Gingerbread Man

funny how you can feel a person’s presence or absence. Human beings give off some kind of…I don’t know, energy or force field or something. You can sense it clearly and easily if you aren’t too busy looking for them with your eyes. At least, that was my explanation for it. I didn’t remember noticing it until I’d gone blind. Then again, who remembered details like that prior to age twelve?
    "So?" Sandra took the cop’s former chair. "What happened?"
    I told her what she already knew from my phone call. "Got run over by a cop. Not that one, though. A much better-looking one, according to my built-in TV. A detective, even."
    "You should sue," she said. She reached out to take my glasses from my face, then put them back a second later. "Crooked," she said. "You’d get a zillion."
    "I already
have
a zillion. You know, give or take. Besides, it was my fault, so—"
    "You weren’t in the crosswalk?"
    "I speed-walked into the crosswalk without even pausing. The guy couldn’t stop. I was pissed. About Tommy."
    "I know."
    "Besides, how is the ‘make peace with the pain’ guru going to look in a big messy lawsuit? It would cost me more than I’d gain."
    She sighed. "I suppose you’re right."
    "So I’m here for the night."
    "Yeah, well, you’d better stow the attitude, then. People talk." And then she was leaning over the bed, apparently forgetting the part where I’d mentioned that I had a bruised rib, and hugging me again. "God, when I think what could’ve happened… We don’t know where Tommy is. Mom and Dad have been gone ten years now. I don’t want to lose you, too."
    "Mom and Dad went the way they would’ve wanted to. Together and on vacation." Cruise ship capsized. It was all over the news. "And we almost never know where Tommy is, so we should be used to it by now."
    "I know."
    "You won’t lose me, too. I promise." I grunted, because she was still hugging me and the rib was still bruised. "I’m fine. And I’ll stay that way if you’ll quit trying to break the rest of my ribs."
    Warmth on my face. Tears. Hers, not mine. I didn’t believe in them. They didn’t serve a hell of a lot of purpose except to rinse the eyes, and I could do that with Visine, thanks.
    "So they’re letting you go tomorrow, then?" she asked, sniffling, unbending, releasing me from her killer hug.
    "Probably tomorrow, they said."
    "Why only probably?"
    "I don’t know."
    "I want to talk to the doctor."
    "Well, you can’t, big sis, because I’m of age, and that health care proxy I gave you doesn’t kick in unless I’m incapacitated. So you’re going to have to take my word on this. I’m fine."
    "Hell."
    "I’m
fine
," I repeated. "And the last thing I want is a fan club vigil in the waiting room or, God forbid, the press showing up. So keep this to yourself and tell my right-hand Goth to do the same. Got it?"
    "Of course I’ve got it. And I’ll tell Amy. You know me, honey."
    Yeah
, I thought.
That’s what I’m afraid of.
    * * *
    MASON HAD WORRIED all the way to his place. He’d jogged up the stairs with his heart in his throat, assuring himself that Eric was fine, but something—that same intuition that made him an uncannily successful detective, maybe—was telling him that he wasn’t okay at all. The apartment was the second floor of a two-family house, and the family who owned it rarely used the ground floor but kept it vacant just in case.
    More money than brains, maybe, Mason didn’t know. He’d always figured if he held out long enough, they would get sick of keeping it and rent him the whole damn thing.
    When he got to the top step his heart was pounding and his mouth was dry. Then he opened the door.
    It was like a curtain parting on a nightmare. His brother was on the couch with a .44 Magnum jammed to the side of his head, just above the ear, awkwardly holding the piece with both hands, tears streaming from his reddened eyes. Eyes that shot to Mason’s for an instant, eyes so full of pain Mason could feel it himself.
    He lunged and shouted and the gun went off. Ear-splitting, that shot in the confines of the small room. The blood spray was like an explosion.
    He halted midway to his brother, tripping over himself and falling to his knees in time with Eric falling over sideways on the couch. Rumpling the plastic with which he’d covered it.
    "Ahh, God, what the fuck, Eric,
whatthefuck
…?" He scrambled closer on hands and knees, over more plastic on the floor. There was very little left of