Melody Burning

by Whitley Strieber

  “Okay, son, we don’t have any identification on you, do we? Could you state your name, please?”

  He had figured out what he would say: “I’m Mr. Beresford.”

  The lady, who wore a blue uniform and had complicated braids, wrote on a clipboard. Then she looked up at him. “Your name is the same as the building? Whaddayou, own it?”

  He did not know what she was asking, so he remained silent.

  Finally she said, “C’mere, come with me.”

  She unlocked him. They went to a desk where a man sat writing. “This isn’t a violent offender. I think it’s a mental case, so he goes to Social Services. No ID. Told me his name was the building he’s been squatting in. What you got here is a homeless teenager. Looks like he’s been in the wind for a while.”

  “He’s not hurtin’—look at ’im. Healthy kid.”

  “Yeah, he’s got a good crash somewheres.”

  Beresford decided that the ductwork was his best chance.

  “Son, how old are you?”

  The questions were beginning to buzz in his mind like a plague of flies. He couldn’t take them much longer.

  “Where were you born?”

  “Just a moment.” The lady stepped across the room, then came back with a stack of cards. She held one up. “Read this.”

  It was words. He did not know what it said. He did not know how it worked, not with big words like that, big long ones.

  “That is the word train. Do you know what a train is?”

  He’d seen the trains down in the railyard. South side of the building, look down and out, they were there. “They are in the railyard.”

  “Henry, this boy is nearly illiterate, and he doesn’t know his own name or age, and he has no identification. What have we got here?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing we got is a charge sheet.” He picked up a sheet of paper. “This boy is getting charged. Breaking and entering and theft of services. The complainant is the Beresford 123 Apartment Corporation. Next, attempted robbery and attempted assault. Complainant is a Mrs. William Scutter.” Henry put down the paper. “They don’t want him back, that’s for sure.”

  “We’ll isolate him. He’s not gonna survive the population.”

  Beresford did not think that the window glass was too thick to break, and he was just considering throwing himself through it when they led him into a little room where a lady with a cheerful voice said, “You’re going to get your picture taken, pretty boy. Smile, now.”

  He did as he was told.

  She laughed. “Now, that is about the biggest smile I’ve ever seen in here. You’re one happy defendant.”

  They fingerprinted him, which he knew about from TV. He also knew that they were going to put him in jail, because that’s where this kind of stuff led, and he needed to get out of there before they did that. He could not escape the bars of jail, and the idea of being trapped like that, of not being able to get back where he belonged, of never seeing Melody again—he could not think of these things very long without his mind starting to roar.

  There was only the one person in this room, and he saw an air-conditioning vent, so he jumped up and pulled off the grate.

  “My God! You come down from there!”

  He slid into the duct and went a few feet. Behind him, there was a lot of yelling, and he knew that they were trying hard to get him and bring him back. Sweat poured off him, and he used it to lubricate his way when he came to a turn. Getting his body around it pulled muscles in his neck and chest so tight he thought they might rip, and he had to suck breath through his teeth to keep from screaming with the pain.

  Voices boiled up from below, and then there were thuds and clanks and the sound of scraping as somebody pulled away ceiling tiles. He moved more easily now, and quickly, turning another corner and going down to the far end of the wide building. Navigating by sound, he went toward the machine room.

  Soon he was in a larger duct and a lot of air was coming toward him. The darkness was absolute, so he felt his way ahead carefully, until his hands met an edge.

  There was a crashing noise, and light flooded in behind him. They’d broken into the ductwork. So he had to do this, and he had to do it now. But what? How?

  “It’s been tried, son. It don’t work.”

  The voice was right behind him; he felt a hand around his ankle.

  “You go down there, you gonna get cut up by that fan. Don’t make a mess like that, son. It’s nasty cleanin’ up.”

  Now there were hands on both his ankles, and he was being pulled back. Frantic, he pressed against the walls of the duct.

  “Dammit, it ain’t no use, spider boy.”

  He was dragged back and into the light.

  “I got him, I got him—don’t let this thing fall, man!”

  The ductwork sagged and groaned, but it didn’t break as the big man brought Beresford out.

  “We gonna get you tucked in nice and tight, spider boy. You a piece-a work, you are.”

  They were in a room full of desks. There were strange green walls with markings on them, some of which were letters and others numbers. He could read a few of the words—red, big, July—but most of them were too long.

  As they led him out, somebody hit him on the head from behind.

  “You give us trouble, we give you trouble. It’s an eye for an eye around here, spider boy.”

  They went down a long hallway, its walls painted dirty green. There were doors every few feet, with narrow glass windows embedded with wire.

  “Okay, put him in twenty-one.”

  “You wanna do that?”

  “He’s violent—he tried an escape. You’re damn right I want to do that.”

  “Because he’s harmless.”

  “Harmless? We got a good five grand of ductwork and ceilings to think about. That ain’t exactly harmless.”

  The man used a circular key that Beresford knew was a very difficult one to unlock the door. When it opened, there was a sharp smell of human bodies, and he saw eyes peering at him from bunk beds. There were six of them, and two of the uppers were empty.

  “Okay, girls, you got a new roomie. He ain’t got no name, so don’t ask him. And he don’t talk a whole lot.”

  “Hey, man, he a ghost. We don’t want no ghost in here.”

  “Shut up. And if he gets into a squabble, nobody’s listening.”

  “What he do to you, man?”

  “He troubled me, Louis. He troubled me very much.”

  They left and closed the door, and Beresford heard it lock.

  “What you doin’ in here, ghost? What you do?”

  “I need to get back to my building,” he said carefully.

  “You need to get on your knees, ho, that’s where you need to get.”

  Beresford looked at this boy, who had come up out of a lower bunk. He had short red hair and eyes unlike any he’d ever seen. They were the eyes not of a person but of a very smart animal. Beresford wasn’t sure what this meant, but he was sure he was right. He felt a huge sadness for this boy and thought, he has been made this way by somebody very mean.

  The boy came face-to-face with Beresford. He had good muscles and a metal band of some sort in his lip. “Go down, ho.”

  The others in the room were silent, watching.

  Beresford decided that he would not kneel down. Why this boy wanted him to he did not understand, not exactly, but it was not good—that he did understand.

  Then the boy’s fist came up and, before he could block it, struck a shattering blow to his head.

  There was a flash. The world floated silently away, and all became dark.

  CHAPTER 12

  Frank’s phone rang. He was exhausted. He’d been up all night getting rid of the evidence that the damn kid might have seen.

  “Hello?”

  It was Szatson.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “What’s with this wild child?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “ ‘Wild Chi
ld Found in Exclusive Downtown Apartment Building.’ You damn jerk, this is all we need, drawing this kind of attention to the building just now.” As he said the last two words, his voice dropped down. Just now. Concealed in them, Frank knew, was the terrible secret the two of them shared.

  “He’s in juvenile custody.”

  “I figured that out. You knew what needed to be done, and it wasn’t done, was it?”

  “Sir, I didn’t have—”

  “Don’t hit me with excuses. You did not do your job.”

  Frank had never killed anybody, and to tell the truth, he’d been glad when the cops got that kid. Even worse was the idea of killing this building. Every time a tenant said something to him, in the back of his mind was the thought that this person was probably going to burn to death or be a jumper, and it would be on his head.

  Now the intercom buzzed. Frank jabbed at the button and Linda, the day concierge said, “There’s a couple of detectives up here.”

  His stomach gave a sick turn. The last thing he needed.

  “What is it? What’s she saying?”

  “Bulls.”

  “You jerk!” Szatson slammed down the phone.

  Frank feared that Szatson would send a gun over here. Frank might have a hard time with murder, but he doubted Luther Szatson did.

  He’d cleaned up the fuel storage area, of course, but the kid had been in the worst possible place, right in there next to the device. Had he seen it? Had he understood what he was seeing? Had he told the cops—and was that why they were here?

  At four o’clock this morning, he had dropped the remains of the incendiary device off the Santa Barbara pier.

  “Frank?” It was Linda again.

  “I’m coming!”

  “Stay there. They’re on their way down.”

  At that moment two LAPD detectives came in the door, one a short, Italian-looking guy, his hands nervously exploring his narrow jaw. The other was taller and solemn, with a sad, beaten sort of a face.

  “We just have a few routine questions,” the tall man intoned.

  “Okay.”

  “The thing is, this kid that came out of here—he’s—we’re stumped. He’s not in any database. We can’t even get a name out of him.”

  “I don’t know a thing about him.”

  “Which is what you said last night to the uniforms, sir, and that’s fine. But he must have a room in here somewhere. There must be something for us to see.”

  The other detective added, “We can find out a lotta things. We just need access to his room.”

  “Look, I’ve been trying to figure that out. Where the hell did he stay? My employer wants an answer, too.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Because what if I’ve got a whole damn colony of homeless in here? It’s a big place. To make a long story short, me and my security guys, we went through every vacancy in the structure this morning and didn’t find so much as dust out of place.”

  “So he was here but he wasn’t? The juvies say he looks like a mushroom. He’s been indoors for months.”

  “Unless he roomed with somebody who hasn’t come forward, then I don’t know how he managed.” He was about to add that he’d found him in a crawl space with Melody McGrath, but decided to keep his mouth shut about that. Any cop would turn right around and sell that to the media, and the place would be overrun again.

  “Look, Social Services will keep hassling us until we get something. They don’t like nameless orphans—it screws up their paperwork.”

  “I thought there were charges against him. So he stays inside, right? No matter who he is.”

  “You can process an adult unidentified, just John Doe him and forget it. But not a minor. A minor, it’s all different.”

  “You know he’s a minor? You know that?”

  “The medical staff at Westview made that determination, yes. He’s between fifteen and seventeen. He is a minor.”

  If they had a name, they’d go away. But Frank was afraid to just make one up. As soon as they found out it was no good, they’d be back, and they’d have more questions, harder ones, and some would be about him.

  The phone rang again. He snatched it up.

  “Where is he?” It was a female voice, young—and familiar.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Let me tell you something. You might work hand in glove with my mother. You might suck up to her, but you will suffer for what you did. Damn you!” And then click.

  He did not need that little fireball on his ass, that was for sure.

  The detectives were watching him. They looked like a couple of poured-out old doofuses, but that, he knew from too much experience with detectives, was just a shtick. The thing about detectives was that until they suspected someone, they suspected everyone. They were never without suspicion, not the good ones, and the LAPD had a lot of good ones.

  “If there’s anything else I can help you with?”

  For a moment, they both stared at him in silence. Finally, the tall one unfolded himself and stood up. “We’ll get it figured out,” he said. “It all comes together in the end, am I right?”

  They left, wandering off down the hall, seemingly oblivious but, he felt sure, taking everything in. They’d be suspicious as hell now. They’d assume that he was concealing something, because how could this kid have been in here without being noticed?

  When they went after Frank’s records in the system, what happened then? If there was the least thing wrong with whatever paperwork Szatson had used to get him released, there was gonna be a world of trouble coming his way.

  He opened his bottom desk drawer and took out the bottle of vodka he kept there. Took a big swig, then again.

  The phone rang. Szatson. Dammit.

  “Mr. Szatson, may I help you?”

  “Get over here now—we need to talk pronto.”

  Frank hung up, took two more long pulls on the bottle, and left.

  He drove the streets almost blindly, trying to convince himself that the thing to do was to just keep driving. Head east, maybe to Vegas. You could get lost there, live on odd jobs. There was always something to do in Vegas, if you were willing to work the bottom.

  Problem was, if he went into the wind now, the detectives would certainly follow.

  He went up Szatson’s driveway, stopped for the entrance gate, then parked his old Plymouth. For a moment, he sat still, trying to get his mind to slow down. He was gonna be raked over the coals here. He needed his wits about him.

  Szatson pulled the door open.

  “Frank, this is a mess.”

  “It got away from me.” He followed Szatson into the dark, silent cavern of a house.

  “Let’s get it fixed,” Szatson said.

  “Mr. Szatson, I collected the materials that—”

  Szatson turned on him. “That what?”

  “That the kid saw.”

  “Goddammit! And you’re certain of this?”

  “We have to assume it.”

  “And he’s in the juvenile system.”

  “He’s at Westview, transferring tomorrow to the Willamette Camp above Los Feliz.”

  “Well, then let me ask you another question. Can you handle it?”

  “There’s nothing for me to handle. He’s gone. He’s in the system.”

  “Frank, do you understand how much money is involved here?” Szatson asked.

  He nodded.

  “A whole world of money. Money that is obligated.” Szatson fingered what appeared to be some sort of college ring. “All over the world. Russia, China, Myanmar.”

  If people in places like that didn’t get repaid, they killed you. So Mr. Szatson was in danger, too.

  “We need to get this done, Frank,” Szatson added. “I’m giving you a chance to fix it, but understand that it’s a last chance.”

  Frank nodded. But he still didn’t understand. “Fix it how?”

  “Do the damn kid! Reach in there and do him!”

  Was this possible?
Of course it was. It was always possible to hit somebody on the inside.

  “You don’t need to worry about the kid,” Frank said. “The kid is finished.”

  “When?”

  He would have to reach into juvie, which meant going to the gangs. He had some connections there, guys who did fires for him.

  “Couple days.”

  “Tonight, damn you! No later.”

  He nodded. So he was committed to his first murder, and the most dangerous kind. Hits went wrong. People sang to save themselves from hard time.

  “Tonight,” he said. “For sure.”

  CHAPTER 13

  You never forget a boy who touched your soul but had to go.

  Your heart follows him until it ’s lost.

  But you’ ll never stop, no matter the cost.

  I have to get him out. I have to get him back. But I still don’t even know where he is, and I have no name! I think I’m going to go totally insane here.

  I want him. I can help him grow and become a real person. He is so innocent and vulnerable, and I am so upset that my brain is buzzing with images of him being beaten up or screaming his lungs out in some cage. I don’t think I can bear another night of the sleepless hell I endured last night.

  I tell myself, “Girl, you hardly know him—he’s some kind of a freak who lives in walls,” but then I remember the joy sparkling in his eyes when he looked at me, and I think love that pure has value.

  Innocence like his is almost unknown in this world, and to touch it as I have is an incredible privilege. I want to take him in my arms and make him safe. And I can, I know I can. If only I can find him.

  And yet, work goes on. My concert is Saturday night, this Saturday night! I look at my MySpace and Facebook pages—they are swarming. Speculation. Anticipation. The story of Mom’s freakathon over my music is all over the place.

  One thing, Mom is aware of her mistake. Today we went up to the Greek for rehearsal, and she didn’t have her sweet old composer there to feed me ditties. Of course she ruined all my scratch tracks, so my music won’t be available for download and the album is delayed six weeks, but at least it will be my music, my real music.