“Harry. Look at me,” I said. “You’re performing where tonight?”
He slowly and nicely said, “The Palais Omnisports de Paris-Bercy. Oh, man, Tandy. I’m opening for Adele.”
Oh. Wow. I was getting it. I was finally getting it. This wasn’t like playing a gig in a bar, or in a small club. This was the BIG time. Huge.
Bercy, as it’s called, is a gigantic sports arena that can hold almost seventeen thousand people. I’d seen videos of rock stars giving concerts there to adoring, out-of-their-minds crowds.
Harry was going to be at the center of that.
I screamed. Harry screamed. We grabbed each other and danced around the room. I wished C.P. was here to scream and dance with us. She would have been so proud of Harry. She would have pierced our eardrums with her screaming. But even without C.P.’s shrill vocal contribution, Harry and I made enough ruckus to bring Jacob into the room in a hurry.
I saw his face. It was like, “What now?”
Poor guy, but he was funny without meaning to be. Harry and I laughed until we were rolling on the floor.
“What’s the joke?” our uncle asked.
We told him Harry’s news, and after Jacob shouted, “This is tremendous news, Harry!” he joined us in dancing around.
Oh my God. My brother was going to be onstage in one of the most important venues on the continent.
My shy, overlooked brother, Harry.
Hugo, Jacob, and I were right there at the vast, magnificent arena known as Bercy, sitting under the pinpointed glare of lights and surrounded by the seventeen thousand people who were flowing into the enormous stadium. Our best-in-the-house seats were midway up the lower tier, where we could see directly onto the stage.
With a cracking sound, spotlights flashed on and hit the stage, followed by a feedback squeal, and then a booming, echoing voice came over the sound system. The voice thanked and welcomed the crowd and spoke of Adele in glowing terms, whipping up the crowd, which was already high on anticipation and in a near frenzy.
Then the faceless voice blared, “It is our pleasure to introduce the pianist Harrison Angel playing his homage to Montmartre.”
Harrison Angel. My brother.
To modest applause, Harry trotted up a short flight of steps onto the floating stage in the center of the stadium floor. He seated himself between his piano and organ.
To be honest, my heart clutched for Harry. He was unknown, a warm-up act for a superstar. Sitting alone on the stage in his iridescent jacket, well, Harry looked very small. Like a dragonfly under a microscope.
Then he put his fingers on the keys.
I held my breath as his amazing and uplifting first notes were overwhelmed and smothered by the sound of shuffling feet and laughter and talking that came together as one circular, three-dimensional rolling rumble.
But sometime during the first stanza, a shushing sound replaced the noises of the crowd, as though people were saying Shhh, I want to hear. The whisper gained strength and lapped the stadium, and by the time Harry’s third burst of arpeggios danced out over the audience, his music had captivated all the hearts and souls at Bercy.
I’d only heard “Montmartre” once before, and I’d been dazzled by its beauty. Now the sound was ginormous but still retained its delicacy and touching emotion. I saw rapt faces all around, tier upon tier, and when the last notes of the Fender Rhodes sounded and faded, there was silence, followed by shouts of “Encore!” and the phenomenal rhythmic cracking of applause.
Beside me, Hugo was shouting, “Holy moly, Harry. Is that you?”
Harry played another tune, a composition he’d written as we crossed the Atlantic weeks ago on the Queen Mary 2. His piece “The Atlantic” surged and then climaxed in a crescendo, a swelling wave that seemed to travel up and down the length of the stadium.
The crowd went mad.
And then, as the applause ebbed, Adele came out onstage, and the crowd went crazy all over again. Harry stood, and Adele put her arm around him, and when she could finally be heard, she said, “Harrison Angel, my friends. This young man is sixteen. Harry, we cannot wait to hear what you will do next.”
More applause, epic rounds and rounds of it.
Before Adele finished her set, Michael Pogue arrived and gathered up our small party. We were ushered to a limo and whisked to an unmarked industrial building with a heavily guarded back door. We were cleared through in an instant and entered a long hallway throbbing with music.
We were in a nightclub—Hugo, too!
And there was Harry, standing by the bar, surrounded by a thick mob that included the men I had seen in the mix room at the Smart Blue Door.
Harry was glowing. The colors of his shimmering jacket picked up every glint of light. He looked ethereal, my angel brother.
The club filled quickly with beautiful people in amazing clothes. Adele and her entourage swept in and then, unbelievably, Beyoncé and Jay Z were there. Techno music pounded, and between the dancing and shouting over the music, I wasn’t sure if Harry had even seen me.
But he had. Before he was pulled away by people who wanted to touch him, shake his hand, become part of his future, Harry came to me. He grabbed me and hugged me really tight.
He spoke over the noise, right into my ear, saying, “I love you, Tandy. And no, I’m not using the filthy drugs. This is all me. This is what we’re capable of.”
I woke up coughing and swamped by heart-pounding, gut-heaving panic. I heard a low roar that meant nothing to me, but I did know that the world had gone extremely wrong and if I didn’t get a grip on it soon, I was going to die.
My lungs burned, that was a clue. They burned like I’d breathed in acid. I couldn’t draw in a real breath. All I could do was cough and gag. Tears poured out of my eyes, rivers of tears, and it was dark. I couldn’t see anything.
But I smelled perfume. Another clue. And I remembered that I was in Gram Hilda’s attic workroom, where I’d gone after we’d come home from the concert. I must have fallen asleep on the floor.
But now I was not just panicked, I was disoriented.
I couldn’t see the windows in her atelier, and most definitely not the door.
I was blind.
No. It was smoke, the blackest, densest smoke imaginable, the kind that meant that the fire wasn’t in my lungs. The house was burning and must have been for a while for the air to be completely opaque behind a closed door on the top floor. Now that I understood my situation, I was terrified.
We could all die.
I have to wake everyone up.
Harry’s bedroom was on the floor below me. So was Jacob’s.
I had a flash of clarity in which I knew certain things. That I was supposed to crawl to the door, get under the layer of smoke, where the air was cleaner and cooler. I was supposed to feel the door, and if it was hot, it meant that the fire was right outside and I had to reverse course and go—where?
I was feeling faint. I only had a few seconds before I passed out—and most of those precious seconds were gone.
Where is the door?
I felt the edges of the Persian carpet with my fingers, and, still hacking and retching, I inched on my belly toward where the door might be. I bumped into furniture. Heavy things fell all around me. But I found the door.
Not so fast, Tandy.
The door was scorching hot, and I could hear the snapping and crackling of wood burning on the other side.
That’s when I forgot what I was supposed to do. I was running out of air, out of ideas, out of motivation. Heat was radiating around me on all sides, and fire flickered in the gap under the door.
I couldn’t stand or get to my knees, so I rolled toward the middle of the room. But I had no plan. I was cooked.
Death by fire is supposed to be the worst death of all. Burning nerves, tens of thousands of them, shoot excruciating pain to every minute part of the body, and you just can’t die fast enough.
I thought of Joan of Arc. I thought of ships burning at
sea. Skyscrapers on fire. People jumping to their deaths rather than burning.
Flames licked under the door, looking for the next thing to eat.
Gasping, feeling the scorching heat on my skin, I covered my face with my arm and thought about my brothers and Jacob and hoped to God they’d all gotten out alive.
It was too late for me.
I was praying, “Please, God, let me die quickly,” when there was a loud crash as the burned door, almost consumed by the blaze, fell into the room.
Flames bounded toward me. The leaping fire was ecstatic now that it had been set free. The room was blazing. Red light licked the walls and was going for the ceiling when someone burst through the door frame, urgently calling my name.
I recognized his voice. James.
I couldn’t call to him. I was too far away, at the end of the tunnel, turning my face to the light.
And then I was lifted up. My cheek was on his shoulder. He said, “I’ve got you, Tandy. We’re going to be okay.”
That’s all I remember.
James came through for me when it mattered.
He saved my life.
A shock jolted me into consciousness. I mean, like electricity shooting straight through my brain. It was not just a heinous invasion of my private thoughts, but a terrifying buzzing sound, like a blender turning my brain to mush.
I still couldn’t see.
But I knew the abrasive feel of harsh cotton sheets on my naked body. I knew the stinging smell of antiseptic in my nostrils, the squealing rattle of rolling carts outside the room, and the squeaking of rubber-soled shoes on composite flooring. I knew all of that by heart.
I was at Fern Haven.
How could James have brought me here?
A dark thought occurred, darker than a black sucking hole in the universe.
Have I ever left Fern Haven?
Had I fantasized an entire year of school and my parents’ deaths and Matthew’s trial and all the crimes that had closed in around us in New York, cases that I had solved?
Did I make up going to Paris?
Had I been tripping at Fern Haven for… the entire time?
I heard a sound system, Dr. Someone being paged. I grabbed for the bed rails, ready to fight to the death. Any minute now, some stiffly smiling doctor or fakey-nice nurse was going to ask me if I was ready for my next treatment.
I would yell “No no no!” and I would lash out with my fists.
Straps would be tightened. A gag would go in my mouth. An IV line with knockout drugs would drip into me, and then—oh, God, the electric shock.
I couldn’t let them do that to me.
Not again.
I shouted, “James!”
How could he have left me here alone?
I felt a hand on my arm. I wrenched it away.
“Tandy. It’s me. You’re okay.”
I opened my eyes. It was dark in the room. The buzzing sound was coming from a monitor to my right, and in a chair to my left—Jacob. He was alive. I knew him. I hadn’t made him up. Had I?
“Tandy?”
Jacob was silhouetted by the windows behind him, and by a night sky full of city lights. I said something so trite, I wish I could have taken it back and said something more clever.
“Where am I?” I said.
“The American Hospital.”
So I was really in Paris?
“There was a fire,” Uncle Jacob said. “But everyone is okay.”
I gasped as the memory of the thick, life-snuffing smoke and searing flames came back.
And I remembered my rescuer.
“Jacob. Where is James? He saved my life.”
Jacob spoke as if I hadn’t mentioned James at all.
“The fire started in the kitchen. Did someone leave the stove on? I don’t know. Or maybe one of our modern appliances overrode the house’s very old circuitry. Hugo was so brave, Tandy. He ran upstairs to find me. Through the fire.”
“And Harry?” I bit the back of my hand. I needed to hear details. I needed more than that Harry was “okay.”
“Harry hadn’t yet come home,” Jacob said. “He was still at the club when the fire happened.”
That’s when I noticed the pale bandages wrapped around Jacob’s forearms all the way down to his fingers.
“You’re hurt!”
He shook his head and said to me, “You weren’t in your room. The fire was shooting up through the stairwell, and I could hardly see. I had a last-minute thought of the attic… I got there without a second to spare. I wasn’t even sure you were still breathing, Tandy. I’m not joking, but I felt your grandmother in the room with us. She showed me where you were. She showed me.”
I started to cry; then I collapsed into deep, heaving sobs. Jacob had risked his life for me, and this wasn’t the first time. I thanked him. He hushed me. I reached for him. He hugged me awkwardly with his bandaged arms.
“The house is gone. Burned to the ground.”
I wiped my face on the cotton of my hospital gown. I put my hands to my head. My hair was just a cap of frizz. But I was coming back to myself. And I hated to say what I was thinking. But I wasn’t crazy. I just knew.
I said, “I think we’re getting close to something we’re not supposed to know.”
“What are you saying, Tandy?”
“This was no accidental house fire, Uncle Jacob. Someone is trying to kill us.”
This is hard to say… James hadn’t saved me from the fire, but I know I felt him moving around the hospital room as I lay, sedated, under layers of cotton sheets.
His presence was shadowy, and he hovered around my bed in the dark. He seemed occupied with thoughts that had nothing to do with me, and he seemed happy, which only made me feel sadder and more alone.
I tried to ignore him.
He was a hallucination. But still, there he was at the edge of my vision, standing beside the window, reclining in the chair, walking to the doorway before sitting on the bed, casually putting his hand on my thigh.
James.
Speak to me.
I heard only the sounds of soft footsteps outside my room, rubber-soled shoes walking along the hospital corridor.
James?
No answer.
I spoke to this ghostly James, whoever, whatever he was.
James. Listen to me. I miss you so much. I wish there was a way I could talk to you. I would tell you about all the terrible things that have happened since we were last together, events I only half understand.
And I wish you would tell me what you’ve been doing and thinking and feeling.
Do you miss me? Is that why I feel your presence here in my room?
I wish you were lying beside me and that we were laughing and whispering to each other again.
The truth is, James, I would give almost everything I have to be with you.
Your true Angel,
Tandy
Two days after the fire, only an hour after my release from the hospital, I was in a police interrogation room, where cops were accusing me of torching my grandmother’s house.
They had no evidence, of course, but they’d cooked up a variety of bogus motives for me, which, where I come from, is called a fishing expedition.
They had one suspect, me. And they wanted to hook me, reel me in, and toss me into an ice locker—today.
The false accusation was insane, and I was already in an angry depression.
The fire had taken my computer, consumed the last letter from James. Clothes my mother had given me were destroyed, and so were Katherine’s boxes. And so was Gram Hilda’s gorgeous house and everything in it. I felt as if my grandmother had died all over again.
I looked as bad as I felt.
My skin was red, flash-dried by the fire. A nurse had trimmed the frizz on my head, and I was wearing tacky clothes Jacob had bought for me that morning. Thank you, Jacob, but I looked more like a meth addict than a person who should be taken seriously.
Lieutenant Bouton was pre
tty and hip. She looked twenty but was probably thirty. I’d thought she would be the good cop. But I was wrong. She was as tough as horsemeat.
While her partner, Lieutenant LaMer, sat across from me, Bouton looked for ways to maximize my vulnerability. She slammed a folder on the table and spread the papers around in front of me. They were copies of my file from the New York City police department.
Item number one was the court documents charging me with the deaths of my parents—later dismissed. Item numbers two and three were morgue pictures of Malcolm and Maud lying on slabs in the medical examiner’s office, bloodless and gray under a cold light.
I’d seen my parents dead in their bed, so you’d think mere pictures would have no power to hurt me. But they did. Those photos reopened old wounds, rubbed salt in them, and dug around in them, too, which brought back all the old pain, anger, deep sadness, longing, and regret.
It was all beyond excruciating. I let out a sob. Then reined myself back in.
Bouton walked behind me so that I couldn’t see her face.
She said, “You hate the family of yourself, mademoiselle. You want them all dead. Your father. Your mother. This is your work, is it not? You murdered them. You tricked the police and so you got away. You can run, but how do you say, you cannot hide.”
“No, no, no! Are you an idiot?” I fired back in French. “Read the later reports. Read a few words, why don’t you? And now someone has tried to murder us. Don’t you get it? We all could have died.”
Bouton flicked the back of my neck with her fingers.
“Hey!” But I was afraid if I got out of my seat, I could give her a reason to really hurt me.
“Killer girl,” said Bouton, “you should tell us how you set this fire. We will find out.”
She began pushing a chair in front of her like it was a baby carriage. Jostled it and banged it down on its back legs. All this was to rattle me. Make me cry and then confess.
When I didn’t react, Bouton parked the chair and sat in it. She leaned over the table and said sweetly to me, “Why did you set fire to the house? The house was insured for millions, non?”
Confessions: The Paris Mysteries Page 11
