The Liar's Lullaby

by Meg Gardiner

  “I understand. But keeping secrets isn’t the only way to keep control.”

  “Really? If I tell you things, you won’t judge me and try to influence my decisions?”

  Jo’s throat tightened again. He’d told her something beyond painful and difficult. But she couldn’t shut down her anger completely: He’d kept something so fundamental from her for so long, despite her open desire to know.

  But he’d also just promised her that he would not keep secrets in the future. And she hadn’t told him her own fear, her own dark knowledge: that his call-up was a message to her. She screwed up her courage.

  In the kitchen the phone rang. Gabe squeezed her hand and jogged inside to pick it up. Jo tilted her head back and stared at the stars. After a minute she headed in. Gabe was still on the phone. She went to the living room and sat down on the floor beside Sophie.

  The little girl was leaning close to the construction paper on which she was drawing with colored pencils, her face intent.

  “I like the Appaloosa,” Jo said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Are the horses fighting the vampires?”

  “Just the evil vampires. And the werewolves are on the horses’ side.” Sophie picked up a crimson pencil and colored a wound on the flank of a wolf. “Dad doesn’t think I know that stuff is going on.”

  “He knows you know.” Jo picked up a pencil and a sheet of paper. “You mind?”

  Sophie shook her head.

  Jo began to draw. “What has he talked to you about?”

  Sophie stopped coloring. Her eyes were anxious. “He’s going overseas on Friday.” Her lips fought a quiver. “But not to Africa. To Afghanistan.”

  She stared at Jo with a gaze like flame, challenging Jo to say otherwise. Then she blinked and inhaled in jerking breaths.

  “I want him to stay here,” she whispered. “I wish they would call up somebody else. Don’t tell him.”

  Gabe’s footsteps creaked on the hardwood floor. Sophie turned her face to hide her tears, but he walked in and saw her. Looking stricken, he crouched at her side and hugged her. Slowly, like a cramped muscle, she shuddered and turned to him.

  Jo sat, hands loose on her knees. Her phone rang. She saw Tang on the display. “Excuse me.” She stood and stepped away to answer. “Amy?”

  “And by the way, Tasia’s medical records from the time she was married to Robert McFarland are missing.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I’m not talking ‘unavailable.’ I mean they should be accessible from the army, but they’ve gone poof. Imagine my surprise.”

  Jo thought about it. “Thanks.”

  “That’s the kind of information that would create a ruckus if it became public.”

  “It’s not quite time for that. But it could be useful.”

  “Let me know if you need an assist.”

  “Will do.” Jo hung up.

  A moment later the phone rang again. It was Vienna. “Lewicki said yes.”

  Jo’s ears pricked up. “When and where?”

  “My office, one P.M. tomorrow. He’s coming straight here from the plane. I still seem to have powers of persuasion. Or maybe the shrimp is just afraid of big women.”

  Jo felt a buzz of hope. “I’ll be there. Thanks.”

  Gabe approached, holding Sophie’s hand. She was wiping her eyes.

  “We have to go. I’m meeting with my lawyer. I’ll take Sophie to Regina’s.”

  Jo nodded. She opened her mouth to tell him her fears, but closed it again. Wrong time, wrong place.

  “What?” he said.

  “It’ll keep.”

  As if that would make it any better.

  47

  JO WALKED BAREFOOT INTO THE KITCHEN AT SIX THIRTY A.M. SHARP sunlight angled across the house. Tucking messy curls behind her ear, she turned on the coffeemaker. The air was cool, the sky cobalt. Three thousand miles east, she calculated, Air Force One was taxiing Three thousand miles east, she calculated, Air Force One was taxiing into takeoff position at Andrews Air Force Base.

  While the coffee brewed, she laid out her notes on the kitchen table: the information she knew, and needed, and planned to cajole and berate out of White House Chief of Staff Kelvin T. Lewicki.

  Three issues touched her like a burning brand. First was her apprehension that Tasia McFarland’s death might not be an isolated event. Second was her fear that the president’s imminent arrival might put more people in danger. She kept hearing Tasia’s recorded warning: Things have gone haywire . . . If I die, it means the countdown’s on.

  Third was her conviction that Lewicki, or the president’s political machine, had managed to change Gabe’s military orders.

  She needed to find out whether Tasia McFarland had been murdered. And she wanted to put Lewicki on his knees, moaning like a sick baboon.

  She reread her notes, trying to untangle the final days of Tasia’s life like a skein of string. Tasia had stopped taking the medication that controlled her moods. Longing for a manic high, during the spring she instead suffered a major depressive episode. She then got a prescription for Prozac, which probably sent her into a mixed state. Several days before her death, she rendezvoused with Robert McFarland at a hotel in Virginia. She returned to San Francisco agitated, wild, and frightened. The night before the concert at the Giants’ ballpark, she wrote two songs to be played if she was assassinated. The next evening, she was shot to death with McFarland’s Colt .45.

  “The Liar’s Lullaby” and “After Me” were never meant to be hits. They were weird and moody, ambiguous and elliptical. But effective: songs that burrowed under the skin. At Tasia’s house Jo had snapped photos of the sheet music. She printed them and spread the music on the kitchen table.

  You say you love our land, you liar

  Who dreams its end in blood and fire

  Said you wanted me to be your choir

  Help you build the funeral pyre.

  Along with the ominous lyrics, the music featured dissonant arrangements and compulsive melodic motifs.

  But Robby T is not the One

  All that’s needed is the gun

  Load the weapon, call his name

  Unlock the door, he dies in shame.

  Repetitive melodic progressions and chord arrangements that, put together with the lyrics, seemed puzzling.

  Almost literally puzzling.

  Jo thought back to the med school lecture series on the mind and music. She went to her office and dug through the file cabinet. After fifteen minutes she came up with some notes she’d sketched. She read them and her pulse quickened.

  People with bipolar disorder could, when manic, play elaborate word games and become obsessed with puns. And bipolar musicians could turn their compositions into puzzles.

  They did so by sampling famous melodies, secretly referencing the work of other composers. Or by hiding codes in their own melodies and orchestration.

  Jo picked up Tasia’s sheet music. She realized how a composer could embed a code in a song: with the notes of the scale. C, D, E, F, F-sharp, and so on.

  Tasia’s music was written in both the treble and bass clefs. No sharps or flats. The notes on the staff clustered around middle C. At the top, Tasia had scrawled Counterpoint/Round.

  Jo tapped her foot. According to Tasia’s stunt coordinator, Rez Shirazi, Tasia had steamrollered him with talk of martyrdom and conspiracy—and music. She insisted that her music could protect her, and that it held the truth. Melody, harmony, counterpoint, lyrics. She threaded her manic monologue with musical references. Round, round, get around. Do, re, mi, fa, so long, suckers.

  The doorbell rang.

  Jo went to her office window and peeked through the shutters. The street was quiet. She saw no reporters—just Ahnuld the robot racing along the sidewalk. Behind Ahnuld came Mr. Peebles, teeth bared. Then Ferd, chasing them both. She went to the front door and squinted through the peephole.

  Outside, her sister, Tina, stood on tiptoe, waving a sack of muff
ins. Jo opened the door and yanked her inside.

  Tina was dressed for work at the coffeehouse in a black Java Jones blouse and jeans. Her hair was piled in a ponytail on top of her head, spilling brown curls. The silver ring in her nose flashed in the sun as she jerked through the door.

  “Your caffeine problem is much worse than I thought,” she said.

  “The media’s been hounding me.”

  “We know. The whole family’s talking about how you looked on TV.”

  Jo led her to the kitchen. “What do they think?”

  “Aunt Lolo says that running from the press makes your butt look big.”

  Jo spun on her, eyes bugging.

  Tina handed her the muffins. “Take the edge off.”

  Jo tilted her head back and groaned.

  “Seriously, sit down and eat, before you burn your little wings off like a moth flying through a candle,” Tina said.

  Jo scooped up her notes, dropped onto a chair, and opened the sack. “Thanks.”

  “Were you really at the Saint Francis yesterday when—”

  “Yes. It was a nightmare. But I’ll deal with it emotionally later.”

  Tina sat down across from her. “What do you call that? Displacement? Denial?”

  “Suppression.” Jo leaned her eyes on the heels of her hands. “If I keep moving, I won’t feel the arrows when they hit me.”

  Tina said nothing. Jo looked up. Her sister’s sunny face had clouded.

  “Been a heavy twenty-four hours.” Jo tried to keep her voice even, but heard a hitch creeping into it. “Gabe’s shipping out in two days.”

  “Oh my God.” Tina put a hand on her arm. “Tell me everything.”

  Jo explained. “Hence my desire to deflect all those arrows.”

  “Cut yourself some freakin’ slack. This is major.”

  She rubbed her eyes. “I’m just . . . at sea.”

  Tina’s head tilted. She looked acerbically thoughtful. “Are you in love with Gabe?”

  Jo looked up. “Yes.”

  Slowly, completely, Tina’s face split into a smile. “Hot shit. That’s awesome.”

  Jo’s face warmed, and she smiled too. “It is, isn’t it?”

  Tina shot both her fists straight overhead and threw her head back. “She shoots, she scores. Woo.”

  Jo laughed.

  Tina brought an arm down and pointed a finger at Jo, like the wrath of God. “And it’s inevitable.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Don’t act like Gabe’s a bolt from the blue. You’re an adrenaline junkie.”

  “This again?”

  “You’re a thrill seeker.”

  “I listen to people talk all day.”

  “You stare in their faces nine-to-five. And climb mountains for relaxation.”

  “Rocks: faces that don’t talk back.”

  “They just pitch you off if you do something they don’t like. One mistake, the smallest annoyance, and boom, it’s nothing but air all the way to the ground. Climbing is unforgiving. And you relish it. Tackling faces that will never yield.”

  “Wrong. The rocks present a problem to solve. That’s even the lingo climbers use.”

  “Jo, give it up.”

  “No, seriously—climbing is about finding the hidden truths in the rock and yourself. Exploring until it reveals its secrets and lets you reach the summit.”

  “You really don’t know?” Tina said.

  “It’s a rush, absolutely. And plenty of climbers take too many risks. I’m not one of them. You know the saying—”

  “There are old climbers, and there are bold climbers. But there are no old, bold climbers.” Tina gazed at her as if staring at a dumb stone. “It’s not all about problem-solving.”

  “Of course not. I get a huge buzz from climbing.”

  “You get a buzz from taking risks in your personal life.”

  “That’s an exaggeration.”

  “With men.”

  Jo went still. “That’s outrageous. That’s—Tina, that’s ridiculous, and a slur on . . . what men? Gabe? Daniel?”

  Tina waved her hands to ward off Jo’s pique. “You like excitement. You’re a thinker who doesn’t seek tranquility, that’s for sure.”

  “Will you please make your point, before I dunk your head in the sink?”

  “After you lost Daniel, you got back into the game. You didn’t pull the covers over your head.” Tina took a breath. “Gabe’s an awesome guy. But do you realize you actually sought out the person most likely to die the same way Daniel did?”

  The light in the kitchen seemed to twist.

  “You lost your husband in a helicopter crash. Now you’re in a relationship where the risk of that being repeated couldn’t be higher. You’re seeing a man who flies in a chopper for work—and deliberately flies into terrible conditions.”

  Jo tried to breathe. She tried to quiet the snapping noise in her head, the sound of insight smacking her between the eyes. Stick another bullet in the revolver, Jo. Spin the chamber, pull the trigger, one more time.

  “You better believe I actually said it,” Tina said. “Don’t kill me.”

  Jo stood and walked to the French doors and looked out at the magnolia, vivid green in the morning sun.

  She had long sensed something wounded in Gabe. Buried deep, scarred over, but working away, still cutting. She now knew that he had fought off three attackers, survived a stabbing, and in the process damaged a man permanently.

  Was he seeking redemption for that? Was that why he’d become a PJ?

  When he was asked about search and rescue, his job, he said, “I find people and get them back.”

  It was what he was doing for himself as well.

  Her breath caught. He just had to do it without dying in the process.

  God, they were a pair.

  Tina said, “Need to breathe into a paper bag? Dump the muffins.”

  She came over and put a hand on Jo’s shoulder. “Don’t look so shocked. My sister, in most areas of existence you are large and in charge, but when it comes to your love life, you’re as clueless as the rest of us.”

  Jo tipped her head back. She tried to stay serious, but laughed.

  “Our time is up. My office will send you a bill,” Tina said.

  Jo caught her halfway to the front door. “Don’t open it until I check for locusts.”

  When she peeked through her office shutters, her blood pressure jumped. Across the street, Edie Wilson was stepping out of a Volvo SUV.

  Tina joined her at the window. “She doesn’t look so heroic in person.”

  “Heroic?” Jo said.

  “On her show, the intro shows her in tornado wreckage, and wearing a flak jacket riding around with the Green Berets, like she’s the Statue of Liberty.” Tina peered at her. “With gigantic hair.”

  Edie Wilson sipped from a Starbucks cup and pointed around the street, telling the producer and cameraman where to set up. She gave Jo’s house a leisurely, contemplative look. The better to eat you with, my dear.

  Jo marched to the kitchen and turned on the television. On Edie’s network, the morning news was talking about a Lhasa apso caught in a washing machine. Edie’s show, News Slam, was scheduled to start in five minutes, at the top of the hour.

  “Can you wait five minutes to go to work?” Jo said.

  “Whatever you’re planning, I want in. What are you thinking?”

  “Whether I dare.”

  Tina put a hand on her hip. “What were we discussing a minute ago?”

  Thrill seeking. Right. Her penchant for death-defying stunts.

  “Come on.”

  She pulled Tina out the back door. They ran across the lawn to the fence. Jo boosted Tina up, clambered over herself, and they hurried to Ferd’s kitchen door.

  “How good an actor are you?” Jo said.

  “I’m auditioning for the national tour of Spamalot.”

  Jo did a double take, wondering if she was serious.

  Inside
Ferd’s kitchen, Mr. Peebles was crouched on top of Ahnuld, drinking from an espresso cup. As if he needed that. When Ferd spotted Jo he nearly skipped with glee. He bustled to the door, slicking his hair down with the flats of both hands.

  Behind his glasses, his eyes were electric. “It’s Edie Wilson, isn’t it?”

  “It’s war.” Jo pointed at Ahnuld. “And he’s going in.”

  48

  EDIE WILSON RAN OVER HER NOTES ONE MORE TIME. AS SHE READ, she finished her coffee and held out the empty cup. When nobody took it, she looked up.

  “Andy.”

  The cameraman was adjusting the television camera. “Recycle it.”

  She exhaled with annoyance. Through her earpiece she heard the voice of the director at the network in New York.

  “We’re going to you in two.”

  “Got it.” She checked the radio mike clipped to her blouse, and refreshed her lipstick in the SUV’s wing mirror. Behind her reflection she saw a van coming.

  “Damn it.”

  Some other network was pulling up the hill. They wanted to step on her scoop and catch the “hero” doctor on her way out. But Edie was going to play the story with her own spin.

  She ran down her list of talking points. Snapped her fingers at Tranh. “Moffett Field, this National Guard base—they work with the NASA people there? Spy satellites, terror tracking? They’re what, on call if there’s a bomb threat or attack on Air Force One?”

  Tranh took out his BlackBerry. “I don’t think so.”

  “Find out.”

  In her ear, the network said, “Going live to you in one.”

  The rival news van parked and people climbed out. This neighborhood was even more quirky than most—the joggers going past, giving her looks, weren’t the usual admirers. A few dog walkers had paused to watch, and a bunch of people had wandered over from the cable car stop to pose in the background, hoping to mouth Hi, Mom. As the other news crew—what were they, European? Russian?—ran a sound check, a dozen lookie- lous congregated on the sidewalk behind Tranh and Andy. Several snapped photos of Edie on their cell phones.