The Mussorgsky Riddle

by Darin Kennedy

  The shrill tone of my phone plays across my frayed nerves like a rough bow across an out-of-tune violin. I grab the phone and put it to my ear.

  “Hello?” My voice cracks, half from my recent sojourn and half with relief at the name displayed on phone’s screen.

  “Mira?” Archer manages to keep that characteristic calm in his voice, though there’s an undercurrent of fear there I haven’t heard before. “What’s wrong? You sound terrible.”

  “I’m fine.” The sharpness of my tone surprises even me. Why I suddenly care that I sound “terrible” eludes me, but it doesn’t change the simple fact. With as even a tone as I can manage, I add, “Thanks for calling back so fast. I hope I’m not… interrupting anything.”

  “No, nothing like that. I was just heading for bed. It’s been a long day. Didn’t quite make it to the phone in time.”

  “Sorry to bother you so late, but I’m kind of freaked. Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure.” He does his best to suppress a yawn. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. Something’s happened. Something strange.”

  A barely concealed chuckle comes through the receiver. “Coming from you, that means something.” Before I can beg him not to laugh, he slides into his therapist persona as if putting on a well-worn pair of jeans. “Go ahead, Mira. Tell me what happened.”

  Archer listens for twenty minutes as I relate the events of the evening. To his credit, he doesn’t interrupt me once, though a part of me wonders if this is out of courtesy, because I sound like a complete mental case, or worst of all, that Archer has dozed off.

  “Hello? Dr. Archer?”

  “I’m right here, Mira.”

  “Tell me. Am I going crazy?” Not a rhetorical question.

  “I don’t think so, but I do have a question.”

  “Hit me.”

  He pauses, taking in a deep breath. “How can you be sure what happened was a trip to the Exhibition? You’ve never seen these two men on any other trip through Anthony’s mind. Is it possible you were just having a vivid dream?”

  My face grows warm, flushing with angry heat. “This was no dream.”

  “Sorry,” he says. “I’m trying to help, but this whole thing is a bit out of my league.”

  “No.” I pull myself up straight on the bed. “I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t mean to snap. I just feel so violated. And the worst part? It’s all my fault.”

  “No, Mira. None of this is your fault. We’re all of us traveling without a map on this one.” He waits for a moment before continuing. “Assuming this was some sort of ‘long distance call’ from Anthony, how did he do it? What does it mean?”

  “There’s more. Goldenberg and Schmuÿle. I don’t think they’re aspects of Anthony, at least not completely. Anthony has never met either of the detectives working the Julianna Wagner case.” I swallow, a part of me afraid to admit the next part out loud. “I believe Goldenberg and Schmuÿle are pieces of me, each dancing on the stage in Anthony’s mind.”

  “But you’re already represented there, right? You’re Scheherazade, the storyteller.”

  “From what I’ve seen, you can be in the Exhibition more than once, even simultaneously. I mean, look at all the different aspects of Anthony I’ve encountered. Tunny and Modesto argue constantly. How is that any different from me as Scheherazade arguing with the two detectives in yarmulkes?”

  “But why would you manifest as the two officers investigating the Wagner case?” Archer’s tone, not to mention the accompanying aroma of fermenting apples, reeks of jealousy. “You’ve only met them a couple of times.”

  “Have you heard the piece?” The melody from the CD Caroline lent me echoes in my mind. “Like two voices arguing, the woodwinds and trumpet grow closer and closer until they merge into one melody. Sterling and Bolger may bicker like an old married couple, but in the end, they’re partners with a common purpose.” I rub at my brow as pain flares to life behind my left eye. Am I picking up on Archer’s migraine? “Anthony casts the various characters in his mind from people in his life and matches them as best he can to the music. Maybe I’ve become so much a part of his Exhibition that he now draws from my life as well.”

  “And that’s the part I don’t understand. If you’re just a tourist in his mind, how is it you’ve become a part of his bizarre art gallery? Shouldn’t those characters have already been present when you arrived?” Before I can answer, he adds, “Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “We’ve always gone with the assumption the Exhibition is a self-imposed prison Anthony created for himself to avoid dealing with whatever trauma started this whole cascade of events.”

  “Right. You’re thinking something different?”

  “Do you remember what you told us? As you first entered Anthony’s mind last Friday?”

  My first day in Charlotte. Anthony’s head in my lap, his tousled hair, his crooked glasses. The run of notes I now know as “Promenade” pounding at me like fists. My mind drowning in the prismatic tidal wave of color.

  In a flash, it comes to me. “I told you Anthony was stuck.”

  “Think about it, Mira. What if before you came along, he simply recycled those thirteen notes, over and over into infinity? What if before Scheherazade, there was no Tunny or Modesto, no Baba Yaga…”

  “No Exhibition.” This latest epiphany takes my breath. “The Exhibition isn’t a prison at all. It’s the only way Anthony has of talking to me. To us.”

  “And perhaps the reason you’ve been cast as Scheherazade, the storyteller, isn’t so much to tell stories to the characters there…”

  “But to relate Anthony’s stories to the outside world. To Caroline.” I fall back on the bed, my chest tight with the responsibility of it all. “Without me, there’s no point to the Exhibition.” A revelation washes over me. “I have to go back.”

  “I’m not sure if Caroline will allow it. She called me this afternoon. She was pretty upset after your little… encounter with Jason.”

  My cheeks grow even warmer. “You know about that?”

  “Caroline feels badly about how she behaved, but she’s made up her mind, and a part of me can’t blame her. One child near comatose and another sick, at least indirectly, from your involvement. She can’t risk anymore pain right now.”

  “But she’s the one that called me here in the first place. I still want to help.” I suck in a lungful of air. “I’m the only one that can.”

  Archer’s sigh comes across the line loud and clear. “As much as it pains me to admit it, you’re right, and Caroline knows that. Still, it doesn’t change anything.”

  “What do I do, then?”

  “Give her some time. She’ll come around. I’d be lying if I told you I haven’t been in the exact same spot with Caroline in the past.” He pauses. “You know, if you’re free, we could get together tomorrow after work and try to come up with a way to get you back in her good graces. Maybe grab a cup of coffee near your hotel?”

  “Sounds good. Maybe around―”

  Wait. I’m an idiot. Tomorrow night. Sterling.

  “Mira?”

  “Sorry. I can’t make it tomorrow evening. I already have plans.”

  “Friends in Charlotte?” The hopeful inflection in his voice says it all.

  “Not exactly.” My heart sinks. How old do we have to be to finally outgrow all this crap?

  “Oh. In that case, I may be able to squeeze you in tomorrow afternoon.” The energy drained from his voice, he’s back to the man who spewed Freud and cynicism at me at our first meeting. “Can you be at the clinic around two?”

  “Two o’clock.” I try not to stutter. “I’ll be there.”

  My phone beeps twice as he disconnects. The silence that follows draws the knot in my already pretzeled intestines even tighter. I didn’t come to Charlotte to hurt anybody, and yet in the space of eight hours I’ve managed to alienate myself from almost everyone I know in this town.

>   At least tomorrow can’t be any worse.

  oday is worse.

  Last night, I set my phone to wake me around seven in case Sterling called to discuss any developments with the Glenn Hartman lead. His call beat the alarm by almost an hour.

  The clock on my dashboard reads a quarter to seven as I pull up to the Faircloth home. The suburban ranch surrounded in police cars, half a dozen sets of flashing blue lights blind me from every direction. A dozen or so officers are standing around, not to mention half the neighborhood, many still in bathrobes and slippers. From my parking place along the curb a few houses down, a flurry of activity around one of the patrol cars catches my eye. I step out of my car and head for the Faircloth house, making a point to walk past the cruiser in question. Despite the dim morning light, a glance through the windshield reveals a lone man seated in the back. Much like the déjà vu I experienced in Veronica Sayles’ classroom, my scalp tingles as I find familiar a face I’ve never seen with my own eyes.

  Glenn Hartman, his right eye set off by a large purple bruise, glares at me, though I doubt he has the slightest idea who I am.

  Just past the police cruiser, I catch a glimpse of Detective Bolger in the early morning light, his emaciated form casting a thin shadow as the sun crests the horizon to the east. Next to him, Sterling takes a sip from a travel coffee cup. A whiff of dark roast flirts with my taste buds though better than thirty yards separates us. He looks up and catches my eye. The warmth of his smile hits me a second before the corners of his mouth turn up. The moment is perfect until Bolger registers my presence as well. The stink of freshly shoveled manure overpowers the pleasant coffee aroma in less time than it takes to blink.

  Sterling finishes his conversation with the patrolman and heads over to join me.

  “Thanks for coming out at this hour, Mira.” He motions to the car where they’re holding Glenn Hartman. “I know it’s early, but I figured you’d want to be here for this.”

  “Hartman came here?” I glance over at the patrol car. “What the hell was he thinking?”

  “Wait. You recognized him?”

  “Either that, or I’m a pretty good guesser.”

  “You’re saying he’s the man you saw in Anthony’s mind?”

  “Jason’s too. I know it sounds crazy, but that’s Hartmann the Cart Man, live and in color out in the real world. Minus the upside down chalet and field of dead girls, of course.” A chill courses through my body. “The way he looked at me. So angry.”

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about. We’ve got more than enough cause to keep him in custody for the foreseeable future.”

  “What happened?”

  Sterling shrugs. “He showed up on the Faircloths’ front porch around six and refused to leave until he got to speak with Jason. It’s not exactly clear what he wanted to talk about, but as you can probably guess with the Faircloth kid involved, there was a fight.”

  “Oh no. Is Jason in more trouble?”

  “Not this time. Hartman entered their home uninvited and as far as we’re concerned, Jason was well within his rights to defend himself. Hartman, on the other hand, is under arrest for trespassing and assault. With all the previous circumstantial evidence, we’ll have no trouble keeping him under wraps for a few days. We’re hoping if we turn up the heat a bit, he may get careless and let something slip about the real question at hand.” He pulls in close. “Between you and me, any help you can lend in that arena would be most appreciated.”

  Ice water fills my veins. “And what do you mean by that?”

  “You know exactly what I mean.” He inclines his head toward the squad car. “Take a look inside Hartman’s mind. See what’s swimming around inside that bruised head of his. Find out what we need to know to put him away.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Like where he hid the body.”

  “Sorry, but it doesn’t work like that.” I try to keep the exasperation from my face. “Most of the time, what I get is impressions, scents, hints of emotion. Occasionally, I get images from the past, but those may or may not be mixed with dreams, fantasy, or even lies.”

  Sterling’s eyes glaze over. “I don’t know, Mira. You were confident enough in what you picked up from your trips into the Faircloth boys’ heads to notify the police. Hell, you’re out here before sunrise following up on one of your hunches. A hunch, I might add, that was right.”

  As one, we glance over at the patrol car. Hartman glares through the window at us with his one good eye.

  “Anthony is a special case. I’ve never tried anything like what I’m doing with him before, and truth be told, I hope I never have to again.” I rub at my brow. “You have no idea what it’s like to have such an intimate connection with someone.”

  “Intimate?” Sterling’s brow furrows.

  “To be inside someone’s mind, to see their innermost thoughts, to meet parts of their soul that have never seen the light of day.” My eyes slide closed. Even now, miles away, Anthony’s thoughts tiptoe around the periphery of my consciousness like a skittering mouse in an empty room. “You can’t imagine what it’s like.”

  Sterling waits for me to open my eyes before letting out a measured breath. “You didn’t have any problem peeking inside the Faircloth kid’s brain yesterday.”

  “And you see how that turned out.” I shiver, the chill running through me having little to do with the early morning hour. “Jason begged me to help him, and even then, I’m not certain it was the right thing to do. Mucking with people’s minds without their express consent, however, is unethical and wrong.” My headache from the night before makes a brief return to the stage for an encore performance. “Not to mention, if you have to fight your way in, the effort leaves you with the queen of all migraines.”

  Sterling’s eyes brighten. “So, you have done something like this before.”

  “Drop it.” My arms instinctively cross as the part of me looking forward to dinner with the good-looking detective dies a quick yet painful death.

  “Okay. Sorry.” Sterling’s thoughts drop into full backpedal. “Not trying to push.”

  “Actually, you’re pushing pretty hard.” Unable to look Sterling in the eye any longer, my gaze drops to the asphalt at my feet. “I know you’re desperate to bust this guy and could really use some help, but it’s not a won’t. It’s a can’t. “

  “In that case, Detective Bolger and I have a lot of work to do.” He turns to leave, but shoots a quick glance back at me before walking away. “I guess tonight is off, then?”

  And there it is. Dammit. “We’ve both got our work cut out for us. You’ve got your man and I’ve got some things to straighten out with Caroline before I can continue my work with Anthony.”

  “Got it.” He swallows, his thoughts a whirlwind as he searches for something to say. “Thank you for your help, Ms. Tejedor.”

  His words leave me cold.

  Sterling heads back over to the congregation of cops after allowing me past the police tape. Already sick to my stomach, I stand at the Faircloths’ front door for the better part of five minutes before I get up the nerve to knock. Another minute passes before the lock turns. The door cracks and Caroline peers out, her bloodshot eyes too tired to mount the derisive glare from yesterday.

  “Mira?” She rubs at her neck and tries to suppress a yawn. “What are you doing here?”

  “The cops called and I came. Detective Sterling filled me in on what happened, or at least the basics.”

  “Can you believe this?” she asks. “I don’t know how much more I’m supposed to take.”

  My forehead breaks out in a cold sweat as the potent mix of rage and fear wafting off Caroline hits me like a wave of jalapeño.

  “May I come in?”

  “Of course.” She undoes the chain, pulls the door open wide, and beckons me inside. “I just put on a pot of coffee.”

  The rich aroma of the brewing dark roast fills the room and tickles my nose, much as it tickled my mind minutes before. Caroline and I stand there i
n silence, neither knowing where to begin. No matter how much her words from yesterday still sting, nothing has changed for me. I’m all in. Caroline, on the other hand, is more than a bit conflicted. Her emotions reach out for me even as an undercurrent of fear and anger screams that part of her still wants to turn me away.

  “How is everyone holding up?” I finally ask.

  “How do you expect? Rachel’s up in her room trembling and Jason punched a hole in the drywall before taking off to God knows where.” A sarcastic chuckle passes her lips. “Is it pathetic a part of me is glad Anthony’s too oblivious to know what’s going on?”

  A coffee maker sputters through the open doorway. Caroline leads me into the kitchen and pulls an old Ziggy mug from the cabinet. The rich aroma makes my mouth water.

  “Sugar’s in the bowl and there’s some hazelnut creamer in the fridge.”

  We sit at the kitchen bar for a couple minutes before Caroline speaks again.

  “Look, Mira. I owe you an apology for yesterday. The stress has been more than I can handle. The thing is, at the end of the day, it’s just me. Rachel’s too young to understand, Jason’s so wrapped up in the whole thing he can barely help himself, and Anthony…”

  I take Caroline’s hand. “I get it. My little one just turned six, a couple years younger than Rachel. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to deal with a quarter of the stuff you’ve had on your plate.”

  “I haven’t slept well in weeks,” Caroline says. “Dealing with Anthony’s turn would have been enough, but this mess with Jason and Julianna’s disappearance. It’s just too much.”

  “And I’m sure the episode with Rachel yesterday didn’t help a bit.”

  Caroline nods. “I was finally nodding off an hour or so before sunrise this morning when I heard someone trying to beat down the front door.”

  “Sterling told me.”

  “Did he tell you who it was?” Caroline asks. “You won’t believe it.”

  My toes curl inside my shoes. “Try me.”

  “It was one of the teachers from Jason’s school. He was talking out of his head, demanding to see Jason, like he was on drugs or something.”