by Dyrk Ashton
Rain continues to fall, lazy but consistent, as Edgar maneuvers the Bentley along a dark two lane road that winds southwest along the river away from the city. After passing through the small town of Rossford into a more sparsely populated area, large homes begin to appear on their right, between the road and the river, interspersed with upscale gated communities.
Zeke realizes he’s been unconsciously petting Mol, who is sound asleep and snoring softly. His eyes roam the once plush interior of the old Bentley T1 Saloon. The fine upholstery, now cracked and faded. The finish of the hand-crafted wooden dashboard, crackled and dull, with circular analogue instrumentation. It smells like old leather, motor oil, and dog.
Fi has the knuckles of one hand pressed to her lips, wanting desperately to nibble her fingernails. She can’t stop her mind from playing back the day’s events. The bad men, the violence. Peter, Billy’s death, and the murders of all the others. But in her head it’s like it happened to someone else, like she’s watching a movie she’s seen before and is only half paying attention to. She knows she should be wracked with grief, having a breakdown, crying her eyes out, but she’s spent so much of her life not allowing herself to dwell on pain, loss and loneliness, pushing heartache away instead of dealing with it, shoving it deep down inside and locking it away, she isn’t sure what she feels now. She cringes at the numbness in her heart. What’s wrong with me?!
She brushes her hair over her ear, sits on her hands to keep her fingers out of her mouth, takes a long, deep breath, and looks out the rain-spattered window on her side of the car.
A stone wall rises and falls with the rolling wooded landscape. Something about it looks familiar. Edgar slows the car, steers to the right onto a gravel drive. They continue through the trees to a wrought iron gate in the wall.
Fi sits up. “I know this place.”
“You’ve been here before,” says Edgar. “It’s my employer’s residence.” He enters a code on the lighted keypad of a remote he retrieves from the glovebox. The gates swing open. “One of them,” he adds, driving through.
“We’ll be safe here, you think?” she asks.
“Trust me, dear. This is the safest place we could want to be.” They wind through the wooded grounds of the estate, Edgar quietly whistling “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” with what seems to Fi to be a slightly nervous air.
They come over a rise and Zeke exclaims softly, “Wow.”
“It’s not a palace,” says Edgar as he brings the car to a stop, “but it is impressive, nonetheless.”
Zeke is first out of the car. The house is three stories of brown stone that spread well over two hundred feet before them, illuminated along the front by in-ground lamps. His eyes wander the hipped and gabled slate roofs, copper gutters with green patina, and ivy that winds its way between tall windows.
Fi steps out, shielding her eyes from the rain, which has diminished to a meager drizzle. She hasn’t been here since she was probably eight years old, when renovations were being completed and her uncle would bring her on weekends when the workers were away. To romp the grounds, swim in the pool, and bowl on the three lane alley in the basement. It still looks like what she always thought it did—a really big mausoleum.
“Fiona, dear,” Edgar calls to her. She meets him at the front of the car. He hands her the house key. “Would you take Mol and open up, please?” he requests.
“Okay.” She lets Mol out, who climbs down stiffly and follows her to the house.
“Zeke,” says Edgar, moving to the back of the car. “Would you give me a hand, lad?”
“Sure.”
Edgar opens the trunk and hands him an enormous blue backpack, military style, with a tent and bedroll attached. Zeke almost drops it—it has to weigh 50 pounds. He gets one strap wrestled over his shoulder and Edgar gives him an identical pack, except this one is pink—but just as heavy.
Zeke is wondering what Edgar is doing with these, and why anyone would make a military pack in pink, when Edgar lifts an oddly shaped black case with shoulder straps out of the trunk and leans it against the bumper. It looks like a custom case for a musical instrument, wider at the top and smaller at the bottom, with a long thin pocket running down the center of the front, like for a bow string or a pool cue, or maybe collapsible ski poles. That’s it, Zeke muses, Fi’s Uncle Edgar is a closet snowboarder.
Edgar pulls out a beat-to-hell, stained canvas duffel. It’s much longer than the packs Zeke has and bows in the middle as Edgar places the strap over his shoulder.
“That’s it, lad,” Edgar says, shutting the trunk. “Many thanks.” He lifts the weird black case and heads for the house.
Zeke struggles after him under the weight of the two packs. He careens up wide stone steps to the lit columned portico, lurches to the oak double doors, painted red and reinforced with black iron bars wrought in the shape of a tree. The tree splits in half as Fi swings the doors inward.
She finds a knob on the wall and light fills the formal two story foyer. When she was here last, there was scaffolding, visqueen plastic sheeting, paint cans and plaster dust. Now the place is immaculate. The floor is white marble streaked with silver, as are the sets of stairs to either side that curve upward to a balconied hallway that looks down from the second floor. The ceiling is domed, of the same white stone, with a glittering golden chandelier at its center. To either side, Greek statues stand on pedestals in front of colossal mirrors with gilded frames.
“Wow...” Zeke says again.
“Yeah,” Fi agrees.
Ahead of them, between the stairs, is an archway to the back of the house. Edgar heads toward it. “This way, please.”
Zeke lets Fi go ahead of him—mostly so she won’t see how much trouble he’s having with the packs. They pass through the arch as Edgar raises a bank of faders on the wall. Zeke stifles the urge to say “wow” one more time.
They’ve entered midway along an expansive great room. The ceiling must be twenty feet high, Zeke figures, and the room itself at least sixty feet wide and forty feet deep. To the right and left, hallways fade in darkness to other areas of the home. The floor where they’re standing forms a rectangular border along the walls, because the central portion of the floor is about a foot higher, with an intermediate step that runs all around the edge. The centerpiece of the raised area is a gleaming white Steinway grand piano. Chairs and divans of various designs, from sleek contemporary to the most ornate antique, are arranged around it. More chairs, loveseats and chaise longues are placed in various sitting areas around the room. Behind him, above the arch, the upstairs hall is open to the room, creating a balcony on this side as well.
Edgar steps up to set the long duffle on the floor and leans the oddly shaped black case against a chair. Zeke’s glad to be relieved of the heavy backpacks, which Edgar plunks unceremoniously on a highly polished burl-wood coffee table.
“What’s all this stuff?” Fi asks, eyeing the packs and bags.
“Oh,” says Edgar, rubbing his hands together in what occurs to Fi to be an uncharacteristically anxious manner, “just some things I thought might come in handy.”
Zeke removes the coat he received from the bank manager and Edgar takes it politely. Zeke realizes his clothes are almost dry and his chill gone, aided by the soothing warmth of the room. He stretches his shoulders and neck and surveys the space.
The wall to the left is covered with bookshelves built around a wide contemporary gas fireplace with glass doors. Mol laps water from a bowl and makes himself comfortable on a plush sheepskin in front of it. Zeke wonders if he should say something about Mol getting bloodstains on the rug, but Edgar doesn’t seem concerned. He wanders toward the back of the room, checking out the piano on the way, and looks out high wide windows that take up the center of the back wall.
Fi comes up beside him. “Edgar went to the kitchen.”
“Okay,” he responds, preoccupied. Distant lightning pulses through the clouds, revealing the texture of treetops that slope down and away
from the house to the rippling glint of the river below. Zeke’s never been inside such a home. He turns to Fi and smiles, then something at the other end of the room catches his attention. “Whoa...”
He steps down from the raised area of the floor and walks along the windows. Fi follows, stopping momentarily to pluck a string on a gorgeous harp that stands in the corner. Zeke peruses the collection before him with incredulity.
All manner of guitars and their ilk cover the wall. There’s a mandolin, lute, banjo, even a vihuela, but by far the majority are guitars. Three of the electric variety and at least twenty classical acoustics. Gibson, Fender, Yamaha, Hanika, a couple of Hausers and Martins, all hung with padded hooks and in pristine condition. Zeke plays a Martin himself, though his is of a much lower series than those displayed here and he bought it used—which reminds him with a lurch in his stomach—he left it at the hospital. He sighs, then his eyes fall on a guitar with an extra wide neck and ten strings hung directly over a gracefully carved buffet that sits at the center of the wall.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?”
Fi and Zeke both whirl to see Edgar holding a tray with a teapot and cups. Neither of them heard him come in. “Uncle!” Fi scolds.
Edgar wrinkles his brow, not understanding how he might have incurred her wrath. “Yes, dear?”
Fi shakes her head, scowling at him for startling them.
Zeke turns back to the guitar over the buffet. “Yeah, they’re incredible.” He reaches for it, then stops himself and turns back to Edgar. “Do you think your employer...? I mean, may I?”
“I don’t believe he’d mind, lad” says Edgar, then his eyes flit to the hall that leads from the great room behind them. “However,” he continues with a mixed expression of anticipation and wonder, “you could ask him yourself.”
A man pads into the room in bare feet and tan khaki cargo pants, vigorously rubbing his head with a towel. A white cotton dress shirt is thrown over his shoulder and he carries a vintage stenciled haversack.
He wipes his face and lowers the towel to find Fi and Zeke gaping at him. He beams back at them. “There you are!”
This man has shorter hair, mussed by the toweling, and no beard, but there’s no mistaking the strong features, those brilliant green eyes, and—Fi can’t help but notice—that perfect sculpted torso. It’s Peter, freshly groomed and showered.
Fi and Zeke both make mindless mono-syllabic noises like “um,” “er,” and “uh.”
Mol leaps up in spite of his wounds and trots to Peter, tail wagging.
“Mol!” Peter greets him. He dumps the haversack on a chair, tosses the towel and shirt on top of it, then stoops to grasp Mol’s face by the jowls and kiss the top of his head. “Good, brave Molossus.” Mol makes happy doggie noises and wags his tail harder.
Fi and Zeke exchange puzzled glances.
Peter’s grin spreads even wider at the sight of Fi’s uncle. “Edgar...” he says with obvious affection.
Slowly, Edgar sets the slightly trembling tray on a coffee table, then lowers himself to one knee and bows his head. “Milord.” Fi is dumbfounded.
“I really wish he wouldn’t do that,” Peter mutters. He bounds to the raised floor. “Edgar! Rise!” He takes him by the hands and pulls him up. “On your feet, my good man.”
Edgar raises his misty eyes to Peter’s. “Welcome back, sir.” Peter grasps him by the shoulders, then wraps him in a hug. Edgar embraces him in return.
“Dumbfounded” is not the right word for Fi’s reaction—because there is no word for it. She has never seen her uncle in such a state, and no one hugs Uncle Edgar, let alone gets hugged back! What’s even more bizarre—they know each other?!?
“Good to see you, Edgar,” says Peter, releasing him. “You look well.”
“As do you, sir.” Edgar leans in and lowers his voice. “But, how...?” With an almost imperceptible movement of his head, Peter indicates to Fi. Edgar’s eyes go to her. “I see,” he whispers, a proud smile creeping over his face.
Peter moves a hand to the side of Edgar’s neck and pulls him closer. “Quickly, what have you learned?,” he asks quietly.
Edgar glances briefly at Fi, as if uncomfortable speaking in her presence, even in a whisper. “Kabir—Zadkiel, is missing,” he bemoans. “Last night, in Detroit.” He clears his throat softly. “And still no word from Mokosh.”
Peter’s face falls. “I am... very sorry to hear that.” His brow furrows as he considers the events of the day in light of this news and his eyes well up. “Samson is gone as well.”
“So I heard. Very unfortunate, indeed.”
“Did you call upon him?”
“He came of his own volition several months ago, said he wished to make reparations. When he learned of your condition, he swore to watch over you until the patermentia passed, no matter how long it took. I apologize, milord, I had no idea that Kleron—”
“None of us did.” Peter’s expression is pained. A single tear escapes down his cheek. “Though I should have.”
“There’s no telling how widespread this may be,” Edgar continues. “I tried to call Freyja and her lads, but there’s no response. The last time I spoke to The Twins was several years ago. Their phone is no longer in service and other methods of communication defunct. I’ve no manner of expeditiously contacting any of the others. We lost touch with them long ago, as you know.”
“Yes, I know...” Peter considers for a moment, then gives Edgar’s shoulders a squeeze. “Good work, as always. And thank you, for everything.”
Someone clears their throat dramatically. Over Peter’s shoulder, Edgar sees Fi cross her arms. He nods to Peter and takes a short step back.
Peter wipes his cheek and spins to face Fi and Zeke, his grin returning. “So!” he says, clasping his hands with a loud clap. He bounds down to join them. “You like my collection, Zeke?” he asks, taking his shirt from the chair and sliding his arms into the sleeves.
“It’s... unbelievable.”
Peter points to what looks like the three oldest guitars, aligned in a row on the center of the wall. “Do you recognize these?” he asks, buttoning his shirt.
Zeke studies the first of them, which is longer and thinner than a regular guitar, and shakes his head.
“That’s a Stradivarius,” Peter tells him. Zeke is stunned.
“I thought a Stradivarius was a violin,” Fi interposes, not entirely happy with the direction the conversation is taking. She’s got questions. Serious questions. And they’ve got nothing to do with guitars.
Zeke gives her a quick shake of his head and mutters, “Hm-mmm. The Stradivari made these too, but not very many. They’re extremely rare.”
Peter points to the second of the three. “A George Louis Panormo,” and the third, “Antonio de Torres Jurado.”
“Damn,” Zeke exhales. The history of the modern guitar on one man’s wall.
Peter finishes buttoning his shirt. He smooths it down, leaving it untucked, and smiles at Fi. She just looks annoyed.
“They must be worth a fortune,” Zeke comments.
Peter is more interested in how Zeke wears his shirt, with the sleeves rolled up below the elbows. He folds his own up the same way. “I wouldn’t know,” he shrugs lightly. “They were gifts.” He snatches the wide-necked guitar from above the buffet, turns and tosses it into the air, giving it a speedy horizontal spin, and catches it.
Zeke is taken aback at his handling of the precious instrument.
“Ten strings, obviously, extended range,” says Peter. “The brainchild of the maestro Narciso Yepes, designed and manufactured by José Ramirez.”
Fi's glare of disbelief and incredulity at the mini history lesson going on while the world as she knows it has completely shattered doesn't seem to sway Peter or Zeke in the slightest. Zeke prattles on like an enthusiastic appraiser on Antiques Roadshow.
“...With string resonators for C, as well as A, G and F sharps, giving it authentic chromatic resonance like a sustain pe
dal on a piano.”
Peter gives him an approving nod. “Allowing for the transcription of compositions for baroque lute—”
“Without having to delete transposed bass notes,” Zeke finishes, then looks embarrassed at having interrupted him.
Peter isn’t bothered in the slightest. “Exactly!” He plops into a chair and gently strums the guitar. A sound of magnificent beauty floats to Zeke’s trained ears. “Still in tune!” says Peter, pleased. He begins to play. Mol sits nearby, listening contentedly. None even notice Fi’s growing frustration.
Zeke’s mouth drops open gradually... my God... He lowers himself to sit on the edge of the raised floor.
Peter is playing Bach’s “Solo Violin Partita No 2,” also called “The Chaconne,” probably the most difficult piece of music to play on guitar, ever. Zeke’s heard that even the greatest of classical guitarists can take years to master it. After introducing the main theme, Peter goes into a medley of sorts, choosing the most striking segments, and hardest to play, of all five movements of the piece. His quick but seamless transitions make Zeke dizzy. Peter grins gleefully, bobbing his head with the music, plucking away with his fingertips and extra long fingernails. Zeke can’t believe it. He makes it look easy!
Fi’s still standing there, arms crossed, completely ignored by the boys. Even the most beautiful music in the world won't soothe the questions simmering in her brain. She turns her wasting glare from the musical bromance and scowls daggers at her uncle instead.
Edgar stammers, “I’ll fetch some biscuits for the tea,” then bolts for the kitchen.
She rushes after him, muttering under her breath. “Oh, no you don’t...”
* * *
“It was you!” she accuses, catching up to Edgar as he reaches the hall at the opposite end of the great room. “When Peter borrowed that phone today, he called you!”
He pushes through a swinging galley door to the kitchen, which is bright and roomy. White walls and cabinets, granite countertops, top-of-the-line stainless appliances. He proceeds to one side of the central island counter, Fi to the other.
“And it’s been Peter, all this time,” she presses. “He’s your employer!”
