Charlie grunted but didn’t reply.
3
They rode in Charlie’s rattling pickup down the road to Tesuque. Under the overpass, the Native American symbols in colorful shapes danced on the walls.
“What do they all mean—do you know?”
“Some of ’em. Some are so old even the tribes don’t know.”
“How can that be?”
“Well, nobody around here is original to the place, if you go back far enough. Santa Fe might be one of the oldest cities in the U.S.—just had our four-hundred-year celebration—but that’s when the Spanish arrived. The tribes that were here at the time—the Nambe, the Tesuque, the Pueblo, among others—they moved into the abandoned dwellings left by even more ancient Indians.”
“Like the Anasazi at Mesa Verde.”
Charlie chuckled. “Yeah, same people, but you’re not supposed to use that name anymore because it means something along the lines of ‘ancient enemy,’ and modern folks figure that’s not really fair. Go visit Bandelier and read up on it.”
“I thought we’re not supposed to say ‘Indian,’ either.”
“True, true.” Charlie pulled into a dirt parking lot alongside the road, in front of a ramshackle building with a wooden porch. “But the Indians all say it, unless they’re being formal, so I slip into it over time.”
The small dining room looked like the inside of a log cabin cook shack, which it probably started out as. By the register, a long hall took a crooked turn to become a sort of grocery store/gift shop. People were crowded in around linoleum-topped tables, a mix of locals and tourists armed with maps and brochures.
Charlie nodded at them. “People come over here to see the ironworks and the sculpture garden. Worth a wander through, if you haven’t yet.”
The menu was as simple as the setting. No steak tartare here. Christy ended up ordering a burger with guacamole and green chile strips, which Charlie assured her would warm her right up. Those lower levels could be cold this time of year.
“Not a five-star place, but the food is good and you can’t beat the prices.”
“Mr. Sanclaro took me to Geronimo last night,” she told him, deciding to answer the question he wasn’t asking.
“Nice.”
“It was.”
They lapsed into silence. She suspected he was torn between treating her as any apprentice and standing in for her father.
“We’re old friends—as you know—but if it gets to be more, um, I mean, if it’s not kosher for me to see a patron, you know, romantically ...” To her horror, she found herself blushing, remembering that very yummy kiss. In front of her new boss.
“No, no. It’s not that.” Charlie drank from his mug of coffee and wrinkled up one side of his mouth, chewing on the words. “I feel I should warn you. Which is all kinds of inappropriate and you have the family connection and all. But if you were my daughter, I’d want to tell you that fellow is—well, he has a bit of reputation around here. He sniffs around all the pretty young apprentices, and the actresses, too. He gets around.”
Okay, that was a fair warning. “I’ll be very careful not to let him break my heart.” She tried to sound solemn, but Charlie shook his head with a wan smile.
“All right. Make fun of an old man.”
“You’re not old.”
“Old enough to know some things.”
“Do you believe in the theater ghost?” The question sprang out before she realized she was thinking it.
Charlie sat back in his chair and scratched an ear. “Depends,” he finally said.
Not the answer she’d expected. “Really? On what?”
“Well ...” He gazed at the ceiling, shifting to the side when the people clearing the table next to them brushed past. “See, I believe there’s more to this world than meets the eye. Like the opera house—there’s all these levels below levels and hidden crannies. You don’t live in a place like this without knowing that the intangibles make it special. You know the artists all moved here because of the light?”
“Like Georgia O’Keeffe?”
“Yeah, she was one of the first, but they all followed because they agreed. There’s something special about the sky and the light.”
“Okay.”
“But how can that be?” He nodded thanks to the harried woman who refilled his coffee. “I mean—same sun, same atmosphere, same planet. How can the light be any different here than, say, in Denver? Or Reno—any of those places with the same altitude?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly!” Charlie thumped down his mug. “Because there isn’t any reason, but it’s still true. We see it. We feel the difference in our bones. Same as the new Indians who moved in and took up the sacred symbols of the ancient Indians before them. Something in us recognizes magic when we encounter it. Whether we believe in it consciously or not. It affects us and the choices we make.” That same expression of worry crossed his face, as it had when he spoke of Tara.
The waitress dropped off their food with a cheerful exhortation to enjoy it. Finding a way to open her mouth wide enough to bite into the thick burger, dripping with green chile stew, gave her some time to think. Charlie seemed to forget his somber thoughts and happily plowed into a smothered burrito.
“So, you’re saying the theater ghost exists whether we believe in him or not?” She wiped her mouth on a paper napkin.
“I’m saying there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
“Horatio,” she inserted automatically, and Charlie tossed off a two-fingered half salute. “And I don’t think I have a philosophy.”
“Well, you’re young yet. It takes experience and paying attention to build a good philosophy.”
“What’s yours?”
“Just told you, didn’t I?”
“I think I heard him—the ghost. Singing. That’s what I was doing.”
“Ah.”
She waited, only halfway through her burger and already stuffed. But he didn’t say anything else. Didn’t call her crazy.
“That’s it?”
“Well, I already told you to be careful. And to take a flashlight. What else can I say?” Charlie no longer seemed his cheerful self but defensive. Resigned? Maybe afraid.
“Did Tara hear the ghost?”
“Now why would you ask that?” Charlie snapped up the check in uncharacteristic irritation. “If you’re done, let’s go. My treat.”
While he waited in line to pay at the register, Christy browsed the shelves of the market. The place was kind of like those out-of-the-way convenience stores, with odd assortments of necessities, comfort foods, and items you couldn’t imagine anyone needing—like tapioca pudding mix.
A ceramic bowl held polished stones that fit in the palm of her hand, inscribed with different animal symbols. She recognized one from the bridge—a humpbacked bear—carved into a shining black rock. Charlie waited impatiently by the door while she paid her five dollars and change for it.
“You shouldn’t buy that Indian crap,” he huffed.
It lay in her palm, surprisingly warm. “Why not? Maybe it’s good luck.”
“Maybe it’s a rip-off, too. Not all of ’em feel friendly to white folks either. Could be they wrapped some bad juju in there, to make you a little miserable.”
“Which is it, Charlie?” She laughed, hoisting herself into the truck, glad not to be in yesterday’s narrow skirt. “Bad luck or worthless?”
“Don’t get smart with me.”
“I think it’s lucky. It feels lucky,” she decided.
Charlie pointed the truck up the river road and the early afternoon sun streamed in on the cracked dashboard, illuminating the dusty old blue so it glowed. The budding limbs of the trees stood out against a sky of the same creamy color. It all looked otherworldly, beautiful and full of sensual promise.
“You might find—” Charlie cleared his throat, staring steadfastly at the narrow road. “If you think you hear the ghos
t, go the other way.”
“You do believe in him.” She pounced on his words.
“Didn’t say that, did I?”
Oh, but he had. That much was very clear. “Do you think—is it possible he hurt Tara, after all?” The stone burned hot in her palm, a tiny sun of its own.
Charlie glanced at her before turning up the winding drive, past the gated communities of the wealthy, that led to the opera house. “There’s no reason to think Tara did anything but run off. It didn’t surprise me because she was the type to be easily spooked.”
He pulled into the backstage lot and cut the engine. Reaching over, he tapped the back of her hand, and she opened it, showing him the polished stone. “Are you easily spooked?”
The carving of the bear seemed subtly different. Had one paw been curled up, as if about to take a step, before? And its head was turned in semiprofile, looking up at her. A wash of hot-cold ran over her scalp and her skin prickled with golden sparks, that feeling of being crazy, of blood draining away.
“C’mon. That inventory beckons, kiddo.”
She had to scramble to catch up with him. “Thanks for lunch!” she called to his back.
He turned, holding the door open. “Remember what I told you. And take a damn flashlight.”
4
Nothing unusual happened that afternoon. If Christy put on a playlist of dance tunes to drown out any potential otherworldly melodies, who would blame her? No cell or wireless signal down here, but she had her iTunes library to pull from.
Maybe she turned up the volume louder than usual. Not like she’d be bothering anyone. She tucked her talisman in her jeans pocket—for good luck, she stubbornly thought at the absent Charlie. It had been dim in the store and she hadn’t looked at it closely. Making her think the image on the rock had changed was another of those tease-the-newbie games.
Of course there was no theater ghost—just tricks of sound. The opera house had been designed to carry sound of all kinds. With all these rock and concrete tunnels beneath, they amplified and distorted the smallest noise from above even more. And if she wanted to believe that theaters absorbed the energy of performances over the years, the very walls vibrating with old melodies when all was silent, well, that seemed several sane steps above buying that some entity haunted the halls, singing of lost love.
Having the monster flashlight helped, too. If nothing else, she could use it as a club.
When she climbed back upstairs at the end of the day, terribly dusty and more tired than she should be, a text message popped up from Roman.
Dinner tomorrow?
“Yay, yay, yay!” Christy did a little dance with her phone. This one would be a no-brainer.
Would love to! she texted back. She hoped that didn’t sound too eager. She should probably play hard to get, but that had never been her thing. He’d sent the text a couple of hours before, so that would have to do.
Pick you up at 8? Can’t wait, sweet girl. The text came back immediately.
The old pet name gave her a tingle of delight. Maybe she could think up one for him. Something no other girl had called him. She didn’t mind that he’d dated around a lot. Of course he had. And it wasn’t like they were actually engaged, despite their fathers’ bad jokes.
She tucked her phone and other things in her bag, set the BNoD squarely on the middle of her desk, and looked around for her iPad. Well, shit. Gathering up her stuff and keeping one hand free for the flashlight, she’d left it sitting on a box by the door. It would probably be okay there overnight, but she really wanted it with her. Quiet evenings in her hotel room were sometimes too quiet.
Oh, well—it would only take a few minutes to retrieve it. She’d already checked in with Charlie and he’d headed out, thinking she’d be right behind him. A frisson of uncertainty ran through her and she wondered if she was being the dumb chick in the slasher movies, going back down into the depths of the opera house after everyone had gone.
Yeah, as if the ghost was going to get her.
A quick trip down and back—armed with the monster flashlight. No different from being down there ten minutes before.
Right?
Turning the lights on as she went, she headed back down her favorite spiral staircase. No way would she get in that elevator with no one in the building. On some of the levels, she had to descend into a pool of shadow barely broken by the spear of her flashlight. At least it helped her find the switches. Each series of bulbs buzzed on with sluggish resistance, slowing her progress.
Finally she made it to the lowest level—second lowest, really, but the one below didn’t count anymore—and lit her way to her current storeroom. She unlocked the door and there sat her iPad, right where she’d left it.
Only ... a red rose sat on top of it.
That familiar chill washed over her. Someone just walked over your grave, her aunt Isadore’s voice said in her mind. Tentative, she reached out to touch the rose. Her hand was shaking. She poked the blossom—it was vividly real, satin and alive. Where did it come from? Her touch had overbalanced it and the rose tumbled off its perch and fell to the floor, dust staining the dewy petals.
She stared at it, like it was a snake coiled to strike her ankle, trying to shake the overwhelming feeling that someone was watching her from the hallway. Thoughts running in frantic circles, she gripped the flashlight, the metal cold and slick in her abruptly sweating palm.
A click. And the hallway light went out.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Had this happened to Tara? Would she be the next to go missing, to have her father demanding that the lower levels be searched yet again for a body that would never be found?
She refused to turn around.
She had to turn around.
Oh God.
She turned.
And screamed.
A shadowy figure stood just past the open door. Tall, broad-shouldered, a dark silhouette against the unlit hallway.
“Don’t be afraid, Christine.”
That voice. The voice. The golden tenor caressed even spoken words, music running through it. Something deep inside her recognized it, resonating with it, with him. The shimmering feeling of not quite real made her head swim.
She grasped the heavy flashlight, holding it in both hands, ready to swing.
“I’ll scream,” she threatened. Most inane threat ever, since she already had. Look at all those people, not coming to save her.
“No need.” He sounded amused. “I won’t hurt you.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why would I want to do harm to such a beautiful and vibrant young woman?”
“Oh God—you’re going to rape me.”
He laughed—a warm breath of sensuality, soothing in a totally irrational way. “I’m not. I never would.”
“Then what do you want?”
“To talk with you.” He moved, and his silhouette flowed, a long cape around him. “I want to know you, Christine.”
“Who are you?” Her voice had strained into a whisper, fear shutting down her throat after her brief enchantment with the sound of his laughter. “Don’t come any closer!”
“I won’t. I don’t want to frighten you.”
“Well, you already did.”
“I apologize. My ... social skills are rusty.”
She choked out a scornful cough, a ragged sound that surprised her. The flashlight was growing heavy, her arms tiring as she held it up. This was when they grabbed you, though—the moment you let down your guard.
“If you’re not here to hurt me, I want you to go away.”
“I understand, Christine. This was enough for me, for now.”
“I’m not her.” The words burst out, fueled by fear and a kind of desperation. Who the hell was this guy? Was he really a ghost?
“Who?”
“Christine.”
“But that’s your name—I heard you tell my stage manager.”
“Your stage manager?” Charlie?
>
“I think of Charlie that way, yes. This is my opera house; therefore you all work for me. You, Christine, are my apprentice. A very special apprentice. It’s time for you to relearn what you used to know.”
“This is my father’s opera house.” She tried to sound unwavering, clinging to the part of what he said that made sense, but her voice faltered.
“There are many ways of owning. Not all of them involve names on deeds.”
“Who are you?”
He shifted ever so slightly closer to the circle of light spilling through the doorway, barely enough to show he wore a half mask, a slash of darker material in the shadow of his face.
“You, my apprentice, shall call me Master.”
She should quit.
That was the clear and obvious solution. Not that she could tell anyone why.
Oh yeah, Daddy—see there’s some stalker dude who’s probably a ghost living below the opera house and, get this, he thinks he really owns it! And he gave me a rose and said some really weird shit. Say, can you find me another job?
He’d send her right back to the mental ward.
Christy groaned, wanting to bang her head on the bar, and took a deep swallow of her margarita instead. The salt on the rim pricked through the icy, tart concoction, finishing with the dark smoke of Hornitos tequila, seeping into her blood and soothing her as much as the crackling fire and chattering people.
She’d come straight to Del Charro from the opera house. After she’d stood there, clutching that stupid flashlight for forever after the ghost disappeared. Except he’d looked real. What did ghosts look like? And what was up with the you-shall-call-me-Master bit?
She should really just quit.
Maybe she wouldn’t have to. Charlie might fire her for leaving all those lights on. Because, when she’d finally screwed up her courage, she’d grabbed the iPad and run all the way up the spiral staircase, certain he might grab her from behind. Or worse, through the gaps between the stairs. No fucking way was she stopping to turn off the lights and climb in the pitch black.
She couldn’t face her silent hotel room either, so she’d come to this place, because she’d seen happy people through the tall floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the street, open to the balmy evening. So much better than being alone, cliché as it might be.
Master of the Opera, Act 1: Passionate Overture Page 3
