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

by Robert J. Crane

  “It’s...all that, yeah.”

  “This isn’t clear-cut for me, either,” I said. “Usually it’s simpler. Someone’s broken a law, usually the kind that involves lives being threatened, and I show up to help save the day. The line crosser is brought to justice, everyone rejoices. That’s the heroing I do, and even when it gets into the shades of grey complexity, it usually doesn’t get this complex.” I shook my head. “I don’t believe in everyday life that everybody falls purely into the ‘hero’ or ‘villain’ category. We do both.”

  Ben smiled faintly. “So...it actually is complicated?”

  Damn you, Facebook. You ruin everything. “Yeah,” I said. “It is complicated. And I can’t fix it with a snap of my heroic fingers.” A chill unrelated to the coming night fell over me. “There’s a lot in my life I wish I could do that for. A whole lot, especially lately. But I can’t. It just doesn’t work that way.”

  “I understand,” Ben said, head sagging. “Mr. Mills said something similar when I talked to him about the flooding and the fire. How some things, once they’re broken...you just can’t fix them.”

  “Mills is right,” I said. “Sorry, Ben.”

  “But you’re going to keep trying, right?” he asked. He looked up at me with those wide, impressionable eyes that I’d probably had before I’d met Sienna and gotten embroiled in the thousand shitstorms that seemed to come along with life with my sister.

  “Maybe,” I said. “But you might want to reconcile yourself to the idea that this thing...this seemingly intractable thing...it might actually be unfixable.”

  “Yeah,” Ben said, nodding slowly. “All right. I’ll try and adjust my expectations, I guess.” And he trudged off, back toward the building, nodding his head slowly as I watched him go.

  CHAPTER NINETY

  Sienna

  I followed Chandler’s official SUV out to the Grand Ole Opry, over a path of freeways and surface roads, past a huge mall (Opry Mills, I presumed) and up to a theater the size of a five- or six-story building. We parked, lights flashing, in the fire lane, and left them going as I followed Chandler up to the front of the theater.

  “When they moved to this building,” Chandler said, giving me another history lesson as we climbed up the brief sets of steps to the entry, “they took a circle of the stage from the old Ryman and put it where the singers, uh...sing. It’s a little piece of tradition, you know?”

  “I guess,” I said, not quite sure how to feel about that, so I just sort of filed it away in the back of my mind. “What’s the big deal about this? I mean, longest running, I get that, but—”

  “The Opry is the heart of country music,” Chandler said. “Like a weekly concert, a showcase for the music. Multiple performers per show. New breakout stars doing their modern hits. Classics of the past. Even some of the guys you might think of as one-hit wonders from days gone by make an appearance. And it’s like an exclusive club. When you’re invited to join the Opry—and there’s only been a couple hundred members in the life of the thing, and they’re part of a country music club, I guess, that has only the best. Anyway, it’s great if you’re into country music.” He shivered, and it wasn’t from the cold. “Which obviously I am. I come out here sometimes when I can, and there’s acts I want to see. I haven’t seen a bad show yet here.”

  “That’s...cool,” I said, flashing my badge at security. They had metal detectors set up like it was a stadium show. The guards waved us through with only a little curiosity, and on we went, presenting our badges to the ticket takers and passing on.

  “Where’s the security office?” Chandler asked the ticket taker, and got a hand point in the general direction for his trouble.

  I followed him, taking it in as I went. The building was brick but modern, a mighty lobby that was filled with people. Giant doors opened into the theater beyond, and it was packed with people, crowded as any concert hall I’d ever been to. I frowned. If this show had been ongoing since 1930-whatever and was still this popular, there had to be something to it, even if I didn’t quite get it.

  Chandler must have walked on, because I halted as an announcer read off the text for a commercial, live, right there in front of me. I felt an absurd smile push onto my face; the guy had a perfect voice for radio, and as he read out his advert for kitten food, I couldn’t help but feel I might not be the perfect target audience for it.

  “Hey, Sienna,” Chandler called, and I looked over. He was striding toward me with a guy in an official-looking uniform, security head all the way. I could tell by his bearing.

  “Bob McKay,” he said, thrusting out a hand. He had the suspicious bearing that a man in his role ought to carry like a second skin.

  “Not to be a jerk, but you know my name, I’m guessing,” I said. “We’re looking into this singer who’s causing problems around town. You up on this situation?”

  McKay nodded. “Yeah. We’ve got extra security posted tonight in case he decides to make an appearance.”

  “Oh, good,” Chandler said, and then he let out what I can only describe as almost the girliest scream I have ever heard anyone let out, his eyes fixed through the double doors into the auditorium and down to the stage. “That’s Travis Tritt!” he squealed, very un-Chandler.

  Rocking drums thudded and the strains of a guitar cut across as the crowd let out a small roar. The opening riff was pretty cool, I had to admit, and sounded a little more rock and roll than I would have expected.

  “That’s ‘Put Some Drive in Your Country,’” Chandler said, almost cooing. “What a fantastic song.”

  “Do I need to get you a towel?” I asked, ready to take a step back. “Cleanup on aisle four.”

  “It’s just so good, though,” Chandler said, eyes closed. McKay was wearing a very slight smile at Chandler’s childlike interest. “I mean, listen to that. The perfect synthesis of Southern rock and country. I love it!”

  I wouldn’t have admitted it in that moment, with Chandler tapping his toes gently and me exchanging an extremely cynically amused look with McKay, but...it was pretty good. My toe might have tapped, too.

  “Do you have a specific reason to think this guy might be targeting us?” McKay asked with perfect Southern drawl.

  “Just a suspicion,” I said, letting Chandler get swept away by the music. “He’s pretty into country music, and there was an incident at the Ryman earlier.” I looked to the stage, and the long-haired guy singing. The crowd was really into it, and there was an energy in the room that I had felt—albeit a little more lightly—at Guy Friday’s show a few weeks ago. It was really something, and I felt it pulsing in my veins. Electric, in a way, like I could feel the crowd. “We’re just here playing a hunch. And you might want to issue some earplugs to your security team.” I blinked, thinking of how that might be misinterpreted. “For the guy with the voice. Not because the music is bad or something.”

  McKay just smiled. “Yeah, most of us are fans. You’re not, I take it?”

  I started to say no, reflexively, but something about the music, and the performances I’d heard over the last couple days, made me pause before answering. I looked toward the stage, felt the rumble of this particular song, the excitement of the crowd, the nearby vibration of Chandler, who was letting out low moans of pure joy...

  “I’m starting to see the appeal,” I said, trying to shake it off so I could concentrate. I thrust a hand out and shook McKay’s hand once, fast. “Thanks for taking it seriously. I don’t think you have anything to worry about, but let us know if anything wicked this way comes?”

  “You got it,” he said, nodding once.

  “Can we just stay until—” Chandler started.

  “We need to go,” I said, pulling him along. “This was a gamble. Brance can’t be stupid enough to crash the Grand Ole Opry after what happened at the Ryman earlier. It’d be asking for the level of trouble he’s been avoiding all this time.” I shook my head. “No. We need to look in a different direction.”

  “Can
we at least listen to it on the radio as we drive?” Chandler pleaded as I pulled him out of the Grand Ole Opry theater and into the cool night air. The mall was lit up like an airport runway across the parking lot, and our police lights were still flashing wildly down at the curb, attracting the attention of interested passersby.

  “You can listen to whatever you want in your car.”

  Chandler nodded. “Good. Uh...where are we going?”

  “I’m going to call Parsons,” I said. “Find out where this Jules Sharpe hangs his hat.” I squared my jaw as I headed down the steps toward my BMW. “Because I have a feeling that there’s more to get out of him...and I mean to get it.”

  CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

  Brance

  Sleep had seemed like a far-off possibility after Brance had gotten in the fight at the Ryman. How could he have possibly slept after that, after clashing with Jules, with Gil, after damned near killing a whole auditorium of people? Again.

  But he’d faded out in that Publix parking lot, sure as shooting, dropped off into that dreamless slumber that had finally turned into a dreaming sort of sleep over time.

  Now he was imagining himself in the Ryman again, dreaming about that moment. It was an empty house now, though, the seats all clear as his voice sang out.

  Not a noise punctuated that quiet theater, his own voice the only sound ringing out the notes to George Jones’s ‘Who’s Gonna Fill Their Shoes?’

  Something broke in through the music and lyrics, though, like a distant whisper.

  “Yo, how about this one?”

  “You see anything?”

  “Bag on the seat.”

  “Okay, okay. Ain’t no one looking. Smash it!”

  Brance was in the middle of his song in the empty Ryman. Where was that talking come from?

  Crash!

  Glass shattered and Brance jarred out of his sleep. He was in the back of the truck, jolted awake in the middle of the damned night, it felt like, parking lot lights overhead shining down on the scene. Someone was in the front seat, unlocking it, opening the door—

  “Oh, shit, there’s a guy sleeping in here!” one of the shadowy figures said.

  Brance opened his mouth and a scream came out, one infused with panic.

  One that hit...that particular frequency...hard.

  The guy at the door froze, then screamed, hands coming right up to his ears. Dark trickles of liquid came rushing down his cheeks, and he flew back like he’d gotten launched, slamming into the guy who’d been standing lookout behind him.

  The other windows, the windshield, the back window glass of Brance’s truck all shattered at once, pebbling safety glass rolling down over his blanket and showering the bed.

  Scrabbling for the door handle, Brance tumbled out. Caught himself before he hit the parking lot blacktop.

  He came around the truck and found the two guys rolling around. They were both holding their ears. Blood was just piping out, running harder than he’d seen out of any of the people he’d hit with his song previously.

  “Shit,” Brance whispered. One of them had dropped his bag.

  It wasn’t hard to figure out what had happened here. They’d decided to burgle his truck, steal his stuff where he’d left it in view on the front seat.

  Brance looked at ’em for a moment, then felt sick. They were rolling, writhing. Weren’t going to be getting up anytime soon, he reckoned. “I’m sorry,” he said. No chance they heard him, not with that blood coming out of their ears.

  Stumbling back to his truck, Brance hauled himself up into the driver’s seat and jangled the keys. Once he had her started up, he threw it into gear and floored it. He throttled her up, headed for 65 South and raced down the on ramp. Traffic was sparse, dying down for the night.

  He wiped the sleep out of his eyes. Felt the pulse, thudding, as the cold air blew in on him from the missing windshield and the windows all around. He hadn’t meant to do that—any of it—but he wasn’t sorry, nossir.

  He was mad.

  But he headed south with that anger, in the silence, feeling the cold wind blow and hoping that maybe by tomorrow he’d trade it for a warm Florida wind, and wouldn’t feel so awful.

  CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

  The highway signs for Columbia and Spring Hill were close at hand, coming up at the next exit. Brance had driven in quiet for the last thirty minutes, maybe forty.

  It was starting to wear on him, the lack of voices. The judging silence. His gaze fell on the radio, and he turned it on. Checked the time. Hell, the Opry was probably on.

  It was. He caught them in the middle of an ad for fried chicken crust. That was well-targeted. Made him want to stop at a Popeye’s.

  “Well, folks,” the announcer popped back on after the commercial wrapped up, “what we got for you next is a man who’s been around since the age of the dinosaurs—awww, I’m just kidding, folks. But he was there at the founding of the Babylonian Empire. Might even have argued with ol’ Nebuchadnezzar himself. I’m speaking of course of country legend—”

  Brance felt a trace of sadness settle over him. He’d dreamed about being on the Opry someday.

  For how long? Forever.

  Hard to believe only a few hours ago he’d been standing on the stage of the Ryman, about to perform. And it had all gone straight to hell, of course, because that was the direction of the last few days. All the years of hope, the forward movement, the minor setbacks, they’d all culminated in the last few days. Reached a crescendo. It had been like an accelerated curve of everything he’d hoped for out of a career, but so breathtakingly rapid and awful as to beggar belief.

  Screamin’ Demons.

  Mercy’s Faithless.

  The recording studio.

  And finally the Ryman.

  Those last two had been Jules’s fault. The bastard had been manipulating him from the beginning, hadn’t he? Playing into his dreams. Filling him up. All this time, since it had come out, Brance had thought maybe he’d had the right of it after Mercy’s Faithless, that just leaving town was the right thing to do.

  “I wanted them to hear me,” he whispered over the roar of cold blasting through the cab.

  But no one would want to hear him now. That much was true after the last few days.

  “But I wanted them to hear me,” he whispered again, the cold, chilly wind blowing through the busted windows.

  Those car-burgling bastards in the parking lot had sure heard him. He felt a smile of vicious satisfaction for that. But hadn’t that kind of been the sum of his time in Nashville? The last couple months? Sure, he’d met a few nice people, but he’d met a few sonsofbitches like Jules who had absolutely outweighed the nice ones.

  He’d just been trying to sing and people in Screamin’ Demons had acted like he’d been trying to kill them. Well, he hadn’t.

  “I just want to be heard,” he said, louder this time.

  Bobby Osborne was singing “Rocky Top,” and it was...it was good.

  Why couldn’t he have that?

  How many people were listening to this right now that would have wanted to hear him, if given a chance? Hell, he didn’t even care anymore. Jules had screwed him over hard. They were going to chase him to the ends of the earth now. There was no outrunning this in Florida, not a chance.

  Now...it was a matter of how he was going to go out.

  “I want ’em to hear me,” he decided, and brought the truck to slow down before whipping her around in a turnaround in the freeway median.

  How many people were listening to the Opry tonight? A whole hell of a lot, that was how many. Well, he knew a way he’d make them hear him.

  And if it hurt ’em? Well, that was fine. Nobody liked him anyway, and he might as well go out on a note Brance himself chose.

  “I’ll make ’em hear me,” he said. And that was decided.

  CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

  Sienna

  Okay, the Grand Ole Opry was pretty good.

  Yeah, I’d told Chandler he could
listen to it in his car, without me, not intending to listen to it myself. But after a very brief phone call to Parsons that got me Jules Sharpe’s whereabouts, I found myself driving in silence. As much fun as it was to be left alone with my own thoughts, after about two minutes of that shitshow—there was a reason I was contemplating drinking again earlier, after all—I turned on the radio to AM 650.

  “Next up we have Collin Raye performing his classic, ‘Little Rock.’”

  It only took a couple minutes and I felt like I’d been singled out by it.

  The tune that was playing was mournful, a male voice as smooth as that whiskey I’d passed up earlier, and talking about...well...not drinking. It seemed to be speaking to me, strangely enough, which was not a thought I figured I would have had with a country music tune. Yet here we were.

  I dabbed at my eyes a couple times, because they were very definitely misting up due to the humidity and/or road conditions and not the song.

  And soon enough, there we were, actually, pulling into the parking lot of Bones, which announced itself with a neon sign that had the N and S burned out, but the outline of a lady’s form was still working perfectly. They were advertising what counted, I guessed. LIVE BEAUTIFUL LADIES was painted beneath it but unlit. Still mostly visible thanks to the ambient street lights in this part of town, which was a little more rundown than most parts of Nashville I’d been to.

  I parked the BMW and Chandler rolled up next to me. He was still humming as he got out of the car. “Oh, man, you should have heard it,” he said. “It was so perfect—”

  “Collin Rayne,” I said, heading for the door. “Yeah, it was something.”

  “Raye, like the sun but spelled different.” Chandler scrambled to keep up with me. “And you were listening?” He came alongside, grinning. “We’ll make a Nashville convert of you yet.”