Chapter One.

Hank knocked again at Sam’s door, knuckles cracking loud in the empty hall. He put his ear to the cool wood but heard only silence. Irritated, he knocked again.

Two doors down, bolts slid and latches clicked, and a sour, wrinkled face appeared.

“I think they’re out, wouldn’t you say?” Small black eyes glared, and wispy gray hair did not fully obscure shining scalp beneath a poor comb over.

Hank narrowed his eyes, and pointed with his thumb to Sam’s door. “You know him?”

The neighbor peeked. “Forty? Hah. Hardly.”

“Seen him around lately?”

The black eyes squinted, and the neighbor sniffed. “Sorry, can’t help you.” The door slammed. Bolts were thrown and latches clicked. Hank slid his hands into his pockets, and frowned at his boots. He thought.

Outside, the sun shone and the skies hung high and blue; wind blew frigid from the coast. Hank walked to his pickup, parked at the curb two blocks away, and wondered if he should start calling hospitals. In his pocket, his cell beeped.

“Yeah,” he said, yanking open the driver’s side door and sliding onto the bench seat.

“Hank. Is Sam with you?” It was Beau.

“Nope.”

“Could you have him call me if you see him? He’s not picking up.”

“Yeah,” Hank said, “Sure,” and ended the call. He frowned at the small, square phone, thoughts ticking by in his head. There was no good reason not to tell Beau, as he was an expert in situations like these, and it went without saying that he was a friend. A good friend.

Still, the thought made Hank uneasy. He told himself he’d give it another day before getting help, and called Sam one more time. The phone rang and rang. Voice mail picked up and he listened just long enough to get a taste of Sam’s voice, and cut the connection. He cranked the engine and pulled out onto the road.

Three days had passed. Sam was busy with school, lately, stressed. Hank had seen it plain in the shadows under his eyes, heard it in the strain in his voice. Graduation was coming up. Hank figured if anything Sam should be glad, but that didn’t seem to be the case. While it lingered distantly, months away, Hank learned vicariously that in the academic world that was no time at all.

“I have so much shit to do,” Sam had told him, cracking open a book at the table. They’d been at Hank’s cottage in Millbrae, sharing a meal, and Hank eyed the stack of papers by Sam’s plate with wary knowing. He’d hoped for an uninterrupted evening together, but that did not seem to be in the cards.

Still, he tried. “Put that stuff away. You got tomorrow.”

Sam had only balked. “Uh, no. Tomorrow I have the JEPET, and then a meeting with my advisor, and then I have to track down someone at Financial Aid to waive graduation fees. Or cut them, at least. Oh, shit. And group. Fuck, I forgot. Again.”

Hank did not know what ‘group’ was.

“Tomorrow night?” he tried, tearing his roll in half. Steam rose from its center, and he bit off a hunk. It tasted sweet on his tongue, hot and fresh.

“Tomorrow night,” Sam echoed thoughtfully, wondering. “Tomorrow night.” He scanned his planner. “Yes, dead. I will be dead or dying, but just for the evening.” He clapped the small book shut and looped its string around, and tossed it into his open bag. It sat across from Hank like a third party to their meal. Hank eyed it, and then got to work on his steak.

“That’s not very funny,” he’d remarked, but Sam only smiled. He had a sweet smile for when he really wanted it, even with food bulging thick in one cheek.

“Not even a little?” he’d asked, cheerily.

Hank said nothing, and Sam’s smile had then turned sour.

“Well, you know what I meant,” he said darkly, and slammed the book shut. “Asshole.”

Hank stayed calm, because that was the way to respond to Sam’s baiting. He shrugged, dropping his gaze to his plate. “Sure. Just don’t think it’s funny.” Maybe he’d overcooked the steak. Potatoes were good, with bits of skin and too much butter. And garlic.

Sam scowled.

They’d slept together, and only slept, because lately Sam was tired, or he had to get up early, or like that evening was in a snit, and the next morning drove into town.

“See you later?” he’d asked, idling the pickup outside the Student Services building at State.

Sam wrestled his bag up from the floor and said, “Yeah.” He slid out of the cab, squinting briefly at the low gray skies.

It was then that Hank saw how tired Sam was. He’d wanted to say something, to encourage him, tell him he was doing good, but before he could the door slammed.

Sam knocked once on the roof and pushed a hand through his short blond hair. “See you later,” he’d said through the open window, and struck off.

Hank watched him go and wheeled the truck around. That was the last he’d seen or heard of Sam Cobb

Only a few days, Hank told himself. Not a big deal. Sam was busy. He had school, and--school.

At the last moment, Hank skipped the highway onramp. He swung the truck up a couple of side streets and headed back out to Sam’s neighborhood. He kept half an eye to the curb, every tousled yellow head catching his focus. They were all of them too tall, or too fat, or too old--and none of them Sam. At a red light he dialed again.

He’d left messages, even sent a couple of texts, spelling each word slowly and deliberately over the keypad. No response.

Hank told himself to go home, but his mind wandered and he thought, what the hell good would being home do? He’d be alone. He’d have time to think. He’d wonder. He went to the office.

The place was empty. He let himself in and grabbed a pop from the minifridge. He sat down at the small desk Sam used and dug in its drawers for the yellow pages. He flipped through for the emergency rooms and made the calls.

Hank identified himself and where he worked. Experience told him that professionals respected other professionals, and detective was the word of the day. He didn’t really think of himself that way, neither professional nor a detective, but he supposed that, realistically, he was.

Bent over the open book, scraping the pads of his fingers up and down page edges, he gave Sam’s name and description. Each time they let him down. He could not decide if that were a positive development or not. He tried the police and met much the same.

Stowing the yellow pages in the bottom drawer, a small white envelope caught his eye. He pulled it out. A hard bulk padded its center, and he shook the object out into his hand.

A key, hooked to a small plastic chain. Sam’s address was written in neat shorthand.

A spare, Hank decided, and tucked it away in his hip pocket.

Traffic was worse driving back to the apartment, but Hank forced himself to patience. He blanked his mind, focused only on the task at hand: hands at the ten and two; checking his mirror; watching the leadfoot in the next lane. He parked and slid a couple coins into the meter.

At number forty he hesitated, and quietly knocked. He glanced two doors down, half expecting Sam’s shrewd neighbor to reappear, but the hall remained quiet. Finally Hank let himself in.

Sam rented a small one-room, comfortable if Spartan. The ugly couch was there, the coffee table before it laden with a dirty plate and empty cup. Hank put his finger to the plate, found the food refuse there to be stiff. It was old, been sitting a day at least. He checked the kitchen and found Sam’s basil plant drooping in the window. He watered it and set it back on the sill to catch the last of the day’s light.

He checked the fridge, found a carton of half-and-half three day’s past its expiration. Sam was a fiend about coffee and took it with cream. Hank emptied the carton and rinsed it, crushed it flat and left it with recycling. He went to the bedroom.

Empty, too, bed messily made. On his way out again Hank spotted Sam’s bag in the corner, the bag he never went anywhere without. He dug through, found the wallet missing, and the planner crammed all the way to the bottom. Hank opened it to that week.

School stuff, work, and there it was: group. Beside it, in bold red letters, was, “Go!!!” Hank flipped back, found ‘group’ listed every Tuesday for weeks. He thought first that it was school related, a study group, but as he flipped farther, found it went for months--past the last semester’s finals, its midterms, and the finals before that. Hank kept looking until ‘group’ was no longer listed. The Tuesday before its very first entry read,

Hank took the planner with him, and left.

The place was in the heart of the Mission, and Hank knew he’d found it before checking the address. It was a huge, square building, and painted all over in clear, bright colors: women’s faces, brown and yellow and pale, stared out among the likenesses of flowers and rainbows and rushing blue water. He stood on the curb for a long moment, craning his neck to see up, and up. The awning read: Women’s Building. He frowned.

Inside, the place was quiet but active. Hank took a moment to absorb his surroundings, wondering the very obvious: what the hell had Sam’s business been here?

Three women stood together near a set of elevators, speaking earnestly. One caught his eye, paused, and looked away. The elevator doors pinged and opened, and the women disappeared. To his left were a series of closed doors, offices, he guessed, or closets, and to his right, a bulletin board on the wall.

Past the elevators was a sunken room filled with chairs, some of them in use and some of them not. A small girl sat on the floor, bent over a toy. She stared at him.

Hank did not dislike women, but grew uncomfortable when confronted by them in numbers. He wondered what that said about him, and if his preference for men grew from that discomfort, or if it were the other way around. He paused at a folding table covered with pamphlets and fliers, and notices of future events: a walk for breast cancer; a run for AIDS; a handful of volunteer requests. Hank felt eyes on him, and glanced up.

The small girl continued to stare. She’d jammed a single finger into her mouth, and her toy now lay forgotten in her lap. Hank saw that it was a plastic figure, a dinosaur. He cleared a tickle from his throat, and stepped into the sunken room.

He was grateful to see a desk at the far end, grateful to see that it was manned. Womanned. He spared a glance for the small girl, and went to it.

Beau always told him, “Manners, Hank. Please,” so he said, “Excuse me,” and received a single raised finger in response. He waited.

The desk sat behind a sliding glass window, open, and behind it lay a small office space. A second woman stood with her back to him, wrestling with the drawers of a tall filing cabinet. They squealed and slammed, and occasionally a file was pulled from their depths and slapped atop a growing pile.

The woman at the desk hooked the phone back into its cradle and peered up at him.

“Yes?” she said, with a friendly, if harried, smile.

“Hi.” Hank felt strange looming over her for the conversation, and stooped slightly. “Yeah--what is this place?”

The woman’s smile thinned, and she answered, “The Women’s Building. Maybe I can help you find the place you’re looking for?”

Hank checked Sam’s planner. “This is 3542, isn’t it? 18th Street?”

Her smile thinned further until it was a mere lift at the very corners of her mouth. “It is. Is there an organization I can help you find?”

Hank checked over his shoulder. A couple of the women in chairs looked swiftly away, a couple did not. The small girl continued to stare. Hank cleared his throat again, that tickle was back, and scratched at his nape. The woman at the filing cabinet now stared curiously his way.

“Well,” he said. “I’m looking for someone. A friend. I guess he comes here for--for group.”

The woman at the desk slowly tapped her pen. “Group,” she repeated.

“Uh, yeah.” Hank grimaced. “Look, I’m sorry but--he’s been missing for a few days and I just--do you keep some kind of record? His name is Sam Cobb--that’s Samuel Cobb--and he might have come here a few days ago. Tuesday.”

“Um.” The woman at the desk blinked at him, and began a pointless rifle through a close stack of papers. Hank could see that she did not know what he was talking about, and felt frustration rise. “Well--” she began, and glanced behind her. The woman from the filing cabinet joined her at the desk, standing over it. She was tall, fit under a t-shirt and loose, open jacket. She crossed her arms, peering curiously at Hank.

“How do you know Sam?” she asked.

Hank stared at her in surprise. “He’s my--We’re friends.”

“You say he’s missing?”

“Could be. Like I said, it’s been a few days.”

“Maybe he’s busy,” the woman suggested.

Hank scratched the back of his neck. He glanced again over his shoulder, at the small girl, and then back to the woman. “I don’t think so,” he said.

She regarded him for a long moment, and asked, “What’s your name?”

He gave it to her, and noted the lift of her brow. She knew something.

The woman tilted her head. “Why don’t you come around? We can talk in private.”

A door stood to the side of the glass window, and Hank passed through it. The woman met him on the other side and said, “My office is just upstairs.” He followed her up the steps, Sam’s planner clutched tight in one hand, and into a small, cluttered room. She left the door open a crack, and invited him to sit.

“My name is Jen,” she told him. “I’m a counselor with SF WAR. Have you heard of it?”

Hank scratched his jaw. “No,” he said.

She gave him an understanding smile and lines appeared at either side of her mouth, not dimples. She had to be at least his age, probably older. “It stands for San Francisco Women Against Rape.”

“Okay.” Hank’s mouth was dry.

“We provide counseling and advocacy to survivors.”

“He’s not a woman.” The words flew from Hank’s mouth without thought, and he wondered at them.

Jen peered closely at him. “He doesn’t have to be,” she said. “You say you’re a friend of Sam’s?”

Hank realized the situation had somehow gotten away from him. Shouldn’t he be asking the questions? Still, he croaked, “Yes,” and coughed into his fist. He said it again, more clearly, “Yes.”

Jen reached into the bottom drawer of her desk, and produced a pair of water bottles. “Drink?” she asked, twisting the cap from one.

The bottle was small, no more than 8 ounces, and dwarfed in his hand. “Thanks,” he said, and drank.

“Did Sam tell you he came here this past week?”

The water helped. “Not exactly,” he said. “No.”

“Good. Are you his friend or his partner, Hank?”

“His--? Oh.” Hank stared down at the bottle. He’d swallowed half of it in one go. He had never put a name to what he and Sam had, but guessed what outsiders might call it. “Partner. We’re--” Hank coughed again into his fist. “--together.”

“Good,” she said again, and her tone carried notes of approval. Hank relaxed by an inch. “I thought you might be. He’s mentioned you before--not always in group, but privately, to me.”

Hank blinked, registering surprise. “He’s mentioned--me? What is group?”

“Like I said,” Jen explained, speaking slow, “I’m a counselor for survivors of sexual assault.”

The blood roared hot in Hank’s ears, and he stared hard at her as she spoke. The office around them seemed to fade away, and Hank thought of Sam coming here all this time, all those months, sitting with others and telling them everything. What had Sam said about him?

“But Hank,” she continued, “you should know that Sam hasn’t shown up at group for some time. We meet weekly, and he’s missed our last few meetings. I tried contacting him to see that things were all right, but I’m afraid he still hasn’t returned my calls.”

With some effort, Hank found his voice. “He’s only been gone,” he said, roughly, “for a few days.”

“Is that unusual?”

Hank narrowed his eyes, taking offense. He could not even say why. “Yes,” he snapped. She didn’t know him, she didn’t know Sam--didn’t know how close they were. “He never just disappears. We see each other every day, almost. We--” He stopped, and stared at the planner. “He wouldn’t just not call.” Hank felt, now more than ever, sure. “I left him messages. I texted him for god’s sake. I don’t think he’s even been home.”

Dragging a hand down his face, he stared blindly at her desk. It hit him, then: “Something’s wrong.” Hank gulped the rest of the water, and a fresh bottle appeared at his elbow. “I called hospitals,” he said, raggedly. “I called the police. I just--I don’t--”

Jen folded her hands neatly together over the desk, and stared down at them in thought. She looked up, and regarded him with great empathy. Hank saw that her eyes were not brown, not green. Something in between. Hazel, his subconscious provided.

“Sam’s a very private individual,” she began.

At this, Hank could offer only a weak laugh. It was, he thought, a massive understatement.

“But he’s shared with me a little of your relationship. Not everything--just a little. Mostly it doesn’t come up.

“For example, I know that you know he was a sex worker. I know that you know he has struggled with addiction.”

Meth, and whatever-the-fuck else. “Yeah, but not--He’s better now.”

Jen watched him in silence, and Hank thought back.

Would he even know, he wondered, if Sam relapsed? They did not live together, were waiting until Sam graduated. It only made sense for Sam to stay close to campus, but Hank looked forward to the move. He enjoyed his privacy as much as anyone, but something in him wanted Sam near. It made him self-conscious to think long on, but he wanted them to share a home together.

He was struck with a sudden memory:

Nearly a year ago, the mess with Ethan Banks. An alley, an abandoned bike lying twisted on its side, and Sam, standing with his back to Hank. Staring at something in his hands. Hank remembered the strange expression on Sam’s face. He’d looked as if he were standing in two worlds--one foot there with Hank in the alley, and the other someplace else, a place Hank could not see or know.

Hank scrubbed his hands over his scalp, short hairs bristling under his palms. “What are you saying?” he demanded. “What are you--are you trying to tell me he’s--what? Back on that--that crap?” Sam had been touchy, stressed, semi-distant lately. Was Hank really that blind?

Jen raised her shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t know, Hank. You know him better than I do.”

Hank leaned forward with his elbows over his knees. His head swam. “I’m starting to wonder,” he remarked.

“Obviously, I don’t know where he is right now,” she told him, “but--” and Hank cut in with a mutter:

“Obviously.”

“But,” she went on, “if I were you I’d take a look through his old haunts. A habit’s a habit, Hank. If it’s true--if something else hasn’t happened--he’ll go back to what he knows.”