Come to Light

By Paul Madonna

From award-winning artist and author Paul Madonna comes an electrifying mystery novel full of unexpected plot twists, lively characters, and over one hundred lush drawings. Presented in an innovative three-volume boxed set, Come to Light is a gripping page-turner that weaves an intoxicating tale of love, murder, books and art.

Featured as a CrimeReads "Daily Thrill"

"Almost any book is sure to please the bookish, but a book that can pique the interest of bibliophiles is as precious as a padparadscha sapphire. Here are some such gems. . . Artist and author Paul Madonna pens a mystery novel full of unexpected plot twists and lively characters accompanied by more than 100 strikingly rendered drawings that bring this novel to life. This tale of love, murder, books, and art is presented in a three-volume box set."
--Publishers Weekly, Holiday Gift Guide (Illustrated Books)

"Blown away by Paul Madonna's new book Come to Light. [Madonna] blends a mystery novel with his usual stunning artwork--highly recommended."
--Mike Krieger, co-founder and former CTO of Instagram

Come to Light is a fresh and original mystery with an unusual detective: Emit Hopper, a former rock star turned author and artist. Six years ago, Emit's wife, Julia, went missing. Now the remains of her two hiking companions have been found buried in the California wilderness. But the discovery raises more questions than answers, so with his love for classic detective books and rye whiskey, Emit sets out across Europe chasing down clues, sketchbook in hand.

Quickly, Emit finds himself embroiled in a plot far larger than he could have imagined: he becomes a target of a State Department investigation, gets entangled in an international ring of art thefts, and discovers his own artwork stolen. He meets an exuberant French nobleman, a murderous five-year-old, and a bohemian Roman heiress. From the Venice Biennale to the flooding of Piazza Navona, you'll find yourself laughing, gasping, and drawing right alongside Emit as he travels through some of the most beautiful regions of Europe, unraveling a suspense-filled and surprisingly tangled mystery.

Replete with strikingly rendered drawings that bring this exquisite and intriguing novel to life, Come to Light is the thrilling follow-up to the adventures of Emit Hopper, which debuted in Close Enough for the Angels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: West Margin Press
• Release date: Oct 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781513264271

Paul Madonna

Paul Madonna is an award-winning artist and best-selling author whose unique blend of drawing and storytelling has been heralded as an “all new art form.” His series All Over Coffee ran in the San Francisco Chronicle for twelve years (2003–2015), and his book Everything Is Its Own Reward won the 2011 NCBA Award for best book. Paul’s work ranges from novels to cartoons to large-scale public murals and can be found internationally in print as well as in galleries and museums. Paul was a founding editor for therumpus.net. He has taught drawing at the University of San Francisco and frequently lectures on creative practice. He holds a BFA from Carnegie Mellon University and was the first (ever!) Art Intern at MAD magazine. Paul resides in San Francisco and does in fact take commissions, traveling the world to draw and write.

Book preview

CONTENTS

Volume 1: Order Chaos

0 Chiang Mai, Thailand

Part 1 Order Chaos

1 Barcelona, Spain

2 Lisbon, Portugal

3 France

Part 2 Like a Parking Lot with Metal Teeth at the Exit

4 Lisbon, Portugal

5 Italy

Volume 2: Villa of Misfit Toes

Part 3 Villa of Misfit Toes

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

Volume 3: Ants in the Bananas

Part 4 Ants in the Bananas

14: San Francisco, California

15: Los Angeles, California

16

17: San Francisco, California

Epilogue: Post Exorcism from the House of Lone Pine

18: Amsterdam, Netherlands

Acknowledgments

Copyright

0

Chiang Mai, Thailand

MAY 2 – 3, 2017

It’s maybe 11 PM, easily ninety-five degrees, and there’s a Thai cover band belting out a damn good version of Hotel California from the go-go bar across the street. I’m in the Night Bazaar along Chang Klan Road, sitting with Randy at a grimy purple plastic table on the sidewalk, waiting for a noodle soup. I’m trying to read a Dutch crime novel. Randy is trying to get my goat.

What about one of them? Randy says, motioning with his arm that isn’t in a sling to the pack of bikini-clad Thai women pawing every male tourist who walks by. I’m sure any one of those lovely ladies would be happy to be your girlfriend. Then he giggles. They seem to love old white guys like you.

I’m fine, I say, not looking up from my book. I’m fifty-five. Not young, but also not what I’d call old. Whereas Randy is twenty-three. Making fun of my age is his way of showing we’re friends.

Just tell them you’re Emit Hopper, he says. Artist-author extraordinaire. Then they for sure won’t be able to help themselves. Maybe they’ll even inspire you to start putting people in your drawings.

Still I ignore him. I put the book down and tune into the band. I’ve heard them before. Locals from the university.

These guys are good, I say.

But Randy is having too much fun. I mean, your wife’s been gone for what? Six years now? She’d have wanted you to move on.

Now I look at him. As the guitarist launches into the classic solo, I raise my brows and shake my head to let him know he’s crossed the line. To which he again giggles. I’ve known Randy for all of three weeks. Which makes him a regular in the weekly drop-in drawing class I started teaching six months ago. Like me, he’s American, as are around a quarter of the tourists passing through Chiang Mai who randomly show up to my sessions. Most are Chinese, the rest are Australian, British, or Irish. I get a range of ages, though most tend to be in their fifties, and pretty much all are women. Randy’s one of the rare young men. And despite his obliviousness to personal boundaries—such as showing up at my house on days when I’m not holding class, hanging around for hours, and interfering with my personal life—I like him. Which is why I let slide his jokes about my age and getting a girlfriend, and why I’m not actually offended by his mentioning Julia.

Why did you even come tonight? I say. When your drawing arm is in a sling?

It’s not my fault I got hit by a scooter.

I laugh, because I’m sure it is. But I do appreciate that he came and tried to draw with his left hand. His drawings were actually much improved.

The noodle vendor waves, so I go over and get my soup. As I’m loading it with extra bean sprouts and scallions I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. I take it out and look. Blocked number.

I hesitate a moment, glance back at Randy, see he’s lost in the music, bobbing his head of overgrown curls and air-drumming with his one free hand, then answer.

Silence.

I put a finger in my ear. M, is that—

It’s Sara.

Sara. Is everything—

You haven’t heard?

Just then my phone beeps with another call. I look at the screen. It’s a US number, California. I do a quick calculation: eleven at night for me, nine in the morning there.

Sara, I’ve got another—

You need to take that. And she hangs up. I click through to the other line.

Mr Hopper?

Yes.

Sheriff Lawrence, Tuolumne County Sheriff’s department. Forgetting Randy and my soup, I put a finger to my ear again and hurry through the line of plastic tables toward the back of the market.

I’m sorry to call out of the blue like this, the sheriff says, but there’s been a discovery. Then he pauses.

Weaving through aisles of jeans, sunglasses, and knock-off designer purses, I say, Okay, so he’ll keep talking.

As you likely know, the past few years California has seen a major drought. Well, this spring all of that changed. We received excessive rainfall which resulted in a great deal of natural destruction. Several sections of the Pacific Crest Trail were severely damaged, which, until recently, have been inaccessible. But with the weather now cleared, we have multiple teams out working to restore passage. One of these sites is Lone Pine Ridge, where a significant portion of hillside collapsed. Three days ago, approximately two miles in from the trailhead, a survey team discovered what they believed to be a fractured human femur bone.

I’ve passed through the maze of vendor stands and am now out on a side street where it’s quieter. At the mention of a human bone I stop.

A cursory search immediately uncovered several additional human remains, the sheriff continues, most significantly a partial jawbone and breast plate, which triggered mobilization of an official search. The jaw retained several teeth which we began comparing against dental records of missing persons. The following day we recovered two backpacks. Given the durability of the synthetic materials, these were found relatively intact. An assessment of the contents positively identified the packs as belonging to Rachel Adams and Darlene Fenton. He pauses. If I have my facts straight, these were the two women who disappeared along with your wife, Julia Bowman, while hiking the PCT in November 2011, is this correct?

Yes, I say, moving now toward a small park built by a hotel chain to compensate for how much money they bilk out of the tourist industry.

We then narrowed our focus, the sheriff says, to the dental records of Mrs Adams, Mrs Fenton, and your wife, Julia, and yesterday came up with a match. The jawbone recovered along the Lone Pine trail belongs to Rachel Adams.

I stop next to a shrine. And the other bones? I say, as mosquitos instantly swarm my legs.

We are currently working to check DNA specifically against Rachel, Darlene, and Julia. However, the bones are in poor condition. Exposure to the elements has made extracting adequate DNA material surprisingly difficult. There is a possibility that these tests may prove inconclusive.

I understand, I say, swatting a mosquito feeding on my ankle. Tell me, sheriff, what do you think happened out there?

It’s too early to say anything for certain. Current theory is that the bodies and possessions were buried approximately ten to twenty feet off the trail. But beyond that I’m hesitant to speculate until we have more information. I can tell you, however, that a dedicated search is underway, of both the area affected by the slide as well as the surrounding terrain, and given all that we’ve recovered so far, so early on, I am hopeful that our chances of recovering more remains are high. That said, I also want to temper expectations. The nature of this kind of event makes excavation extremely difficult. This is a large site, making the search zone quite wide. The mud in some areas is over twenty feet deep, and there is a great deal of debris. The force of such an event causes an enormous amount of destruction—downed trees, boulders, all sorts of forest refuse that is now churned together—which makes the site highly dangerous to traverse. But listen— his voice softens —I can appreciate the delicacy of the situation. Almost six years ago we saw three women disappear without a trace, and now we’ve found definitive evidence of one, circumstantial evidence of a second, and no sign of a third. I can only imagine how emotionally exhausting the past six years must have been without answers, and how challenging this must be now—for you especially—given that in this scenario, the third woman is your wife.

I nod, even though he can’t see me through the phone, and swat another mosquito siphoning blood out of me.

However, the sheriff says. I can assure you, we are doing all that we can. And in the meantime, I ask for your patience while we do.

Thank you.

You should also know I have already informed Julia’s sister, Sara Bowman. I called her before you because… Well, seeing what happened to her parents, I just thought…

Of course, I say, sparing him the explanation. He’s talking about the disappearance of Julia and Sara’s parents on the 1981 commercial flight from Chicago to Rome which fell out of airspace over the Atlantic Ocean. The sisters were teenagers at the time, and to this day not one trace of the plane has been found, nor has any conclusive explanation of the accident been proffered, which is why Julia’s disappearance has been that much harder on Sara. So I understand; I would have called her first too.

Thank you, the sheriff says. I’ve also contacted the husbands of Darlene and Rachel, and now that I’ve spoken to you, a press release will be issued. Beyond that, we will continue to keep you informed as we learn more.

I thank him again, then end the call.

For a moment I just stand there in the darkness of the small park, listening to the din of the night market a block away. Then another mosquito attacks my leg, and as I swat I begin to walk. A half hour ago it was just another day: In the morning I wrote, then during the heat of the afternoon I read and napped. Early evening my students arrived and I guided them through a classic still-life drawing of fruit and bottles. At dusk I poured a whiskey for anyone who wanted to stick around, then we moved onto the deck where, as my students swapped travel stories, I tuned out, peered toward the ring road, and watched as bats swooped and dove for the evening’s bugs in the light of Tha Pae Gate. After that I would have just settled into bed to read myself to sleep had Randy—as he often does—not missed the obvious social cues to leave that everyone else—despite their widely-differing cultural backgrounds—easily caught, so I suggested he and I head to the Night Bazaar for soup to more easily send him on his way. Essentially, my regular routine, only tonight it’s been broken by a call informing me that, after almost six years, there are finally some clues to the biggest unsolved mystery of my life. The sheriff is definitely right about emotional exhaustion. You get so used to living with unanswered questions that you forget they haven’t always been there. Like hearing a jackhammer outside your window for so long that the deafening noise becomes your new silence. Then suddenly one day it quits, and it’s like—well, shit, I have no idea yet what it’s like. Seeing that this moment, right now, is that day.

•    •    •

I push back through the market and return to the noodle stand where I find my soup still on the condiment station but Randy gone. I sit at the table, drink the broth, and try to think. The band is rocking out with their version of Zeppelin’s Black Dog. They’re nailing the guitar parts, though the vocals leave more than a little to be desired.

I finish my soup and, during a raucous version of ACDC’s You Shook Me All Night Long, leave the market. As soon as the noise of the bazaar is behind me, I dial Sara back.

So you know? she says.

I do.

What are you going to do?

What do you mean?

You know what I mean.

"The better question, Sara, is what are you going to do?" Silence.

Dammit, Sara—

"There’s nothing to do," she says.

I stop walking. Of course there is. Just don’t— A click.

Sara?

But she hung up.

•    •    •

As I walk toward the ring road, past the pharmacies, tattoo parlors, and shops of women calling, Hello-hello. Where you go? Ma-ssage. Ma-ssage, I replay the sheriff’s call in my mind. I keep trying to come up with alternate scenarios of what the discovery could mean but can’t imagine any beyond the obvious. I tell myself I need to make a decision, even though I know it’s already made. What I need to do now is accept that I’m actually about to do it.

In midstride I stop—it really is now or never. I turn back, take the soi—alley—that curves around the boxing arena, pass the ladyboy bar where drag queens decked out as Buddhist deities lip-sync to Thai pop songs, turn down the row of street vendors selling electronics, and buy a prepaid phone. It’s a cheap flip phone, but doesn’t matter. I won’t need it for long.

It’s after midnight when I arrive home. I go to the bedroom where, from the back of a bottom dresser drawer, I pull out a wooden box, take out a passport, notebook, and envelope of documents. In the notebook I find Ditti’s number and, using my new flip phone, dial. The line rings twice and clicks. I enter my personal numeric code, then hang up.

While I wait I go to the kitchen, pour myself a hefty dose of Bulleit Rye over ice, down it, then pour another. A part of me feels as if this moment was always coming, as if our every movement up until now was leading to this inevitability. But the rest of me knows that’s crap. We’ve just been living.

I open my computer then hesitate; I’d almost forgotten how tiresome it is to worry about the possibility that my every little action is being watched, and remember why I don’t miss the life of subterfuge. I close the computer. If I’m going to do this, I need to go all in. Which means every precaution.

I finish my whiskey, pour another, start packing.

Only the basics: underwear, T-shirts. I know how to do this, I’ve done it many times before: pack light. And when I get to wherever I’m going, buy the clothes of that place. And if and when I move again, repeat, discarding as I go. Mostly I take the necessities: chargers, cables, couple of paperbacks, and drawing supplies—which take up more room than anything. This definitely won’t be a vacation, but that doesn’t mean I can’t read and draw. I’m gathering my toiletries when the flip phone rings.

Account number, please, a woman says, and I read another series of numbers from the notebook.

It’s a rush job, I say. How soon can he—

Can you meet?

Yes.

Can you travel?

Yes.

International?

Yes.

Europe?

I think it over. Here in Thailand would be better, but I’m going to Europe anyway, so I say, As long as it’s not France.

Barcelona. Two days.

I hang up. From the safe I take out stacks of euros and US dollars, and along with the passport, documents, and notebook, slip them into the pouches I’ve sewn between the lining of my rollaboard. From another drawer I retrieve my legitimate passport—Emit Hopper’s passport—and set my packed luggage by the door.

Now it’s time for the computer. Online I book a morning flight to Bangkok, then the earliest connection to Barcelona. I use my own credit card, my own passport, my own name. I’m fine to continue being Emit Hopper, at least for the moment.

I finish my drink and do a mental check. I contemplate taking the computer. On it is the book I’ve been writing, but while I’ll have time to draw, I doubt I’ll have the attention for plotting a novel, and anyway, it’s safer to not have the machine with me, so I decide to leave it. What else? My drawing class. I draft a group email to my recent students saying I am out of town and there will be no more class for an indefinite period of time, but hesitate before hitting send, wondering if maybe I shouldn’t leave the trail. The sessions are pay-as-you-come, so there’s no money to refund, and most people—aside from Randy—attend only one or two evenings as they’re only passing through, so I’m sure my canceling will be of little consequence. But I decide it’s worth it. I don’t want anyone—again, Randy—pounding on my door, calling attention to my house being empty. Which is why I also delete my post on the local Craigslist, to avoid any new students. What else? Gai, my housekeeper. She’s used to my coming and going, but if I end up being gone for a while I don’t want her to wonder. So on a half sheet of paper I write: Gai, taking a short vacation. Not sure how long I’ll be away. Emit. Then I fold the note and, along with three weeks' pay, tuck it underneath the fruit bowl. What else? Nothing more comes to mind, so for now I should probably sleep. Except I’m completely wired. Still, better if I try. So I take myself through the routine: brush teeth, undress, turn off all the lights except the bedside, read a little. It works.

•    •    •

I wake to the first bloom of orange on the gray dawn. It’s just before six. My flight’s not for three more hours.

I get up, go to the kitchen, load the moka pot, set it on the stove. I drink a tall glass of water, tear off a banana, peel, and—shit, the ants are back. They erupt out of the banana and spill over my hand like a voodoo curse and I immediately chuck the infested fruit into the compost bin then wash my hands of the little pests. There are a lot of things I love about living in the tropics, but the plethora of bugs is not one. Spiders, roaches, even geckos, they get everywhere. Inside your cabinets, your sheets, your shoes. But bananas? For over fifty years I thought these were nature’s perfectly packaged fruits. Then about a year ago I was in Chatuchak, Bangkok’s largest market, and peeled one to find a nest of ants living inside. I have no idea how they got in and frankly thought it was a once-in-a-lifetime fluke, but now here they are again. It’s damn weird to discover, especially today of all days. Before they get everywhere I tie up the compost bag and stick it in the fridge, then grab another banana. This one’s fine. Taking a bite, I look out the window. The morning sun is reflecting off the moat water like twinkling diamonds. It’s a new day—in the most profound sense of the word. Which is a promising sentiment, if you ignore the lack of hint as to what kind of day it might be. Apparently one with ants.

Normally fruit and coffee would be all I take in the morning, but today is anything but normal, so I go back to the fridge, pull out a bag of leftover fried rice, and cut a chunk of butter. It’s funny the things that pop into your mind when change is afoot. Like butter. It’s 2017, and Chiang Mai is a big enough city that you can easily buy food like this. But in the late ’80s, the only way to find Western food was on the black market. Back then I lived in the mountains north of here, in a village called Pai, where I happened to meet a former US Marine who was able to scare up all sorts of all-but-impossible-to-find items. His name was Roy, and he would randomly appear outside my hut with a bulging satchel and devious grin, and we’d sit in the shade guzzling Jim Beam as if it were water and munching sticks of butter as if they were blocks of cheese. But that was thirty years ago. These days, while a decent bottle of American whiskey is a still a rare find in Thailand—and twice the price as in the States—you can buy all kinds of Western foods at a grocery store whenever you want. Though I still eat butter like it’s cheese.

I melt the butter, empty in the cold fried rice, crack in an egg, and stir until it’s cooked through. Just as I’m serving, the moka pot bubbles. I pour a cup, load a tray, and go out to the porch. I lean on the railing and look out through overgrown ivy and banana trees. I live just outside of old town, in a modern house set back from the ring road, with a view of the moat and seven-hundred-year-old crumbling brick wall. When I lived in Pai back in the late ’80s, I had no idea how long I’d stay in Southeast Asia. Ended up being two years before I returned to San Francisco, which is where, aside from periods of travel, I called home for the next two decades. Then I met Julia, she went missing, and I ran back here, making a full circle, once again with no idea how long I’d stay. Coincidentally, it’s been a little over two years, though in that time I’ve spent countless hours out here on the deck, sweating in a hammock, watching storm clouds crash into the mountains, wondering if, when, and how this chapter of my life would end. I guess now I know—or at least will soon enough.

Done eating, I clean my dishes, put on my best version of current expat wardrobe—shorts, threadbare button-down, sandals—sling my messenger bag over my shoulder, grab my rollaboard, lock up the house, and leave.

Out on the ring road I hail a songthaew, one of the red covered pick-up trucks that are a cross between a taxi and local bus, and call out to the driver, Airport, as I climb in. Settling onto the bench next to a row of schoolgirls dressed in powder-blue button-downs, navy-blue pleated skirts, and blood-red ties, I watch as my house passes out of view and imagine how I might explain this to Julia if she were here. I know this isn’t what you’d want, I say to her in my head. But I have to do it. Even if I’m wrong. Even if I fail. I have to at least try. For too long, we’ve been hiding in the dark. And now, whether we like it or not, that’s about to change.

COME TO LIGHT

VOLUME 1

PART 1

Order Chaos

1

Barcelona, Spain

MAY 4 – 6, 2017

My flight to Bangkok passes easily enough, and by 10 am I’m sitting in the Suvarnabhumi Airport food court waiting for my two-fifteen to Barcelona.

It’s been many years since I’ve been to Barcelona, and I remember very little. I poke around on my phone and book a hotel in the Gothic Quarter, which appears to be the appropriate district for a tourist. I’m anxious to do more, but until I connect with Ditti, there’s not a lot else I can do—or rather, not a lot I should do if I want what’s coming next to go undetected, which I absolutely want. It’s a fourteen-hour flight with a stop through Zurich, then another day before that meeting. Luckily I’m pretty good at passing time. I settle in and read.

Ironically—considering the circumstances—I’m a crime fiction fan. Mostly detective stories and police procedurals, but also noir, spy thrillers, and all-around mysteries and whodunits. I won’t even bother trying to list all the writers I love because there’s always someone who gets left out and countless more I’ve yet to read—which is the beautiful problem of art: there are just too many greats you’ve never heard of. But I will say that my current favorite is a late Dutch author, a mouthful of a name: Janwillem van de Wetering. His main characters are two Amsterdam cops, Grijpstra and de Gier. They’re not your cliché hard-boiled outsiders. One’s a chubby wannabe musician, the other a Zen-practicing ’70s hunk. Between leads they play the drums and flute in the police station, and when they catch criminals, rather than condemn them as inhuman manifestations of evil, they treat them as unfortunate citizens who have simply made bad decisions. It’s a wonder the series isn’t shelved under fantasy.

•    •    •

Even though I fly for over half a day, it’s just after 9 PM when my Zurich layover gets in—which is something I love about international travel; it feels like you’ve managed to suspend one of the universe’s natural laws. As if you were a ball thrown straight up into the air; hovering, weightless, just as you reach the apex, until time catches up with you, sucking you back down to your otherwise inescapable time.

A muffin and an espresso then I’m in line to board when my phone rings: my friend Adam in San Francisco. He must have seen the news about Lone Pine and is calling to see how I am. Adam Levy is one of my oldest friends. We met in the early ’80s, during that hot minute when FurTrading, the heavy metal band my identical twin brother Brian and I started when we were nineteen, was a band people had heard of. This was before Brian went on to be a TV star and before I started writing books. Back then Adam edited a literary journal called Levied, and when he found out I wrote all FurTrading’s lyrics, he offered to publish me. Since then he’s published all my novels. The first, Glass Houses, was a novella-length version of an inside joke Brian and I had been telling since we were kids. Despite no one other than the two of us getting joke, the book became an overnight bestseller, propelling me to my second bout of fame, as well as transforming Adam’s small-time literary scheme into a full-blown reputable publishing house. And ever since, despite unintentional periods of being out of touch, we’ve thought of each other as family. So much so that after Julia disappeared—and when I was doing everything I could to disappear myself—Adam was the only person other than Sara who I kept in touch with and who knew the truth of my life.

I’m happy to hear from him but silence the call. In line to board a plane just doesn’t feel like the appropriate place to talk about what are most likely murdered women in the wilderness.

•    •    •

It’s after midnight when I land in Barcelona, heave myself into a cab, and check into my hotel, and even though I’ve done pretty much nothing for half a day but sit, read, eat, and watch movies, I go straight to sleep. Which is why it’s now four in the morning and I’m all too wide awake; the unfamiliar bed, the darkness, and all that’s going on, crushing me with their enormous and invisible weight. Luckily I have my Dutch cop buddies to keep me company.

By dawn I’ve finished the book. Wisely I packed the next in the series. With paperback in hand, I go downstairs and load up at the breakfast bar. But as I eat, rather than read, I make a mental list of what I can do in the time before connecting with Ditti. It’s not long, or complicated: new clothes. That’s it. Until that meeting, everything else—at least in regard to the plan—has to wait. I head out on foot.

On the way to La Rambla, a popular Barcelona shopping street, I pass Casa Batlló, which I instantly recognize as one of architect Antoni Gaudí’s masterpieces. Seven stories, flowing ornate balconies, and a scaly, serpentine roof, if it weren’t so obviously a building you could easily call it sculpture. Alongside a mob of tourists I stop and marvel at not just its audacious grandeur, but at the fact that something so artful managed to get built. In my experience, as much as people claim to want creativity and originality, they tend to balk at the first sign of anything too out of the ordinary and end up settling for a mess of banal compromises. Which is why it’s refreshing to see an instance where people succeeded in getting over themselves. I’d love to draw it, but the façade is completely in shadow, and no matter how alluring a site, without good light, the drawing would look flat and lackluster. I look up at the position of the sun, guesstimate its path across the sky, and conclude that it won’t fall upon the building until late afternoon, so continue on my pursuit for clothes.

Happens easily enough, and an hour later I’m heading back to the hotel with a new wardrobe: one pair dress shorts, one pair dark jeans—narrow in the leg with rolled cuffs—several long and short-sleeved fitted button-downs in white, black, and pink, a dark-blue blazer, and stylish leather walking shoes.

Showered, changed, I’m still thinking about drawing Casa Batlló, but not enough time has passed for the sun to have moved onto the façade, so using my phone I search for other Gaudí sites in the city. There are over twenty, and I settle on Park Güell, a large public park where I figure a draw-worthy scene with good light should be easily found. I grab my bag and head out again on foot.

•    •    •

It’s not exactly hot—especially after living in the tropics for two years—but the sun is remarkably intense, and after hiking an hour up Carmel Hill I’ve worked up a tiring sweat. But once inside Gaudí’s park I’m rejuvenated. This massive, fantastically realized dreamscape is both complex and simple, abstract and natural, and instantly two words pop into my head. They’re like a magical incantation. Without thinking, I'm reaching into my bag and pulling out my supplies.

Alluring compositions abound, and my eye quickly hones in on one with a pleasing balance of light and shadow. I find a table in the shade of an umbrella, sit, open my pad, uncap my pen, and begin to draw. For all my creative dabblings over the years—singing, painting, writing, general weird conceptual artmaking—at the end of the day, it’s the simple practice of drawing that grounds me more than any. Which is why, when packing for this trip, I left my novel but brought my art supplies, and also why, six months ago, I reached out to old contacts looking for an exhibition. It had been over five years since Julia had gone missing, and I was tired of being lost. So I did the only thing I knew how: I went back to work. And whether it was luck, Adam’s charm, or that I actually do have a semblance of a reputation left, the Bromswell Gallery in San Francisco offered me not just a show, but a spot in the 2019 Venice Biennale. Which is why I’m drawing again: as a means to restart my life.

•    •    •

After two hours in Park Güell I have a finished line drawing. I’ve also been taking photos the whole while, which I’ll reference later when applying ink washes to create light and shadow. It’s too much to do the washes now. They take time to apply, and since the sun is always moving, the scene would be continually changing as I tried to render one moment, which would result in a distorted image. I’m telling you, I don’t know how all those plein air painters throughout history did it, capturing storms and sunsets and fleeting light. They must have had damn good memories. As for the inadequacy of my own, I’ll blame technology. Since that’s the go-to excuse for all our shortcomings these days.

I start to pack up, then add one last touch: in the sign of the walk-up snack window I write the two words that popped in my head and set me to drawing, which, aside from summing up my feelings of Gaudí, define this moment far more than the date or time. Then I float around the park in a rare and welcome bliss.

Cresting the top of the hill, Barcelona reveals the Mediterranean Sea. I’d like to continue drawing, but grand vistas are more laborious than interesting, so I decide to head back to Casa Batlló. I scamper down the hill, but by the time I’m in the Gothic quarter dark clouds have blown in. Fine. I’ll draw some of Gaudí’s interiors.

Rain douses the windows and for hours I lose myself. I draw three of the arched spaces, working right up to when the building closes and the guards shepherd me out. On the sidewalk I’m high in a way that no drug can imitate. The rain has cleared, the air is warm, and the sunset serene. I walk, find a restaurant, sit outside. I order tapas, oysters, pulpo—octopus—and a glass of cava, which I toast myself with for having drawn so much today. But as I raise my glass I suddenly remember why I’m here: not to compose the next chapter of my life, but to conclude the dangling, unfinished sentences of the last. And suddenly I no longer feel like celebrating.

I finish my cava but leave it at that. After dinner I head back to the hotel where I set up a work area on the small desk. Using my reference photos, I stay up half the night putting ink washes on all but one of the drawings I started today.

•    •    •

I wake to my phone ringing—or one of my phones. Both are on the bedside table. I fumble, see the light on the flip phone blinking, but after a second realize that it’s actually Emit’s phone that’s ringing. Adam again, calling from San Francisco. It’s five-thirty in the morning for me and I’ve only been asleep for two hours, but he can’t know that. He thinks I’m in Thailand, which is five hours ahead. This time I answer.

Hey buddy, he says. I saw the news. How you holding up?

Yeah, I say, yawning. Doing okay, thanks.

I open the flip phone to see why it’s blinking and see a text on the archaic little screen: Hotel Arts 2 PM. The rendezvous with Ditti.

Listen, Adam says, "I’m sure I know the answer, but I have to ask.

Reporters are knocking down my door wanting—"

I don’t want to talk to anybody, I say, texting back OK on the flip phone, then closing it.

I wouldn’t think so.

What do they even want?

You know what they want. You’re a celebrity whose wife went missing, and now the remains of her friends have been found. They’re looking for something juicy to click on.

You mean they want a former suspect to crucify.

Exactly.

•    •    •

After hanging up with Adam I fall back asleep. When I wake again it’s just after ten and I’m wishing I’d gotten up when he called to empty my bladder. I look up the Hotel Arts and see it’s only a fifteen-minute walk from here. Still plenty of time before needing to meet Ditti, but only a few minutes to catch the breakfast buffet. I hurry down.

Food, shower, time to prepare.

I open the file I have on Lone Pine. Into my notebook I copy the basic information of one man: Guillaume Lavoy. Name, date of birth, passport number, and NIR—basically the French equivalent of a social security number. Next I empty my bag of everything except my notebook, wallet, and flip phone. As a precaution I’m leaving behind my smartphone—Emit’s phone—and even my drawing supplies. Normally I carry them with me everywhere, especially when I’m in a new place, but this meeting trumps even the strongest creative habits, so I take them out. Then, with an unusually light load, I walk to the Hotel Arts.

I arrive early, ten minutes before two. The dining area is packed with conventioneers, so I go to the bar. I take a stool and decide to order a whiskey because why not. It’s a swank hotel, but the only American they have is Four Roses bourbon, and nothing even close to rye. They’ve got a ridiculous supply of scotches though, which I just can’t do. I’ve never acquired the taste. It’s the peat. To me, the smokiness tastes like some blind hillbilly ruined a perfectly good batch of bourbon by stoking the fire with wet moss. I can’t really complain about Four Roses, but I think, who knew it would be just as hard to find American whiskey in Spain as it would in Thailand?

At two on the dot I see Ditti enter the dining room. He’s lithe, toned, barking up fifty, with thinning hair and leathery skin. We’ve been acquainted for years but I know nothing about him—which is how we both prefer it. My guess is he used to be a gymnast. It’s the way he moves; he bounces on his toes.

Excellent to see you, sir, he says, patting my shoulder as he sits next to me.

Thanks for meeting on such short notice.

It’s what I do.

I need the basics, I say. Passport, driver’s license, credit cards, smartphone. They don’t need to be deep. I only need them to last a month, maybe two.

What happened to the last profile I worked up for you? I’d bet my left nut that identity can’t be blown. He laughs. For that one I went so deep I practically had Polaroids of you popping out of your fake mother’s pussy.

I’m sure it’s fine. I never even used it.

Ditti smiles with half his face. "You know they don’t go bad, right?

They’re like Ho Hos. If you don’t open the package, they’ll last forever."

I was hoping to maybe trade it in. With this being a rush job and my needing it for only a short while… I open my hands, arch my brows.

Ditti throws back his head. Ha! I’ve never had someone try to make an exchange before. Again, the half grin. He bobs his head. What the hell. You two have been good customers.

Another thing—this one’s just between us.

Ah. His entire face lights up—this is why he loves his work: deception. He points his finger at me and clucks. Understood. Flying solo. Don’t you worry.

From a tattered backpack he produces a digital tablet and plastic pen. On screen is a document I’ve seen before. It looks like a loan application. Dozens of pages of legalese, bullet-pointed paragraphs with numeric subsets, basically bullshit; the point is for me to practice signing.

On the first page I see the name: Joshua Grunewald. Never thought of myself as a Josh. Using the digital pen I sign in a blank area. Then I swipe to the next page, sign again, swipe, sign, and repeat at least fifteen more times. In no time I have my new signature down.

No need for a photo, Ditti says. I’ve got the one from a few years ago on file, which makes my work easier—customs agents aren’t fond of fifty-year-old men with spanking new passport photos. You’ve lost a few pounds since then too, yeah?

I nod.

He clucks. Even better. He unrolls a thin silver pad onto the bar and connects it by cable to the tablet. This, however, is new. Your right palm, please.

I lay my hand flat.

Ditti taps the tablet a few times. Good.

I remove my hand and he rolls up the pad.

Is that it?

That’s it.

One more thing, I say. I need you to find someone.

Depends.

On?

On whether I’ve helped them be unfindable.

Fair enough. But I doubt you helped this guy. I tear out the page from my notebook with Guillaume Lavoy’s info and hand it over. Last traceable record I have of him is July 2010, in the south of France. I want whatever you can give me on his whereabouts since. As well as his current location.

Ditti nods and slips the paper into his bag without looking at it. Be here same time tomorrow, he says, sliding off his stool. Your new life will be waiting for you.

•    •    •

It’s not even two-thirty when I’m back outside. Step one of a who-knows-how-long plan in motion and so far, so good. Tomorrow, I can full-on run.

Walking back to the hotel, I consider how I’d like to pass the rest of the day. In the room I use my phone—Emit’s phone—to look up other Barcelona sites. I haven’t seen all there is of Gaudí, but for variety I decide to check out the Joan Miró Museum. I repack my bag with all I’d emptied, then head back out.

Ditti’s voice keeps bouncing around my head: Your new life will be waiting for you. It’s not a surprising thing to say, considering that his job is to set people up with fake identities, but like the inspiration found at Park Güell yesterday, the words couldn’t be more appropriate—just not in the way Ditti might think. My becoming Josh Grunewald isn’t to escape being Emit Hopper; it’s so that, for once and for all, I can be free to be him again.

•    •    •

Inside the museum, I drink an espresso then wander the galleries. The paintings I enjoy, but it’s up on the rooftop, in the open-air sculpture court, amid a sparse collection of weird brightly colored objects, that has me pulling out my drawing supplies.

The compositions command themselves. I work quickly and am on my third drawing when I feel someone behind me and turn.

Sara? What—

What are you up to Emit?

I flash her my drawing.

She shakes her head and scoffs. Of course. Your precious art show. I read her with my every sense. If she knows about my meeting with Ditti, then my plan is shot. But my gut tells me she doesn’t; it’s how she moves. How on first glance she looks stylish and put together, but on second, nervous and frazzled. How she smells heavy of perfume, but heavier of sweat.

So I jump right in: It’s wrong, Sara. You know it is.

She pins me with a cold stare. Well it doesn’t matter. Because it’s already done.

Wait—you’re telling me you’ve just had a man killed and all you can say is—

What? No! Jesus! She looks around. There’s no one but me, her, and the scattering of weird sculptures. Fuck, Emit. Nobody’s been killed. I mean, it’s just, you know, in motion.

"You mean to have a man killed."

"Not just a man, Emit. Guillaume. Fucking Guillaume. A goddamn murderer."

Except we don’t know that—not for certain. We’ve been through this. Until we know exactly what happened out there—

She fusses with her purse. Opens it. Rummages. Dammit, where is my—

Sara— I reach for her shoulder.

She knocks my hand away and cocks her head; shitty; as if to say: What?

Even if Guillaume did kill them, I say. Even if he dug a grave and buried them out there, you can’t condone hiring someone to murder him. Two wrongs, Sara.

She shakes her head. "I really don’t understand you, you know that? You’ve heard the news. They found Rachel’s freaking skull buried along the goddamn trail she went missing on. How the hell do you think that happened? And Julia—you remember, my sister—"

No, I say. "No. You don’t get to play the sister card. She’s also my wife—remember? So no. There’s no rank of ownership here."

It’s not about ownership. It’s about facts. She sticks out her thumb and starts counting off. One: Guillaume was in love with Julia and she broke his heart. Two— pointing finger —he began stalking her, then he broke into her apartment, threw her against the wall, and choked her. Three— other thumb "—she moved, changed her number, then, just a few months before she disappeared, he tracked her down and began leaving threatening messages, saying—literally—that he was coming to get her." She throws open her arms and thrusts her head toward me in a way that says: See? It’s obvious, you idiot.

I know, I say, as calmly as I can. "I was there, remember? Marrying her in the middle of it. And anyway, we’ve been through this a thousand times. It’s just rationalization, Sara. Don’t you see? You’re justifying the very crime you’re accusing Guillaume of because you believe he committed that crime. And— she tries to rebut but I cut her off —and—even if he is eventually caught, tried, found guilty, and sentenced to death, that still doesn’t give you the right to take that action yourself, today, when we don’t even have all the answers. I take a breath and look at her imploringly. I’m not just thinking about the law here, Sara—hell, I’m not even thinking about morality. I’m thinking about you personally—your conscience."

She scoffs. Wow, she says, shaking her head. That’s rich. Really. That’s—of all people to talk about conscience.

You’re not able to see it, I say, ignoring the jab, but right now you have the moral high ground. You’re a victim. You’re clean. But if you do this, if you willfully contribute to murdering Guillaume, then you’re no different from him. How do you expect to ever get on with your life?

Again she scoffs. You know, she says, all this time, I didn’t want to believe it. I stood by you, saying, ‘Emit is right here with us. He’s committed. One hundred percent.’ But now I see I was wrong. You were never a part of this. Not really. You’ve never been anything more than a— She stops herself.

What? I say. Come on. Let’s hear it. I’m what? A tourist?

Well, then why are you here?

I shake my head, confused.

"Here! she says, flailing an arm. In Barcelona! Drawing pictures at a fucking museum?! When out there, bones are being dug up and a murderer is going free?"

Fine, I say. Then you tell me. Where should I be? Geneva?

She flinches.

Uh huh. So is Switzerland where one goes to hire a hitman these days?

She looks as though I just slapped her.

Oh, fucking A. Stop acting like I’m the villain here. I’m not the one tracking people across continents and contracting murders. There’s a giant catalog for a Geneva auction house right there in your purse with a Swiss Air Lines ticket sticking out. You’re bad at this, Sara. And you have a blaring tell. You always mess with your things when you’re nervous.

You think you know everyone so well, don’t you? She goes for her purse again; catches herself.

What I think, I say, is that this situation is completely fucked, and it’s destroying you—has been for a long time. But not enough to justify murder!

Jesus, Emit! She looks around again. Still only the sculptures listening. What the hell is wrong with you? The least you can do is speak in euphemisms.

Right, because the problem here is my bluntness.

She exhales out her nose. Then, as if shedding a wet coat from her shoulders, she straightens up. I truly thought, she says, that after everything, if I looked you in the eye, you would understand. She shakes her head, gives a disappointed half-smile. Well, at least I can say I tried. Because frankly, Emit, whether you’re with me or against me, it doesn’t really matter. This is happening. So you may as well accept it. And she walks away.

•    •    •

I watch her disappear down the stairs, then try to return to my drawing. My hand is shaking though, and I can’t make it stop. Goddammit.

I pack up and leave the museum. Five minutes ago I’d been able to keep what is by any measure a maddening situation in check. But Sara showing up is just too much. I walk faster than normal, in no particular direction, fuming at her gall. Not just for tracking me down, but for thinking she could change my mind. But then it hits me: I’m actually glad she tried. Coming to Barcelona was a serious mistake on her part. Before now, I’d been wondering if my diversion to meet Ditti was excessive. It’s hard to know. When you’re forced to live as if your every action is being monitored, the line between diligence and paranoia becomes impossible to see. But Sara showing up is proof that she’s been keeping tabs on me, which means that not only are my precautions not just paranoia, but that I should probably take even more. So, yes, thank you, Sara. And fuck you too.

•    •    •

It’s dusk when I realize I’ve been walking for hours, don’t know where I am, and