Music: Out of the Box 26 (The Girl in the Box Book 36)

by Robert J. Crane

  “Yeah, I like the classics of rock,” I said. “They were what my mom grew up listening to, so she kinda passed that on to me, I guess. Didn’t expect to hear it here, in Countrytown.”

  “It’s not all about country here,” Chandler said. “It’s Music City. We have all kinds. I bought a CD from a guy on a corner the other day that was a rap debut.”

  I took a long breath as the singer in the bar, a tall guy who looked like a biker, really lit into the finish. “How was it?”

  Chandler made a face. “A little heavy on the ‘money and hoes’ themes for my taste, but y’know, I like to support struggling artists.”

  “‘Struggling artists’?” I chuckled. “You know, sometimes artists struggle for a reason.”

  “Because their art is not that good?”

  “Harsh,” I said, “but yeah, maybe sometimes. What I was actually talking about is how sometimes people need to learn hard lessons as they forge their craft.” Here I was thinking of Friday’s first intended single, “Droppin’ Deuces,” which was awful. His actual first single, which he’d recorded after he’d ditched being a hugenormous, muscle-begotten jackass, had charted into the Billboard Top 50, and was actually quite good. “How you don’t just start out a natural and launch right to the top. For every overnight success, you miss five, ten years of work behind the scenes.”

  “Good point,” Chandler said. “You read that in a biography?”

  “I’ve read a few in my time, yeah,” I said, and took one last look at the singer. He was really good. Surprisingly so. And he was playing in a dive bar here on the main-ish street in Nashville.

  I looked up and down it. How many others like him, as good as him, were playing here? How many others who were better maybe didn’t make it as a star at all?

  Probably a lot.

  “We got a name on this guy?” I asked. “Our suspect?” I beckoned to Chandler, and he got the cue, started walking me back to the car.

  “Sort of,” Chandler said, as we headed back the way we’d come. “One name, like Elvis: Brance.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Brance

  When Brance woke up the next morning, the previous night had felt like a nightmare.

  The taste of death was in his mouth, like he’d dumped a stale ashtray down there. He smacked his lips together. They were dry. So was his tongue, that nasty taste just malingering. He blotted at his face with his thick, dark arm hair. His eyes were slightly wet; allergies were kicking in with all these green shoots popping out of the trees. This was the downside of Nashville; allergies.

  Brance got to his feet and stumbled to the bathroom. His apartment was a one-bedroom shoebox in Germantown. The neighborhood was gentrifying, which just meant it was getting expensive. And new. He’d gotten an old place, but it still cost a fortune compared to what he’d been paying for a one-bedroom apartment back in Wyoming.

  He turned on the tap and filled the cup sitting by his toothbrush caddy. Cheap plastic from Walmart, both of them. All he could afford. He’d brought them from home.

  Brance drained the cup, then looked at his face in the spotted mirror. It looked like it had been installed before World War II. Or maybe shortly after. His eyes were a little bloodshot, which was funny since he’d only had one beer.

  Had it really gone like that? Was he misremembering?

  He looked down at his hand. A fleck of metal was stuck to his wrist. Must have come from his melting of the microphone stand. Or the mic itself.

  Brance shook his head, not daring to look at himself in the mirror. “No. No.”

  This had been his shot. How could it have gone wrong?

  It couldn’t have gone wrong. Not that way.

  He belted out a few notes in the mirror. Looked at himself. Everything was fine. The mirror was still there. He looked out earnestly at the youthful face therein.

  “I know my feeeeelinnnnnns’—” he started on one of his own compositions.

  “I need your healinnnn

  But I know that you won’t shoowwwww

  Cuz you left me long agooooooo—”

  Someone thumped the ceiling above him and Brance stopped. That happened sometimes. A look over his shoulder at the clock in the bedroom told him it was midday. The guy upstairs was a CNA or nurse or something, worked nights. Crabby bastard.

  So what had happened last night? There was no way he did all that damage in Screamin’ Demons. Not with his voice. He’d been singing for years. People back home had told him he needed to come here.

  He needed to be heard.

  “Something else was going on last night,” Brance said, shaking his head. “That wasn’t me. I didn’t do that. Their sound system messed up. Something...something else happened. That wasn’t me.”

  He looked at the lightly freckled face in the mirror, eyes yearning. “I wouldn’t have done that. Couldn’t have.”

  Still, it had happened. Bad luck, but it had happened. And Screamin’ Demons’ open mic night was now closed mic, for a long time he was guessing.

  So...what next?

  He thought back to Wyoming. To what he’d always do when something would go wrong. His dad had told him before he’d left that this was going to be hard. Stared at him with those empty eyes. Told him he’d probably fail in that hollow voice. That he’d have to dig deep in order to live the dream.

  Well, it was time to dig deep, then.

  “I’ll do it again,” he said, and that was that. Decision made. Someone had said once that you needed to go out there and introduce yourself to the world until you needed no introduction. That was what he had to do. With that, he took a breath, and thought about Broadway. So much careful strategy and planning, and it had blown up like the windows and speakers at Screamin’ Demons.

  Well, there was always another shot. There were other bars where they did open mics. Mercy’s Faithless had one tonight, in fact. He’d hoped it’d be his triumphant second outing.

  But instead, it was going to be his shot at redemption. Because this time...

  This time he wouldn’t fail.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Sienna

  The TBI main office was a modern, boxy office complex made of glass and brick just north of Nashville. It had a weird little pop-out dome lobby that stretched a couple floors up from the ground level. A triad of tall radio antennas rose just before the lobby. Chandler had caught me staring at them, and I made the offhand comment, “I guess you guys must get awesome reception.”

  He just laughed and led me on, through the security checkpoints and into a warren of corridors.

  First stop was the armory, where the rough-looking dude behind the counter gave me some options. Instead of going with the predictable, FBI-standard Glock, I decided to spice things up. He slapped a block of 9mm ammo and some choices down on the counter, and I tried a new Sig Sauer P320, the civilian version of the military’s new standard-issue sidearm, as well as a Walther PPQ, then a Heckler and Koch VP9. All of them were striker-fired, like my FBI Glock, which meant no hammer to get snagged on clothing as I drew. All of them were 9mm, same cartridge and bullet size as my normal sidearm.

  And I liked them all.

  “Which you want?” the armorer asked, rough craggy face showing a hint of a smile, possibly from my own reflected enjoyment. I did enjoy shooting, just as I enjoyed almost all aspects of my training. Something about having an explosive chemical reaction flinging chunks of metal from my hand was oddly relaxing.

  “I’ll take the HK VP9,” I said, and he slid me a holster and a couple spare magazines, already loaded. I looked for spare mags for the other two guns, but I didn’t see them. “How’d you know I’d pick this one?”

  “Same gun my wife uses,” he said with a smirk. “Fits the hand well, right?”

  I clipped the holster to my belt and pulled my hoodie down to hide it. “It really does. What about—”

  “9mm, right?” He was already pulling out some smaller guns, clacking them on the counter surface. I ran m
y eyes over them—a Sig Sauer P365, a Glock 43, and a Smith and Wesson M&P Shield M2.0. He’d already pulled a selection of backup guns for me to consider.

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to step down to .380,” I said, looking them over. I glanced up at his hardened face. “What do you think?”

  He only took a second to slide his choice across to me. It was the Sig Sauer P365. “Extended magazine gives you twelve rounds.”

  I dipped my head lower, eyes bulging a little. “Uh, wow. I’d heard they had ten. Didn’t know they had an extended mag. How big is—” He pushed the magazine toward me, and it had a little extra length, like a spare pinkie-hold, at the bottom. “For two extra rounds, I’ll take.”

  He smiled again with that craggy face and slid me a couple filled magazines plus a holster. I snapped it into place behind my back, and with a wave, I was off.

  I found Chandler waiting outside the armory, focused on his phone. He picked up talking as soon as I walked out as though we’d never even parted. “I’ve got the security footage queued and waiting upstairs.”

  “Sounds good,” I said, following him to the elevator. “I’m impressed with your operation here. I mean, a lot of it has to do with your armorer, who is clearly the greatest at his job, ever, and knows how to show a girl a good time—”

  “Well, he knows how to show you a good time, at least,” Chandler said. “I should have figured you for the type to be super impressed by weapons.”

  “What can I say?” I fiddled with my hoodie to make sure I wasn’t imprinting all over the place. “I’m very into making sure I have the best means at my disposal to get out of the shit I always seem to land myself in.”

  The main bullpen was stunningly like every cop bullpen I’d ever been in. I was getting to the point where I really just wanted to walk into an investigative bureau and find myself in some sort of primitive forest with moss hanging from the ceilings and maybe a rock troll in the corner throwing out riddles. Anything to break the monotony of cubicle walls, guys in suits carrying cups of coffee, and LCD computer screens with open files. The boring hum needed to be replaced by something interesting, like maybe one of the performers from a bar on Broadway. The biker guy doing a fine rendition of the Animals would have been a good start, really.

  But it was a bullpen, like any other. A white board with pending cases on one wall, a cork board with all sorts of mandatory memos pinned to it on another, and a variety of cop-like dudes lingering and working, not necessarily in that order.

  At least they knew how to arm a girl around here. Diamonds may have been some girls’ best friends, but mine tended to have dirty-sounding German names like Heckler and Koch, Sig Sauer and Glock (yes, I know the last one is Austrian. They border each other, they’re so close. Spare me.).

  “Prepare me for this video,” I said. “Am I going to be seeing anything awesome?”

  “No. Like I said before, he keeps his head down during most of it,” Chandler said, waving me through to his desk. “We’ll take a look and you can see for yourself.”

  Chandler’s cubicle was decorated lightly, a couple motivational sayings printed and tacked to the walls, but otherwise nothing. No family pictures, no indicators of hobbies hung around him. Just the job, and one lone paper that had what looked like a playlist written on it.

  “What’s that?” I asked, pointing, because I’m never one to shy away from questions.

  “Oh.” Chandler put his head down, typing at his computer. “Well. My, uh, favorite playlist got deleted a few times so I, uh...printed it out so I can reconstitute it at will. For doing paperwork, you know.”

  I stared at the playlist, squinting to make sure I was reading this right. “Uh...I don’t recognize most of these, but the ones I do—”

  “Are country music, yes,” Chandler said, sighing as though unveiling a great burden. “You gotta keep in mind, I grew up in East Tennessee in the 90s, okay? Country music was in a renaissance then. Not like it is now. I hate some of this modern country, but 90s country? It was epic. There was so much feeling, some great lyricists and singers. I mean, now a lot of it’s like electronica or something, I can’t even listen to it, but back then...” His eyes got a faraway look. “It was magic.”

  “Okay,” I said, fighting the urge to back away slowly, mostly for comedic effect.

  “Pfft, whatever, music snob,” Chandler said, pulling up the surveillance video. “What was your golden age of music, then?”

  “I dunno,” I said. “I’m a classicist. But if you come at me with country and it’s not Johnny Cash, I don’t really know what to do with you.”

  “How about Big & Rich?” Chandler asked, swiveling in his chair to peer at me, all serious and intense. “‘Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy’—”

  “Heard it. It’s all right.”

  “‘Holy Water’? ‘Deadwood Mountain’? ‘Big Time’?” He just kept rattling them off. “This is all from their debut album, which I loved. It’s not even counting their follow-up, which had—”

  “Please, can we just watch the video?”

  “‘8th of November,’” Chandler said. “One of the greatest songs of all time.”

  “Video now, preach the gospel of country music later.”

  Chandler just shook his head, but he did start the video.

  It played out exactly like he said. There was a several-angle edit of a guy walking into Screamin’ Demons, then staggering out afterward. I frowned as I watched, trying to glean anything I could from the footage. “He looks disoriented,” was the only thing I could come up with.

  “I noticed that too,” Chandler said. “What do you reckon? Did his powers hurt him?”

  “Maybe,” I said, making a face. I didn’t really buy that explanation. “Or he could have just been traumatized after finding out he almost knocked the audience dead in a literal way?”

  “You don’t think it was an intentional attack?”

  “I mean, I haven’t read the witness statements, but it seems to me if he’d meant to attack, he’d have pressed it until they were dead,” I said. “Looks like he had the power for it.”

  “Unless the reason he was stumbling out was because he was drained by his own power?”

  “Now you’re just fishing.”

  “In the dark...?” Chandler grinned. “Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, 1987. You have to have heard of it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Stop.”

  “Do your powers, like, leave you exhausted when you use them?” Chandler asked, mirth gone and his seriousness returned.

  “Well,” I said, “they do have an effect, I guess. It is a little like using a muscle to exhaustion if you overdo it, at least with things like fire and light nets and whatnot. So maybe there’s some validity to your theory, if he wasn’t used to using his powers.”

  Chandler nodded along. “Okay. Well, what I take away from this is we really don’t know what Brance is up to, if he hit his limits and wanted to press on hurting people or just pulled back because he didn’t realize he was.”

  “Witness statements don’t say?”

  “The witnesses were extremely confused,” Chandler said. “And disoriented. Bleeding like crazy from the ears in some cases.” He elbowed a stack of files on his desk. “I was going to sift them.”

  “I’ll help,” I said, starting to reach for the stack.

  “No, it’s fine,” Chandler said, shaking his head and rising. “I’ve got help for this; it’s scut work.”

  I blinked in surprise. “It’s the work. It’s what I’m here for.”

  Chandler shook his head. “Bosses don’t want you doing scut work. Directive came down from on high: the mayor and the governor. They’ve got something else for you.” He nodded toward the door and off he went. I followed, cautiously, wondering what the mayor and governor could possibly have in store for me.

  If experience was any guide, though, I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Do you like it?” Chandler aske
d, grinning broadly.

  We were standing out in the parking lot outside the TBI offices, sun gleaming down from overhead and shining off the beautiful BMW 740i, a stunning black sedan.

  “It’s...very nice,” I said cautiously, not sure why we were out here, admiring this very pretty and presumably very luxurious car.

  “This is a $120,000 car,” Chandler said, his grin almost infectious. “We seized it from a mobster six months ago, and now we use it for sting operations and whatnot.” He strolled around the back. “The stereo is amazing. Leather seats with heat and AC. It’s got all the bells and whistles.”

  “And now you get to use it...?” I asked, trying to figure out what the purpose of this display was.

  “Uh, no,” he said, chuckling. “This is for you.”

  I stared at him. Then at the car. “Huh?” He nodded at it, somewhat emphatically. I still stared blankly. “Wait, you’re not giving this to me...?”

  “It’s for you to use while you’re here,” he said, thrusting both hands at the vehicle like he was a Price is Right model showing me the awesomeness of what I beheld. He lifted one hand and a keyfob dangled there. He tossed it to me and I caught it easily. “Just be gentle with her.”

  I stared at the fob in my hand. “Wha...what am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Drive.”

  I just stared at the fob. I wasn’t used to driving myself...well, anywhere. Especially lately. “Huh.”

  “Take her for a spin,” Chandler said. “See how she feels.” He closed his eyes as though savoring something tasty. “I’ll text you the details for your hotel. You can go check in. Maybe make a spa appointment or something—”

  “My last massage left me scarred,” I said, still frowning at the fob. “Literally, on the feet, for like a day. So...just because I’m dense...you are cool with me taking this car and driving it around your city unsupervised?”

  “Yeah-huh.” It was Chandler’s turn to blankly stare. “Those were my orders, in fact. Give you the car, let you run loose and get the lay of the land.”