Harper turned to check on Neil. Junior had found him. He rested a thick arm across the young man’s shoulders and spoke to him amiably. Neil seemed resigned to his fate. The two of them ambled to the door.
Bonnie placed a full cocktail glass on a napkin. “I’ve got to deal with all this,” she said, gesturing at the crowd pressing in around Harper. “But don’t you dare leave. We need to talk.”
Before turning away, she reached across the bar and grabbed Harper’s cheeks with cool fingers. “Damn, girl. I’ve missed your face.”
While she hurried to work, Harper settled in to people-watch, sipping the tart drink, the tequila making her tongue curl.
The crowd was the usual mix of mostly young, mostly beautiful grad students and other local twentysomethings. Many, like Bonnie, had brightly dyed hair. The women all seemed to have long, glossy manes. The men favored ironic T-shirts. Aside from the bartenders and Junior, Harper didn’t know anyone. Cops wouldn’t be caught dead in this bar. The other reporters didn’t know it existed. And that was the whole attraction. Here, she could relax.
An hour passed before things calmed down enough for Bonnie to leave Andi and Tony in charge and take a break. She headed around the bar, a beer in one hand, and motioned for Harper to follow.
By then, the dance floor was mostly empty, although a crowd lingered at the tables around the edges.
The bar still looked very much like the library it had once been. The walls were covered in old bookshelves, filled with a free lending library of well-thumbed paperbacks and textbooks. The old reading rooms, reached through arched doorways, were dubbed Poetry, Prose, and Pool, respectively. Pool and Poetry were both occupied, so the two of them settled on the faux-leather couches in Prose, where the smudged white walls were painted with the opening lines of famous novels in inky black.
Bonnie propped one foot up on the scarred coffee table and studied her. “So, how’s it going? Are things getting any better out there?”
Harper wished more than anything that she had good news.
“There’s nothing new,” she admitted. “Sometimes I feel like I’m hiding from a ghost.”
“Nothing at all from that guy who called you?” Bonnie asked.
Harper shook her head. “Not a peep.”
Bonnie took a ruminative sip of beer, and then unexpectedly asked, “What if he’s dead?”
Harper blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Seriously.” Bonnie eyed her steadily. “What if since that guy told you someone wanted to kill you, one or both of them died? You’d never know. You’d just be hiding in the middle of nowhere forever, waiting for a dead man to call.”
In the long hours staring at the driveway, Harper had considered this possibility more than once. After all, there’d only been the one phone call. What if he was dead?
It couldn’t be true. Surely if he was dead someone would tell her. She’d know.
Besides, every word the caller had said was seared on her mind as if it had been written with a blade: “The person who killed your mother is looking for you. He’s been in prison for a long time and he’s about to get out. And he’s going to come for you.”
“I don’t know,” she said, after a long pause. “I trust my gut. And my gut says lay low. I need to keep digging. He’s out there somewhere. And if he won’t come to me, I need to find him. Somehow.”
She knew how unconvincing that sounded, but Bonnie knew her well enough not to argue. “Well, you do what you have to,” she said, tactfully. “I just miss normal you, you know? Coming in here all the time. Talking about crime.”
Harper gave her a melancholy smile. “I miss normal me, too. More than you know.”
In the main bar, the music changed to a soulful song. The singer’s voice reminded her of the story that had filled her day.
“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you,” she said. “That singer, Xavier Rayne. He disappeared today.”
Bonnie, who’d been about to take a sip from her beer, stopped with the bottle midway to her lips. “What do you mean ‘disappeared’?”
“He walked out of his house in the middle of the night and never came back.”
“Well, shit.” Bonnie looked shocked. “What do they think happened? Is it drugs? It’s usually drugs.” Before Harper could reply, she added, “Did you know I met him once? At SCAD. He was thinking about enrolling. Came up for a tour. But then he got into Juilliard, and that was the end of that.”
Bonnie was an artist, supporting herself by bartending and teaching at the Savannah College of Art and Design, or SCAD as everyone called it.
“I didn’t know that. What was he like?” Harper asked.
“Beautiful,” Bonnie said. “And so soft-spoken I had to lean close to hear him but, man, did he have a powerful presence. He walked into a room and everyone looked up—he’s that kind of a guy. Gorgeous eyes. Kind of amber. And my God. That new album. Have you heard it?”
Harper shook her head. She’d meant to listen to it but she hadn’t had time today. DJ had been the one writing about his music, anyway.
Setting the beer down, Bonnie jumped to her feet. “Wait here.”
She ran into the main bar. A minute later, the song cut off in midverse. After a few seconds, a new, fast-driving tune filled the air. A distinctive melody, led by keyboard and guitar. A low, smooth voice flowed over it, weaving through the chords, rising high and then sinking to sudden, shivering lows.
Bonnie returned and dropped back into her seat. “Just listen to that.” She reached for the bottle. “What a talent.”
A beautiful female voice rose behind his on the chorus, and Harper guessed it had to be Allegra’s. The two voices together were pure gold. She could see why everyone was obsessed with this album.
It was hypnotic and chilling—a musical cry of pain.
From the speakers, Xavier Rayne’s voice growled, “Revolver Road, don’t take me down Revolver Road…”
7
The next morning, Harper’s phone rang just after nine. She woke to find herself lying on top of the bed with her clothes from the night before still on, her legs tangled in a blanket. Zuzu was sound asleep beside her, curved into a perfect silver-gray circle.
It was Baxter, who sounded like she either hadn’t slept at all or had injected herself with amphetamine. “Get yourself over to the Rayne house,” she barked. “The story’s out and Channel Five is going to make a beeline for the place. Be there first.”
Her eyes still closed, Harper mumbled, “On my way.”
This must not have been convincing, because Baxter added sharply, “Make them your friends before ten o’clock this morning, McClain. That’s an order.”
Grumbling, Harper dragged herself out of bed. It had been nearly three in the morning when she got home, and it had taken a couple of hours to get to sleep.
A shower and a quick cup of coffee woke her up, though. And soon, she was in the car.
Despite Baxter’s urgency, she made two stops on the way to the musician’s mansion. The first was at the Tybee PD headquarters. “I’ve got nothing new,” the harried receptionist told her breathlessly as the phone on her desk rang unanswered. “The boats went out again just after seven. I must have said that twenty times already today.” She gave a nervous giggle. “Reporters are calling from all over. I just had a call from New York!”
Baxter was right. The media had found out about Xavier Rayne.
When she pulled up on Admiral’s Row a short while later, she was relieved to see no media circus had assembled yet outside the row of grand, columned houses. Everything was cool and quiet. Yesterday’s rain had passed, but the skies remained gray. The only sound came from the seabirds that wheeled overhead, their mournful cries rising above the breeze as she got out of the car and grabbed a tray holding four cardboard cups and a bag of warm doughnuts from the passenger seat.
It was the oldest trick in the world. But the old ones are the best.
When she climbed the front steps, she observed no signs
of life. The huge windows were sealed tight, all the curtains closed. If she didn’t know better she’d think the house was empty—locked up for the season.
She tucked the bag under her arm and knocked briskly on the door.
It was Hunter who answered, cracking the door cautiously to peer out. As soon as he saw her, he blanched.
“Oh shit.” A sharp edge of fear entered his voice. “Is there news?”
“No—I’m sorry,” she said, hurriedly. “The police haven’t found him—I just talked to them. There’s nothing new.”
She noted and filed away the information that he’d assumed the news would be bad.
Behind the smudged lenses of his trendy glasses, exhausted, red-rimmed eyes skated from her face to the cups in her hand and back again, uncomprehendingly. He was wearing the same T-shirt and jeans he’d had on the day before, both considerably more rumpled now. His jaw was shadowed with stubble. His caramel-brown hair, tangled.
She held the tray of drinks out to him. “Look, I know it’s not much but I brought coffee. I thought you guys might need it.”
She was prepared for him to reject the offering. If he sent her away, she’d come back with sandwiches. Food figured heavily in her plan to ingratiate herself with them.
To her relief, though, he took the tray and stepped aside. “You might as well come in,” he said. “The others are just waking up.”
Holding the coffees, he headed down the hall, gesturing for her to follow him.
The house had a hushed, sleeping feel to it. Harper found herself walking softly across the polished oak floors. She couldn’t have said why but it felt good to be back in this elegantly bohemian mansion. The half-melted candles on the long dining room table, the art on the walls, the exotic scent of incense and cigarette smoke hanging tantalizingly in the air—it was like something out of a dream.
“Have you slept?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
“I wouldn’t call it sleep,” he said, bleakly. “Every sound I heard … I thought it might be him, coming home.”
The living room looked less perfect today. The cushions on the sofas were out of place and compressed from use. One huge sash window that faced the side of the house had been opened, letting in a cold sea breeze that made the white curtains sway.
Hunter set the cardboard tray down on the coffee table and dropped into a chair. Picking up a battered pack of cigarettes, he lit one with a chunky Zippo lighter.
Harper put the bag of doughnuts down and sat on the sofa across from him.
“I stopped by the police station this morning and all they’ll say is nobody’s heard from Xavier and he hasn’t been spotted,” she told him. “There’s a statewide alert. But there have been no sightings.”
Hunter absorbed this with heavy silence. The cigarette smoldered, already half forgotten between his long fingers.
“What does that mean, do you think?” he asked. “The fact that no one’s seen him, I mean.”
Harper hesitated, wondering how much truth he could take. “It’s not great,” she said, finally.
He nodded, slowly. As if he’d expected her to say that.
She couldn’t get over the change in his demeanor. The animated, angry bandmate from the day before was gone. Behind his smudged glasses, his face had the stunned look of someone who’d been punched.
Lifting a cup from the tray, she held it out to him. “Drink this. I think you need it.”
When he leaned forward to take it, his eyes—brown with specks of gold—met hers. “It was nice of you to do this. None of us has left the house since … Well. Since yesterday. I haven’t even showered.” He looked down at his rumpled band T-shirt with distaste. “I can’t seem to do anything. My phone keeps ringing—managers, journalists, lawyers. Everyone but Zay.”
His cigarette had grown a long tail of ash. He tapped it into an overfull ashtray at his feet. “At least if I get cancer now I deserve it,” he muttered. “I must have smoked a hundred cigarettes in the last twenty-four hours.” With a sigh, he straightened. “Do you know what happens now?”
“They’ll keep looking for him.” She kept her tone calm. “Boats went out again this morning just after seven.” Seeing a spark of panic in his expression, she added hastily, “It’s just a precaution.”
His eyes fluttered shut and he whispered, “I hate this so much.”
Soft sounds from upstairs—a thudding of footsteps, a faint murmur of voices—indicated the others were coming down. Hunter must have heard it, too, because his eyes flew open. “Listen, don’t tell them what you just told me,” he said with quiet urgency. “Tell them there’s no news. But nothing else.”
Harper didn’t know how she felt about that. Before she could make up her mind, though, Cara walked into the living room talking over her shoulder. “Could someone turn the coffeemaker on? I’m so tired, I…” Spotting Harper, she stopped abruptly.
Allegra, who was right behind her, looked around her shoulder and brightened.
“You’re back.” She said it like it was no big deal, and bounced into the room.
Cara remained frozen in the doorway, watching Harper like a dog might observe a rattlesnake.
Uncertain of how to handle this, Harper found herself rising, awkwardly. “I’m sorry to show up out of the blue. I’ll leave if you want me to.”
“She brought coffee.” Hunter pointed at the cups. “And food.”
“Oh thank God.” Snatching the bag off the coffee table, Allegra opened it and peered inside. “Doughnuts!” She looked up at Harper, gratefully. “There’s no food at all in this house. I was about to eat my own hair.”
As she spoke, Cara moved slowly into the room. Out of the corner of her eye, Harper saw her give Hunter a look that was part question, part accusation. His response was a very slight shrug. It could have been apology or rebellion.
It made sense that Cara would be the most suspicious of a journalist, Harper supposed, given what she’d learned the night before when she’d researched all three of them.
She knew Hunter had met Xavier at Juilliard. He was a classical pianist before the two formed a band. There was nothing in the articles about his background, but something told her he came from money. He had the confidence a wealthy childhood brings. The polished sheen of a worry-free life.
Her research had turned up almost nothing about Allegra. It was unclear how Xavier had discovered her, although her voice made it obvious why he’d chosen her.
Cara had the most interesting history. She’d started modeling while in her teens, doing the usual round of commercials, music videos, and voice-overs before being cast in a hit TV series playing a teenager at a haunted boarding school. The series had run for four years. By then, she was in all the celebrity magazines. She developed a substantial following.
Last year, though, there’d been a minor scandal when she was accused by the tabloids of cheating on her boyfriend—her costar from the TV series—with Xavier. One publication in particular—a tabloid blog called L.A. Beat (or L.A.B., as its logo would have it)—had gone for her viciously, running numerous attack articles and unflattering paparazzi photos of her covering her face, hiding behind her bag, ducking into a car. It seemed to Harper the blog had gone out of its way to destroy her. The articles were filled with innuendo about drug use and sleaze, with few facts and no evidence.
It was easy to understand why Cara approached her with such caution.
“I don’t want to sound rude,” the actress said, as she settled stiffly onto the sofa, “but why are you here?”
“I stopped by the police station this morning,” Harper said, not answering the question. “They told me there’s no news. No one has seen him.”
“No news is good news,” Hunter told the others with false cheer. “That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.”
“Yes.” Allegra brushed doughnut sugar from her fingertips. “He’ll come home when he wants to. He just needs time.”
Hunter turned to Harper. “I’ve been
meaning to ask—what are the odds that he could have been attacked on the beach? He’d had so much press. What if someone kidnapped him? They could be holding him somewhere. Waiting until we’re desperate, and then they’ll ask for money.”
“The police are looking for any sign of that,” she assured him. “Did he owe anybody money? Was he in some kind of trouble? Was he in debt?”
“Zay never spent money.” Cara pointed at the guitar still leaning against the wall. “Even that guitar was given to him by the record company. He grew up with nothing, and he lived like he was still poor, always.”
Harper tried another tack. “Can you think of any reason anyone would have wanted to harm him? Maybe someone from his past? Someone who knew his father?”
Cara’s head snapped up, and she fixed Harper with a penetrating stare.
“His father died when he was ten,” Allegra pointed out. “You can’t make enemies at ten.”
“He didn’t have any enemies at Juilliard.” Hunter reached for his cigarette pack but didn’t pull one out. “It’s not that kind of world.”
“Then what?” Cara demanded, suddenly angry. “Where has he gone? Why would he just walk away from us without a word?”
“He wouldn’t,” Allegra said. “He didn’t. I keep telling you—”
“Oh, shut up, Legs,” Cara snapped, cutting her off. “I can’t listen to that anymore.”
Allegra recoiled as if she’d been slapped.
Instantly repentant, Cara pressed her fingertips against her lips. “Oh God. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
But Allegra didn’t wait to hear the apology. She fled the room, disappearing into the hallway.
“Oh hell.” Cara looked at Hunter. “Why did I do that?”
Shrugging, he pulled a cigarette from the pack before tossing the pack to her.
“She’s being irrational.” He lit the cigarette with his Zippo and took a drag, blowing out a stream of smoke. “It’s exhausting. Don’t sweat it. She’ll get over it.”
“I shouldn’t yell at her, though.” Kicking off her flats, Cara pulled her feet up onto the sofa and lit one for herself. “We’re all stressed.”
Revolver Road Page 5
