“Where do you think you’re going, storyteller? I haven’t dismissed you.”
“I’ve heard quite enough of your metal mouth for one day, but don’t worry. I’ll be back.”
“But you can’t go that way. The door is barred and the Kalendar Prince’s magic word, already spoken once, cannot help you again.”
I ignore her protests and continue walking for the door. At my simple wave, the body of the colossal padlock holding the door closed slides from its shackle. The square of iron crashes to the floor with a thud that shakes the entire structure. I chance a single glance back and catch the witch’s astonished stare.
“As you so politely pointed out, I’m no prisoner here.” A musical quality colors my words. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll show myself out.”
or once, I return from a trip through Anthony’s private gallery of insanity with some semblance of control over my body. This time it’s like waking from a nap instead of coming out of a seizure. As always, my eyes need a moment to adjust to reality. Caroline and Veronica stand on either side of me, both looking on with concern, while Rachel sits on the couch staring at me. It’s the first time she’s borne witness to my work with her brother. I’m impressed by her lack of tears, though her trembling lips betray her true emotions.
“Don’t worry, Rachel.” I sit up, my head spinning with a hint of vertigo, and squeeze her knee. “I’m fine. So is Anthony.”
“You were gone a long time.” She bites her lip to still its quivering. “Where did you go?”
I caress Anthony’s forehead. “I was in here. With your brother.”
She tries to smile, but the fear in her visage steals any warmth from her expression.
I glance over at Caroline. “How long this time?”
“A couple of hours.” She offers me some ice water and I take it greedily. “You made it to the Catacombs, didn’t you? You and Anthony were humming together just a few minutes ago. You’ve never done that before.”
“Humming? What did it sound like?”
“The quiet section at the end of Pictures at an Exhibition, right before the part with the witch.”
“Cum mortuis in lingua mortua.” The hairs on my neck stand at attention, both at the invocation of the movement’s title and at the realization everything before has led to this, an inevitable confrontation between Baba Yaga and Lady Scheherazade. “Speaking with the dead in the tongue of the dead.”
“Dead.” Caroline’s face blanches. “Was it…?”
“No. Not Julianna.”
“Anthony?”
“No, he’s very much alive.”
“What about the witch?” Caroline asks. “Did you see her?”
“More than once, though this time I left of my own accord.” My quiet laugh brings on a fit of coughing. “I don’t think that went over too well.”
“Hold on, you two.” Veronica, who has held her tongue since I awoke, looks from me to Caroline, her gaze incredulous. “I know what I just saw, but you two can’t seriously expect me to believe Mira actually went into Anthony’s mind. That’s impossible.”
“I know it’s hard to swallow,” I whisper, “but it’s the truth.”
“That’s an understatement.” She brings her attention back to me. “These characters you say you keep meeting. They’re all pieces of Anthony, right?”
“As best I can tell.”
“And you’re working to put him back together, like some kind of puzzle?”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“All the king’s horses and all the king’s men…” Veronica’s eyes grow distant. “What could have done something like that to him?”
“If and when we find that out, then the real work can begin.” I turn to Caroline. “I met a new character today. There, in the Catacombs. He called himself Mussorgsky. Said he was the composer of the whole thing and the creator of the Exhibition.”
“The composer stays hidden below while his various works run amok?”
“He told me he was banished there by Baba Yaga and claims it’s the only place in the Exhibition truly safe from her.” I turn back to Veronica. “As to your question, Mussorgsky spoke of a Dark Day, after which the various paintings of the Exhibition came to life. I have no doubt that’s the same day Anthony fell silent.”
“Are we really having this conversation?” Veronica rises from the couch. “I thought when you said ‘psychic’ you were talking about hypnosis or some new age psychotherapy. What you’re talking about is impossible.”
“But, this is exactly what I explained to you.” I wonder why she’s having so much trouble with this, until I remember I’m the only one in the room that’s been sensing other people’s emotions since puberty. “Isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just a lot more real when you see it with your own eyes.” She paces the room. “Did my being here… help?”
“It’s hard to know for sure, but I’ve always found the more positive energy in the room, the better for all involved.”
“Then I’ll be back tomorrow.” The color rises in her cheeks. “As long as you promise not to take me along for the ride.” The usual cool chlorine smell I get off Veronica evens out as she takes a deep breath and attempts to smile.
I shake her hand. “It’s a deal.”
Caroline shows Veronica to the door and upon her return sits on the couch between her two youngest. Rachel cuddles up close to her mother while Anthony, as with almost every encounter, shudders at her slightest touch.
“Anthony’s still not loving the physical contact, I see.”
“I don’t know.” Caroline looks away. “He never seems too upset when you’re around.”
My toes curl in my shoes. “I’m sorry, Caroline. I’m guessing that’s because I’m the only one he can truly communicate with right now.
“That’s all fine and good, Mira, but other than one particularly nasty piece of Anthony’s subconscious, he seems to welcome you into his mind every time. Rachel as well.” She motions to her daughter who has reached across her lap to stroke Anthony’s leg. “Meanwhile, he won’t even let me touch him without breaking into a sweat.”
“He’s been traumatized. No matter how much it hurts, it’s nothing but a part of how he’s dealing with whatever’s happened to him.”
Caroline pierces me with her despondent gaze. “And how would you feel if your child curled into the fetal position every time you got close?”
“Don’t worry, Mommy.” Rachel wraps her scrawny arms around her mother’s neck and squeezes her tight. “Anthony may be sick, but we both still love you.”
“I know, honey.” Caroline wipes away the tear coursing down her cheek. “I know.”
Caroline offers to take me back to the Blake, but for once I actually feel well enough to drive myself. This particular walk through the Exhibition left me nowhere near as drained as the others, though my decision is more about Caroline than it is about me. Her life has been an emotional tilt-a-whirl for a month and even though I’m here at her invitation, it’s clear my involvement has taken its toll. She could most likely use a little time apart from the weirdo psychic that keeps playing in her kid’s imaginary sandbox. Not to mention I need some alone time to mentally prepare if I’m to face Baba Yaga on her own turf in the morning. The witch may be nothing but a boy wearing a Halloween mask, but what happened to Rachel before was very real. There’s not a doubt in my mind it could get a whole lot worse if Anthony’s subconscious decides expelling me is no longer the best means of getting rid of a certain problematic storyteller.
The ring of my phone startles me back to reality. It’s Mom.
“Hi, Mom. Everything okay?”
“Just checking in. How are things?”
“Coming along but I’m a little tired. Left the Faircloth house a few minutes ago and I’m headed back to my hotel.”
“Any progress?”
“Yes and no.” I take the exit for Uptown. “Though I have a feeling tomorrow mo
rning will be quite telling.”
The beep of another caller sounds in my ear. It’s a Charlotte number.
“Sorry, Mom. Need to run.”
“What is it?”
“Another call. Probably work. Talk to you tonight?”
“Sure.” She sighs. “Just don’t forget, there’s a child here in Virginia who needs you too.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Her dig leaves a gaping hole where my heart should be. “Exactly what I needed to hear.”
“I’m just saying―”
I press the end button and take the other call before Mom can finish her sentence.
Woman doesn’t just know how to push my buttons. She’s got them on speed dial.
“Hello? This is Mira Tejedor.”
“Hi, Mira. It’s Sterling.”
A flood of emotion washes over me. Annoyance. Anger. Disappointment. I’m glad I don’t sense the static coming out of my own head. I’d probably have to pull over and vomit.
“How may I help you, Detective?”
The pause that follows speaks volumes.
“I guess I deserve that,” he answers eventually.
“You guess?”
“All right. I admit it. I was a jerk. I’m sorry.” He clears his throat. “Do you have a minute?”
“One minute. I don’t have to be a psychic to know you wouldn’t be calling if you didn’t need something from me.”
Another pause. He’s picking his words carefully. “You know, I really do feel bad about how things went yesterday. I kind of hoped you’d let me apologize for―”
“Apology accepted.” My cheeks get hotter by the second. “Now, what is it you need?”
“Fine. If that’s how you want it, here it is. Glenn Hartman is demanding you come back to the station. He’s refusing to talk to anyone else until he speaks to you.”
He must be kidding. “I’m sorry, Detective. Someone made it very clear yesterday I was to stay away from your prime suspect. I’d be glad to help out with the investigation, but I’m afraid I’d be charged with obstruction of justice.”
A quiet sigh comes across the line. “All right, Mira. You win. I hate to admit it, but we’re getting nowhere fast here. We need your help. What will it take to get you to come talk to this guy?”
I take a long moment formulating my answer. “A public apology would be a nice start. Official consultant status on the case as well, though I want my involvement kept quiet this time. No more little news leaks.”
“Yes. Now―”
“That’s not all. Listen. My rules are my rules, and they’re there for a reason. If you so much as think about pushing me again like you did yesterday, I’m out.”
“Understood.” Then with barely a beat, he asks, “Can you come in now?”
“I’m on my way.” A satisfied smirk blossoms across my lips. “Save me a donut.”
I pull into the parking lot fifteen minutes later. A police cruiser nearly hits me as it rockets past, its tires squalling as they bite into the main road.
“Can’t believe I agreed to do this,” I mutter under my breath as I pull into a parking spot. I keep telling myself I’m here for Anthony, the Faircloths, the Wagners, and not for Sterling.
I almost convince myself.
Officer Bryce at the front desk has been replaced with a squat balding man about ten years my senior and a good hundred pounds heavier than is good for him.
“Well, hello there.” His gaze focused about a foot lower than I’d like, my stomach turns as a heavy musk fills my mind. “Anything I can help you with?”
I turn on the spot and head for the exit. “I am not putting up with this shit tonight.” I’m halfway to the door when Sterling’s voice stops me in my tracks.
“Mira.”
I wish I didn’t like the way my name sounds coming off his lips so much. Every fiber of my being wants to keep moving, but I slow my steps and let him catch me. The circles under his eyes speak volumes. He’s had a rough couple of days. I fight to squelch any sympathy and shift my expression to business casual.
“You may want to retrain your front desk help in regards to appropriate interactions with members of the opposite sex.”
He glances over at the desk sergeant and sighs. “Johnson? Don’t worry about him. He’s harmless. An idiot, but harmless.”
“We can discuss the ‘harmlessness’ of sexual harassment later.” I cock my head to one side as my hand finds my hip. “Well? Here I am, as requested.”
His gaze wanders, refusing to meet mine. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“Neither was I.” After a moment of awkward silence, I clear my throat. “Can we dispense with the not-so-pleasantries and get to work?”
He steps back as if struck. “Of course.”
Good. Just the right amount of contrition. At least everyone knows where they stand now.
Sterling motions for me to follow him back into the holding area. I eye Sergeant Johnson at the front desk as we pass. He wisely keeps his head down and studies the sign-in list until we pass.
Once we’re through the secure door, Sterling stops and turns to face me.
“I don’t know what you said to Hartman yesterday, but he’s a different guy. He was evasive before, but now he says he wants to talk as long as he gets to talk to you first.” He smiles nervously. “Don’t know what it is with you and men, but I’m hoping it pays off today.”
“Wow.” I make certain he sees the roll of my eyes. “That was nearly a compliment.”
“You going to break my balls all day, Mira? I told you I was sorry.”
“And the fact I’m the only one in this whole city that can help you get what you want has nothing to do with your apology, right?” My lip trembles slightly. It takes all my willpower to make it stop. “Look, I may have overstepped a bit.”
“A bit?” Sterling’s chin drops as he works to keep any exasperation from his tone.
“Okay, a lot, but I was only trying to help.” I put my finger in his chest and try not to notice the firmness of the muscles beneath his starched shirt. “From here on in, you treat me like a partner in this, or I’m out. My priority is the Faircloth family. If I can help you along the way, so be it. Otherwise, this is your case to puzzle out. Are we clear?”
“Crystal.”
The tables turned, Sterling’s expression shifts to business mode and the turbulent emotions wafting off him dissipate. A part of me is disappointed.
“Now that we’ve got all that behind us, can we get started? Whatever you said to Hartman seems to have brought out his inner songbird. Any idea why he wants to talk to you again?”
I stop my fingers from fidgeting with my watch. “I have a pretty good guess.”
“May I at least ask where you got your information?”
I close my eyes and, despite my better judgment, tell Sterling the truth. “It was Anthony.”
Sterling raises an eyebrow. “I don’t understand. I know you were helping him, but how could he―”
“He knows more than most give him credit for and he’s actually pretty talkative once you get him started. You just have to know how to… listen.”
“And he somehow knew something about Julianna?”
“Maybe. That’s what I’m working out. Sure got Hartman’s attention, though.” I catch the glint in those investigator eyes of his. Good. I’ve got Sterling’s attention as well. “Shall we?”
Sterling buzzes us back. We take seats at the table where I left Hartman the day before. We sit in tense silence for a couple minutes waiting for them to bring out the prisoner.
“What do you plan to tell Hartman today?” Sterling asks.
“Whatever he needs to hear to find out what we need to know.”
Sterling laughs. “You sure you’re not a cop?”
The door at the far end of the room springs open and a pair of officers directs Glenn Hartman in our direction. He appears exhausted.
Looks like nobody is getting any sleep these days.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hartman.” I try to keep any trace of contempt from my voice, at least in part because I’m no longer sure it’s warranted.
“Don’t ‘good afternoon’ me.” Hartman’s glare could melt glass. “You waltz in here yesterday, barely identify yourself, drop a bomb like that, and walk away without another word? What kind of person does that?”
My heart races at the question. Yesterday, I felt vindicated leaving him as I did. If he is proven innocent in the end, my actions will have been nothing but cruel.
Fantastic. Another black mark on my karmic wheel.
“In case you’ve forgotten, Mr. Hartman,” I answer, trying not to stammer, “you’re the one locked up for assault and battery of a high school senior.”
Hartman leans across the table. “You know exactly what led to that.”
Sterling puffs up as if he’s about to leap to my defense, but before he can say a word, Hartman inclines his head in the detective’s direction.
“If you want to talk, Ms. Tejedor, get him out of here.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Sterling says. “Don’t forget who’s in charge here, Mr. Hartman.”
“What part of ‘I’m only talking to her’ do you not understand?”
“Detective Sterling.” I rest a hand on his shoulder. “If you’ll give us a few minutes alone to discuss some things, I suspect Mr. Hartman will be more than glad to answer whatever other questions you might have.” I glance at Hartman. “Isn’t that right, Glenn?”
After a long moment, Hartman gives a grudging nod. The smell of cayenne wafting off Sterling abates as he stands and walks toward the door.
“I’m trusting you on this one, ‘partner.’ Don’t let me down.”
Hartman is silent till Sterling disappears behind the door.
“I thought you weren’t working with the cops,” he says.
“I’m not, though we both have a vested interest in finding out what happened to Julianna Wagner.” I lean forward and rest my chin on interlaced knuckles. “As do you, Mr. Hartman.”
He looks away. “Look. Whatever happened to Julianna, I didn’t do it. I swear.”
The Mussorgsky Riddle Page 27
