Bone Music

by Christopher Rice

  Even though she’d played coy with him, the truth is she did keep to their agreement. She didn’t even know there’d been a second killing.

  Now she does, thanks to an eleven o’clock newscast out of San Francisco.

  It’s not a live shot. The helicopter footage of closed-down, traffic-snarled streets in Santa Monica has a subheading that says, LAST WEEK, and the streets are bathed in early-morning light. The chyron at the bottom of the screen says, NEW VIDEO RELEASED IN “MASK MAKER” KILLINGS.

  “Can you turn that up please?” she hears herself ask.

  The bartender appears in front of her.

  “This isn’t a sports bar, girlie.”

  “Does that look like sports to you, boyo?”

  Forward and Backward Baseball Cap don’t whoop or whistle or make sarcastic sounds of encouragement over her retort. They glare at her instead. On any other night that’d be a bad sign. Tonight it’s a good one. The bartender, however, has followed her gaze. When he sees the footage of flaring police lights followed by a cheap black-and-white headshot of the Mask Maker’s first victim in happier days, Charlotte’s words shame him.

  He grabs the remote, raises the volume until the voices of the newscasters are barely audible.

  “. . . identified as Kelley Sumter, who’d recently moved to Los Angeles to pursue acting ambitions and had changed her name to Harley Grey. But aside from the gruesome early-morning discovery that shut down many Santa Monica streets late last week, the rest of twenty-four-year-old Sumter’s remains have not been found. Just her face. And now in this surveillance video, which we must warn you many will find disturbing, we see the man police believe to be Sumter’s killer, the Mask Maker. In it, he stages the horrifying scene that brought a city to a standstill just last week.”

  The video’s grainy and black and white, but she recognizes the statue from a visit she’d made to LA with Luanne before she died. It stands at the spot where Wilshire Boulevard dead-ends into Palisades Park, a long, palm-tree-studded pedestrian thoroughfare that sits on a bluff high above Pacific Coast Highway and Santa Monica Bay.

  If the image were clearer, she might be able to make out waves in the dark ocean behind the statue. As it is, the statue’s a shock of bright white amid a jungle of shadows.

  The video’s star is a quick-moving figure who appears out of the right side of the frame like an apparition. Quick, stealthy, athletic, and based on what he does next, incredibly strong. He scales half the statue, slides his backpack to one side by dropping one strap from one shoulder; then he fastens something around the statue’s head like a mask. The newscast cuts away before Charlotte, or anyone else watching at home, can linger on the details of the surgically removed human face.

  “While there are few identifying features on the video to help law enforcement, detectives are still hoping something about these images will lead to the capture of this killer . . .”

  The newscast cuts to a police detective, identified as Manuel Ramirez, in front of a phalanx of microphones. He’s a wall of a man, with salt-and-pepper hair. Charlotte can’t tell if his eyes are sad or tired. “At this point, based on the video, we cannot assume the gender or ethnicity of the suspect. But what we can be sure of is that this person, even if not responsible for the murder itself, is most certainly an accessory. And we are doing everything we can to find them.”

  Questions erupt from the reporters. But the newscaster’s narration takes over again.

  Just as Charlotte fears, the report cuts to the cell phone footage that horrified her, and the rest of the country, when it hit the Internet. “So far no official statement on whether or not this killing has been linked by forensic evidence to a similar and equally gruesome discovery almost a month ago now at Griffith Observatory. That discovery involved the partial remains of twenty-six-year-old West Hollywood fitness instructor Sarah Pratt.”

  It’s just as she remembered it. Jerky footage from someone walking toward the iconic observatory in bright morning sunlight. An entire group has just disembarked from a large tourist bus, which can be heard humming in the background beneath the excited chatter of its passengers.

  The man doing the shooting is still getting his bearings, capturing mostly the backs of heads in front of him as he tries to pan up to the observatory’s domed roof. There’s a series of high-pitched cries off to his right. As if they’re unsure whether the cries are of warning or pleas for help, the crowd starts moving in that direction, and the cameraman goes with them. That’s when he captures the James Dean memorial—a bronze bust of the famous actor sitting on a white column of stone emblazoned with his name. The footage freezes at the first glimpse of the ill-fitting, grotesque mask of human skin that’s been stretched across the bronze face underneath. But the audio continues uninterrupted, screams spreading throughout the crowd. The combination of the gruesomely defaced statue and the escalating panic of the crowd terrifies Charlotte as much as it had the first time. It’s worse, maybe, than a gratuitous close-up of the ghostly face itself.

  But it’s not enough to trigger the drug in her system. It’s a different kind of horror, a revulsion she can feel in her gut. The killer’s cruelty is the same kind that led Abigail Banning to whisper, “You are now nothing,” into the ears of her victims before she cut their throats.

  The report cuts back to Detective Ramirez, who says, “The staging, the manner of death, obviously those speak to a connection between these two crimes. But further forensic analysis is needed before we can make any other statements.”

  From the crowd, a reporter shouts, “Are you not willing to call these crimes murders or are you gonna wait until the bodies are found?”

  The detective stiffens. “After consulting with forensic pathologists, we are reasonably sure it’s not possible for these victims to have survived what was done to them.”

  The explosion of laughter startles her so badly she almost falls off her stool. It’s Backward Cap. He’s doubled over the bar and is slapping it with one palm. “Can you fucking imagine?” he wheezes. “Can you fucking imagine? What, like, you’re there for some kid’s fucking birthday, and there’s a fucking face on one of the fucking statues! I’d be like, ‘Did we pay extra for this bitch, ’cause maybe I would have liked to have a selection to choose from, you know?’”

  Forward Cap says, “You think they’d charge more depending on how hot she was?”

  Backward Cap laughs harder. “Or how big of a bitch she was. Hell, I’d pay, depending on the woman. Beats looking at a bunch of telescopes any day.”

  “What?” his buddy asks. “Are you on a game show? I’ll take the face for five hundred, Pat.”

  “Alex,” Charlotte says.

  Both men fall silent. At the sound of her voice, the bartender picks up the remote, kills the volume, and changes the channel. To sports. Even though this isn’t a sports bar.

  “What was that, Diet Coke?” Forward Cap asks. He laughs less than his friend, and the long, studious looks he’s been giving her since she sat down suggest that if he’s not quicker to violence, he’s better at planning it.

  “Alex Trebek is the host of Jeopardy!; Pat Sajak is the host of Wheel of Fortune.”

  They just stare at her. Will this work? She hopes so. She’s pretty sure she can provoke these guys. But throwing a drink in their faces to do it seems cheap. Almost like entrapment. On the other hand, she’s never met an arrogant ignoramus who didn’t fly off the handle when corrected by the facts. Especially from a woman.

  “The game show you were referring to, the one where you pick a category and a dollar amount, that’s Jeopardy!”

  “What’s your problem, Loose Tits?” Backward Cap asks.

  “Two women were murdered. Horribly. And you guys think it’s funny. I’d say the problem is yours, and it’s in your brains.”

  Everything gets darker suddenly. The bartender is standing right over her, his formidable bulk blocking out the flickering television.

  “It might be time for you to he
ad back to San Francisco. Maybe get your kicks on Market Street. I hear that’s a better place for girls with opinions.”

  Charlotte looks to the guys at her left. They’re almost to the point of ignition, but they’re not quite there yet. And if she lets their hero bartender put her in her place, then she might have lost them for good.

  “Soon as I finish my drink, sir,” she says.

  “The second you do,” the bartender says.

  She nods. He moves away, but he’s lingering.

  “Uh-oh,” Backward Cap says to his friend. “Looks like we insulted a lady. A real one, too.”

  “No shit, huh?” Forward Cap says. “I don’t know, maybe we should check those jeans. Seems like she’s got a big ol’ pair of balls to me.”

  “Huh. Well, you know what my dad always said ’bout men and women.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Come on. You know his old joke.”

  “Which one?”

  “Why’d God give women vaginas?”

  “So men would talk to ’em.”

  Charlotte lifts her glass to her mouth and drains the rest of her Diet Coke. Then she slams it down hard enough to suggest she’s offended. She is, but in an abstract way. Mostly she’s relieved they’ve set up her next line of attack so nicely. She stands, takes a step toward them.

  “You losers have about as much chance of being able to see what’s in my pants as you do of finding a word in the dictionary.”

  It’s like she’s thrown ice water in their faces. Maybe it’s the insult, or maybe it’s the confidence with which she hurled it.

  Either way it’s time for her to get moving.

  When she passes Marty’s table, she locks eyes with him. He holds her gaze briefly, letting her know he’s ready to follow.

  She’s outside and headed along the irrigation canal when she hears the door open.

  She expects another verbal volley, maybe some shouted taunts or another disgusting joke about women. When she hears their footsteps punching gravel, she realizes this is escalating more quickly than she anticipated.

  The realization that they’re only feet behind her now sends a familiar shiver through her entire body. Her hands begin to shake.

  It’s a moment in which powerlessness and outrage collide and fight for prominence, producing several seconds of terrified paralysis, and it feels like it’s enough to unleash the drug’s power.

  They slam her into the fence from behind—a maelstrom of whiskey breath and wheezing grunts. Just as she’d planned, she reaches out and grabs two of the steel spokes. She forces herself to go limp so they think they’ve got her.

  One’s got his arms around her from behind and is grinding his groin against her ass; the other grips the back of her neck with so much pressure it should hurt like hell but doesn’t. His hot breath bathes her ear. They’re laughing because they think they got her, and she’s saying nothing because the bone music is back. This time it feels pleasurable, delicious even. Maybe because she knows what’s really causing it.

  “I got an idea how we’re gonna get in those pants, you mouthy little bitch.” It’s the one who has her by the neck. He’s growling right into her ear. Forward Cap.

  Backward Cap says, “What’re we gonna do with whatever we find there?”

  “Well, if we like it, we help ourselves to a piece. If we don’t, we’ll cut it off.”

  Slowly, hoping they won’t notice the motion right away, she begins to pull on both spikes. The resulting sound reminds her of train cars coming to a slow, tortured stop. The sound of steel being bent by a constant and steady force.

  “Fuck,” Forward Cap whispers. He releases her neck. “Fuck!” There’s no malice in his voice now, just a kind of dumbstruck horror.

  They’re both stumbling away from her. She’s bent the spokes at almost ninety-degree angles. Finally, the one in her right hand snaps free with a sound like a giant guitar string being flicked by a giant finger. A tug and the one in her left hand comes free as well. When she turns, Forward Cap stumbles backward over his own feet.

  “Who likes hand jobs?” Charlotte asks.

  They run.

  A few seconds later, Kayla emerges out of the darkness, lowering the gun she’s drawn. Staring at the steel spikes in Charlotte’s hand. Her jaw’s slack; her eyes are wide. She’s shaking her head back and forth. From the other direction comes Marty. No drawn gun, probably because he had faith the drug would work. But he seems as awestruck as Kayla. And, like her, he seems unwilling to get too close.

  “Talk to us,” Kayla says. She sounds winded. “Describe what you’re feeling.”

  “What are you feeling?” Charlotte asks.

  “Like I’m gonna wet myself. But don’t answer a question with a question. It’s annoying.”

  “Bone music,” Charlotte answers.

  “What?” Marty asks.

  “It’s like there’s music playing inside my bones. Or a beat, at least.”

  “Like a waltz beat or a samba beat or a rave beat?”

  “Is that a serious question?” Charlotte asks.

  “Is it painful, is what I mean?”

  “No,” Charlotte says, “it’s like I can’t feel pain. And I’d go with samba if I had to pick.”

  She throws the spike in her left hand at the dirt with one downward thrust. It lands like a perfectly aimed spear.

  Kayla gasps. Then Charlotte takes the jagged end of the other spear and drives it slowly into her left palm. The pain is a dull, muffled thing. The skin should break, but it doesn’t. Instead it develops an instant dark bruise that comes on too fast, then seems to vanish the second she withdraws the steel. Like her body’s trying to assert its usual response to being stabbed, but the drug suppresses it.

  Kayla and Marty flank her now. “Keep talking, Charlotte,” Kayla says.

  “OK. What do you want to know?”

  “Just keep describing what you’re feeling. Altered vision? Mood changes?”

  “I’m not about to turn Incredible Hulk on either of you if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

  “Hey, Charley,” Marty says. “Just a suggestion—maybe hold the sarcasm until our entire sense of reality isn’t being turned on its head.”

  “Sorry, but this is just the kind of moment sarcasm was made for, Uncle Marty.”

  “Your heart rate,” Kayla says. “Is it elevated?”

  “It doesn’t feel like it. It’s like I said. The feeling in my bones and what you saw me do. It’s pretty simple.”

  “This is not simple,” Kayla whispers. “This is not simple, but this is . . .”

  For a second Charlotte thinks Kayla has literally lost her mind. How else do you explain it when a grown woman starts suddenly jumping up and down and clapping her hands together and cackling like a hyena? “Oh my God! Oh my God!” Kayla cries over and over again.

  She looks like she just won the lottery. But even in the midst of her joy, she doesn’t allow anything less than five feet of space between herself and Charlotte. Now it’s clear why Kayla had such a hard time believing her story; she wanted it to be true so much she didn’t trust herself. She wanted it to be true the way we want fairy tales and romance novels and Santa Claus to be true. And now that she has undeniable proof, it’s like she’s a child again.

  Charlotte laughs, then feels awestruck that she can laugh. That even as the drug courses through her, making the impossible possible, she has all her human emotions within reach.

  “Women,” Marty mutters. Charlotte makes a fake grab for his throat, and he goes skittering backward so quickly he ends up on his ass, which only makes Kayla laugh louder, which only makes Charlotte laugh louder.

  “If it’s anything like last night, we’ve got three hours,” Charlotte says once she catches her breath. “Let’s play.”

  17

  “Again,” Marty says to Kayla.

  “I’ve circled twice, Marty. Nobody’s here.”

  “Third time’s the charm.”

  “F
or you and the eye doctor, maybe,” she grumbles.

  Kayla’s right, the place does look abandoned. The warehouse has meteor-size holes in its walls. Weeds grow in the broken asphalt of its empty loading docks. The chain-link fence looks relatively new, like someone threw it up for protection after the last tenant left, but even it’s collapsing in sections.

  By the time her companions start arguing over which particular nest of shadows will conceal the car best, Charlotte’s managed to thread her hair into a ponytail without tearing out large chunks by the roots. Together with the fact that she hasn’t torn a hole in any part of Kayla’s back seat, this accomplishment makes her feel pretty damn proud of herself.

  Inside, they find almost nothing Charlotte cannot bend to the point of breaking.

  She’s most impressed with what the drug does to her aim. After snapping some rebar with her bare hands, she’s able to throw pieces of it through the air with enough force to spear the wall from what would amount to two car lengths away, a trick similar to what she did outside the bar when she sent the steel spike into the ground. To overcome gravity like this from this distance, an ordinary human would require impeccable aim. For her it’s not an issue because of the insane amount of propulsion that comes from even the lightest flick of her wrist.

  With each successful hit, she takes another step back. Eventually she discovers the point at which distance overcomes her enhanced strength. At about three car lengths between her and the wall, the rebar starts to fall short.

  “We need to film this,” Charlotte says.

  “You sure about that?” Kayla asks.

  “I’m sure I’ve only got one pack of pills, and if I run out and nobody believes me, there’s gonna be no way to prove we’re not all crazy.”

  “You planning to tell the world about this?” Marty asks.

  “I don’t know yet. I don’t know anything yet. But if we have to tell someone, I want to be believed.”