Bone Music

by Christopher Rice

  They’ve stopped the commercial, and their expressions range from puzzled to annoyed.

  “I need to step out for a minute, folks,” he hears himself say.

  There’s a grumbled objection from Tucker, an envious expression from Nora, and silence from the three lawyers, whose names he’s already forgotten. His head of marketing is refilling his coffee from the station in the corner. Cole doesn’t notice their reactions as he strides out of the room, then down the hall toward his office.

  His employees part before him. Maybe it’s the expression on his face, or maybe it’s that he’s their boss. By then he’s read the line of text above the video, the one he missed in his rush to open the file, and his heart has started hammering.

  New trial going well. When can we discuss the preliminary results? —D

  12

  The last time Charlotte saw Kayla LeBlanc in person, her hair was a shiny bob, as corporate looking as the pantsuits she always wore to the office and to court. Now she sports a classic high bun with a twist, and while it’s clear she’s tried to dress casual, her jeans look like they cost more than Charlotte earns in six months.

  Maybe she’s been springing for pricier duds ever since the California Association of Black Lawyers named her lawyer of the year. Whatever the reason, she looks way more out of place in this so-called safe house than Charlotte does. Charlotte finds that comforting. It’s a sign neither of them really belongs here, which is a sign they won’t have to stay for very long.

  They sit across from each other at the tiny kitchen table. They got there just before dawn after ditching Jason’s car at the Amazon fulfillment center, and even though she hasn’t slept and is subsisting on instant coffee, the only thing in the safe house’s kitchen cabinet, Charlotte doesn’t feel remotely tired.

  Outside, peeling paint and a rusty chain-link fence allow the one-story tract home to blend in with its neighbors. Inside, it’s scrubbed spotless, barely lived in, and studded with clean, anonymous-looking furniture that belongs in the lobby of a Holiday Inn Express.

  Charlotte’s lost count of how many times she’s told the story.

  Each time through, Kayla has stopped her at various intervals to ask prodding, detail-oriented questions, the same way she’d prep one of her own witnesses to testify.

  Kayla holds Charlotte’s upturned right hand in both of hers, studying the light bruising along her wrist. A result of the car accident, Charlotte’s sure. But maybe it came from her fight with Jason.

  “How many days ago did you get this?” Kayla asks.

  “It’s a few hours old,” Charlotte answers. “And it looked ten times worse right before I met you.”

  Kayla goes rigid. Looks up from Charlotte’s hand with an expression that combines fear and disbelief.

  “You don’t believe me,” Charlotte finally says.

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “What would you say?”

  “I definitely think you were drugged.”

  “So you think I hallucinated everything?”

  “Part of it, maybe. I mean, the bikers . . . there’s nothing on the news about an explosion.”

  “It’s only been a few hours. Almost no one drives that road. That’s why I lived out there. There’s no regular truck traffic; the mine’s been closed for years. There’s no reason anyone would find it right away.”

  “So you think the guy with the shotgun called for backup before they drove you off the road, and that’s who came from the direction of the mine. And that’s who this Dylan character met up with before . . . boom.”

  “Something like that. Yeah.”

  “Describe the explosion again.”

  “I don’t . . . I’m not an explosives expert, but it wasn’t messy, if that makes sense. Whatever it was, I think Dylan set it. It wasn’t the result of a gunfight. It happened too quickly for that. The other thing, though. It was the way he said it . . .”

  “Said what?”

  “‘I need to take care of these guys.’ Like it was nothing. Outlaw bikers. Riding straight for him. Hopped-up on God knows what. And he’s cool as ice. He said he’d take care of Jason, too.”

  “And what do we think that means?”

  “Well, he killed all those bikers for getting in the way of his plan. How’s he going to treat someone who’s no longer useful to him? Someone he manipulated into doing his bidding?”

  “You’re sure he was out there when you called him? I mean, how do you know he was right where those bikers drove you off the road?”

  “I could hear the second group through the phone. They were driving toward him. They must have been going to check on their hideout, and he was there.”

  “So he follows you, he watches what happens with these guys who drove you off the road, and then he just . . . stays out there?”

  “Maybe he was cleaning up.”

  “The bodies, you mean.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Kayla, don’t you get it? I’m his test subject. He set the whole thing up. The clearest thing about this drug is that it turns my fear into strength. In order to see if it worked on me, he had to scare the shit out of me. And what better way to do that than to show Jason Briffel how to get inside my house?”

  “Jesus. Who is this guy?” Kayla whispers.

  “So you don’t think I was hallucinating him, at least.”

  “I don’t think you hallucinated most of it, Charley. I think Dylan’s real. I think he lured Jason out there so you’d have a run-in with him. I even think, to some degree, the bikers are real. I think this guy gave you something that made you believe you were doing these terrible things. But—”

  “Terrible?” Charlotte asks.

  “Come on. You know what I mean.”

  “Jason was probably going to rape me in my own house. And those bikers, they were gonna do worse. A lot worse.”

  “I understand.”

  “But you think what I did was terrible? No, wait. Moot point. You don’t really think I did it.”

  “I think your perception was altered. Chemically. Look, you’re absolutely a victim here, but—”

  “So you don’t believe me? You don’t believe anything I’ve told you?”

  “I said I think it’s more complicated than what either of us can see. Look, I want you to get some sleep.” Kayla gets to her feet. “I’m here for you all day. All night, if need be. I’m not going anywhere. But you need to get some rest.”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “You’re exhausted. Your mind just doesn’t know it.”

  Kayla takes her by the hand and pulls her out of her chair. “Come on.” She leads her toward the hallway.

  “No,” Charley says. “No bedroom. Sofa. I don’t want to be alone.”

  “Fine. Compromises are good so long as you at least pretend to sleep.” With one arm around her shoulders, she guides Charley to the sofa. “I’m gonna make some calls, and I’m gonna do it in the other room. But I won’t let you out of my sight. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

  “Calls?” As soon as she stretches out, the sofa envelops her in its cushions. It’s hardly the most comfortable sofa she’s ever experienced. But it feels delicious. As delicious as a mediocre meal might feel after you’ve starved yourself all day. “Who are you going to call?”

  “I’m going to try to find out who this guy is, for one. And then—”

  “You aren’t going to believe me until something about those bikers hits the news, are you?”

  “There you go. Eyes already drifting shut. See? Told ya you were tired.”

  Kayla’s right. But Charlotte still has enough energy to reach out and grab her hand before she can withdraw. “Kayla. Be careful.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “No. When you check out Dylan. He said whatever this is, it’s bigger than us. Whatever the hell that means.”

  “Charley, my firm takes on some of the most powerful corporations in t
he world. You can trust our research department. I promise you.”

  Kayla pats her forehead gently, and Charlotte feels it as if she’s wrapped in gauze. Before Kayla’s footsteps enter the kitchen, sleep rises to consume her in a great, dark tide. Then she shifts to one side, and something painful jabs her leg.

  She sits up and pulls the packet of pills from her pocket.

  From the kitchen door, Kayla watches her with frightened intensity.

  Charlotte studies them. “You know,” she says, “there is one way to prove that I wasn’t hallucinating.”

  Before she can elaborate, Kayla’s plucked the packet out of her hand. “Sleep. Now. These are staying in the kitchen with me.”

  13

  As Luke Prescott drives west on State Mountain Road 293, he thinks of all the times he traveled this route with his younger brother after their mom got sick.

  Before their mother’s diagnosis—glioblastoma, stage four, inoperable, a year at best—he and Bailey had perfected the fine art of pretending the other didn’t exist, which wasn’t hard. Luke was aggressive and athletic back then; Bailey was computer addicted and completely uninterested in girls.

  After the doctor’s visit that changed their lives, the differences between the two of them seemed to fall away, and most afternoons before sunset, if one of their mother’s friends was able to drive her to chemo, Luke would find Bailey sneaking a smoke in the field behind their house and ask him if he wanted to go for a ride. Bailey would grunt in the affirmative, and a few minutes later they’d be winding their way through the mountains in the family truck.

  After a while the Pacific would open before them, roiling and vast. Sometimes blue and sun streaked, sometimes slate gray and belching fog. But the mountains always looked the same, their formidable, lightly forested slopes plunging toward the surf with a determination and strength both boys were trying to muster inside themselves.

  The mountains look the same as Luke reaches them now—the sea, sparkling and riven by angry waves fueled by the cold autumn winds.

  While his grief for his mother is like a fine layer of silt over his heart, evenly spread, no part of it thick enough to stop the flow of blood, with Bailey, the anger’s still laced all through his system.

  Maybe because Bailey’s still alive. Out there somewhere, possibly on the other side of this very ocean, hiding from the consequences of a crime Luke still doesn’t fully understand.

  But it’s rumors of a far less significant crime that have brought Luke to the Pacific Coast Highway today.

  A right turn sends him in the direction of the vertigo-inducing staircase that leads to Altamira’s only real beach. The lumpy obelisk of stone just offshore, Bayard Rock, is listed in a lot of guidebooks, but most folks drive right past it without realizing it. That, or their stomachs revolt when they get a good look at the stairs you have to take to get there. The beach is where he and Bailey would usually end up on those long-ago afternoon drives. Once there, he’d let the guy stroll away from him because he knew his brother wanted to be alone while he cried into the wind. Luke did, too, for that matter. They only time they cried side by side was when they scattered their mother’s ashes there after she died.

  Coming home wasn’t going to be easy; he knew this. But he didn’t expect the ghosts to be quite this vivid. Foolish of him to think a new badge and uniform would keep them at bay.

  When he sees Martin Cahill’s pickup parked at the picnic area up ahead, Luke’s almost relieved. He knows it means there’s a possible conflict in his immediate future, but he’d welcome anything to relieve him of the memories that besieged him on the drive here.

  He pulls the Altamira Sheriff’s Jeep into the turnout slowly, so as not to indicate any aggression that might set Marty and his crew on edge. Then, with a bowed head and his best attempt at a sheepish smile, he walks toward the spread of picnic benches tucked against the rocky slope.

  The men study his approach without slowing their chewing.

  Martin Cahill’s a lot older than when Luke last saw him, but he doesn’t look it. His hair’s white now, but it’s tied back in a lustrous ponytail. His complexion’s good, especially the parts of it that aren’t covered in tattoos. So he’s still not drinking, Luke thinks. That’s a good sign. Some of the guys with him are former alkies, Luke’s sure. Maybe lost souls he’s hired from the meetinghouse on the east side of town.

  The shitty pickup truck is the same, though. He’s willing to bet the thing’s guts are as jerry-rigged as Frankenstein’s monster by now. Marty could use about two more layers of storage drawers than he’s got in the cargo bay; the one he has installed is covered by a maelstrom of tools, some of them sticking out of the cargo cover’s missing back window.

  Just a regular bunch of working guys breaking for lunch. Their lunch spot just happens to be one of the most beautiful places on the edge of the world. When they’re done eating, they’ll head over to Sally Witcomb’s place and put in some more work on her new guest bathroom, or maybe they’ll drive back to the center of town and help those Buddhists from San Francisco refinish the floor of their new teahouse on Center Street, which apparently Marty’s doing for a big discount because he’s into Buddhism now.

  Or if Luke’s initial suspicion is correct, they were headed over to the ruins of the old resort, and it was only when they saw Luke tailing them that they decided to pretend like they just drove all the way out to the Pacific Coast Highway for lunch.

  “Well, well, well, the prodigal son returns,” Marty says, then goes quiet when he realizes maybe that isn’t the best opening line to use with a guy whose mother died of brain cancer and whose father’s whereabouts have been unknown for most of his life.

  “Marty,” Luke says. “Gentlemen,” he adds, tipping his hat to the rest of them. Only one or two offer even a nod in return.

  “Great view, ain’t it?” Marty asks.

  “Always has been.”

  “You forget? It’s been a while.”

  “Seven years.”

  “That’s a while. Guess you planned on it being longer, though, if what I hear’s correct.”

  Don’t take the bait, he thinks. You’ve got a job to do.

  “I’d invite you to join us,” Marty says, “but it doesn’t look like you got a lunch. So I guess that means you’re not here for lunch.”

  “Not unless one of you’s got extra,” Luke says with a smile.

  “We don’t,” one of the men answers, then falls silent when Marty gives him a look.

  Just a warning, Luke reminds himself. I’m just supposed to give them a warning. Anything else is not how I planned to start my first week on the job.

  “Did Laura Penny reopen her costume store?” Marty asks. “Or maybe Target’s selling sheriff’s uniforms now.”

  “It’d be a deputy’s uniform. Until I’m sheriff. And, no, it didn’t come from Target.”

  “Expecting a promotion already, huh? Admire your confidence, kid. ’Course, what I hear, even sheriff of this town would be a demotion from what you had planned.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t believe everything you hear.”

  “Figure I might end up saying the same once I find out what this little visit’s about.”

  “Marty, I’m here to remind you that the grounds of the old lodge are still private property, and anything you find there still technically belongs to Silver Shore Investments.”

  “Old lodge? You say that like the thing ever opened. Like they ever gave out a single one of the jobs they promised.”

  “I’m aware of the issues that stopped the project, Marty, and along those lines, it’s also my responsibility to inform you that it’s dangerous for anyone to access the premises.”

  Marty looks over one shoulder.

  The unfinished remains of the Altamira Lodge are perched atop a rocky, wooded headland a short distance north. It looks like a crazy cross between a Cold War–era military fort and a billionaire game hunter’s private paradise. Wind-gnarled cypresses conceal most
of the buildings from view, but a few pointed rooftops are visible above the tree line. The way the sun hits it now, Luke can make out some of the giant glassless windows of the main lodge, like open mouths waiting for prey to stumble in.

  Luke vividly remembers the renderings that held the town in thrall: the oversize log cabin detailing, the soaring walls of uninterrupted plate glass meant to maximize sunset views from its dining room. The wooded nature trail snaking through the row of private guest cabins behind the main lodge. All of it’s an overgrown, wind-battered little ghost town now, and Luke has no trouble imagining the entire place tumbling into the sea in a shower of rock one day.

  “You want to know what scares me, kid?”

  “My name’s not kid, Marty. It’s Luke. Deputy Prescott if you want to be particular about it.”

  Marty looks back at him, his half smile tugging down at the corners. “Excuse me, Deputy Prescott.”

  “It’s a warning, Marty. That’s all. Let’s not make this more than it needs to be.”

  “All right, then.” Marty wipes his hands with a napkin, wads it up, and gets to his feet.

  Luke stiffens, feels an urge to reach for his gun. He’s probably one of the best shots in the area. But carrying a gun on your hip all day comes with its own set of challenges, most of them temptations, and he’s only been contending with those for less than a week.

  There’s also the fact that Marty’s got a past. Something must have brought him to AA all those years ago. But whatever it is, it’s two decades ago, and he’s been an upstanding citizen since then, so there’s no reason Luke can’t keep control of this.

  “Here’s my warning.” Marty’s paint-splotched boots crunch the gravel underfoot. “And it’s not necessarily for you, Deputy Prescott, so please don’t take it as a threat. And it’s not for the sheriff or the town council or the governor of our great state of California. Maybe it’s just for all those investors who spent their money to get a . . . well, let’s call it a cozy relationship with our governor and our town council.”