay by his father's side, to complete the puzzle because puzzles linked son to father in a very private and mysterious manner. But another spasm of pain clouded his vision and his father's face flickered like quicksilver, swimming away into a mist of voices that all at once had gathered around him like a murder of crows…
'At last. He's coming around.'
'It's about time.'
Bravo heard these voices as if through a wall of cotton. He smelled a masculine cologne cutting through a peculiar sickly-sweet scent. He began to retch, felt strong hands on him, wanted to shake them off but lacked the strength. He had trouble stringing two thoughts together, as if he no longer wanted to think.
On opening his eyes, he was presented with two hazy shapes. As his vision slowly cleared these shapes resolved themselves into two men standing over him. The older one was slight. He had very dark skin and Indian features; he was in a white coat-a doctor. The other, perhaps a decade younger, had a face as rumpled as his suit. Bravo noticed his jacket had one frayed cuff. The strong cologne was coming off him in waves.
'How are you feeling?' the doctor said in a slight singsong accent. He had cocked his head, like one of those crows Bravo had imagined. His coffee-black eyes scanned the electronic readouts flickering above Bravo's head. 'Mr. Shaw, please say something if you can hear me.'
The invocation of his family name came like a splash of cold water. 'Where am I?' Bravo's voice sounded thick and peculiar to his ears.
'In hospital. St. Vincent's,' the doctor said. 'You've got some deep bruises, contusions, burns here and there and, of course, a concussion. But most fortunately nothing broken or burst.'
'How long have I been here?'
The doctor checked his watch. 'It's just about two days since they brought you in.'
'Two days!' Bravo put a hand up to one ear, but the doctor's slim brown hand stopped him. 'Everything sounds muffled-and there's a ringing…'
'Your proximity to the explosion caused a degree of temporary hearing loss,' the doctor said. 'Perfectly normal reaction, I assure you. I'm relieved that you've regained consciousness. I don't mind telling you that you had us all a bit on edge.'
'That damn heavy door saved you, Mr. Shaw, that's a fact,' the younger man said in a heavy New York accent.
And then it all came rushing back-the sprint up the block, mounting the worn limestone steps, a fury of sound and then… nothing. All at once everything looked flat. He felt hollow inside, as if while he was unconscious some great hand had passed through skin and tissue to scoop out his insides.
The doctor's brow wrinkled. 'Mr. Shaw, did you hear me? I said that within a matter of days your hearing will be unimpaired.'
'I heard you.' In truth, Bravo had received this news with an equanimity bordering on stoicism. 'My father?'
'He didn't make it,' the suit said. 'I'm sorry for your loss.'
Bravo closed his eyes. The room began to swim around, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing.
'I told you. It's too soon,' the doctor said from somewhere over Bravo's head. Then he felt a warmth, a sense of calm enter his system.
'Relax, Mr. Shaw,' the doctor said. 'I'm just giving you a bit of Valium.'
Still, he struggled against it-the Valium and the tears that burned his lids, tears that leaked out onto his cheeks, humiliating him in front of strangers. 'I don't want to be calm.' He had to know… 'My sister. Is Emma alive?'
'She's in the room down the hall.' The suit had taken out a pad and pencil. No PDA for him.
'Don't worry about her. Don't worry about anything,' the doctor added soothingly.
'I need some time with him,' the suit said gruffly. There followed a minor altercation, played out on the edge of Bravo's consciousness, which the suit ultimately won.
When Bravo next opened his eyes, the suit was looking at him out of liquid brown eyes, slightly red around their edges. Dandruff lay on the shoulders of his jacket like ash from a fire. Or an explosion. 'My name's Detective Splayne, Mr. Shaw.' He held up an ID tag. 'NYPD.'
Beyond the door, a conversation had started up, one voice old and querulous. The squeak of rubber wheels took them away. Bravo endured the deathly silence as long as he was able. 'You're sure. There isn't any mistake?'
The detective produced two photos, handed them to Bravo.
'I'm afraid he took the brant of the blast,' he said softly.
Bravo looked at his father, or rather what was left of him, laid out on a slab. The second photo, unspeakably stark and therefore vile, was a close-up of his face. The pictures looked unreal, something from a gruesome Halloween prank. Bravo felt almost dizzy with sorrow and despair. His vision swam and, unbidden, the tears came again.
'Sorry, but I gotta ask. That your father? Dexter Shaw?'
'Yes.' It took him a very long time to say it, and when he did his throat felt raw, as if he'd been screaming for hours.
Splayne nodded, pocketed the photos and went and stood by the window, silent as a sentinel.
Bravo wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. 'How… how is Emma?' He found that he was almost afraid to ask.
'The doctor says she's out of the woods.'
Splayne's words momentarily reassured him, before the full force of his father's death came rushing back to him, blotting out everything. Dimly, he became aware of the scrape of a chair's legs, and when he next opened his eyes, Splayne was sitting beside the bed, watching him, patient as a cat.
The detective said, 'I know this is difficult for you, Mr. Shaw, but you're an eyewitness.'
'What about my sister?'
'I already said.'
' 'Out of the woods.' What does that mean?'
Splayne sighed as he ran a huge hand across the worn facade of his face. 'Please tell me what you remember.' He sat still, hunch-shouldered, directing all his attention at the man lying on the hospital bed.
'When you tell me Emma's condition.'
'Christ, you're a piece of work.' Splayne took a breath. 'Okay, she's blind.'
Bravo felt his heart jolt. 'Blind?'
'They've gone in and done whatever they could. The doc says that either she regains her sight in a week or two, or the blindness will be permanent.'
'Oh, God.'
'See, this is what I wanted to avoid.' Splayne leaned forward. 'You aren't gonna pass out on me, are you?'
With fingers like steel pincers, he steered Bravo's face in his direction, stared hard into his eyes. There was a slight cast to the left eye, as if something terrible had happened to that side of his face. Bravo caught the other's intensity, allowed it to bring himself back from the edge of panic and despair. His father dead, Emma blinded, all in the space of a single breath. It was too much, he couldn't accept it as the truth. There must be another reality out there-one in which his father had survived, where Emma hadn't lost her sight-if only he could find it.
'Mr. Shaw, I need you to tell me what happened. It's important, okay?'
