Bone Music

by Rice, Christopher

  “Let’s bring him in,” Ed says. “Have a conversation where he doesn’t set the terms. Find out how much risk he’s really put the company in.”

  “He hasn’t been on the payroll for two years.”

  “Yeah, but he’s been making choices that endanger the company for three now.”

  “We’re watching, Ed. That’s all we’re doing. Watching. The minute we decide to force a conversation with either of these two parties, we take ownership of this. I take ownership of this. And I’m not ready for that yet. I need a verified episode of her defending herself on Zypraxon against a formidable opponent, preferably a man or several, and I need her to survive.”

  “You’ve got the biker video.”

  “I need it from a source I can trust. That’s what verified means. And not edited, for Christ’s sake.”

  “We’ve got her demo from the other day.”

  “Against a truck, a tree, and a fence post. I need her to survive a fight, Ed. A bad one. That’s the whole point of this drug.”

  “OK. You want us to create one for her?”

  “Ed—”

  “For God’s sake, Cole, it’s crazy letting her wander around like this.”

  “She is the only human this drug has ever worked on. The only one. But if she’s going to be worth anything to us, she has to be able to use it, fight on it, and survive.”

  After Ed clears his throat, he says, “I apologize. For my insubordination.”

  Insubordination is right. Another inch over the line, and Cole would have reminded him that the days of his father and Ed running secret drug trials in developing nations—on volunteers who didn’t have the slightest idea what they were being given—were long over, and they weren’t coming back. At least the people Project Bluebird killed had volunteered willingly, knowing the risks.

  Cole’s little speech has been good practice for the pitch he’ll have to make to the entire Consortium to get Project Bluebird up and running again.

  The other option—have Graydon provide all the funding—is unthinkable.

  How would he ever explain that to his board or his mother, if she got wind of it? That’s the beauty of The Consortium, despite the perils of the egos involved. By pooling their resources, each company can make financial contributions that fly just under the radar of its legal and accounting departments. And, of course, the secrecy protects all the companies involved from any opinion the Justice Department might one day have about how they collectively decide to share in the benefits of their efforts, should any ever materialize.

  “Any leads on Bailey Prescott?” he asks.

  “No, and the digital team’s frustrated. But if the guy’s wanted by the FBI, I guess it makes sense.”

  “We hack the FBI all the time.”

  “Yes, and we did it again, and it’s only revealed how little they actually know about him. Are we sure that’s who she was talking to at the library?”

  “It’s as good a guess as any.”

  “She could have just been researching us,” Ed says.

  “She meets Luke Prescott; suddenly she’s on her way to the nearest computer lab, where she hangs out for fifteen minutes. I don’t think so.”

  “All right, well, I might have something,” Ed says.

  “You personally?”

  “Yeah, some contacts from my former life.”

  “LAPD?” Cole asks.

  “Uh-huh. Apparently, it’s not in the news, but Parker Center was hacked last night.”

  “As in LAPD headquarters?”

  “As in Robbery Homicide, specifically.”

  “The department was targeted? Anything specific?”

  “My source described it as broad-brush. Probably deliberately so whoever it was could hide what he was really after. But whoever did it was good. Very good. Cybersecurity didn’t notice the breach until this morning, and by then the creeper was long gone. But they think he was in their network for hours. Just kinda hanging out, looking at whatever he felt like.”

  “And you think it was Bailey Prescott?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Do they think it was Bailey Prescott?”

  “No, my guys don’t even know that name, and I didn’t give it to them. It’s their working theory that got me thinking.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “They think it was journalists after info on the Mask Maker case. But, you know, what if it wasn’t journalists? What if it was her?”

  “Holy shit,” Cole whispers.

  What had Dylan told her again? Go find some bad men. Show them what you can do. Well, if this was true, she was on the trail of a real grade-A psycho. And given her background, her taste in bad men made a lot of sense.

  “Holy shit,” Cole whispers again. “You kinda buried the lede on this one.”

  “Could be nothing. Or it could be the beginning of quite a show.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “You’re sure as hell not going to bring her in now, are you?” Ed asks.

  “Anything else?” he asks, trying to conceal how floored he is by this news.

  “Yeah, your b—excuse me. Cody. He’s giving us quite a show on his TruGlass.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I believe it’s called edging.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  “How long do we have to watch?”

  “Take breaks. He can’t jerk off forever.”

  “You sure? Maybe he invented a drug for that, too.”

  “Take breaks, Ed. Good night.”

  He hangs up, just sits there for a while, disgusted by the primal, lizard-brain urge he feels to pop open his laptop and take a peek at Dylan’s show.

  Instead he lifts the screen and logs in to the feeds from ground teams A and B.

  In seconds he’s looking at two different night vision angles on Martin Cahill’s trailer. There’s tinny audio via parabolic microphones, distorted, watery-sounding music drifting from some stereo he can’t see. Watching a creepy night vision version of something as innocuous as a friendly cookout seems comic. The green flares around each body and blazing, whited-out eyes are appropriate for fast-moving predators, crawling through brush. Not a bunch of lanky, slouching shadows hanging out around a smoking grill.

  Even with the lousy sound he can recognize the song they’re all listening to. “Angel of the Morning” by Juice Newton. And he can see her there on the deck, leaning on her elbows, sipping a beer, it looks like. Her eyes are pinpricks of flare. She’s either staring at the group of men talking in the driveway nearby or gazing off into the night, maybe as she entertains fantasies of tearing a serial killer apart with her bare hands.

  “You are something, Burning Girl. You are really something.”

  It takes him a few seconds to realize he whispered these thoughts aloud.

  34

  “Juice Newton?” Charlotte asks. “Seriously?”

  Marty’s iPod is hardwired to the three little speakers he’s mounted on the deck rail. Besides being a few generations out of date, the poor thing looks like it’s been through a ground war between rival paint manufacturers. But it’s working, and that’s all that matters, as Marty pointed out when she tried, in vain, to scrape some of the paint off the display with her fingernails.

  “Hey. Don’t make fun. Some of us enjoyed it when songs had actual lyrics.”

  “Not judging. Just surprised, is all.”

  It’s a cool, breezy night, more so up here in the hills, but Marty’s stripped down to shorts, tank top, and an apron and put his hair in a ponytail, all so he can withstand the heat of his grill, which looks considerably newer than his iPod.

  Maybe it’s the half a beer that’s done it, but she feels truly relaxed for the first time in days. It doesn’t hurt that Luke’s there, doing his level best to make small talk with Marty’s crew. The sight of him down in the driveway with the other guys, out of uniform and in what looks like one of his best dress shirts, has removed the constant repla
y of their last cruel words from the tape deck in her mind. Now she’s calm enough to notice Marty’s interesting taste in music.

  She’s surprised nobody else has said anything. Stevie Nicks, ABBA, even a track or two from the Go-Go’s. And, of course, the song playing now. She hates to stereotype, but the last time she checked, “Angel of the Morning” wasn’t exactly a fan favorite among guys who threw up drywall for a living.

  “Take it you’d’ve said something if he’d heard from his brother,” Marty says.

  “That’s correct.”

  “And I take it you’d’ve said something if he got shitty with you out on PCH earlier.”

  “Like I said, he apologized.”

  The closing chords of “Angel of the Morning” are replaced by gentle piano and eventually the soft, familiar voice of John Denver. It takes her a second to recognize the specific song, “Sweet Surrender.”

  “All right,” Charlotte says. “Where did this music come from, Marty?”

  Marty sets his tongs down, wipes his hands on his apron. “Well, if you must know, this was one of your grandmother’s playlists.”

  “Gram never had an iPod.”

  “That’s right. She had all these on a mixtape, and I made a playlist of ’em after she died.”

  “Wow. How come she didn’t play them for me when she was alive?”

  “’Cause she didn’t want to make you sad.”

  “Sad? Why would they make me sad?

  “They were your momma’s favorites. That’s why she made the tape. Back when she was getting sober, she’d listen to it every night before bed. Said it calmed her heart some, especially when she was still jittery from the withdrawals.”

  “I see.”

  “Dammit. Now I made you sad. Want me to put something else on?”

  “No, I’m not sad. It’s nice. Leave it. I just . . .”

  “Just what?”

  “Do you think we didn’t talk about her as much as we wanted to because we thought we’d have to talk about everything that came after?”

  “Your mom, you mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I take it your dad didn’t talk about her much?” He flips a steak, his lack of a direct answer an answer in itself.

  “Why would he? Weren’t they getting divorced?”

  “Meh. It wasn’t the first time she’d walked out on him. They might have patched things up again. For your sake.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Why didn’t you marry my grandmother?”

  “Luanne didn’t want to get married.”

  “Did you?”

  “Nope. It was kinda perfect. When we weren’t rocking each other’s world in the bedroom, we went off and did our own thing. We were married on the weekends, she liked to say. Any more than that and I would’ve gotten in the way of her reading.”

  She laughs.

  He smiles at the grill. “Has there been anyone, Charley?”

  “Anyone what?”

  “You know, anyone intimate. Any relationships.” He casts a glance at the driveway. At Luke, she realizes. Maybe he’s trying to assess her vulnerabilities in the area of romance so he can keep Luke from exploiting them.

  “I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I wasn’t, but OK.”

  “No relationships.”

  From those two answers, he can probably put two and two together and figure out she lost her virginity to a man she didn’t know all that well.

  She can’t even remember the guy’s name; he’d used friendly chitchat and long, inviting stares to pick her up at a rest stop during her grave-site tour. He was handsome enough, but also nervous, a little distracted, and disheveled, like he wasn’t used to picking up strange women in a Denny’s, or he had a life he was obligated to get back to soon, and what he was about to do with her didn’t quite fit. He knew what he was doing, and he’d been patient with her, mixing plenty of casual, relaxing conversation with his slow, studied exploration of her body. More important, there’d been no ring on his finger and no tan line where he might have removed one. Of course, she’d only been able to confirm the second detail after he’d fallen asleep next to her in bed.

  Only later did she realize the crazy, reckless irony of going home with a man she’d met in a Denny’s, given her past and the nature of her road trip. That might have been part of why she did it; the combination of being on the road, with her new name and her new wad of cash, made her temporarily fearless. Or maybe her past was exactly why she’d felt safe enough to do it; how often does lightning strike twice in the same place?

  “Where’d you go?” Marty asks.

  “Sorry.”

  “Memories?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Is it the music? You sure you don’t want me to change it?”

  “No. No, not at all.”

  “I guess I just thought it would be appropriate.”

  “How’s that?”

  Marty transfers three of the steaks to an empty plate. Turns to face her again. “Well, she’s why you’re doing it, right? Your mother, I mean. This plan of yours, it’s for her, isn’t it?”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  “Don’t let me put words in your mouth.”

  “No, I just . . . I didn’t think about it that way; that’s all. Is that why you’re gonna help? For my mom?”

  Marty eyes the guests chatting in the driveway, making sure they’re out of earshot, she assumes. “Truth be told, I’m helping you because I loved your grandmother more than I loved anyone in the world. I’ve picked people up out of the gutter. But I’ve never seen someone put herself back together the way she did after she lost you two. Now I see more of her in you every day since you came back. So my plan, if you’d like to know, is to do whatever it takes to keep you from going away again. Even if it means hanging out while you make choices that have me messing my shorts like a baby who ate chili.”

  Her vision had been starting to get tear blurred right up until Marty got to that last line. Now she’s laughing so hard she’s coughing. She drowns it with a swallow of beer. It empties the bottle.

  “Another soda?” she asks.

  “Sure thing.”

  Inside, she’s got both hands full and is headed for the door when she sees her notebook sitting on Marty’s desk. Foolish of her to leave it out in the open like that, with all the company outside.

  During two marathon sessions, she’d managed to pump out about sixty handwritten pages. Some of the memories came out fragmented, more like parts of an outline, and some, like the most recent ones, are crystal clear.

  She sets the beer and the soda down next to the love seat, picks up the notebook, and starts scanning the trailer for a secure place to stash it.

  Just then the door opens, and there’s Luke.

  In the trailer’s harsh overhead light, his jeans look freshly ironed, and she can see she was right: it really is one of his best dress shirts. Navy blue with a red polo pony and white buttons. There’s a spot, right where the top two buttons are undone, that she shouldn’t focus on for too long, a spot that lets her know he keeps his chest hair trimmed to a manicured stubble.

  “Howdy,” he says.

  “Howdy?”

  “Just, you know, a common form of greeting.”

  And it’s not hey, she thinks, because that’s what you said in the car when you almost touched my leg.

  “Howdy,” she says back.

  “You know, I thought those guys would be nicer to me if I was out of uniform. But it kinda took some work.”

  “Didn’t you threaten to run all of them because you were having a fight with Marty?”

  “Yeah, there’s that.”

  “Well, whatever you did, it’s fine now. Things seemed to be going all right last time I checked.”

  “Same strategy I always use to win people over.”

  “And what’s that?”

  �
�I just tell a few stories that make it clear I know I’m an asshole.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Worked with you, didn’t it?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Ah, well. Shucks.”

  “Honesty. Telling me what happened with your brother. That’s what worked for me. If you really want to know.”

  “Well, good, ’cause I do.”

  He looks at the notebook she’s holding against her chest with both arms like it might fly away. And he doesn’t ask about it, which she appreciates.

  “So am I out of the doghouse yet?” he asks.

  “Why? You eager to get home?”

  “Not in the slightest, actually. I’m having a pretty good time, and the steaks smell great. But I’d be having a better time if I knew you and I were . . . cool.”

  “Cool?”

  “If I knew whether or not my offer had been accepted.”

  “To help, you mean?”

  He nods.

  “What about your job, Luke?”

  “Yeah, as you can tell, it really takes up all my time. I was in the station for what? A whole hour and a half today?” Apparently he doesn’t like what he sees in her expression, because he bows his head. “Look, if you’re not comfortable after everything, I get it. I’m not gonna force you. I just . . .”

  “You just what?”

  “I don’t want you to string me along because you’re afraid I’m gonna run to the press or the FBI or something.”

  “Well, you did almost call Mona when I asked you not to. That was scary, Luke.”

  “I know. And I apologize. And no matter what happens, no matter what you decide, I won’t say a word about any of this. I promise.”

  She’s not afraid of him blabbing. She agrees with Marty. With Bailey involved, Luke won’t bring any outside attention to this.

  And she’s not still mad at him. Not exactly.

  Instead, looking at him now, dressed in his version of decked out, his big brown eyes full of sorrow and expectation, his stare steady and penetrating even though he’s downed two beers—she counted, which should tell her something—she feels something altogether different.

  Something that must be attraction, but it’s all tangled up in other feelings like sadness and anxiety. And because she’s so rarely felt attracted to a man who isn’t a character in a movie or novel, she’s not sure if those are signs it’s real or fleeting. It feels like there’s a weight to Luke Prescott that’s pulling on her, making her unsteady on her feet, but if she gives in, she’s more likely to end up flat on her face than in his arms.