The Disappearance of Grace by Vincent Zandri

resistance. Or, at the very least a scream.”
    â€œDoesn’t matter that you don’t believe it. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
    â€œLike you say, it would take a kidnapper in possession of the skills required of a great assassin or political enemy. Your Grace doesn’t fit the description of an enemy of state. Did she have any enemies?”
    â€œOf course not,” I insist. But naturally, I have no idea if Grace had any enemies or not. Certainly no one who would go to the lengths necessary to kidnap her.
    â€œI must tell you, Captain Angel, as much as it hurts to hear it, I believe it is more likely than not, that your fiancée left of her own accord. You’ve already admitted to her affair while you were fighting the war. It might be the most reasonable conclusion.”
    I shoot up.
    â€œI’ve already told you that’s impossible!” I shout. “Grace would never leave me for anyone! We. Are. In. Love.”
    I find myself leaning over his desk. The door shoots open again.
    â€œIt is the only explanation!” the detective barks back.
    I hear footsteps, and my arms snatched up in the grasp of not one but two men.
    â€œGet off of me!”
    But they tighten their grip.
    â€œI want to speak to someone from my embassy. The American embassy.”
    â€œWhy? They can do nothing for you.”
    â€œMy fiancée is missing. They damn well will do something. It’s their job to protect Americans in danger in a foreign country.”
    â€œCaptain Angel, please calm down. You are not in danger. I told you before, if Grace left of her own accord, no one, not even your embassy, can do anything about it.”
    I struggle against the arms that hold me.
    â€œCall them. Do it. Do it now.”
    I hear the detective pick up the phone, while exhaling a frustrated breath.
    â€œThe American embassy, please,” he speaks. Then, “Let him go, Fredo. Set him down.”
    The men release me.
    â€œNow please behave, Captain,” adds the detective. “Or you will be speaking to your embassy official from a jail cell in Venice.” He laughs. “Of course, that would be quite the story to tell your grandchildren one day.”

Chapter 24
    I AM NOT TOSSED into a jail cell. Rather, I am escorted to a small waiting area upstairs where I am afforded a view of the Grand Canal that would easily cost me five hundred Euros per night if this were a hotel. Or so a young woman tells me as she escorts me up the stairs. It’s a damned shame I can’t see it. Staring out onto the canal with the never-ending boat traffic moving up and down its narrow man-made banks would help the time pass faster. Instead, I make myself comfortable by seating myself on the leather couch situated up against the far wall, and close my eyes.
    Soon I am walking inside the village, to the dreadful sound of crying and moaning. To my left, two of the stone buildings are burning. A half dozen corralled horses are whinnying, bucking, and snorting now that the earth beneath their hooves has exploded violently. Cats, dogs, and chickens scurry about my booted feet, as though oblivious to the death that now surrounds them. While the women fall to their knees in grief over the dead, the men of the village do something strange. Not far from the well, they also take to their knees.
    The men begin to pray together, their eyes closed until their raise up their heads and open them unto an imaginary heaven. From where I stand by the stone well, my M4 slung over my shoulder, side-arm hanging off my right hip and strapped to my right thigh, they don’t seem to be cursing God. They are thanking Him. Praising Him even. They seem to understand that what has happened to their village is not the work of an angry vengeful God, but instead, simply the work of men no better or worse than themselves. Those who have died in the attack are already in paradise and for this, and they thank God