The Mussorgsky Riddle

by Darin Kennedy

  No answer.

  “Jason?” Archer shouts.

  “Oh no.” Caroline sprints down the hall only to return seconds later with slumped shoulders and defeat written across her face.

  “His window is open. He’s gone.” Her hands tremble at her sides. “What more can possibly happen?”

  Her question is answered a moment later as Anthony again begins to hum. Gone are the high pitches of Scheherazade’s theme, the quick notes of a woman pleading for her life replaced by the low notes of a dirge that only Anthony can hear. Caroline runs to his side.

  “I recognize this.” She strokes Anthony’s mussed hair. “It’s from the Mussorgsky piece.”

  Though I’ve heard it only once, I don’t need to guess which movement. “The Catacombs.” My stomach knots at the name. “I’m sorry, Caroline. I can’t go back right now. I’m exhausted. Can I have a night to think and prepare?”

  “I understand,” she says. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Jason till now.”

  “It’s all right. I’d probably have done the same if Isabella was the one under the gun. No matter what, though, I’m in this for the long run. You know that, right?”

  “That goes for both of us,” Archer adds.

  “Thank you.” Kneeling on the floor beside her son, Caroline cradles Anthony’s head in her hands. “Thank you, both.”

  She spares a second to glance up at me, before returning her attention to Anthony. I catch Archer’s eye and incline my head toward the door.

  “Drop me off at the Blake? My car is all the way back at your office and I already feel like I’m about to pass out. I can catch a cab tomorrow, but right now I just need to crash.”

  “Sure. It’s been a long day.” He fights back a yawn. “For all of us.”

  “Agreed.” I follow Archer onto the porch and pull the door closed behind us. “And I have a sneaking suspicion tomorrow’s not going to be any better.”

  ook’s like there’s a wreck up ahead.” Between swipes of the windshield wipers, Archer stares with tired eyes at the line of cars creeping along the bypass toward the next exit. “There’s nothing to do but wait it out.” He chuckles. “Unless you want to walk.”

  “It’s not even ten yet.” Despite my best efforts, a yawn from the depths of my soul escapes me. “I’ll be all right.”

  “You’re not fooling anyone, you know.” Archer shoots me a wink. “A few minutes ago, you catnapped straight through a fascinating story about my summer in Ecuador two years back.”

  “Sorry. Unguided tours of catatonic children’s minds take it out of me every time.”

  “I can only imagine.” His eyes flick in my direction. “I hate to admit it, but I owe you an apology.”

  “For what? I get why you didn’t tell me about Jason. Doctor-patient privilege, right?”

  “I think Caroline’s been trying to confess everything about that night to me for weeks but today’s the day she finally did it.”

  “Glenn Hartman showing up on her porch this morning must have really shook her up.”

  “I thought it best if you heard it from Caroline. If I’d told you, that truly would have been a breach of confidence, but that doesn’t change the fact that you needed to know.” He clears his throat. “I mean, you can’t help Anthony if you don’t have all the facts, right?”

  “Every bit helps. Still, you don’t owe me an apology for doing the right thing.”

  “Of course not.” Archer taps the brake. “But that wasn’t what I was talking about.”

  “Oh?” A swarm of butterflies threatens to burst from my chest. “Do tell.”

  “I just wanted to let you know I’m sorry for doubting your intentions in the beginning.” He chances another glance. “You’re a good person, Mira.”

  “Says the therapist who spent his entire evening helping a patient for free and is now providing taxi service to an exhausted psychic with a migraine.”

  “But with all you’ve put yourself through trying to help Anthony…”

  “You’d do the same, if you could.” My cheeks grow warmer by the second and I’m suddenly grateful for the muted lighting inside Archer’s car. “A little secret? You’re not the first person in your profession to start measuring me for either a straitjacket or a jail cell within seconds of shaking my hand. Soul-crushing professional ridicule comes with the territory.” Our eyes meet. “And to be fair, I imagine most people you meet claiming they can read minds probably could use a short stint in a rubber room.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears.” Archer laughs. “You know? I envy you a bit. The things you can do. The progress you’ve made with Anthony. It’s a miracle.”

  “It’s not all sunshine and puppies. I have a gift, but it’s not necessarily one I asked for. As for Anthony, Dr. Archer, don’t count your miracles before they hatch.”

  “Thomas.” He offers me a half-smile. “With all we’ve been through together this past week, I believe we can leave the titles at work.”

  My breath catches. Just a little. “All right, Thomas.” The smell of baking bread fills my senses. It’s comfortable. Warm. “I wanted to ask you something. A question that’s been on my mind since I made my way out of the Exhibition the first time. Was it true what you said a few days back? About dreams not being able to kill you?”

  Thomas considers for a moment. Would be nice if the answer to this particular question rested a bit closer to the tip of his tongue.

  “There are a few cases in the literature of people with near death experiences coinciding with them dying in a dream. Most people, however, either wake up before they die or continue to sleep and dream after the death event occurs. That opens up a different question, though.”

  A weary smile touches my lips. “And that would be?”

  “Can you truly consider what you and Anthony do as dreaming?”

  “And now we’re back to uncharted territory.” We lock gazes and a hint of lilac filters across the warm bread scent.

  “Hey. Check it out.” Thomas points through the windshield. The blue lights at the top of the hill stop flashing and the line of cars in front of us starts to move. “Looks like we won’t be stuck out here all night after all.”

  A couple minutes later, we exit the highway and navigate the city streets in silence as the gentle rain makes the road and sidewalks glisten in the mercury lights of Uptown Charlotte. As we pull up to the Blake’s main entrance, Thomas puts the car in park.

  “Door to door service,” he says with a smile.

  “Thanks for the ride. I hate driving in the rain at night. Gives me chills.”

  “Says the woman who wanders unguided through the minds of catatonic children.”

  “Touché.” I pause, my hand on the door handle.

  “You forget something?”

  “No.” My cheeks go hot. “It’s just, umm, I was feeling my second wind kicking in and was wondering if you’d like to come in for a drink. We’re finally getting somewhere with Anthony, but like Caroline said, the next stop along the Exhibition is The Catacombs.”

  “More chills?”

  “Sort of. The witch has made it more than clear she’ll stop at nothing to keep me from ever setting foot in that place. As Scheherazade, my main weapons are words, and if anyone would know how to talk their way past an old hag with a mortar and pestle, it’s a board certified psychologist.” I level an even gaze at Thomas. “Drinks are on me.”

  His eyes slide closed and a quiet breath escapes his lips. I already know his answer.

  “Any other night, I’d say yes, but I’ve got a six a.m. meeting tomorrow morning I have to be conscious for and a full load of patients tomorrow.” He looks over at me. “I hope you understand.”

  “No problem.” The warm scent of bread and the hint of lilac both vanish, leaving the mental air between us stale and uncomfortable. “Best I get on to bed anyway. Been a long day.”

  Thomas clears his throat. “We’re meeting at Caroline’s tomorrow afternoon at four, righ
t?”

  “Yeah.” I fake a wide grin. “Don’t be late.”

  He shakes his head. “I’ll do what I can. Like I said, I have a full docket tomorrow. As much as I want to be there for Anthony, my other patients need me too.”

  “Of course.” His words echo in my mind. “Good night, then.”

  I shut the door gently behind me, refusing to look back as Thomas pulls away. Once he’s out of sight, I hurry for the door, the nagging headache at the edge of my consciousness all but crying out for a glass of wine before bed. I venture into the hotel bar and grab a stool.

  “Evening.” The bartender, an older man that reminds me a bit of my dad, wipes down the section of bar before me and flips the towel across his shoulder. “What are you having this evening?”

  “A glass of red will be fine.”

  “Coming up.”

  Half a glass and my eyelids are already heavy as I flirt with that in-between state of not quite awake and not quite dream. The witch’s face fills my mind.

  “You will never see the Catacombs. I have blocked the portal and even I cannot breach the seal.”

  At least in that particular arena, I have something of an ace up my sleeve. Her previous claim, however, is the one that echoes in my mind, the one that has awakened me at least nightly since I first heard the words, “Still I will deny you the one answer you seek.” Her skin like parchment, even now she stares at me with those yellow eyes, grinning her iron smile. “That revelation rests in my realm, and you dare not go there.” The thought of facing Baba Yaga on her own turf makes my head swim.

  Or is it the wine?

  Someone taps my shoulder.

  “Ms. Tejedor.” The rumbling bass is familiar, and after our last encounter, so is the tone.

  I turn in the barstool and try to expunge the utter exhaustion from my face.

  “Why, Detective Sterling, if you weren’t a cop, I’d swear you were stalking me.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m here on business.”

  The bartender heads to my end of the bar. He must have seen me tense up.

  “This guy bothering you?” he asks.

  “This ‘guy’ is a detective with Charlotte PD.” Sterling flashes his badge. “I just need to discuss a couple things with Ms. Tejedor here, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Chill, man,” the bartender says, backing away. “Just looking out for the pretty lady.”

  “That makes two of us,” Sterling says, taking the stool next to mine. “You look beat, Mira. Where’ve you been all night, besides stirring up trouble with my suspect?”

  My chest tightens. “I kind of figured you’d hear about that.”

  “What were you thinking? Glenn Hartman is the lead suspect in the biggest missing persons case in the state and instead of doing me a little favor and finding something to help me put him away, you go down to the jail and get him all riled up.”

  “My apologies. I just needed to get some information.”

  “And what’s this fascinating bit of information that earned one of my buddies a black eye?”

  “There was a fight?”

  “You left Glenn Hartman in a pretty agitated state. He had to be restrained and things got a little rough.”

  “Sorry.” I look away, the disappointment in Sterling’s eyes more than I can handle at the moment. “I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.”

  “Look, it’s clear you know something we don’t. Hartman was a little on the nervous side before you showed up, but after…” His fingers shake with rage as he combs them across his close-cropped scalp. “You know, I don’t get you. I’m working my ass off trying to find this girl and you go interrogating the prime suspect without giving me so much as a warning. Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  “I’m on Anthony’s side, Jason’s, the whole Faircloth family.” For the second time since arriving back at the hotel, the heat rises in my cheeks. This time is far less pleasant. “I don’t work for you and I sure as hell don’t work for Hartman. I had a theory and needed to see his reaction.”

  “And?”

  “To be honest, I was surprised.”

  “I hope it was worth it. Hartman seemed ready to crack earlier today, but thanks to you, he’s even more withdrawn than before. We’ve got him in solitary for now, but he says he’s done till he sees a lawyer.” His eyes focus on something past my head and his expression, if possible, grows colder. “Oh yeah. I forgot the best part. Someone at the station recognized you.”

  “What?”

  “Look.” Sterling points to a television at the far end of the bar. A photograph of Thomas and me leaving the station fills the screen. The closed captioning across the bottom reads, “Psychic Mira Tejedor, who helped in last year’s investigation of the Sarah Goode abduction, along with an unidentified man, left the station earlier today…”

  “Oh no.” It’s starting again. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  “The Wagner home was already besieged with reporters. This bucket of blood you just dumped in the water has already doubled the number of news vans and cameras around their house, so thanks for that.”

  My chest grows tight. “I was just trying to help.”

  “No. You were trying to advance your own agenda with not a single thought about the repercussions.” He looks away. “Something you’re pretty good at.”

  “Now hold on. You can get all pissed off at me for screwing up your investigation, but leave you and me out of this.” Though a part of me recognizes the truth in what he’s saying, it doesn’t rile me any less.

  “This conversation isn’t going anywhere.” A sharp tang of copper fills my senses as Sterling stands to leave. “We’ll be talking again soon, Ms. Tejedor. For now, though, stay away from my suspect. I’d hate to have to charge you with obstruction of justice. Are we clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  “Good night, then.” He turns to leave. “I’m really sorry it ended up this way.”

  Sterling is already halfway across the room as a quiet “Me too” falls from my lips.

  The bartender reappears across the bar, the bottle of wine in his hand. “That cop sure left in a huff. Everything all right?”

  “None of this is all right.” I tap the top of my glass. “None of this.”

  An hour later, I’m lying in bed staring at my half-asleep daughter via a fuzzy Skype connection.

  “When are you coming home, Mami?” Her voice comes through the speakers with a strange vibrato.

  “It won’t be much longer. I promise.” Another little piece of my heart breaks at the flicker of disappointment in her drowsy eyes. “Are you having fun with Nana?”

  “It’s fun, but I miss you.”

  “I miss you too, sweetie.” Anthony’s catatonic face flashes across my subconscious. “More than you can possibly know.” We share a yawn. “Can I talk to Nana for a minute?”

  “I’ll get her.” Isabella climbs off the bed out of range of the camera and calls for my mother. A few moments later, she appears on the screen.

  “I have to say, Mira. I know you’re in the middle of a complicated case, but this is the longest ‘couple of days’ I’ve ever seen.”

  “Sorry, Mom. This thing with the Faircloth family is taking a lot longer than I imagined.” I stretch and try to massage away the knot below my neck that’s been tying itself tighter and tighter since Sterling’s call woke me up fifteen hours before. “Still working both sides of the case. Was making some headway with local law enforcement, though I’m pretty sure that’s all flown out the window at this point.”

  “You think so?” she asks. “Word is you’re officially on the case now.”

  My heart freezes. “Where did you hear that?”

  “It’s everywhere. Julianna Wagner is national news, honey. Young, pretty, blonde, rich girl goes missing for weeks. What do you think happens when the psychic who helped find Sarah Goode shows up at the police station to chat with the lead suspect in the case?” She taps some keys on her com
puter. “Here. Check this out.”

  A few seconds later, my computer sounds off as a link appears at the bottom of the screen.

  I open up the article in my browser.

  Virginia Psychic Called In on Wagner Case

  Visits Missing Student’s Teacher in Jail

  “Crap.” My stomach does a somersault. “That just happened a couple hours ago.”

  “I’ve told you a hundred times, Mira. You can’t do what you do and fly under the radar.”

  “You did, back in the day.”

  “A different time, dear, and even I made the tabloids a couple of times. Not to mention, I can’t do a tenth of what you can.”

  My heart sinks in the way it always does before I ask for my mother’s advice. “What would you do?”

  “Much as I want you home, you need to do what you promised. Stay there in Charlotte till you’ve helped that boy or you’ve done all you can do.”

  “And the Julianna Wagner case? I’m here to help Anthony, but I keep getting sucked back into hunting for a girl I’m pretty sure is already dead.”

  “I know you swore you’d never work another case like that after the whole thing with Sarah Goode, but look what you did there. You keep telling me the two cases seem intertwined. Maybe you’re there in Charlotte for a reason.”

  I stifle a groan. “You know what I think about the whole ‘God has a plan’ thing, Mom.”

  “Look at it this way. There’s a hallway in a little boy’s mind only you can walk and a missing girl no one else seems able to find. Sounds like someone’s got a plan.” She pauses for a moment. “Still, based on everything you’ve told me and what I’ve seen on the news, there’s something about this whole thing that doesn’t quite add up. Be careful down there, Mira.”

  “Got it, Mom. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s to trust your intuition.” I stretch and yawn. “Can I say good night to Isabella?”

  Mom looks away from her webcam. “She’s conked out on the couch. Do you want me to wake her?”

  “Let her sleep. I’ll call again tomorrow.”