The Musician

by Douglas Gardham

  Yeah, as if he could. Syd was quitting the band—was she really? Weren’t they playing in London next week for two or three nights? It didn’t matter; they would be back at the house that night. Rehearse and tomorrow go back to Tormo—no, that isn’t right. And Christa. How did she get here? Drive? If he could only go back with her. Gus and Greg would take the van. Syd would drive alone, as she’d come. Likely wants to be alone anyway. Wonder if she’ll really quit. Had they already packed up the gear? They’d be pissed that he hadn’t helped. Had they tried to find him? How had they found him? Was his mike case in the van?

  He looked at the time on the room’s clock radio.

  The taxi to take him to the airport would be there soon. He’d better get to the door. Greg would update him on last night. At least he was still talking to him. Gus would be in the van, waiting. Syd was likely on the road already. He couldn’t remember his starting lines for that day’s scene.

  “Ethan,” Christa said as he pulled on his canvas sneakers. Her warm hand flattened against his naked back. Her touch felt good. She spoke just above a whisper. “Will you drive back with me?”

  Ethan’s mind reversed upon hearing her invite.

  “I’d love to, but I can’t,” he said, leaning back across the bed to kiss her. “A taxi is coming to take me to the airport. I have another scene to shoot just after lunch today.”

  He didn’t want to leave even for a second. Her hand remained on his back. At least he didn’t have to come back for another show.

  “Things are going to change,” he said, standing up. The light sheet covering Christa slipped from her shoulder. She did not try to cover up. Looking at her made thinking of anything else nearly impossible. He just wanted to touch and hold her, run his fingers across her smooth skin, and press his skin against hers. He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to leave but had to. It was all he could do to put on his T-shirt and tie his shoes.

  “Christa,” he said. He didn’t want to think about all the other things running around in his head.

  “Ethan,” Christa said. She sat on the bed, uninhibited, the sheet around her waist, looking at him. “That was the best night of my life. I didn’t think it would ever happen.”

  She smiled with lips that seemed to cry out for his.

  “I’ll catch you back in Toronto in the next few days,” he said, feeling awful that he was leaving after she’d traveled so far to see him.

  Unable to resist, he went back to the bed and kissed her as if it were the last time he would get the chance. His hands caressed her shoulders. He wanted to stay and talk. There was much still to talk about. What was I like in the hospital? What have I told you? What have you told me? Who are you?

  “I gotta go,” he said as if he were convincing himself. He stepped away.

  Christa pulled the bedsheet up around her neck. “You know my number,” she answered. “I didn’t expect you would stay. Was it a good surprise?”

  He looked at her again, his eyes widening. “Are you kidding?” he answered, again questioning his own sanity to leave. “I still can’t believe it.”

  “I can’t believe it either,” she said. She stopped yet looked as if she had more to say.

  Ethan, wearing the shining grin of a man in love, didn’t reply.

  “I imagined it but never thought you’d come back,” she said.

  Ethan leaned over and kissed her again. His eyes didn’t leave hers. “I did, and I will again,” he said, and then he opened the door and left.

  PART 5

  BATTAGLIA

  But Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man

  That he didn’t, didn’t already have.

  —America, “Tin Man”

  Yesterday’s gone down the river and you can’t get it back.

  —Larry McMurtry, Lonesome Dove

  CHAPTER 65

  Thursday, February 7, 1985, The Last Day

  The words were in his head, but they seemed mixed up. “Good Times Bad Times,” their last song of the night, was what he was thinking about, but the words were from “When the Levee Breaks”: “Cryin’ won’t help you; prayin’ won’t do you no good.” Both were Led Zeppelin, but they hadn’t played both—or had they?

  He didn’t know where he was. He was shaking around in some kind of truck. Al’s truck maybe, he thought, but that wasn’t right. His eyes were open, or he at least thought they were, but he couldn’t see anything. Something covered his mouth and was stuffed in it. Squinting, he tried to see, and he was quickly alarmed when he couldn’t. Something was stuck to his face and wrapped around his head. Greg’s long baby fingernail and silver cylinder were images in his head.

  “Where the fuck are we going?” a voice said. It was Syd.

  “Shut the fuck up” was the angry male reply.

  “No!” she screamed.

  Oh fuck, Ethan thought, becoming more terrified with each passing instant. He remembered Bogart’s back hallway. Strong hands had grabbed him.

  “I’m not part of this, you fuck!” Syd shouted. There was an audible slap.

  “He said to shut the fuck up!” growled another voice.

  Ethan tried to move but couldn’t. He was on his right side and being shaken about on a hard-ridged floor. He pictured the inside of a delivery van. They were moving. He couldn’t feel the arm underneath him, but his other arm was bound behind his back to something. His ankles were tied together, his left above his right. With all the shaking about, he figured they must be on a rough road. He could hear and even feel the rumble of the engine. His right side hurt.

  “He’s fucking moving!” shouted the first male voice, which seemed close.

  “Shove the cloth in his face,” answered the gruff voice.

  “Fuck!” Syd’s shriek pierced the air. “This wasn’t the deal!”

  “You are the deal, sister,” snarled the same ugly voice, “and if you don’t fucking shut up, I’ll cut out your tongue and feed it to you.”

  Ethan jerked as something was mashed into his face. Not seeing anything and then feeling the sudden contact brought a terror that shocked him nearly unconscious. He tried to move against whatever he was tied to but couldn’t. He was helpless—a feeling he’d never had in his life. What could possibly have happened? It can’t be real. Whatever was stuffed in his face had the sweet smell of rotting garbage. It brought back the hallway, the fluorescent lights in his face, and Greg and Gus in the dressing room. Whatever they were riding in lurched sideways. His body bounced painfully across the ribbed surface he was lying on. His shoulder glanced off something sharp. Pain flared in his knee.

  The sweet, acidic aroma of what smelled like tequila floated around his head.

  CHAPTER 66

  Eyes Open—First Time

  Ethan knew the song. It was popular. Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop” was playing somewhere around him.

  Why not think about times to come

  And not about the things that you’ve done?

  He heard every word.

  He opened his eyes. He was lying on his side with his head on an ugly green carpet. The carpet fibers dug into the side of his face, prickling his skin. He could feel the hard surface the carpet covered—probably cement. He recalled the carpet that covered his parents’ basement floor. Maybe there was some underpad in between, but he doubted it. He was somehow fastened to the floor. He couldn’t move.

  Four pieces of wood were in front of him at right angles to the carpet—legs of a chair. The toes of two polished black boots were in front of the wood pieces, a foot from his face. He couldn’t see above the black laces. He had no idea where he was or who was in front of him. It didn’t matter. He was in trouble—for reasons he didn’t know. Fear evaporated any fog that had been in his head. He was awake. Fleetwood Mac playing in the background did nothing to comfort him. He’d never been so scared.

  His mind
was racing, trying to figure out why he was there. The words of the song seemed to contradict that it was because of something he’d done: “And not about the things that you’ve done.”

  But how could he think he was there for any other reason?

  His mouth was covered. The covering felt like heavy duct tape. He could only breathe through his nose. His knee hurt. More memories were coming back with each second—the back hallway at Bogart’s, his face close to the ceiling lights. Still on his right side, he couldn’t feel his right arm. He could feel his left arm, but it was bound behind his back. They’d been in a moving vehicle. Syd had been there. He’d heard her voice; she’d sounded scared.

  “Good evening, Ethan,” said a voice he didn’t recognize. It was deep, electronic, and horrifying, similar to Darth Vader’s voice. A person—at least he thought it was a person—was speaking through some kind of device. Its creepiness was terrifying.

  “Welcome to your new home.”

  The voice sounded real, but he tried hard not to believe it. He closed his eyes. If he could have spoken, he would have screamed.

  His mouth was stuffed with something that felt like a sock against his tongue.

  “You don’t need to speak,” said the altered voice. “I will refrain from asking you questions that might suggest you have to respond.”

  Ethan opened his eyes again, praying he would wake up in his room at the house, ending the nightmare. He didn’t. The green rug, the chair legs, and the black boots were real. Because of the way his head was positioned on the carpet, he couldn’t see through his right eye. What he saw was real—all of it—but that didn’t stop him from hoping it wasn’t. He might still wake up. The polished shine of the black boots looked militaristic. They didn’t move.

  “This will be where you will live now,” the unreal voice said, “until, of course, you’re dead.”

  There was quiet except for Fleetwood Mac in the background.

  He’d never been told such a thing.

  “You made me do this,” the voice said. “You. You brought this on yourself. In time, you will come to understand that. You could have prevented all of it.”

  Something akin to a chuckle followed and turned into a sickly cackle. If it hadn’t been so real, Ethan would not have believed the terror it carried.

  “Are you religious, Ethan?”

  Ethan could do nothing to respond. A titter followed the question.

  “Oh, there I go already. The questions do slip out. I’m sorry. My bad. I did say I wouldn’t ask you any questions.”

  The boots didn’t move.

  It is a nightmare. The boots never move.

  “This doesn’t seem real, does it?”

  This time, triumphant laughter followed the question. Christine McVie was still singing in the background.

  “Well, let me tell you this, my friend: it is!”

  The last two words were screamed into Ethan’s left ear.

  “All you need to remember, Ethan,” the voice said, calmer, “is—”

  The voice stopped. The shiny black boots parted slightly. The boots move. But this can’t be real. Ethan pictured the person wearing them standing up.

  “I am now your hope, your fear, and your truth.”

  The voice spoke calmly. The sound was unreal.

  Ethan tried to straighten his legs. To his amazement, he could move them.

  “Please don’t,” said the voice, “although I’m a little surprised you haven’t tried to already.”

  Ethan moved his legs again.

  “Stop moving!” shouted the voice.

  Ethan stopped.

  “See this boot?” the voice asked as the toe of the right boot moved closer to Ethan’s face. “Of course you do. Why am I asking you anything?”

  There was another pause.

  “It’s important you remember this boot, Mr. Jones. Here, behind the black leather, is a piece of steel. It’s meant to protect the wearer—me in this case—but in here, it’s meant for you. Its purpose for you is opposite its purpose for me. It’s not to protect but to inflict.”

  The toe tapped Ethan’s forehead four times. He counted. He didn’t know why. Each tap was a little harder; his fear escalated with each one.

  “Remember,” said the distorted voice. It paused as if knowing the horror it instilled. “I am your hope, your fear, and your truth. Don’t forget it. It will help you understand—maybe.”

  The shiny black boot hit Ethan on the forehead again. The blow was much harder this time, connecting just above his left eye. It hurt with the maddening pain that followed a strike to the nose. His instinct to fight was immediate. He struggled to move his head. His fear, for an instant, became frustrated anger.

  The black boot rose above his head. The wearer placed the clean black sole gently on the side of his head.

  “Are you listening, Ethan?” the voice asked in a tone of care and kindness, softer despite its electronic synthesis. “I know you can’t speak, but you’re still answering. I said to stop moving. You’re not listening.”

  The pressure of the boot on the side of his head increased. The sole pressed against the curled skin at the top of his left ear. As the force grew, his ear began to scream with agony, as if someone were pressing a burning cigarette against his skin. He watched the weight transfer from the boot on the green carpet to the one on his head. The heel of the boot still on the carpet rose as the other pressed down on his head even harder; his ear went numb. The force was like having his head clamped in a vise. Just how much could he take? The boot on the carpet was on its toe. He closed his eyes. He couldn’t bear to watch the boot come off the floor, as was sure to happen. He hoped his legs wouldn’t move.

  “Enough?” asked the voice, which seemed to come from a distance far above his head.

  Ethan prayed it would end.

  “Oh, my bad again.”

  The pressure was released. His pain eased. He opened his eyes. The boot on the carpet had come back down. The bottom of the other boot remained on the side of his face.

  “Sorry. I forgot you can’t answer. But you did listen. You’re a fast learner, Ethan.”

  The background music had changed. It was an old tune—classical, famous, almost familiar.

  “Time will tell, as time always does—just ask William.”

  The titter-cackle that followed sounded like the Wicked Witch of the West in a pool of water.

  “Get it, Ethan? William Tell.”

  Ethan—barely coherent in his fear—scarcely comprehended what was said. As the voice made reference to William Tell and the boot came off his face, Ethan knew the music.

  “I always felt bad for poor Tonto,” the electronic voice said, as if talking to a dinner guest. “He does all the work, while his masked companion gets all the glory. And we all bought into it.”

  Ethan remembered the show he had watched as a youngster. He hadn’t known the theme song was “William Tell Overture” when he’d watched The Lone Ranger on his parents’ black-and-white TV set.

  “I think that’s enough for now,” said the voice. “Let’s call this the end of lesson one.”

  The boots moved away from his face to a position beside the legs of the wood chair, or what Ethan thought was a chair.

  “I probably went a little further than I would normally,” the voice said, trailing off into electronic silence, as if the person behind the voice had started to think of something else. “But you’re an advanced student. Aren’t you, Ethan? You’re what’s known as a quick study.”

  Ethan’s fear grew, as he sensed something more was about to happen—something painful. He did his best not to move.

  “No, that doesn’t quite fit,” the voice said. “This was more of an introduction than a lesson. Lessons need to leave their mark on a student. There’s no mark here—except for the red one on the s
ide of your face. No, that wasn’t a lesson.”

  There was another pause. Ethan already hated the so-called lessons.

  “Yes, we will call this the introduction, though the two of us are in no need of an introduction. I need only introduce what this is all about.”

  Though Ethan was listening, he only caught “the two of us are in no need of an introduction.”

  They knew each other? How was that possible? Then a thought plagued him: he’d heard somewhere that most victims knew their attackers.

  “Now, before I go,” said the voice, controlled and direct, speaking as if reading from a script, “I must confess I’m calling these lessons because they will be lessons. Not lessons learned from others’ mistakes. No!”

  The voice stopped after yelling the last word. It seemed irritated and was quiet for a moment while the charge of the overture went on.

  Apprehension readied Ethan for what might come next.

  “No!” shouted the synthesized voice, crackling the speaker it was transmitting through. “No, no, no! It’s not right. It’s so, so wrong. We learn nothing from the mistakes of others.”

  There was another pause. Ethan waited, his terror growing with each silent second. He didn’t move. He was doing everything he could to stay still despite his distress.

  “Ethan,” the voice said, sounding calmer, “how do we learn?”

  The voice asked the question as if they were a couple of guys shooting the shit over a couple of beers.

  The overture played on.

  “There I go again,” said the voice, “asking you a question you can’t answer, but you’ve already learned from your failure, haven’t you? That’s the key! Do we learn—I mean really learn—any other way? We have to live it—experience it. It has to become part of who we are. We don’t learn that from others explaining what they learned. We don’t feel anything that way. Their feedback is information, to be sure—it’s knowledge—but we don’t learn until we do it!”

  The last three words were screamed so loudly that whatever device was reproducing the voice couldn’t contain it and broke into distortion, driven beyond its capacity.