The Hollow Ones(20)

She didn’t understand at first. “Into what happened? I can’t go near that.”

“You have to. If you want to know what really happened. I know someone who can help you.”

“Thank you, Agent Solomon,” she said, trying to strike a balance between politeness and purpose, “but I’m going to let the Bureau do their work, and I’m going to do mine. Speaking of which…”

She made a halfhearted gesture toward the door, anxious to leave.

“What you do,” Solomon said, “is write a letter briefly outlining what happened and requesting assistance. You write it on paper. Unadorned prose. State your case. Simply. Truly. Ask for help. You fold it once—exactly once, right in the middle—then seal it in a buff-colored manila envelope. You know the type, six inches by nine inches? They call it booklet size. Address it to—you write this down now—Hugo Blackwood, Esquire. Thirteen and a Half Stone Street. Wall Street area. Know it?”

She waited until he was finished before shaking her head. “What?”

“One of the oldest streets in Manhattan. Listen to me carefully. There is a black iron mailbox tucked away in a narrow stone wall between buildings. Hard to find if you’re not looking for it, no number or mark. Nearly invisible—more accurately, forgotten. You deliver it by hand, yourself. An act of contrition, humility. You deposit the envelope containing your letter into the mail slot and then walk away. You wait for him.”

Odessa nodded, careful to hold an ambivalent expression now. She felt pity but also an immense sense of compassion for Solomon, realizing his mind had already been affected by the stroke. Their entire conversation suddenly made sense…in that it didn’t make sense.

“What was that address again?” she asked politely.

“Thirteen and a Half Stone Street.”

“Okay,” she said, as though committing it to memory. “Got it.”

“You’ll do this? Exactly as I said?”

“I will,” answered Odessa. “Thank you. How will I know if—”

“If your plea is true—if it is what I think it is—he’ll show up.”

He watched her eyes. She thought she had him hooked, but as he kept tracking her gaze, she felt herself wither a bit. Another moment of gentle scrutiny and Solomon turned his gaze to the window, looking through the upper-story grime at the gray city sky.

“I know these days are difficult for you,” he said. “Just getting out of bed in the morning. Brushing your teeth. I know that, looking at yourself in the mirror, all you can think about is the shooting, and how it could have gone different.”

Odessa watched him watching the city. His brain sure didn’t seem soft at the moment. He had her mind-set nailed down tight.

“People call it regret, but it’s true awareness,” he continued. “It’s pure comprehension that the actions you take and don’t take have direct effect on others. You’re complicit. I’m complicit. We’re all complicit. The definition isn’t ‘involved in a crime’; it’s more about having done someone wrong in some way. It happens to everyone. So tomorrow morning, when you’re in front of that mirror brushing those pearly whites, think about why you do it. Not the oral health benefits. Brushing your teeth, combing your hair, buttering your toast, thinking about what the day will bring you. Everything is an invocation. Little, itty-bitty, step-by-step moments of holy summoning. But here’s the thing about it. Sometimes we are not the ones doing the summoning. Sometimes we are the ones being summoned.”

Solomon turned his yellowing eyes back to her.

“I was expecting someone to come,” he said, “but it sure as hell wasn’t you.”

He had lost Odessa at the end there. Mentally it seemed that he was going in and out of coherence. All she knew was: She really wanted to leave now. But gracefully.

“Anyway, Agent Solomon, your personal items are right here in this carton,” she said. “Do you want me to find room in the closet for them?”

“You can just take ’em back with you,” he said.

“I can’t, really…”

“I got no family, nobody to give it to, never mind nobody to help carry it all home. If I ever get home. Speaking of which. I know I’m imposing on you, but with the suspension you got nothing but time…”

“It’s not officially a suspension, really…”

“My mistake,” he said with a gentle smile. “But like I said, I got nobody else in my life. Would you please, if I give you the address, bring my things back to my home? And maybe check on the place while you’re there? Turn on a few lights inside—feed Dennis. Damn.”

“Who’s Dennis?”

“Fish I adopted. Orphan fish. Very sad…He’s gonna be hungry.”

“Oh my God.”

“Yeah. Forgot about him. He might be looking for a new home soon, if you know of anyone.”

Solomon scribbled down his address, then closed his eyes to rest. Odessa put the address in her pocket, lifted the carton, and said goodbye…but Earl Solomon was already asleep.





1962. The Mississippi Delta.



Rookie agent Earl Solomon tramped through the woods in his leather wing-tip shoes. He stepped carefully; he owned only one pair. The ground was dry on top, but the soil and debris were damp when turned over. His white cotton shirt, under his summer-weight suit jacket, was already soaked through with perspiration.