by Amber Foxx
He came to, sick, dazed and in agony. The garage door was open, and the alarm was off. Jamie looked at his right arm. It felt like the bullet was still hitting his nerve. His sleeve was red and soaked, the blood growing sticky. Two of his fingers curled yet flopped, useless. The burning sensation shot through them from his arm. Jesus. He had his voice back and couldn’t play flutes or drums. His last show of the tour would be canceled. More medical debt. A heavy lump filled his chest.
Joe Wayne was sitting cross-legged a few feet away, singing softly to himself. What in bloody hell was wrong with the man? Was he so drunk he didn’t realize his wife just tried to kill him?
“I had to possess you and claim you as mine,
Now we live in a house that the devil designed.”
The melody’s delicate beauty paired with such bitter lyrics penetrated past the pain, capturing Jamie’s attention. Joe Wayne swayed a little, his voice barely scratching out the top of his range, but dipping deep into the honey of the low notes.
“Forsaking all others ’til death do us part
Comes first in a long line of lies
Vows begin...” He beat out the rhythm on his legs, humming a transition that Jamie imagined on, of all things, a harpsichord.
“Hope dies.”
“Jeezus.” The song was exquisite, even elegant. “It’s a minuet.”
“You got it.” Joe Wayne scooted an inch closer. “Man, you got it. Sylvie didn’t. Six-eight time. Minuet. The partners don’t touch.” He gestured to show the dancers’ patterns. “Come from opposite corners, circle, face off ...” His hands fell back to the floor, supporting his unsteady torso. He stretched his legs out in front of him, barely avoiding the smear of Jamie’s blood. “I love that song, it’s so goddamned true.” He let out a heavy exhalation that ended in a cough. “Wish I had your voice for it, though. You could nail it.”
“I wouldn’t sing anything Sylvie wrote. Y’know she sent me the same idea?”
“Yeah. We have to talk about that. Here.” Joe Wayne pushed himself to all fours, then upright enough to knee-walk toward Jamie and hand him a towel. “We need an understanding before the cavalry comes.”
“Understanding?” Jamie sat up, touching the towel to his face, then his arm. Both made him wince at the lightest dab. His head spun. He dropped the towel and leaned back on his left elbow. “Where’s Gasser?”
“That’s his name? Sheeyit.” Joe Wayne laughed. “He’s in the house. You bled all over him. Roxana’s gonna wash him when she gets here.”
“Where’s Sylvie? She can’t hurt him, can she?”
“Christ, no. I got this mess under control. You are one crazy dude, you know that? You’re cut up and shot and you’re worried about your damn cat.” Joe Wayne sat back down. “You got your head on straight?”
“My head? What about yours?
“I do my best thinking drinking. Shoot, that’s a lyric. But anyway, what’s your take on how you got here?”
His take on it? Did Joe Wayne not know? “Your creepy little weasel was going to kill you. Make it look like I did it.”
“Kill me? Not a chance. I can shoot the left wing off a horse fly and not scratch the horse whose ass he’s biting. When I’m sober. And I’m not too bad when I’m drunk.”
“Yeah, you are.” Jamie’s face hurt when he talked. The cuts in his back seemed to bleed more when he breathed. “Unless you were aiming for me.”
“No.” Joe Wayne drew his knees up, leaned his elbows on them, and propped his chin on his hands. His voice grew sad. “I was aiming at Sylvie.” He studied Jamie for a moment. “This all must look crazy as hell to you, but it’s how we live.” He sighed. “Lived. Never played this rough before. All head games ’til now.”
Dizzy, Jamie lay down again. Was it only the pain making him faint, or had he bled enough to die before the ambulance arrived? His breath snagged on the edge of an uncontrollable laugh. Suicidal and afraid of dying. “Jeezus. Every time I think I’m not going to die—”
“Death sneaks up and sticks his finger up your ass,” Joe Wayne slurred. “I know. Been dancin’ with the son of a bitch for years.” He groped at his various pockets. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“You’re in luck. Forgot I quit. Listen. We’re gonna be swarmed in a few minutes. Police. Ambulance. Tell ’em you need to go to Austin. Don’t let those country docs touch you or you’ll end up Captain-Hook-meets-Frankenstein. Okay?” Jamie nodded. Joe Wayne cracked a thumb knuckle. “Reckon we got about five minutes left to get our stories lined up.”
“What stories?”
“Only one thing happened here. One thing. An intoxicated homeowner tried to scare off a burglar who turned out to be an acquaintance of his wife. Got it?”
“Fuck, she tried to—” Jamie turned his head to look where the knife had fallen. No knife. “You can’t cover that up. Bloody hell. She tried to kill you.”
“So you say.” A faint smile lifted one corner of the country star’s mouth. “But I say, and Sylvie says, that the lights were out and the alarm was loud. You started toward me. Maybe you meant to identify yourself, let me see you better. But I thought you were a burglar and a threat. So I shot you.” He paused, his fingers seeking nonexistent cigarettes again. “And I’m damned sorry.”
“You’d lie—”
“I owe Sylvie my whole goddamn career.” Joe Wayne’s rough voice grew even hoarser. “She ain’t going to jail.”
“She bloody well is—”
“She ain’t. Think about it. What the hell would you get out of fighting for that?”
Millionaire versus bankrupt. Of course Sylvie would win in court. Her second home. Joe Wayne could pay for the world’s best lawyers, while Jamie couldn’t even pay his medical bills from the past, let alone the new ones. There’d be surgery he couldn’t afford, then months of rehab—no, there wouldn’t be. He couldn’t cover that, either. His hand would end up as bad as his hip. He’d probably never play flutes again. And court? He could barely handle his parking ticket from Norfolk. The ticket on the fucking corpse. How could he survive a trial—emotionally, financially, legally? How could he even get there? His failure was complete.
Quicksand swallowed Jamie’s world, and his heart went with it. He’d gone through so much to save Gasser, but—Mae would take him. The cat would live. Jamie’s new life was over before it started. No point in going through with any of it.
A heavy rage against his own hopes skinned off his last layer of control and pushed him staggering to his feet. One more cut. A deep one.
Chapter Thirty-One
Even though she’d pushed nonstop, Mae felt as if she’d gotten nowhere. Tennessee seemed endless. At five thirty in the evening, the short winter day had turned dark already, and answering her phone while driving in the mountains was dangerous. She did it anyway, grabbing the phone without looking at it. This call might be Jamie, finally.
“Hey, honey.” The voice was Arnie’s. “I’ve had three calls from some nut claiming he’s Joe Wayne Brazos. I hung up the first two times, but he keeps calling back.”
She hadn’t given Joe Wayne Arnie’s number. Jamie had put it in his wallet. The meaning of this almost stopped her breath. People went through an unconscious person’s wallet—or a dead man’s. “Did you get a number?”
“I still got him on the landline. He wants to talk to you. If I put both phones on speaker you might hear him. I didn’t want to give him your number in case he’s some wacko. I mean, Joe Wayne Brazos calling Mae Martin?”
Mae heard a Texas-accented growl in the background, “Yeah it’s goddamned Joe Wayne Brazos. Tell her it’s about Jangarrai.”
“Give him my number. He’s for real.” Mae pulled onto the side of the road. She couldn’t handle this and drive. Trucks roared past, flying earthquakes shaking her small car. “Thanks, Arnie.”
Waiting between one call and the next, she felt like she was stuck in midair in a jump across a chasm. What had happened to Jamie?<
br />
Hubert had called in the morning, puzzled by a hang-up call from Jamie followed by a perfectly spelled text saying never mind and that nothing was wrong. It had struck Hubert as odd and Mae had agreed. Maybe Jamie had hung up the first time because he’d remembered not to use his voice. But Jamie, anxious about Sylvie, frazzled with worry that the van was broken—the only reason he’d call Hubert—wouldn’t correct his typos for someone he knew and trusted. Also, if he’d pulled over to use his phone, he’d have checked all his other messages and answered Mae, even if only to say “thnaks” for caring and trying to help, or “soyyr” for being so much trouble.
The only explanation was that Sylvie had taken his phone. Mae had done one last psychic search and seen Jamie in the car with his stalker. She’d then packed in such haste she’d left the hat and diary and cat-hair shirt behind.
Her phone rang. “Hey. This is Mae. How’s J—”
“Sheeyit. This is that number. Damn southern New Mexico area code. I thought it was ... Never mind. How in hell did you know I was in that car club?”
“I dated her ex.” How self-centered, thinking about himself and Commander Diana instead of the message. “Did you read what I wrote?”
“Yeah, but not too well. I was drunk. All I got out of it was Jangarrai and Sylvie and area code 575.”
Mae felt a twinge of guilt. She’d made Joe Wayne more jealous, not helped Jamie. But she couldn’t have known Joe Wayne would be intoxicated when he read her message. “Where is he? What happened to him? Can I talk to him? Why didn’t he call me?”
“Slow down, girl. Shit—he ain’t dead and he’s not gonna be.”
Mae breathed a sigh of relief, her body softening as the fear rolled off her. “How did you get my stepfather’s number?”
“Only one your friend had on him. My dogs pissed on his phone, and he’s not conscious—”
“How bad is he hurt?”
“See if I remember exactly. Facial laceration. Fractured ulna, some tears to the ...” Joe Wayne sounded like he was reading something, “flexor and extensor digiti? Damned if I know—sounds like finger muscles. Those go all the way up your forearm like that?”
Mae had struggled to learn anatomical words, and Joe Wayne, who said ain’t, seemed to have figured them out from Latin. “They do.” Damaged finger muscles in a flutist. She thought of how Jamie had reacted to losing his voice for a few days. This loss was going to be worse and last longer. “How’d this happen?”
Joe Wayne paused. “We’ll need to talk about that.”
“We can talk right now.”
“I’d rather wait. It’s a matter of some complexity.”
Something devious was going on. Too many hours had passed since Jamie’s meeting with Sylvie, and it didn’t make sense that Joe Wayne had called Arnie’s number. He could have contacted Wendy for an emergency. Her information was right on Jamie’s web site. “Did you talk to his manager? His family?”
“Hold your horses. Who are you to him exactly, anyway?”
She didn’t know. Nothing described the relationship. “Someone important.”
“Shit, that’s obvious. When he’s half-coherent he keeps saying your name. And not much else except for fuck fuck fuck. I mean, are you engaged? Anything like that? Share any property?”
“No. Why—”
“Hey, you awake there, man?” Joe Wayne said, no longer into the speaker. “Got your woman on the line. Want me to fly her here?” Mae heard Jamie, sounding drugged, confused and distressed, but couldn’t make out his words.
“Christ.” Joe Wayne came back on the phone with Mae. “Shoulda let him sleep. Now I gotta mop up. Where are you? Can I buy you a plane ticket?”
“Thanks, but I’m driving. I left this morning. I’m almost halfway there.”
“Hm. Impressive. All right, I’ll get you a hotel room.” He gave her the name and address of the hospital, and of the hotel where he would put her. “Don’t tell nobody but your step-daddy that you talked to me. This is a work in progress, and your sweetheart here needs your cooperation. See you tomorrow.”
Her sweetheart? Arnie had warned her that the trip would look like that. You’re a real good friend to him, but make sure you know what you’re getting into. You’re going to a lot of trouble for him. He may take it as some kind of commitment. Hubert and Jen had hoped that it was. Mae had no idea. There’d been no rush of romance. No flutters and fireworks. She only knew that Jamie shouldn’t be alone and in danger in a strange city. And that she couldn’t face the thought of losing him.
She slept a few fragmented hours in the luxurious suite in Austin. The room felt unnatural in its excess of comforts. She didn’t need towels as thick as the carpet or chocolates on her designer pillowcase, she needed to go see Jamie and find out how he’d gotten hurt. Every time she woke up, Joe Wayne’s words nagged at her. What kind of work in progress? For whose benefit?
In the morning, she called him as soon as she was dressed and ready to go to the hospital. In spite of the marathon drive and the short rest, a fierce energy held off the fatigue that should have claimed her.
“You decent?” Joe Wayne asked.
“Of course.”
“Good.” He hung up, and a knock on her door followed within a minute.
His shadow of beard was unshaven to the usual calculated roughness, and his sun-streaked hair hung down his shoulders. Chewing a wad of gum, he smelled like mint, and not a trace of tobacco. He nodded to a chair. “Mind if I sit? We need to talk before we head out.”
If she’d met him alone like this a month ago, she would have been an awed speechless fan. Now she saw him as an obstacle—or a bridge—between her and Jamie. “We sure do. But make it short. I need to see Jamie.”
“He’ll keep. Son of a bitch ain’t worth shit right now anyway.” Joe Wayne dropped into the soft velour armchair, crossed a booted ankle on his black-jeaned thigh, and studied Mae. “He’s got good taste in women.”
The flirtation annoyed her and she made a point of ignoring it. “How did he get hurt?”
“First we need to talk about my press release.”
“This is not about you. Why should I—”
“Hear me out. This affects your man. I got three versions. You need to vote which one I use.” He unzipped an inner pocket of his denim jacket, took out a few sheets of paper and handed them to her. “’Bout time I made a statement.”
Suspicious and impatient, Mae sat at the table and read the three potential announcements.
1. Brazos Blasts New Friend. Country superstar Joe Wayne Brazos, known for his Wild West ways, shot a friend he mistook for a burglar in his garage. Brazos’s songwriting partner, longtime Austin resident Sylvie Wainwright, had retrieved lost items belonging to world music singer Jangarrai and stored them in Brazos’s garage, because she was unable to fit them in her own apartment. As she and Jangarrai went in to get the instruments, the lights went out, and Brazos, who was intoxicated at the time, shot Jangarrai when Wainwright accidentally set off the alarm on Brazos’s beloved classic automobile. Brazos had hoped to collaborate with Jangarrai on a new album, according to a Brazos spokesperson, but the musicians had not yet met. Jangarrai suffered injuries in a fall into some gardening tools, as well as from the bullet wound. He says, “Bloody hell, at least I met Brazos. My (expletive) career needed a shot in the arm.” He was shot in the arm.
Mae glanced at Joe Wayne, who slumped in the big chair wearing his album cover look, the squint and the smirk. The joke was believably like Jamie. No, I’m a frayed knot. For some reason she doubted the rest of the story, although it was in some way plausible. “Did you shoot him?”
“Keep reading.”
She did.
2. In a tragedy fit for either a country song or an opera, Joe Wayne Brazos shot New Age tenor Jangarrai, who then injured himself with a knife in a possible suicide attempt. The men fought in a misunderstanding over a woman.
Had Jamie hurt himself? He’d seemed capable of it last time she s
aw him. There was a satirical tone to the blurb, though. “This is nothing to joke about.”
“Who says I’m joking? One of these might be true.”
Impatient, Mae read the final version of the release.
3. Songwriter Sylvie Wainwright is accused of attempting to kill her collaborator Joe Wayne Brazos and her former high school music teacher by staging an incident in which she hoped the two men might fight. She is suspected of intending to knife both of them to death, counting on Jamie Ellerbee to succumb to a panic attack while she stabbed Brazos. She presumably intended Ellerbee to look like a murder/suicide, and to account for her own bloodstained clothing by claiming she tried to stop the two men in their struggle. A possible motive was to launch her own singing career with a tribute album to the two men, taking advantage of the scandal and publicity.
Mae paused, stunned. Too late, she understood her visions of Sylvie and Joe Wayne’s past. Her failed attempt to find clues to the future. Sylvie’s thinking was so twisted Mae never could have put the pieces together to see this coming. She resumed reading.
Wainwright says the fight was real, and that she was attempting to intervene when Brazos shot Ellerbee. Ellerbee, who has a history of mental illness, suffered wounds which are under investigation as self-inflicted or from an attack by Ms. Wainwright. The case goes to trial in February. With the celebrity involvement, it is expected to be a difficult and protracted event. Ellerbee, a little-known musician who performs under the name Jangarrai, will have to face the power of Brazos and Wainwright’s experienced team of top lawyers. Joe Wayne Brazos was unharmed and claims he shot Ellerbee in self-defense.
Mae slapped the third page against the table. “How dare you put that about his mental health in some press release?”
“I take it you don’t vote for that one.”
“I want to know what it means. Are you telling me that if he takes Sylvie to court for trying to kill the both of you, you’ll run Jamie through the wringer like that?”
