The Mussorgsky Riddle

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The Mussorgsky Riddle Page 4

by Darin Kennedy


  “You mumbled quite a bit.” Caroline leans over me, absently gnawing at her knuckle. “Almost like we were hearing one side of a conversation.”

  The experience floods my mind, parts of it as clear as a movie I’ve seen a hundred times, other parts a jumble of barely coherent images. Scenes of the immense hall and its many alcoves stand seared into my mind’s eye while the music plays across my senses as if it were being broadcast directly into my mind. Another glance at Anthony’s bobbing form leads me to wonder if that might not, in fact, be the case.

  I sit up, my biggest mistake of the day thus far. Agnes grabs the wastebasket in the corner and shoves it in my lap just before whatever remains of my breakfast makes a violent return appearance. Caroline drapes the cool washcloth across the back of my neck. It helps. A little.

  A couple minutes pass before I attempt to move again. My feet touch the floor and the room slows its spinning. At Archer’s subtle nod, Agnes returns to her station, closing the door behind her as she leaves. He and Caroline hover over me as if I’m a house of cards about to fall while Anthony couldn’t be more oblivious to my presence.

  Caroline breaks the silence. “I don’t understand. You heard the music. Anthony’s music. Then you went away. What happened to you?”

  “You’ve hit it on the head, Caroline.” I rub at my temples in an effort to banish the dull ache growing in my head. “Strange as it sounds, every fiber of my being is screaming I actually did go away.” A quick glance in Archer’s direction reveals a new curiosity in his eyes. “I know what you’re going to say, Dr. Archer, but unless I’m mistaken, I just took a trip inside Anthony’s mind.”

  “His mind?”

  “I went somewhere. A strange place. Like a museum. There was music, art, and… a gnome. Tell me, Caroline, does the name Tunny mean anything to you?”

  “Tunny?” Caroline’s eyes grow wide. “That’s what Rachel called Anthony when she was a toddler.”

  “Well, there’s a little man made of wood calling himself Tunny running around in the gray matter between your son’s ears. And he’s not alone in there.” Another memory washes across my mind. A laugh that could freeze water. A voice that even now makes my heart skip a beat.

  “I remember a door. A locked door. No way in. No way out.”

  “A door?” Caroline asks.

  Archer steps in. “A locked door could represent many things. Like a mental block or a repressed memory.”

  “But even with Anthony all locked up, you still got in.” Caroline’s gaze fixes on me. “That means something, right?”

  Another flash. “The gnome.” Tunny’s exasperated face flashes across my memory. “He had a name for the place. ‘The Exhibition.’ Ring any bells?”

  “A gnome, walking around an ‘Exhibition,’ you say?” Caroline’s gaze shot to Archer. “Do you have it?”

  Her surprise is mirrored in Archer’s eyes. “It’s right here.”

  Archer reaches into the large file he brought from the office and retrieves a child’s sketchpad. He flips through it for a few seconds. His eyes flash when he finds the picture he wants me to see.

  “Did your little brown man look like this?”

  With tremulous fingers, I take the pad of paper. My vision blurred, I hold the drawing close to my face so I can see the image clearly. What I find there is impossible.

  Tunny, rendered in pencil and colored with brown and tan crayon, gazes out at me from the crisp, white paper. Though the art itself is a little rough around the edges, the likeness is unmistakable. The tree moss beard. Skin like mahogany. The gnome’s piercing eyes.

  “The very same.” I turn to Caroline. “You say Rachel used to call her brother Tunny when she was young?”

  “It was one of her first words. They were inseparable back then.”

  I flip the sketchpad around so Archer can see the picture. “I’m not the psychologist here, but assuming you believe a word I’m saying, what do you make of this?”

  “That’s a pretty big assumption.” Archer cracks his neck. “Though what you’re saying makes sense in a weird sort of way.”

  Caroline glances at Archer. “What do you mean?”

  Archer sighs. “A lot is going on here that’s way beyond anything I understand, so before I start, a few caveats.”

  Here it comes.

  Archer takes Caroline’s hand. “Let’s assume Ms. Tejedor can actually do what she says and this isn’t all just some hallucination or, God forbid, some twisted game she’s playing.”

  My neck gets hot and I try without success to stand. “Now, you hold on just a minute.”

  “My apologies, Ms. Tejedor, but today’s events notwithstanding, this is all a lot to take in. I’m just laying out a theory.”

  “Very well.” Weakened by my journey abroad, my attempt to cross my arms and come off indignant ends with my hands barely making it to my lap. “Go on,” I mutter.

  “Let’s also assume this Exhibition you claim to have visited is indeed some figment of Anthony’s imagination. As I conceptualize it, everything you encountered there would in some capacity be an extension of Anthony’s consciousness.”

  “And that would mean what, exactly?” Caroline asks.

  “That Anthony has stepped back from himself and assumed another face. He’s never been particularly skilled at social nuance despite our best efforts over the years. Perhaps, deep down, he sees himself as a repugnant little gnome.”

  “Are you saying my son is like the woman in that Sybil movie? The one with all the different personalities?”

  “Perhaps,” Archer says. “I don’t put much stock in what Hollywood and popular media call multiple personality disorder, though I have worked with more than my fair share of dissociative patients in my time. I’ve long suspected aspects of such a disorder were complicating Anthony’s case and if any of what Ms. Tejedor says is true…”

  “There was someone else there.” My voice sounds a bit closer to normal, though it’s still taking all I’ve got simply to sit up straight.

  “You said before the gnome wasn’t alone.” Archer’s eyes narrow. “I can’t believe I’m about to ask this, but who else did you meet?”

  “A voice that came from everywhere and nowhere at once. Very angry with Tunny, and none too pleased with me invading their turf. Tunny was gruff, but non-threatening. This other presence, not so much.”

  “Fascinating.” Archer laughs nervously. “You pull Anthony’s favorite piece of music out of thin air, describe in detail a picture you’ve never seen, then have a one-on-one conversation with my patient’s id and superego. Maybe you should be the psychologist.”

  “Cut Mira some slack, Thomas. She’s accomplished more in ten minutes than we have in weeks. Look.” She gestures to the chair where Anthony sits. He’s dozed off, his head pitched backward like it might fall off. For the first time since I first laid eyes on him, he is still. The worried furrow of his brow, smooth.

  I tilt my head to one side and put on my best smile. “What do you think, Dr. Archer? Do we work together on this or do we each go it alone and hope for the best?”

  As if either of us was the deciding vote. We both turn to Caroline and for the second time that day, the scent of cut roses washes over me, a mirror of the hopeful expectation in her eyes.

  Archer holds out his hand and offers a subtle bow. “Welcome to the team, Ms. Tejedor.”

  It’s early evening before Archer lets me leave. The good doctor insists on observing me for the afternoon after the episode with Anthony. After a couple much-needed catnaps and a quick perusal of the array of psychology journals in his office, however, I’m ready to go. Agnes’ admonishment about Archer’s particular nature compels me to put each magazine back exactly where I found it, though I do make a point to leave one in the stack upside down as a reminder of my presence. Compared to the piles of bills, papers, and magazines that typically rule any space of mine, the meticulous order of his office is almost comical.

  It’s close to h
alf past six when I arrive at the Blake Hotel in downtown Charlotte, or ‘Uptown’ as Agnes corrected me just before helping me into my car. Considering how this situation is unfolding, my initial plan to get in a little shopping in on Saturday and drive back on Sunday already looks like wishful thinking. The setting sun blinds me as I make the last turn into the parking deck, and I jump despite myself as my pocket buzzes for the first time in hours.

  I flip the radio off and pull out my phone. The name on the screen is no surprise.

  “Hey, Mom.” I’ve tried to stay quiet since early afternoon, hoping the rest would relieve my inexplicably strained voice. Apparently, that was a bit too much to hope for. I still sound like one of my vocal cords was replaced with rusted barbed wire. “I tried to call you back before.”

  “Mira? I can barely hear you. We must have a bad connection.”

  “No, it’s just me. I’m… coming down with something.”

  “I tried to call you this afternoon. Twice.”

  My neck gets hot. “I couldn’t pick up. I was in the middle of meeting my new client.”

  “I know you’re busy, but I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important.”

  Hotter. “But Mom, I just said―”

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “Haven’t even gotten out of the car.” I steer one-handed into the narrowest spot imaginable and slide the gear shift into park. “What is it?”

  “Dominic’s in town for the week.”

  “Dominic?” Good God. I leave town for one day and my ex decides to pay a visit. I swear sometimes it’s like he’s tapped my phone. “Fantastic. Does Isabella know?”

  “Yes. He called earlier and―”

  “Let me speak to her.”

  “But, Mira. You might want to―”

  “Isabella, Mom. Just put her on.”

  “All right.” Mom shouts for Isabella as I head for the parking deck elevator. “Here she is.” The ire in Mom’s tone comes through loud and clear despite her best efforts.

  Then, my favorite voice in the world.

  “Hello?” Isabella’s voice sounds like it’s about to bubble over with excitement. “Mami?”

  “Hi, sweetheart.” I step off the elevator and enter the hotel atrium. “How are things?”

  “I’m great. Nana took me out to the movies and the mall. We got cookies at the food court.”

  “That sounds great, honey.” I find a couch in the center of the room and collapse into the inviting cushions.

  “Will you be home for dinner, Mami?”

  “Honey, I’m down in North Carolina. Remember what we talked about yesterday?”

  “I remember.” She takes a slurp of something no doubt full of high-fructose corn syrup. “Did you help the boy? He sounds so sad.”

  “I’m trying, honey. I just got here, but his mami and I are doing everything we can.”

  “I miss you, Mami.”

  “I miss you too, sweetheart.”

  “Me and Nana are having fun. She makes me milkshakes.” She takes an excited breath. “Did she tell you?”

  “Tell me what?” As much as it’s going to hurt, I have to let her say it.

  “Daddy’s come home for a visit.”

  “Really?” I try to keep the bite from my tone. “Did he come by to see you?”

  “No, but he called before. We talked for a long time.” Isabella takes another breath, as do I. “Do you think he’ll stay this time?”

  “We’ll have to talk about that another time, sweetheart. Hopefully this job won’t take too long and then we’ll be together again and can figure all this out.”

  “Well, umm, Daddy wants to come by tomorrow. He said we could go to the mall, maybe get me that new video game with the ponies. Is that okay?”

  My heart freezes. Dominic hasn’t set foot within a hundred miles of our home in over six months, and the second I leave town for work, he’s there to swoop in and play Superman with a Visa. It’s a damn conspiracy.

  “As long as Nana knows where you are at all times and can get in touch with your dad if she needs to reach you, I guess that would be all right.”

  I pull the phone away from my ear in preparation for the inevitable squeal.

  I’m not disappointed.

  “Thank you, Mami,” she squeals. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

  I swallow hard and do my best to keep my voice even. “I love you too, sweetheart. Can you put Nana back on?”

  “Okay.” The click of Isabella’s shoes on the tile in Mom’s kitchen echoes across the line as she skips into the next room. Unbidden tears well at the corners of my eyes at the excitement in her voice as she tells my mother fifty times I agreed she could have a meal with the reigning world champion of absentee fathers. I collect myself as Isabella passes her the phone.

  “Mira?” Though Mom is quick to temper, she’s also quick to cool. One of the things I love about her. “Are you okay?” Before I can answer, she asks, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Be firm with Dom. Same rules as last time. No big presents. No cash. And he needs to follow through with anything he promises her. I swear, if he breaks Isabella’s heart again when I’m not there to put the pieces back together, I’ll hunt him down and kill him myself.”

  Mom chuckles. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll make sure he toes the line.”

  “A heads-up. Things here appear a lot more complicated than I anticipated.”

  She sighs. “How long this time?”

  “A week.” My whisper echoes on the line. “Maybe two.”

  Mom doesn’t say a word, but the sound of a door closing says it all.

  “It’s important, Mom.”

  “It’s always important, Mira. Do you have any idea how many days you’ve been away from home in the last year alone? How much your daughter misses you when you’re gone?”

  “This boy needs me.”

  “Your girl needs you. She practiced weeks for that dance recital last month.”

  “You think I wanted to miss that?” Hang on, Mira. Keep the volume down. “In case you’re forgetting, Mom, I helped the police catch a serial rapist that night. Don’t I get any credit for that?”

  “From me, dear? Of course. But do you think Isabella understands?”

  “She understands quite a bit. In fact, sometimes I wish she didn’t understand so much.” I pull in a deep breath. “Anyway, this one is different. No cops. No one lost or missing. This Anthony kid just stopped talking, walking, or doing much of anything a couple of weeks back and it looks like I may be the only one who can help him.” An image of Anthony’s worried face filters across my mind’s eye. “Would you turn your back?”

  Mom lets out an encore of her trademark world-weary sigh. “Of course not, Mira. Let me take care of Isabella while you get out there and save the world.” A sharp intake of air. “Again.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” Though her words are harsh, it’s the best I’ll get tonight from one Rosa Tejedor. “For everything.”

  “Good night, Mira.”

  My breath catches at the sudden silence from the other end.

  “Good night.” I press the end button and head for the hotel desk. For once in my life, check-in is a breeze and one short elevator trip later, I’m in my suite and collapsing on a king-size bed that feels like it was custom made for my aching back. One silver lining of this particular job, my retainer from Ms. Faircloth has allowed more than my usual motel accommodations.

  Near the top floor of the Blake Hotel, the window in my suite looks out on a fifty-story building resembling an enormous martini glass. Lit up like a pink and blue Christmas tree, columns of light decorate the skyscraper’s every angle. Exhausted, I flip on the tube, change into my pajamas, and rummage through the desk for the room service menu. My order for the night is salmon with risotto, a well-deserved glass of wine, and what better be some passable chocolate mousse. Desperate for any distraction from my rumbling stomach while I wait, I flip channels till I find the local news. J
ust past the bottom of the hour, the anchors are reviewing the big stories of the day.

  “…the daughter of Stuart and Margaret Wagner, whose home in Myers Park has become a shrine to the missing high school junior. As we enter the fourth week since Julianna’s disappearance, hope dims this favorite of her teachers and peers will be found alive.”

  The story cuts to an interview with a portly police officer. With just the right amount of gravitas, a female voice from off camera asks, “Any news in the search for Julianna Wagner?”

  “Our team is following up on various leads.” The officer’s stern eyes offer little in the way of reassurance. “We’re aware the situation looks bleak, but Charlotte Police Department has not given up on bringing Miss Wagner home safe and sound.”

  I’ve heard all this before. A few weeks into a missing persons case, the focus shifts from rescue to recovery. This guy talks a good game, but you don’t need to be a psychic to see what’s written all over his face.

  The news begins to run pictures of the missing girl. Seventeen and blonde, fair skin, gorgeous smile. They transition into how everyone loved her and follow with a message from the parents to any potential abductors, video of the candlelight vigil at her school, and numerous interviews with friends, family, and teachers.

  It’s a story I’ve seen a hundred times.

  Wait.

  That last picture.

  A photo of Julianna and a date standing below a cluster of blue and white balloons. In an off the shoulder red dress and a pair of heels that probably cost half my rent, she stands next to a boy in a tux. A boy with a familiar face.

  Jason Faircloth.

  I cradle my face in my hands. My last words to my mother echo in my mind.

  “No cops, eh, Mira?” I mutter.

  For a bunch of missing persons, they sure don’t seem to have any trouble finding me.

  spend most of the weekend in my suite at the Blake, rising from my king-size oasis only to eat or take advantage of the room’s oversize whirlpool tub. The “Do Not Disturb” in the room’s keycard slot keeps housekeeping away and other than room service or my few calls home to check on Isabella, I don’t speak to another living soul for two days.

 

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