The Mussorgsky Riddle

by Darin Kennedy

“What now, Scheherazade?” Yaga shouts. “She is almost upon us.”

  It occurs to me that just days before, I used those same words about the witch. “Through the Gates,” I scream. “Hurry.”

  “Too late.” Versailles hurls her rapier to one side and leaps. Her fingers find a chain dangling from the hut’s foundation. “Where they go, now I go as well. Your move, storyteller.”

  I clench the dagger between my teeth and leap at Versailles’ swinging form, catching her about the waist and nearly ripping the yellow and teal dress from her body. She kicks at my thighs and torso, but I hold on, clawing my way up her body inch by inch until we hang eye to eye from the chain. I grab the weapon from my teeth and beat at her hands with the pommel, though it takes everything I have simply to hold fast to the chain.

  “Let go, Versailles,” I grunt. “If you pass the Gates, Anthony dies.”

  “Like I give a whit about the boy. Don’t you understand? I am not him and he isn’t me.”

  “But some part of you is Veronica Sayles. She’s his teacher for God’s sake.”

  “Then perhaps it’s time for one final lesson.” Her lips draw down to a tight line. “Trust no one.”

  I look past her shoulder. “A lesson you could stand to learn yourself.”

  “What are you talking―” Before she can complete her thought, one of the hut’s clawed feet grabs her from behind and pulls the two of us from the chain like grapes from a vine. Hurled into the surrounding woods, Versailles lands in a copse of saplings while my body takes the full force of an ancient poplar.

  Despite the pain, my lips turn up in a grin. “As you so eloquently put it, Madame Versailles, overconfidence leads only to failure.” With supreme effort, I turn my head in the direction of the witch’s hut. “It’s all right, Yaga. I’ll be fine.” I cough blood onto my clenched fist. “Just take them through and don’t look back.”

  The witch looks upon me with an admiring smile.

  “Thank you, Mira.” Yaga’s voice changes, the rough timbre replaced with a pleasant, if not familiar, Southern inflection as her features shift like quicksilver into the face of Caroline Faircloth. She raises her hands, clapping them together one last time. The hut steps through the Gates and vanishes in a flash of silver light.

  “No,” Versailles screams. “If they leave, this place and everything in it ceases to be.”

  “Then so be it,” I mutter.

  Versailles and I brace ourselves for our imminent destruction, but the feared cataclysm never comes. The landscape grows placid while the sky above remains gray and foreboding. The snow stops, and everything in sight takes on the appearance of a paused movie. Everything, that is, but the Gates which continue to pulse in time to a silent rhythm I suspect represents a boy’s heart a universe away. Versailles leers at me, triumph blossoming through the bruises forming along her high cheekbones.

  “Your final gambit has failed, Scheherazade. There stand the Gates, open for me to walk through and you cannot stop me.” She pushes herself up from the ground and shambles toward the pulsating arch of stone.

  “An interesting choice of words, Madame Versailles.”

  She glances back. “More games, storyteller?”

  “You are a teacher of language, are you not?”

  “What of it?”

  “The word gambit. It means an action with a significant risk, but to a chess player, it means something quite different.”

  “A sacrifice.” She turns to face me. “Helpless, you lie there, and yet you still believe you can sacrifice me to save the boy?”

  “It’s far more than that.” I prop myself up one elbow. “You see, the composer shared with me a truth.”

  “And you think this truth will save you?”

  “Where do you think you are, Versailles? What do you think lies beyond the Gates?”

  “We exist in the confines of a boy’s mind. Beyond the Gates lies freedom.”

  “But that’s where you’re wrong. This place is not Anthony alone, but a reality borne out of a harmony of minds. His.” My gaze locks with hers. “And mine.”

  Something akin to fear reappears in her eyes. “So?”

  “A wise friend told me no matter what happens, a dream can’t kill you.” I retrieve the dagger from the snow-covered ground at my side. “But if this entire Exhibition is nothing but another canvas and Anthony and I the frame that holds it together…”

  “No.” Versailles eyes grow wide as she finally comprehends my plan. “You can’t.” She spins as fast as she can in her full-length dress and dives for the Gates, but not before I pull the dagger to my chest and slide its gleaming blade between my ribs.

  Versailles screams in defeat as the stony arch crumbles to the snow-covered ground. The sky darkens. The forest around us disappears, then the rubble, then the ground itself. Surrounded in nothing but ever-darkening gray, Versailles fades into oblivion. Left floating alone in the dim void, I look on dispassionately as my body―no―the body of Lady Scheherazade, the storyteller, begins to fade as well.

  Somewhere far away, the thunder of gunfire splits the sky just before everything fades to black.

  awake with the great-grandmother of all headaches, my head throbbing in time with a beeping somewhere to my left. I open my eyes to find my shivering form nestled safely between a set of overly starched white sheets. An IV line protrudes from my hand, the fluids sending a chill up my arm and into my chest. Though the pastel blue curtains surrounding me block my view, the sounds and smells make it a safe bet I’m in a hospital somewhere. The rhythmic beeping of the machine next to me captures my attention again and I find strange reassurance seeing the rhythm of my heart play out as a squiggly green line on the screen.

  I try to sit up. As I have many times before in the last week, I fail miserably.

  “Hello?” My voice comes out as an all too familiar croak. “Is anyone there?”

  A nurse pops around the curtain, notices I’m awake, and rushes over to check on me.

  “Good evening, Ms. Tejedor. How are you feeling?”

  “Like I got hit by a runaway train. Where am I?”

  “The Emergency Department. Carolinas Medical Center. If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll go get the doctor.”

  “Hold on a minute.” My words are barely a whisper. “You said evening. How long have I been out?”

  “Let me get the doctor.” The nurse disappears behind the curtain, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the monotonous beeping of the heart monitor by my left ear. Fortunately, I don’t have long to wait.

  “She’s awake and talking?” comes a male voice from beyond the curtain. A doctor who looks like he just graduated high school pulls back the curtain and strides over to the bed.

  “Ms. Tejedor. It’s good to see you awake. I’m Dr. Holst. I’ve been taking care of you for the last few hours.” He pulls a pen light from the pocket of his white coat and checks my eyes. “Are you in any pain?” The combination of the bright light and his excited words sends a twinge straight through to the back of my skull.

  “I’ve got one killer of a headache.” I turn my lips up in a weak smile. “Think you can turn down the volume just a bit?”

  “Sorry.” His voice drops a few decibels. “I’m just surprised you’ve recovered so quickly.”

  “Recovered? What happened to me?”

  “From everything we were able to put together from the EMT report and your head scan, it appears you suffered a serious concussion. I was just finishing up the paperwork to send you upstairs to our neurology floor.”

  “Concussion? But what in the world would…” A flood of images comes rushing back. The Exhibition. The Gates. Madame Versailles. Jason. Veronica.

  Anthony.

  “Last thing I remember, I was at the home of Caroline Faircloth working with her youngest son, Anthony.” I inhale, afraid to ask the next question. “Is he… okay?”

  “Anthony? Why don’t you see for yourself?” He pulls back the curtain separating me from the next b
ay. There, lying on his side facing me, Anthony Faircloth plays with a toy truck. He looks up at me, offers an absent wave reminiscent of Antoine from the Tuileries garden, and returns to his toy. “Normally, we would have sent him to the Pediatric ER, but he was stable and his mother was adamant we keep the two of you together.”

  “He’s… awake?”

  “Awake? According to all the records I reviewed, he hasn’t looked this good in weeks. It’s clear he’s been through some trauma, but the boy barely has a scratch on him. You and the other patient, however, are a different story.”

  “Veronica Sayles.”

  “Um… yes.” After a quick glance across his shoulder, Holst draws in close. “The EMTs found both you and Ms. Sayles unconscious on the floor, you bound with duct tape and she crumpled on the floor next to you, apparently holding a spent pistol. The bruises around your neck suggest she went down with her hand at your throat.”

  I bring my free hand to my neck. The skin and muscles there are tender to the touch.

  “Where is she?” I try in vain again to sit up. “Veronica. Is she―”

  “I’m very sorry, Ms. Tejedor.” Holst massages the bridge of his nose and stares down at the chart in his hand. “I’ve already told you more than I should have.”

  “Look. That woman tied me up, threatened to kill me and Anthony.” I grab the sleeve of his white coat with my free hand. “Can’t you at least tell me if she’s still alive?”

  Holst takes all of two seconds to consider my question before pulling the curtain closed and taking a seat next to me on the gurney.

  “We never had this conversation, right?”

  “What conversation?” I raise an eyebrow and offer him an exhausted smile. “I’ve got a concussion, remember?”

  “Right.” He lets out an impassioned sigh. “From what I understand, she isn’t doing well. They’ve got her upstairs in the OR as we speak. When they found her, she was bleeding from her ears and nose. Neurosurgery is working to evacuate a pretty significant head bleed and they’re not sure she’s going to make it.”

  “But she’s alive.”

  He looks away. “For now.”

  Though Veronica likely lies dying in an operating room several floors away, the mere memory of her icy glare chills me more than the bag of IV fluids running into my veins.

  Holst meets my gaze, his brow furrowed. “Is it true she’s the boy’s teacher?”

  I nod. The effort sends a new twinge of pain from my neck up into the back of my skull.

  “Your voice is pretty rough.” Holst takes a yellow pitcher and pours some ice water into a styrofoam cup. “You must be thirsty.”

  Holst is still adjusting my bed so I can sit up and sip my water when Detectives Sterling and Bolger round the corner. Bolger, even more surly than usual, hangs back while Sterling’s earnest expression suggests he’s forgotten the tone of our last couple of conversations.

  “Mira.” Standing at the foot of my bed, his hands tremble. “Thank God you’re all right.”

  “Good news, Detective.” I rub at the shooting pain above my eye and flash an ironic grin. “I think I found your murderer.”

  Bolger snorts into his coffee as Sterling’s eyes drop.

  “I’m sorry, Mira.” His shoulders slump as his gaze wanders across the various pieces of medical equipment. “I should’ve been there for you.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up too much. I didn’t suspect Sayles either. Call me crazy, but I don’t make it standard practice to delve into deep psychic trances with a homicidal maniac standing watch over me.”

  Sterling glances in the doctor’s direction. “Is she well enough to talk for a minute?”

  Holst catches my subtle nod. “Make it quick, Detective. Ms. Tejedor has had a rough day.” Bolger follows Holst out into the ER, leaving me alone with Sterling.

  “How are you feeling?” The contrition in Sterling’s eyes cut with genuine concern, the baked bread scent is the first emotion my mind has registered since I woke up.

  “About as well as can be expected. Doc Holst says I’ve got a pretty good concussion and the railroad worker hammering spikes into the back of my skull would tend to agree.”

  “But you’re going to be okay?”

  “I’ve had worse. Believe me.” I pray he doesn’t see past my bold-faced lie. “Anyway, I’m a lot more worried about Jason. Last thing I remember, Veronica shot him. Is he all right?”

  “We took his statement earlier. He looked pretty pale, but the doctors say he should pull through.” Sterling leans in and his voice takes on a conspiratorial tone. “Kid saved your life, you know. Took one in the shoulder leading Sayles away from you and Anthony.”

  “But from what I understand, they found her lying on the floor next to me.”

  “Jason’s a conditioned athlete. Even down a pint or two, he led Sayles for quite the chase. He climbed out his window before she blew the door off its hinges and ran a few blocks before holing up in a neighbor’s garage. He made a quick 9-1-1 call on his cell and then hunkered down and kept pressure on his wound till the EMTs and cops arrived. Best I can tell, after Sayles lost him, she circled back to the Faircloth house.” Sterling looks around and his voice goes even a shade quieter. “What the hell happened, Mira? It’s like someone clubbed her… from inside her skull.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re insinuating. Anthony was all but comatose and I was bound and gagged on the floor.”

  “Bound and gagged, maybe, but helpless? Forget about the A negative blood we found on those four-inch heels of yours.” He taps his temple twice and raises an eyebrow. “You’re telling me it wasn’t you?”

  “I’m afraid anything like that is a bit beyond my capabilities, Detective Sterling, but I appreciate your open-mindedness about who I am and what I can do.”

  Sterling clears his throat. “One of our guys found five different bottles of psychiatric medicine at Sayles’ townhouse and her blood tests here popped positive for amphetamines. Working theory between medical and law enforcement is she stroked out from all the drugs ratcheting up her heart and blood pressure. What’s your take?”

  “Sounds plausible to me.” I offer him a coy smile. “And I can all but guarantee your report will be easier to write if I remain a helpless victim in all of this, wouldn’t you agree?”

  A grim smile overtakes Sterling’s lips. “I suppose it would.”

  A thought flashes across my memory. “What about Glenn Hartman? You held him for his assault on Jason, but you and I both know the real reason you kept him as long as you did.”

  “Jason Faircloth has already dropped all charges against Hartman, though there’s still the matter of the pictures.” Sterling takes in my shocked expression. “Caroline showed me. At least I finally understand what Hartman was doing at the Faircloth house that morning. Can’t say I’m too happy those pictures were withheld, though I can understand why you all did it.”

  “The last thing Caroline or Jason needed at that moment was to get dragged down to the police station again. And Jason didn’t take those pictures. Veronica did.”

  “A fact you didn’t know at the time, I might add.” Sterling checks his watch. “So, Veronica steals Jason’s phone and makes it look like he’s the one that texted Julianna. Meanwhile, Glenn Hartman thinks it’s Jason blackmailing him with pictures of him and the Wagner girl. God, what a piece of work.”

  “You have no idea.” I rub at my ribs where Veronica kicked me. “What happens to Hartman now?”

  “Once it gets out he was sleeping with a student, his career will likely be over, but truth is, the age of consent in North Carolina is sixteen.”

  “He goes free? Wow.” I try to read Sterling’s expression, as my sixth sense is still a little hit-or-miss. “The only question remaining then is… what happened to Julianna Wagner?”

  “We’ve redoubled our efforts on the case since finding out about Sayles’ involvement. I’ll let you know if and when we find out anything.” He pushes the blanket
back from the edge of the bed and takes a seat. “So, are we good? You and me?”

  “I’d say so. You’ve got your murderer, if she survives the night. We’ve helped exonerate an innocent man, well, sort of innocent. Anthony appears to be back to something resembling normal and to top it all off, I made it through with nothing but a splitting headache, some bruised ribs, and a few tape burns. The good guys won.”

  “No,” he says. “You know what I mean. I was wondering if―”

  “She’s awake?” A welcome voice sounds from beyond the curtain. A moment later, Thomas pokes his head inside my corner of the ER. His face breaks into a broad grin when our eyes meet. “Thank God, Mira. I’ve been out of my head.”

  “Hm.” I give him the best grin I can manage. “And I thought that was my job.”

  He steps around Sterling and joins me at the head of the bed. “Are you all right?”

  “Getting better every minute.”

  “Good evening, Doc.” Sterling rises from the bed.

  “Detective.” Thomas returns his attention to me. “You need anything?”

  “The doctor is off getting me something for the quartet of Clydesdales tap dancing on my skull. Otherwise, I’m doing just fine.”

  Thomas’ voice grows quiet. “They weren’t sure you’d wake up.”

  I gesture around the room with my free hand. “And miss all this?”

  “If you’ll excuse me, it seems you two have some catching up to do.” Sterling grasps the edge of the curtain. “We’ll be in touch sometime in the next few days to get a statement, Ms. Tejedor, when you’re feeling up to it, of course.”

  “Thank you, Detective. I’ll be glad to help in any way I can.”

  Sterling pauses at the edge of the room as if about to say something else, but opts instead to keep his silence. He pulls the curtain closed as he leaves.

  “Did I interrupt something?” Thomas looks down on me, his expression somewhere between curious and hurt. Jalapeno burns my senses.

  “Just business.” I stretch my arms above my head and wince as the IV line connecting me to the hanging bag of fluids pinches the skin at my wrist. “How are you doing, Thomas?”