Caroline dons a long-suffering smile, though her not-so-subtle glare and the reek of vinegar attacking my senses suggests she and Rachel have danced this dance before.
“Go on, Rachel. The grown-ups need to talk.”
“Yes, Mama.” Rachel rises from the couch and trudges across the room. She chances one last glance in my direction before vanishing down the hall. As the sound of Rachel’s door closing echoes through the space, Caroline rests the tray on the coffee table and joins me on the couch.
“She really wasn’t bothering me, you know. She’s precious, and understandably worried about her brother.”
Caroline’s shoulders fall as if she were a balloon and someone let the air out.
“Don’t you think I know that? She and Anthony have been inseparable since she was old enough to crawl after him. Now she’s all alone.”
“Any friends at school?”
“A few. As you said, Rachel is a sweet kid. She gets along with everybody, adults and children alike, but what she and Anthony share is special. Their bond is like nothing I’ve ever seen in a brother and sister. It’s like they know what the other is thinking before they even speak.”
Then it clicks. That scent of desperation. Where I’ve sensed it before.
Sarah Goode.
Burgeoning psychic talent mixed with utter despair.
After the last few days, Anthony’s abilities have become all but a foregone conclusion, but suddenly the bond between him and Rachel makes a lot of sense.
I glance around the room. “Do you have it?”
“It’s right here.” She goes to the bookshelf, pulls down an old LP, and hands me the record.
The cover shows an old edifice with a trio of arches and a bell tower holding three large bells beneath a Russian dome. A crowd of people, both on foot and horseback, huddle at the base of the structure beneath a sky of blue and lavender clouds. Written across the top is Phase 4 Stereo - Mussorgsky/Stokowski - Pictures at an Exhibition - Leopold Stokowski - New Philharmonia Orchestra.
“This is it? Anthony’s favorite?”
Caroline chuckles. “We bought him several versions on CD and a couple others on vinyl but he likes this one the best. Says the vinyl sounds more real. Truth is, this was the first one he heard, and Anthony tends to stick with what he knows. He’s worn out two copies of this one already.”
“Thank God for eBay. You know, it’s funny. I played flute in band all through high school, but I’ve never even heard of this piece.” I flip the album over and peruse the titles of the various movements.
“Gnomus,” I mutter. “The Old Castle.” My stomach churns. “Tuileries.”
Welcome to the Exhibition.
Caroline rubs at her temple. “You really believe this music has something to do with what’s happened to Anthony?”
“You tell me.” I run my finger along the words on the back of the album sleeve. “I spent the better part of yesterday talking to a gnome and a troubadour inside an old castle while a witch chased me through a psychotic art gallery.” I scan the titles for the identity of the witch, but find nothing other than perhaps “The Catacombs” that would lead in that direction. Didn’t Modesto mention something about such a place?
Great, Mira. Now you’re referencing conversations you’ve had with figments of a child’s imagination.
I point to a title on the album cover. “The only other picture I’ve seen in Anthony’s Exhibition is this Tuileries one.”
“Was it a garden?” Caroline asks.
“Yes, though the painting focused on a crowd of children playing under the watchful eye of their teacher. They looked… French.”
“Well, that makes sense. The Tuileries Garden was built on the site of the destroyed Tuileries Palace in Paris. The original picture on which Mussorgsky based the piece was of children playing there.” Noting the confusion in my gaze, Caroline smiles and gestures toward the door leading to the bedrooms. “Professor Anthony has taught me many things.”
Yesterday’s jaunt through Anthony’s mind. The forlorn face staring out at me from the sea of children. “I’m guessing this is one of his favorites.”
“He loves them all, but he dances with Rachel when “Tuileries” comes up. Quite the little lady and gentleman. They even bow and curtsy.”
“The Tuileries picture in the Exhibition.” I take Caroline’s hand. “I saw Anthony there.”
Her brow knits into a wrinkled W. “And the other pictures? You said the gnome’s name was Tunny. That’s got to be my son somehow. And the troubadour? Anthony loves music. You heard what Dr. Archer said. They’re all Anthony.”
Across Caroline’s shoulder, a current family portrait catches my eye.
Another revelation.
“Not necessarily.”
“What do you mean?”
As we wandered the castle yesterday, I didn’t recognize the constant frown, the petulant stare. Like Anthony’s interpretation of me as Scheherazade, his characteristics are magnified, distorted, but faced with photographic evidence, there’s no ignoring the obvious.
“The troubadour. It’s Jason.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You’re serious?”
“With a British accent and perhaps a bit sharper of tongue, but it was your son.”
“Sharper of tongue?” Caroline’s shakes her head and smiles. “You don’t know Jason.”
“If what Archer says is true, both Tunny and the troubadour represent Anthony in one way or another. Of course he’d want to populate his fantasy world with people he trusted, respected, maybe even loved.”
“But a witch? I can see a friendly gnome, a musician, a crowd of children, but a monster at the end of the hall?”
“Kids Anthony’s age often fear a boogeyman under their bed or in their closet. Perhaps the witch represents that fear.” At Caroline’s unimpressed stare, I add, “What do you bet Dr. Archer already has a theory about this witch?”
Despite the situation, Caroline laughs. “Not taking that one.”
Is this what cancer surgeons go through? Like me, they explore their patients and take out parts that used to be functional but have spiraled out of control.
But what to save? What to cut out?
And how would I even do any of those things in the first place?
“Another strange thing. All the characters along the Exhibition know me as Scheherazade. My dad read me 1,001 Arabian Nights when I was a kid, but what does that have to do with―”
Before I can finish my question, Caroline pulls another record from the shelf.
“Now there’s no doubt you’ve visited my son’s mind.” She drops the album in my lap. “Our fourth copy of this one.”
Scheherazade, Sir Thomas Beecham with The Royal Philharmonic, the cover done in pastel yellow, blue, and hot pink. The Sultan stands at the center, scimitar in hand, while Scheherazade reclines on a bed beckoning. Not sure how to feel about a thirteen-year-old thinking of me in such a way, but a lot of things make sense.
I hold up the two records. “Can I borrow these?”
“I have both on CD. You may have an easier time listening to those.” She steps into the next room and returns with two discs. “I keep these on hand for emergencies.”
“Anthony probably doesn’t deal well with record skips.”
She hands me the discs. “You’re learning.”
I peruse the pair of cases. Pictures at an Exhibition displays a pencil and watercolor sketch of “The Hut on Fowl’s Legs,” the next to last movement of the piece, while the Scheherazade disc is decorated with another picture of the beautiful Arabian storyteller, this time dressed in white and dancing in a field of flowers. I flip this second one over and study the list of movements. A now familiar title, “The Kalendar Prince,” jumps out at me, followed by the less comforting “The Ship Breaks Against a Cliff Surmounted by a Bronze Warrior.”
A quiet groan escapes my lips. “Does Anthony like any pieces of music that don’t have titles that could get me killed?�
��
Caroline laughs. “Plenty, but nothing like his obsession with these two. Throw in a little Tchaikovsky and Stravinsky for good measure, though, and you pretty much have my boy covered. Anytime he’s drawing, writing, or reading, which are pretty much all he does, he’s got something classical playing. Almost always Russian.”
I shake my head and let out a quiet chuckle. “What’s the deal with Anthony and Russian composers anyway? He’s a thirteen-year-old kid. Shouldn’t he be into comic books and Star Wars?”
“Oh, he likes that stuff too, but as you’ve found out the hard way, Anthony’s anything but your average thirteen-year-old. The classical music, though? That’s all Bill. He was the right-brained one in our marriage. He was researching Slavic composers for his thesis when Anthony was still in the womb. When he was a baby, that was the music that would lull him to sleep, and as soon as he was old enough to talk, Mussorgsky or one of his friends was what he asked for.” A mischievous grin peeks through the fatigue in Caroline’s eyes. “Bill always joked that when the doctors said ‘autistic,’ Anthony thought they said ‘artistic’ and went with it.’”
“I can tell you from our last couple of sessions, his education is pretty complete. I’m guessing his taste in movies and books tends toward the fantastic.”
“You have no idea. My boy is all over any movie with broadswords and magic wands and will read any surface with writing on it as long as it’s about gods or superheroes. He’s devoured two library’s worth of books on mythology and is hungry for more. The kid can quote Edith Hamilton line and verse. Better than his teachers, in fact.”
“Sounds about right. His mind is pretty much wallpapered with the stuff. And not the pretty stories either.”
“That’s my Anthony. When it comes to stories, the more tragic, the better.” Caroline’s sad smile fades. “Now he’s the tragedy.”
“We’re going to help him, Caroline. I give you my word.”
“Mira, I have to ask you something and I want the truth.”
Her lips purse as a hint of sour milk tickles my brain. I know what she’s about to ask.
“Shoot.”
“You’ve never done anything like this before, have you?”
I pause to consider my words. “To be honest, no. Usually when I bring my talents to bear for my clients, I deal more in impressions, feelings, hunches. I find things. Sometimes I find people. But have I ever been pulled into someone’s mind and dealt with their inner demons on such an intimate level? No. Let me assure you, though. If I can’t find Anthony in there, no one can.”
“No one.” She looks away. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
The click of a deadbolt turning followed by the quiet creak of a door sounds from the foyer. A moment later, Jason Faircloth saunters into the room. He takes one look at me and his lip turns up in a snarl.
“What’s she doing here?”
“Mind that mouth of yours,” Caroline says. “Ms. Tejedor is here at my request. She needed a few additional pieces of information to help your brother.”
“Come on, Mom. You’re still buying all this crap? Psychic powers? Magical art galleries filled with gnomes and witches? It’s a fairy tale.” His glare shifts to me. “An expensive fairy tale.”
Caroline steps between us. “We’ve already had this discussion. If you’re going to stand here and be rude to our guest, then you can just go on to your room.”
“It’s all right, Jason.” I step past Caroline, palms up in surrender. “If I were in your shoes, I doubt I’d believe me either.”
“What’s your angle, anyway?” His eyes narrow, the vinegar and pepper coming off him so strong I gag. “You don’t know us.”
“That’s enough.” Caroline turns to me, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Mira. My son has a lot going on these days.”
“I’m aware of that.” I lock gazes with Jason. “I know about Julianna.”
He jumps as if struck by a cattle prod. “How do you know about that?”
“Oh, don’t worry. I didn’t read your mind or anything.” I raise a mischievous eyebrow. “I mean, that would be a fairy tale, right?” At his confused stare, I add, “I saw the story on the news. They showed a picture of you two at prom and I put two and two together. Any news―”
Jason puts his hand in my face, cutting me off as he gives his mother a glare that would strip paint. “Look, Mom. You can pay this fraud to play street corner psychic with Anthony till we’re broke for all I care, but we are not discussing Julianna.”
I rest a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause a―”
He brushes my hand away and leans in close. Anger wafts off him in palpable waves. “What part of ‘I’m not talking to you’ did you not understand? God, for someone who claims to be psychic, you’re pretty fucking dense.” Before I can even formulate a response, he turns on his heels and heads for his room.
“Jason Faircloth. You come back here and apologize.” Caroline almost knocks me over as she storms after her son. A slamming door knocks a picture off the wall.
Caroline engages in a one sided argument through Jason’s door for a bit before quitting and knocking on a different door. Soon, a girl’s gentle sobbing alternates with a mother’s whispers.
I’m guessing this isn’t the first time Rachel has had to listen to a fight around this place.
A few minutes later, Caroline returns, her face red and eyes swollen.
“I’m sorry, Caroline. I didn’t mean to upset Jason. I was just trying to connect with him.”
Caroline sighs. “Actually, that went about as well as any interaction I’ve had with him the last few weeks. Since Julianna went missing, he’s been nothing but a big bundle of nerves. I know they were broken up and everything, but I’m not sure if that’s made it better or worse. I give him as much space as he needs, but it’s not been easy. None of this has.”
“What’s your take on what happened to her?”
“It’s hard to know what to think but it doesn’t sound good. An attractive high school senior disappears halfway through a football game and her car is still in the parking lot the next day? Not the most promising start to an investigation.”
“Didn’t someone at the game miss her? I mean, she is on the cheerleading squad, right?”
“Actually, as I understand it, she was taking a break from cheering this year to pursue other interests. She spent the first half with some friends from drama club and no one saw her again after halftime. Even the police are stumped. To tell you the truth, I honestly don’t know whether they’ve been interviewing Jason as a witness or a suspect.”
“Dr. Archer told me she and Jason were pretty serious for a while.”
“They dated for eight months. The picture they keep showing on the news is from Jason’s junior prom last April.” Caroline’s gaze grows distant. “When they were together, he was as happy as I’ve ever seen him.”
“Any idea why they broke up?”
“As Jason tells it, that was all her. Hit him out of the blue. She told him they needed to take a break. That they were getting too serious, too fast.” She shakes her head. “She broke the poor boy’s heart.”
The slight hint of distance in her tone hits me as strange. “Caroline. It’s probably none of my business, but may I ask a personal question?”
Caroline eyes me cautiously. “You answered mine.”
“Jason isn’t yours, is he?”
Her eyes drop. She’s been asked this question before. “I love that boy as if he were my own, but technically I’m his stepmother. When I married Anthony and Rachel’s father, Jason was part of the deal. A welcome part of the deal, to be clear. Don’t let him fool you with all his macho bullshit. He’s a good kid, and his bark is worse than his bite.”
“Is he always so… angry?”
“These days, yes. But I really can’t blame him. He was two when Bill and I started seeing each other and turned three the week before we got married. He was alw
ays a sweet child and grew up into this smart, funny, athletic young man. Losing his father changed him in so many ways. The only person able to bring him out of his shell since was Julianna and now she’s gone as well.” Caroline looks away. “If only Bill was still here. He’d know what to do.”
I touch her shoulder. “The loss is still pretty raw?”
She looks back at me, her eyes red. “Shouldn’t be. It’s been over three years since Bill died.” Her hands ball into fists. “Doesn’t stop it from feeling like yesterday.”
“If it’s not too personal, can you tell me what happened?”
Caroline shakes her head as if she still can’t believe it, though I have no doubt she’s told the story a thousand times. “The kids were all out of school for the week and we had the car packed for Orlando. It was going to be Anthony and Rachel’s first trip to Disney World. The four of us were sitting down for dinner, waiting for Bill to get home from work, when we got the call. Heart attack.” Caroline chokes back a tear. “It’s not fair. Bill was forty-one years old, never smoked a day, and other than an undying passion for Italian cuisine, had no real vices. Hell, he even ran a marathon the year before.”
“God, Caroline.” I take her hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“Bill was so good with the kids. He and Jason did all the sports stuff. You know, Panthers games, throwing around the baseball, and all that. But the way Bill had with Anthony, now that was something to see. Music, movies, books. Those two communicated on levels I never quite understood and probably never will.”
I gesture to the collection of records occupying three of the built in shelves across the room. “I take it your husband was the music aficionado.”
“That’s an understatement. The only classical music I knew before I met Bill was classic rock. I never really got into it, but Bill and Anthony? They’d fill the room with chairs and conduct an invisible orchestra.” She lets out a pained sigh. “Funny thing? Anthony knew. Came and climbed in my lap half an hour before the call. I didn’t know why. I guess with everything that’s going on now, that kind of makes sense, right?”
More than she knows. I squeeze her fingers. “He sounds like a great guy.”
The Mussorgsky Riddle Page 8
