Bone Music

by Christopher Rice

  Forcing breath into her lungs, she slides into the passenger seat. She wants to meet Luke’s joke with one of her own, wants to look him in the eye and return his sheepish smile. But she can’t. She can’t because the world seems too small all of a sudden. Because her life, once again, has been reduced to a thin stream moving through a channel carved by psychopaths.

  Before she can reconsider, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out the Post-it note with Bailey’s URL on it. She extends it to Luke. He doesn’t take it.

  “What’s that?” he asks.

  “Your brother. It’s the URL he gave us. For when you go talk to him.”

  “Aren’t we both going to talk to him?” he asks.

  “No. You should leave me here.”

  “Leave you here. What? That’s crazy. It’s like a forty-five-minute walk back to town. I’m not—”

  “I’ll have Marty come pick me up.”

  “Well, do you have another phone with you? ’Cause the last one’s kinda roadkill now.”

  “No, I don’t. Maybe you could call him after you—”

  “OK, you know what? Let’s just stick with the original plan and—” She grabs his hand when he reaches for the gearshift.

  “Luke, if Bailey talks to me, he could end up in more trouble than he’s already in.”

  “My brother’s hiding out from the FBI. Probably in a foreign country.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m just saying you’d be hard-pressed to make things any more difficult for him.”

  “I know,” she says. “And given the situation I’m in, it’s still possible.”

  His smile fades, but she’s not seeing surrender in his eyes. She’s seeing determination, calculation, an unwillingness to give in to her fear. Is it too soon to call it loyalty?

  “OK. Then let me just ask this. And I promise you—no, I swear to you—your answer will never leave this car.”

  She nods.

  “Did you kill someone?” he asks.

  Her mind flashes to the biker somersaulting down her windshield. Would the guy be dead if he hadn’t tried to run her off the road? Nope.

  “No.”

  Although, she thinks, given who Dylan claims to be working for, he could probably make it look like I did.

  “Did you rob someone?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “But someone’s after you?”

  “Yes. This is more than one question, Luke.”

  “And you made time to drop in on me during all this?”

  “You would have made a really good FBI agent.”

  “I know. So . . . your drop-in?”

  She studies his face; his expression’s blank. Another sign he’s switched into investigator mode.

  “I thought you might be in on it,” she says.

  His eyes light up with surprise.

  “Correction. Marty thought you might be in on it. This . . . thing . . . It’s big, and, uh, when I told Marty about it, he said you showed up in town after interviewing with the FBI and maybe . . .”

  “Maybe what?”

  “Maybe you were trying to find me. Or watch me. I don’t know—he just thought you might be part of it.”

  Luke’s barking laughter fills the Jeep. It sounds genuine, and it leaves him breathless, doubled over, and gripping the top of the steering wheel with both hands. “That’s awesome,” he finally manages.

  “Awesome?” she asks.

  “No, it’s just that . . . I mean, if you had any idea how completely lame my life was right now, the fact that you’d think I’m involved in some sort of massive conspiracy . . . It’s pretty funny, Charley. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to make light of your situation. But seriously, all I do is drive around a town I never wanted to see again, getting into fights with guys like Marty even as I try to convince them I’m not the giant prick I used to be, and then I go home to my mostly empty house, watch free porn and fall asleep, usually after the third beer and a frozen dinner. But honestly, I like your version of my life better. It’s way more exciting.”

  “Well, if you want excitement, I can definitely give you some of that.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “And it wasn’t my version; it was more Marty’s version,” she says.

  His laughter proves so infectious, she finds herself smiling despite herself. After a few deep breaths, their eyes meet. He’s looking at her in a way she’s not used to being looked at. With a mixture of eagerness, concern, and longing. Maybe not for her specifically. But for the chance to be part of something.

  “Is that what you’re looking for, Luke? Some excitement?”

  “I told you what I was looking for,” he says quietly.

  “Remind me.”

  “A chance to do right by you.”

  “You already did that when you told me the truth about Bailey.”

  “I’m not leaving you out here, Charley.”

  “I’ll give you points just for driving me this far.”

  “Not enough. I mean, I’ll do whatever you want. But I won’t feel like my job is done if you cut me loose now.”

  All right, buddy, she thinks. You asked for it.

  “I was seeing a psychiatrist where I was living in Arizona. I confided everything in him, everything I’d been through with the Bannings. Afterward. We talked for months. Then he convinced me to take this antianxiety drug. He said it just came on the market, and he gave me a sample.”

  She has his full attention now, can feel his gaze heating up one side of her face. But if she looks him in the eyes, she’ll lose her nerve.

  “What I didn’t know is that he’d contacted one of my worst stalkers and given him enough info to break into my house that night. The same night I took the pill. But when he attacked me . . . the drug. It wasn’t just an antianxiety drug. It was something else. It made me strong.”

  “How strong?”

  “Very strong.”

  “OK.”

  There’s fear in his expression. She can see it. But at least there isn’t You’re fucking nuts, lady in his eyes. She knows damn well what that looks like, and there’s no sign of it. Still, he could have his own idea about what very strong means, and it’s probably not even close to reality. If she shows him the video, though . . .

  “Are you on it now?” he asks.

  “I took another dose before I saw you. In case you were . . .”

  “Oh.” He nods, eyes wide. “Oh, OK. Wow. All right. So I shouldn’t piss you off, I guess. I mean, is that how it works?”

  “No. That’s not how it works.”

  “How does it work?”

  “You would have to terrify me. You’d have to make me believe my life was in danger. That level of fear, that’s what kicks the drug into action.”

  “And you thought your life would be in danger if you came over to my house?”

  “I just wanted to prepare for the possibility. That’s all. It’s not like I dosed up so I could come over and kick your ass, all right?”

  “Of course not.” But he struggles to swallow, and his voice sounds weak.

  “Are you gonna be all right? You look pale.”

  “It would be easier if I didn’t believe you. But I do. And so I’m freaking out a little right now. Right? I can admit that. I mean, I’m still a man if I admit that, right?”

  She laughs, nods. It eases his tension a bit.

  “Keep going. So the stalker . . . Is he . . .”

  “I didn’t kill him, but I came close. Then I left to get the police. It was adrenaline, I thought. But once I got on the road and I ran into the bikers, I realized it had to be the drug.”

  “Bikers,” Luke says flatly. “Bikers . . . in Arizona. Holeee . . . that story on the news? That was you?”

  “No. Not entirely.”

  “What’s not entirely mean when a biker gang is slaughtered?”

  “This isn’t going how I thought it would. Telling you all this.”

  “Just ignore me,” he says. “Jus
t keep going. I’m sorry. Keep going. So the bikers?”

  “Dylan got the rest.”

  “Who’s Dylan?”

  “The psychiatrist. My psychiatrist. Or so I thought.”

  “A psychiatrist who kills biker gangs.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And the stalker guy? What happened to him?”

  “Dylan killed him.”

  “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that Dylan isn’t just a psychiatrist.”

  “No. He isn’t. He’s a scientist with some sort of military background. When he just called me to find out why I wasn’t out in the world using the other pills he gave me, he described the heat signature of every living thing in this field. Including you.”

  “I see.”

  “He also identified you by name.”

  “Probably from my license plate,” he says calmly.

  “I figured that part of the story would freak you out more than all the others, but instead it’s knowing I might be able to trounce you that’s got you sweating.”

  “I’m not sweating. Am I sweating?” He angles the rearview mirror to look at himself. “Yeah. OK. Well, male privilege being called into question. Whatever. I went to college. I get it.”

  “I’m not sure it’s your license plate that did it. He says he’s working with a company that made twenty-five billion dollars last year, and they hire the best private security firms in the world. I wouldn’t put it past them to have some kind of facial-recognition software.”

  He grunts, nods, and looks at the empty road. But she’s more taken with what he doesn’t do. He doesn’t jump from the car and run for the nearest cover. He doesn’t even look to the sky for the tiny blip of a drone that might have been circling overhead this whole time. Instead he’s processing. Absorbing all she’s told him.

  He’s into this, she realizes.

  Maybe because he doesn’t know the half of it. Wait until he watches the footage. Right now he’s probably imagining her doling out superpowered high kicks and crippling uppercuts, not bending metal with her bare hands.

  “Twenty-five billion dollars a year,” he finally says. “What kind of company makes twenty-five billion dollars a year?”

  “I feel like this is a rhetorical question.”

  “I can think of two kinds off the bat. Defense contractors and pharmaceutical companies. One’s good at surveillance; the other makes antianxiety drugs.”

  “I didn’t realize drug companies made that much money,” she says.

  “It’s one of the most profitable businesses in the world.”

  “Is there one that does both?”

  “Not that I know of. Not that anyone knows about. But nobody knew about this drug, right?”

  And the fact that you could see that right off the bat is part of why I need your help right now. But she doesn’t say it. Because he’s smiling.

  Why is he smiling?

  “Why are you smiling?” she asks.

  “Because my brother is going to have so much fun fucking with these people.”

  “Wait. What? No!”

  “Well, that’s what you’re gonna ask him to do, right?”

  “No. I . . . I was going to ask him to get background on Dylan so that I had some idea of who he was and why he was doing it. But I don’t need it now because I know what I’m up against, and it’s fucking terrifying.”

  “You didn’t even know their names.”

  “I know they can see us from space. That’s enough to know I shouldn’t send your brother after them.”

  “I think you’re underestimating my brother.”

  “We’re not talking about the dean of a corrupt community college.”

  “I know. That’s why I think Bailey’s gonna be pumped.”

  “Luke, you are being completely insane right now.”

  “You just brought me a story about a drug that gives you enough strength to pound biker gangs into the pavement. Maybe slow your roll when it comes to handing out the crazy label. Just sayin’.”

  “OK. I guess that’s fair. But, seriously, I can’t—”

  “Look, I still want to help. What do you want to do, Charley?”

  When she doesn’t answer, he says nothing for several minutes, allows her to gaze out at the empty field, the lone oak, the mountains that should be beautiful and awe inspiring. Instead they feel like looming barricades between her and any bright future.

  “Whatever you want to do,” he says, “I’ll help. I’ll make Bailey help, if I can.”

  “You could lose your job.”

  “Boo-hoo,” he says.

  He allows her another long silence.

  The sight of the dashboard clock puts her back inside her body: 2:20 p.m.

  “I guess I could try to disappear. But he says there’s no outrunning them.”

  “Bailey could give you some pointers on that, I’m sure.”

  “Maybe,” she says, “but I don’t want to. This is my name. The name I picked for myself. I don’t want to give it up.”

  “I understand.”

  Another silence.

  “You thirsty?” he asks.

  She’s so startled by his question, she locks eyes with him.

  “I keep an ice chest in the back with some bottled water. You want one?”

  Why is she blinking back tears all of a sudden? How is it that this simple offer has exposed the chink in her armor? Is she really about to break down over a bottle of water?

  It’s not that, she realizes.

  It’s what he’s not doing. He’s not turning the car around. He’s not ordering her off onto the side of the road. He’s not recoiling from her history, from her terrible burdens, from the darkness that’s dogged her every step. Instead he’s settling in, making plans with her, starting with a bottle of water.

  “Hey.” His whisper makes the brusque little word sound gentle, soothing.

  She holds up one hand and turns her face to the window again so she can deep-breathe the threat of tears away.

  “Hey,” he whispers again. His hand comes to rest on the gearshift. Not touching her, but maybe getting ready to the minute she gives him the OK.

  Once she’s steadied her breath, she reaches over and pats his hand gently. “Hey,” she whispers back.

  He nods, watching her closely, and for a second there’s the tension of wondering whether he’ll grip her shoulder or her knee, or try to comfort her in some other physical way that might spin quickly out of control given the emotions already roiling inside her. And this tension, however unpleasant, is a delicious contrast to everything she was feeling just moments before.

  “So, um, no on the water?” he asks with a smile.

  “I really appreciate the offer,” she whispers.

  “It still stands whenever you’re ready. Or thirsty.”

  “Luke?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you walked out of that meeting with . . . What was his name? The agent who tried to—”

  “Rohm. Agent Rohm.”

  “What did you do when you walked out of that meeting? I mean, you must have felt like your life was over, right? The life you’d planned anyway . . . How did you keep from . . . I don’t know . . . giving up?”

  “I made the choice in the middle,” he says.

  “The choice in the middle? Is that like a Buddhist thing?”

  “Maybe. I wouldn’t know. What I know is moments like that suck because you feel like there are only two choices, and they’re both horrible. On the right, you go after the person who’s kicked your teeth out until you’ve destroyed your life trying to destroy them. And on the left, you give up completely. Find some cheap-ass apartment and some bullshit punch-the-clock job, and drink your feelings away in your spare time. Or smoke weed, if that’s your thing.”

  “Is it your thing?”

  “No. Hate the smell.”

  “So Altamira Sheriff’s. That wa
s the choice in the middle?”

  “Yeah. I mean, it’s not complete surrender. But it’s not exactly revenge, either.”

  She nods. She likes his logic, and she likes the phrase.

  The choice in the middle . . .

  When the idea comes to her, she flushes from head to toe, and for a second or two, she wonders if the drug has kicked into gear, if the accumulation of stress has triggered it in some new, residual way. But when she grips the door handle next to her, it doesn’t crack or bend or warp. This really is just adrenaline. The adrenaline rush of someone who’s just seen a narrow band of light resolve at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

  “Drive,” she says.

  “Where to?”

  “The library. Like we planned.”

  Luke starts the Jeep.

  She stares at the road ahead. Just a glance into Luke’s eyes might turn her sudden burst of confidence to dust. It’s crazy, this idea. It’s absolutely crazy, but it’s got something else wrapped through it, something that felt entirely elusive just seconds before. Hope. Not for complete freedom, but for some version of it. Hope that she might be able to disrupt Dylan’s plan to send her out into the world as his guinea pig, if not spin it to her advantage. To someone’s advantage.

  She’s not sure how much time has passed when Luke says, “Are you gonna tell me what—”

  “No. Not till we get there. I may have reconsidered by then anyway.”

  “OK.”

  “We’ll still talk to Bailey no matter what, but . . . I just need to think for a little bit.”

  “I got it. I’ll just drive. I love driving.” But he doesn’t sound like someone who loves driving. He sounds like someone holding in a belch with every muscle in his body.

  Golden fields. Rolling hills. Glimpses of sparkling lakes. It’s beautiful country, but the last leg of their little road trip feels interminable all of a sudden, and she’s shifting in her seat by the time they’re coming down out of the hills and into Paso Robles, Altamira’s classier big sister. This is where they came to see first-run movies in a nice, comfy theater when Charley was a girl—when Trina was a girl—the place they’d drive to for dinners so fancy she and Luanne would have to wear sundresses and sandals. Ah, California!

  On the outside, the library looks modern and immaculate; sandstone walls banded with strips of red brick. The roof’s a cluster of pyramids covered in a kind of weathered green metal that reminds her of statues from ancient Rome. After her time in the sterile safe house and the seemingly endless twenty minutes she spent inside that repulsive roadside bar, the library’s clean, hushed interior feels like an oasis of comfort and safety.