Sonata by Moonlight

by A. E. Easterlin

  Just as she turned to make a run for it, she heard a voice.

  “You and the Miller have been busy.”

  The cold, irrational voice of Sam Bennett whispered in her ear. No knife this time. Worse. The cold barrel of a gun pressed against the side of her head. Time stood still while visions of her impending death stole her breath.

  “Sam, what are you doing out of the hospital?” she asked as calmly as she could in spite of the panic rushing through her veins. A cold fist of fear knotted in her chest. Sam was sick. Sam was dangerous. Sam held the power of life and death in his shaking hand. She prayed the gun wouldn’t discharge.

  This couldn’t be happening. It was surreal. Five minutes ago, she’d been in Brodie’s arms. Dreaming of a happy fulfilled life. Lost in her love and the feel of him surrounding her. She wanted it all; she wanted to live. Fighting to concentrate, Allison tried to remember what to do. Focus. Remain calm. Don’t panic. She prayed her training would save them both.

  “They let me out. I’ve been a good boy.” His voice quivered, no longer broken or uncertain. He sounded like a different man. An eerie quality convinced her he was in the throes of another PTSD episode. Out of control. Angry. It scared her.

  “I missed you, Ms. Chandler. I missed hearing you play for me. I’m only better when you play—when you’re with me. So before I head to Virginia to get my son, I thought I’d come get you. We can go together. You see, I need you, Ms. Chandler—Allison. You can come with me and convince my whore of a wife to give me back my boy. If you tell them I’m all right, they’ll let him come with us. You can convince them. If not, I’ll just have to kill the bitch and take him anyway. There are lots of little towns all over this country where we can hide, where we can live. It’ll be perfect. The three of us. I’ll take care of you and my son, and you can make me feel better.”

  “Sam, don’t do this. You don’t want to do anything illegal. You’ll never get to spend time with your son if you harm anyone, kidnap him. After what happened at the hospital, you’re the first person they’ll think of when they find I’m missing.” She wanted him to trust her, to realize she only wanted to help him.

  “Put down the gun,” she persuaded. “You don’t need it. Have I ever hurt you? No. And I’m not about to start now. I’ve always had your best interest at heart. I’ll make you something to drink, and we can talk about this, make a plan to help you see your son. I’ll even play for you, if it makes you feel better.”

  The gun faltered against the side of her head. Strong fingers dug into her shoulder, and he shoved her toward the sofa with enough force that she bounced as she hit the cushion.

  “Stay right there. I need to think.” His eyes grew large, the whites dwarfing the irises, wild as they roved the room. Up toward the ceiling, around and over her furniture. He was disoriented, seemed not to know where he was.

  He lifted the hand holding the firearm, and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his sleeve. His body quaked; he was losing it. This wasn’t good.

  “Are you hungry? I could make you a sandwich.” Anything to distract him, take his mind off the gun and his desire to use it on her.

  “Shut up!” he cried. “I need to think. I need to think. I need to think,” he repeated over and over in a panicked voice.

  She slid toward the end of the sofa. “At least let me get you some water.”

  Once again he pointed the gun at her. “Don’t move, I said. If you move, I’m going to shoot.”

  “Then how will we get your little boy? If you shoot me, I can’t help you. What would help you feel better? Food, something to drink? I can play for you, if you like. You always feel better when I play ‘Clair de Lune,’ right? Let me sit at the keyboard, and I’ll play. You can sit in the chair next to me. But you have to put your gun on the table. I can’t play with you pointing that thing at me.”

  He started to protest. His breathing ratcheted up. The veins on his forehead distended, and his face grew a darker shade of red.

  “All right, all right. If you want to keep your gun, just sit and leave it in your lap, but don’t point it at me.” Her firm insistence seemed to register. To her amazement, he sat in the chair next to the piano and watched as she lifted the cover and settled on the bench. Her blinds were open. If Brodie would only hear the music and look this way, he might see she had someone else in the room and come over. At least she could buy some time. Maybe the music would do some good, so she could reason with Sam.

  She began the piece, playing louder than the composer’s directions. When she reached the forte section, she pounded the notes. Brodie had heard her play this a hundred times. If he could hear her at all, he should know something was wrong. She altered the rhythm, deliberately hitting wrong keys. Dropping her hands in the middle of a key phrase, she looked at her captor, and pretended to falter.

  “Sam, please,” she begged. “Please, don’t do this.” Her voice came out a croak through the tight knot in her throat. “You don’t want to hurt me. Not after all we’ve been through together.”

  At once, his face clouded and tears ran down his cheeks. His chest heaved with deep, dry sobs. Just as quickly, his eyes lost their wildness and turned into a vacant pool of darkness. A terrible stillness cloaked his body.

  It happened in a split second: Sam raised his gun, stuck it in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. The crack pierced the silence, and Allison froze. Sam slumped, and the gun fell from his grasp and thudded on the rug. Gray matter and blood were spattered on her blinds and windows and walls. The stench of death was everywhere, of salt, rust, and hot metal from the still-smoking barrel of the gun.

  She stared in horror at the man. Eyes open and glassy, his face lax, the back of his head gone.

  The scene echoed in her consciousness. As she stared at the lifeless body, another man took his place, another man wounded, damaged, without hope, lost to the grip of sickness and despair.

  “Gone…Your brother’s gone,” the policeman said. And it echoed through her brain.

  Someone screamed. And screamed. And screamed. But the name they screamed wasn’t Sam.

  “Brett!”

  The sound reverberated through the house. Cold horror gripped her, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the nightmare before her. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The smell clogged her nostrils, and her stomach heaved at the ribbons of red and gray streaming down the wall. Bile rose, choking her with its bitter, burning acid.

  “Brett!” She screamed over and over as her blood congealed in her trembling body.

  ****

  What the hell? Brodie glanced out his window at Allison’s house. She was playing the piano. And what was she playing? Nothing she was doing at the keyboard was how she normally played that piece. It was all wrong. Something was all wrong.

  His heart stuttered in his chest.

  He rushed to his door and threw it open for a better view. There was someone in the room with her, something in his hand, pointing at Ally. Damn. A gun.

  Brodie took off at a run.

  Before he reached the end of his driveway he heard the loud crack. He instinctively ducked, then took off double time. It was then he heard the screams, over and over. His blood ran cold.

  “Ally!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, and threw himself up the porch steps with a prayer on his lips. “My God! Help her!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Allison sat, now silent but still shaking, her eyes riveted on the body of the man who had taken his own life. One glance at her face and Brodie knew she wasn’t seeing Sam, she was seeing her brother and reliving that awful night four years ago. God! What would this do to her?

  He whipped out his cell and called 911 and the local fire department. Giving a few sketchy details, he barked an order to hurry. Her attention was glued to the grisly image, all color drained from her face, nothing but horror reflected in her eyes.

  Brodie stepped in front of her, shielding the inert body, blocking her view. Gently he lif
ted her from the piano bench and shuttled her out of the room and down the hall to her small office. Setting her carefully in the chair, he left her momentarily to grab a water bottle from the fridge.

  “Baby,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “Take a drink.” He placed the bottle against her lips, but she didn’t move. She stared over his shoulders, lost in some alternate dimension where he couldn’t reach her, her body rigid, cold, barely moving.

  He was afraid he’d choke her if he forced the water through her lips, so he set it aside and chafed her hands in his, trying to get the blood flowing and some warmth into her. Her hands were cold as ice, her eyes glassed and vacant—she was going into shock.

  Brodie dashed to her room and dragged the comforter from her bed, wrapping it tightly around her. Her gaze was fixed on something in her bookcase. A picture frame. Jesus. Brett, dressed in full gear, his rifle resting in his arms, one leg cocked forward, ready for action. He swallowed the boulder in his throat.

  “Talk to me, Ally. Say something,” he whispered. Where the hell were those paramedics? He knelt in front of her, and tried to force her to look at him, talking rapidly, desperately. “It’s okay, baby. It wasn’t Brett. It was Sam. You know Brett’s in heaven. He’s all right, nothing can hurt him. Remember? You told me how you carry him with you in your heart? How he’s with you all the time when you play your piano? Come on, sweetheart. Talk to me, baby, please…please.” He lifted her palms to his lips, pressed kisses onto her cold flesh, and begged for some response.

  She swallowed. It was the only indication she heard him. The only sign she knew he was with her. A loud knock sounded on the door, and he heard a man exclaim, “Shit! Watch where you step. Don’t touch anything in this room. God, this is a mess!”

  “Back here,” he called, and moved to make room for the medics.

  Brodie briefed them about what he’d seen and heard. They took Allison’s vitals, tried to get a response from her. She sat and trembled, nothing else.

  A sheriff’s deputy crowded the room. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

  Brodie was reluctant to leave Allison but followed the deputy as he moved down the hall. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Her name is Allison Chandler. She works with victims of PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and TBI, Traumatic Brain Injury, at the VA downtown. The dead man is an outpatient there.”

  “Name?” He jerked his head toward the living room.

  “Sam Bennett. He’s one of her patients. She’s a music therapist.”

  “I guess the therapy didn’t work?” the deputy observed.

  Brodie ignored the morbid attempt at levity. “I heard her playing, but something was wrong about it. I was coming to see what the problem was, and halfway over here I heard the shot. One. The next thing I heard, she was screaming her brother’s name, but she was quiet by the time I got here. I got her out of there as quickly as I could.”

  “Touch anything?”

  He shook his head.

  “Her brother’s name, you say?”

  “Yeah. About four years ago, she came back from a tour and found her brother had committed suicide just before she got home. Same MO, gunshot to the head, but she didn’t see it happen like she did this. He had PTSD. Afghanistan.”

  “Shit…Chandler? You mean Allison Chandler, the concert pianist? That’s her?”

  Brodie nodded. “If you could keep the media away, she’d appreciate it. At least until she has a chance to get out of here. They’ll have a field day with the story, and that’s the last thing she needs.”

  He glanced back toward her office. “You about done with me?”

  “Yeah. We’re going to have to interview her, but I know she’s in no shape to talk to anyone yet. Here’s my card. If you think of anything else, give me a call. Looks like the paramedics are taking her to the hospital. Probably just for observation. Guys? Take her out the back way, no need to tromp through the front. She doesn’t need to see that again, and we don’t want to destroy any forensic evidence.”

  Brodie looked at the cop with new respect. “Thanks. I appreciate what you’re doing.”

  “No problem. CSU will be here in a few. Can you hang around just in case they have questions?”

  “Not unless it’s an order. You have all my information. I’m following the ambulance. I won’t let her go through this alone again. Damn.” His emotions boiled to the surface. “She doesn’t deserve this. She’s the sweetest, most caring person I know. Loves every one of those guys.”

  “Sounds like you know her pretty well.”

  Brodie paused, staring the deputy in the eye as he swallowed the massive lump in his throat. Knowing her “pretty well,” was an understatement. She was his life. How do you say that to a complete stranger?

  “I’m in love with her,” was all he got out.

  The cop nodded and clapped his beefy hand on Brodie’s shoulder. “Tough, buddy. Go be with your girl. She needs you. We’ll button things up here, close up after ourselves. It looks like we’ll be a while.”

  “Thanks.” Neighbors were gathering on their lawns. Brodie noticed it was getting late, the lights from the emergency vehicles glaring in the dusk. A deputy talked with the couple who lived next door. It would be all over the neighborhood by morning. He couldn’t blame them; they all liked Allison. They’d be concerned about her.

  He ran across the street and slammed his truck into reverse. The ambulance was silent out of respect for the neighborhood and Allison’s nerves. He’d probably beat them to the Emergency Room entrance. Good. She needed him. This time, he wasn’t going to fail her.

  On the way, he called Mary Leo. It was a hell of a time for this to go down. Ally had so much on her plate right now, with the renovations of Brett’s House and the fundraiser coming up in a matter of weeks. Even if she could recover from this in time, she’d need major help to get it all accomplished.

  Brodie pulled into the hospital parking lot. As much as he hated to think it, Jess Harper might be able to help. He and his subcontractors had already made a lot of headway on the outside of Brett’s House. If he was willing to act as foreman, maybe the guys could finish the inside and take that much off her plate. Jess would do it for Ally. He made the call.

  “Harper.”

  “Jess, this is Brodie Miller.” There was a pause at the other end of the line. “I need your help. Or rather, Allison needs your help.”

  No hesitation. “If she needs me, I’m in. What exactly am I in for?”

  He told Jess what had happened. He immediately wanted to meet at the hospital. Brodie didn’t think that would be such a good idea. Ally looked bad, and he was worried. Better to handle things between them for the time being.

  “Please…could you give her a day? I’m at the hospital now, but I don’t know what kind of shape she’s in. I doubt they’ll even let me see her tonight. I just have to be here. Anyway, this is going to put a crimp in her plans, and I don’t want her to be overburdened until I see how she’s going to bounce back from this. The reason I called is that I don’t think Ally can handle everything that’s on her plate right now, with this happening, and I want to make it as easy on her as possible. You’ve made great progress on Brett’s House already—could you take on a bit more? Do you think you could oversee the completion of the interior? That way the delivery of the beds and other supplies could be scheduled.”

  “Excuse me, did I hear a compliment in there somewhere?” Jess barked a laugh.

  “Don’t push your luck, Harper. You don’t know what it cost me to make this call.”

  “Cool your jets, Miller. For what it’s worth, you make her happy, and that’s all I want. Whatever you need at the facility, it’s done. I figure we can have it ready to furnish in two weeks or less. I’ll get my guys right on it.” He cleared his throat. “How’s she holding up?”

  “I don’t know. I’m on my way to emergency right now. She was in pretty bad shape when the paramedics arrived. Shock. She’s going to
need some time to recover from this.”

  “Just take care of her, Brodie. Take care of her, and keep her safe.”

  “Will do.” He hung up. That went well. Harper seemed to accept that she was with him now. As long as he didn’t try to poach, he’d work with the guy. His hands shook as he imagined what reliving the trauma of Brett’s death through Sam’s suicide was doing to her mind. Ironic. She’d come into his life at his darkest hour, helped him get control of his emotions and refocus his life. And now he was the strong one. No mountain too high, no valley too low, whatever she needed, he’d be there. More than a promise; it was a vow.

  Checking in at the triage desk, he let them know he was waiting for news about Ally. He must have sounded abrupt, because the nurse’s eyes grew round and wide, but she agreed to let him know as soon as she knew anything. Patience gone, he wanted to storm those locked double doors leading to the treatment area, but he’d have to bide his time and wait. She needed all the doctor’s attention right now.

  The waiting room was noisy and crowded, but he finally found a spot that was somewhat private and settled in.

  When Dr. Leo arrived, she found him drinking something resembling coffee that would both guarantee he stayed awake and give him indigestion.

  “Have you heard anything?” she asked.

  “Not a thing. You?”

  “Yeah, I called ahead. The doctors are with her. Give me a minute.”

  She left him to his caffeine and went straight past the nurse’s station and into the treatment area. He watched people come and go, had another coffee, and was about to force his way past the rent-a-cop when she returned. Her face gave nothing away, but it was far from cheerful.

  She got right to it. “She’s in shock. You knew that. It is expected under the circumstances. Still not responding to stimuli. They’re forcing fluids, making sure she’s comfortable. Her blood pressure’s a little elevated, but physically she’s not in any danger.”

  Her lips pursed. “God in heaven, why did this have to happen? Sam had everyone fooled, and that’s not easy. Right now, she’s not responding to anyone or anything. I need you to go to her. Stay calm. Don’t let her know you’re disturbed by her lack of response. Talk to her; keep your voice monotone. Hold her hand, let her feel your touch. Don’t stop, keep it going. The human voice is its own kind of music. It’s therapeutic. She needs to know she’s not alone and that she’s loved. Can you do that?”