Deep Blue

by David Niall Wilson

  “You saw,” Shaver said, voice accusing and credulous, amazed and filled with a sudden sense of awe.

  “We were there,” Dexter cut in, sliding his hand across the table, prying both Shaver’s and Liz’s fingers from the napkin and snagging it in a quick motion, turning it, and staring fixedly at the image. “We saw this boy . . . you. We heard the song. Brandt played Hank that night, too, remember?”

  Before Shaver could answer, the waitress intruded again, another level dropped back, and they punted. Rising, Shaver reached for the check, realized his ruined fingertips could not lift the paper from the tabletop, grinned, and drew back his hand. Liz snatched the offending bit of paper quickly, before Dexter could move, scanned it, and dropped a couple of bills distractedly onto the table. Dexter clutched the napkin, Shaver’s young/old eyes watching them all from the surface. Shaver tried to concentrate on the money, to calculate a tip. Failed.

  He turned toward the door and started walking, Liz pressed tightly to his side and Dexter trailing after, bumping off people and tables distractedly as he stared at the napkin. Shaver wondered if his friend’s mind was walking the familiar trail his own had taken so many times, if he was seeking Shaver’s father, mourning his mother, or just lost in the notes of the song.

  He pressed open the door and stepped onto the darkened street. In the distance, haunting and eerie, he heard the strains of a song, floating on the breeze. Humming, he inserted his voice into the melody, counterpoint, minor to minor harmony as he matched the rhythm with his footsteps, drawing Liz closer.

  Dexter fell into step behind them, finally glancing up from the napkin image with a dark grin. He cocked his head to one side, moving up beside them and joining his own, deep, off-key voice to the refrain: “Why can’t I free your doubtful mind, and melt, your cold . . . cold heart. . . .”

  Shaver wanted to laugh. Dex’s voice floated up from recent memory. “Hank Williams?” It didn’t quite work. He couldn’t laugh, and as the three of them turned the corner at Elm, heading for the cemetery, he knew it would be a long time before any of this seemed funny again. They rounded another corner, and the spiked, wrought-iron gates of the graveyard came into view. The music was smoother now, deeper and resonant. He could make out other tunes, melodies that haunted him with their tightrope walk around the edges of his memory, but that would not surface fully, and he stopped.

  Liz had kept moving, nearly toppling them both as he dragged on her, human anchor to her caught-in-the-tide progress. Dexter was three paces gone before he, too, stopped, glancing back quizzically.

  “I’m not ready to go there,” Shaver said.

  The music, as if sentient and hungry, drew up over and around them, seductive and strong.

  Dexter glanced over his shoulder, back at Shaver, and then back to the graves again. “But . . .”

  Shaver shook his head. The motion, half negation, half to clear cobwebs of indecision, was all that it took. He turned slowly, drawing Liz with him. She dragged against that tug for a moment, leaning longingly toward the cemetery, then followed with a soft moan. Shaver leaned close to her ear, breath hot on her soft skin and whispered, “Not yet.”

  Nodding, she curled against him as he walked slowly away. Shaver sensed Dexter hesitating behind them. The moment was electric with energy, tension snapped taut between them like a wire. Shaver walked. The image of the wire tightened in his mind, vibrating, shimmering, so close to snapping back and slicing them both to the quick that he shuddered, but he didn’t falter. It wasn’t time. He knew it wasn’t. That song had been his years before. That moment had been magic. It wasn’t now. It wasn’t him. It was his past.

  “You still got that bottle, Dex?” Shaver called over his shoulder.

  He didn’t look back, but he felt the soft release of tension, felt the synchronization, like the music, like the band, melody and rhythm, drums and lead. Dexter fell in beside him, and Hank Williams faded into the soft voices of crickets and the hiss of tires on the road as the city’s dark dwellers drifted past on their private missions. Even the throbbing in his fingers faded to a subsidiary of his heartbeat. At the corners of his mind, the song ate slowly and patiently, and he smiled.

  “I’ll get you, you bastard,” he whispered. Liz turned, quizzically, as he spoke, but he met her lips with his own and silenced her without an answer. Suddenly, the night seemed too short and the options infinite.

  Four

  The soft, sad strains of the harmonica trailed off, fading as the footsteps of the three turned from death to life. Footscrape echoes trailed into the world and the moon bathed the old tomb in silvered luminescence. Brandt squinted, fighting to pierce the gloom, but there was no way he could see them. No way he could even understand how he heard them. Beside him, Synthia rocked slowly, her chin on her knees, which were drawn up tight against her breasts.

  “Damn,” Brandt said softly. “They didn’t come.” He shook his head slowly, disbelievingly. Synthia remained silent, brooding and glaring at the night as if she dared it to say anything.

  “Not yours to decide, boy,” a gravelly voice cut through the heavy silence. “Not your pain, nor mine. Changes nothin’.”

  Brandt turned slowly. “It changes everything. You said it had to be complete. You said that the music we needed, the answers that can make this all . . . sane . . . were tied up in the band. There goes the band, Wally. They are fucking walking away like they never heard a thing.”

  “Tonight t’aint forever boy,” Wally growled, turning away and tucking the harmonica into a fold of his battered coat. “Not fer you nor me to say. Time does as time does. You had your learnin’ to do, they got theirs.”

  Brandt opened his mouth, words resting hot and acidic on the tip of his tongue, but the notes crashed in his head, and he hesitated, regrouped. Nothing he could say would negate what he’d just heard. Nothing he knew could explain a single moment of time he could remember. Another step along the way, another short climb up the ladder toward the future. At least he hoped he was climbing.

  “It’s his father,” Syn said quietly.

  Brandt whirled, and even Wally turned to glance over his shoulder, dark eyes darker for that moment.

  “His father,” she repeated. “He has to find the song.”

  Wally nodded, turning away, but Brandt only stared.

  “The song was playing just a minute ago,” he said at last. “The song was supposed to fucking draw them here, bring us back together, and get this show on the road. Find the song . . . fuck!”

  Wally ignored the outburst, and Synthia was still staring at the street, eyes bright with—something. Brandt turned from one to the other, noting the lack of impact his words were having, and his shoulders slumped.

  “What then?” he asked.

  “Nothin’ then,” Wally said. “We wait. You got some playin’ to do, to get that outta you, boy, and I got things that draw me. Time will bring it together, or not. The world isn’t a set pattern, much as we’d like it to be. Lot depends on your friend now, but nothin’ you can do to make it happen. You play, and you wait, and you dream. You’ll know when it’s right.”

  Brandt turned toward the cemetery gates and stared into the darkness. He felt the notes itching at his heart, sliding down the sinews and veins of his arms, tugging at his fingers. Wally was right. He had to play, had to let the pain free, direct it up and out before it began to eat away at his mind and soul.

  He spoke into the wind, the words gripped and twisted from his lips by the breeze and dulled by the mist-soaked air. “Figure it out, Shaver. Find that song. If I can’t give it to you, you find that motherfucker and get back here where you belong.”

  The low hanging clouds killed any echo, and silence engulfed them in a clammy embrace. With no further words, Brandt turned, gripped the handle of his guitar case, and moved off into the night. Syn uncurled herself from the tombstone and followed without a sound. Wally was there, and then, he was not. Brandt didn’t even care.

  There was litt
le discussion on where they’d go. Shaver was in no way ready to have his decrepit, rotting little world invaded by anyone from “outside,” and Liz had food. Dex had the now-proverbial “bottle,” and they scored that along the way, Liz and Shaver leaning in close beneath a half-lit neon sign proclaiming “LIQUOR” in brilliant green and pink as Dex slipped up a shadowed stair to his “loft,” returning moments later, grin and corn whiskey accounted for.

  The walk was completed in silence. Shaver had been to Liz’s place plenty of times. The two were one of the hot-cold, on-and-off-again sensations of Sid’s. Dex had only been there once, and under the irresistible influence of chemicals usually beyond their financial means. Liz led the way up the stairs, and Shaver noted distractedly that they were clean-swept and neat. That the door behind them actually closed and locked. That there were no loud stereos or crying children wailing into the silence.

  Quick fumble of keys, purse nearly dropped, and a soft curse ushered them into her world. The air smelled faintly of incense, and the light flicked on soft and comfortable. Shaver stopped in the doorway. It was familiar, and new at once. He felt the smooth wood of the doorframe, sliding his hand up gently, not wanting to return the pain to his fingertips, but wanting to feel the solidity he sensed. He was about to try and voice this sense of peace when Dexter, tired of waiting behind him, gave a light shove to his back and sent him stumbling in, fighting for balance.

  “What were you doing, meditating?” Dex asked with a grin.

  Catching his balance, barely resisting the instinct to press his ravaged hand to the wall and catch himself, Shaver turned. “Don’t know. Feels . . . good. Comfortable. I must have been here a thousand times, never felt anything like this. . . .”

  And then a soft breath of perfume as Liz returned, catching them mid-conversation and stilling it. Shaver shifted his gaze to meet hers and knew she’d caught the last, caught her soft smile in return, quick lowering of her eyes and brusque words.

  “In here. I want to look at those fingers again,” she said.

  Shaver followed, and Dex fell in behind, closing the door behind them. The magic of that first moment faded to a soft glow, and Shaver slid onto the couch, leaving room beside him for Liz and watching as she bustled about the small apartment, trying not to stare at him, getting caught and blushing.

  No one said a word, but Dex produced the “bottle,” and Liz produced clean bandages, a tube of ointment, and three glasses. Shaver almost laughed when he examined his and found it was clean. Hadn’t been a clean glass in his place for weeks. He moved a bit too quickly and the motion sent a sudden breath of his own odor wafting about him. Shaver nearly retched.

  “Mind if I shower?” he said.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Liz grinned, tossing a towel at his head. “Take off those bandages first . . . the water will do you good. Going to hurt like hell, but serves you right.”

  Instinctive catch and thoughtless grip and the towel was in his hands, which throbbed from the effort. Biting his lip against the flood of abuse that washed through his mind, Shaver rose and turned toward the bathroom. He stopped at the doorway, staring at the shower, and Liz called out.

  “You’re going to need help, aren’t you?” She wasn’t teasing, but concerned, and Shaver leaned against the wall. It was true. He could barely get out of his clothing, and the bandages would drive him crazy. He wasn’t sure how well he could grip the slick handles of the faucets, and he knew the water was going to hurt like hell. Sudden tears welled in the corners of his eyes, angering him again.

  “Fuck!” he growled.

  “It’s all right, Shaver.” Liz’s voice, soft, comforting. “You aren’t alone anymore.”

  She pressed into the small room behind him, leaving Dexter and his bottle to wait and wonder as the two slipped from sight. Shaver felt her pressing close, arms circling him. He wondered vaguely how she could stomach his stench, but eased back against her as nimble fingers gripped the lower hem of his shirt and rolled it slowly upward.

  “Why?” he asked.

  No answer, soft lick at his ear and the shirt rolling higher, arms raising slowly and the material sliding up. Shaver pulled his arms and hands free of the t-shirt gingerly, careful not to disturb the bandages, fighting for concentration as other sensations shivered through him.

  “I’m glad you came,” she said simply, tossing his shirt toward the nearest wall. “When you disappeared, I thought I might not see you again. Brandt never came back. Synthia took off after him and never looked back.”

  “It’s different for them,” Shaver answered, feeling her hands moving down again, to his belt, loosening by degrees and working the snap firmly, fingers slipping in and teasing before curling back and tugging the jeans apart, and down, drawing them slowly over his hips, impeded by her own pressed close from behind.

  “How?” Her breath was hot on his skin, and her hands lingered much longer than necessary as she lowered the jeans, holding them for him to step free and taking that moment to press her tongue to his spine.

  Shaver spun slowly, clumsily wrapping her in a hug. “You know the answer to that. I’ve heard my song before, but I haven’t lived it. Whatever happened to Brandt before he played that night, it was some serious shit. He never came back from it, and it was the same for Syn. They grew up, somehow, reached out and grabbed that fucking copper ring on the carousel.”

  “And you?” As she spoke, she slid closer into his arms, her lips so close to his that he could share her breath and her eyes wide, waiting, hungry in ways he could only sense, not truly understand.

  “I’m not there yet,” he answered simply. “I’m not there, and I’m not certain that if I was there, I’d react as they did. I have no way to know. I was always the one hoping the carousel would speed up, that if I got it going hard enough, I could shift up from the copper to the gold ring, just out of reach.”

  “Maybe you just never looked up at the right moment.” It wasn’t a question, and before Shaver could answer, his pants were dropping away between them and he felt himself stiffening at the taste of cool air and the soft brush of Liz’s long nails. She smiled at him, turning away and reaching through the shower curtains to the faucet, releasing a stream of water that seemed to shift from cold to steaming hot in seconds as Shaver watched her back, the play of muscles as she moved. She spun back to him and he blushed, unable to conceal his erection and further embarrassed by her soft grin and the sudden brush of her nails down the length of him.

  “Shower, hotshot,” she said. “Hot water, clean fingers, then talk. We wouldn’t want to give Dexter the wrong impression.”

  She was very close, fingers gently gripping his, working at the tape, and the bandages. Shaver flinched, but it didn’t hurt, not really, not like it had hurt when he tried to play, or when Dex had made him answer the phone. Liz unwound the gauze and drew it away, tossing it into a small plastic can beneath the blue porcelain sink.

  “In,” she said, pointing to the shower. Shaver stepped over the edge of the tub and under the water, trying clumsily to reach up and pull the curtain shut behind him. Liz’s hand slipped over his, pressing him in and tugging the curtain along its runners. She didn’t close it all the way, leaving enough of an opening for her arms.

  Shaver reached out, but, again his hands were pressed away gently, and the soap was suddenly sliding over his skin, steamy water running down and around her arms as she worked slowly, cleansing him, careful not to splash too much on his fingers, but not taking it easy on his weeks-old funk. He held himself straight, trying not to think about it, trying not to notice as she worked lower, as she teased, her nails slipping around the soap and scraping his skin, as the water swirled over and around the soap, drawing the fatigue and filth down, swirling away in a soft drain that encompassed much more than water.

  Steam rose. Liz’s fingers worked and slid, massaged and cleansed, and Shaver closed his eyes, overcome by the sensations, dull throbbing fingertips and skin so alive from the touch of
scalding water and sliding hands. Too much, very suddenly too much, and he leaned into the wall, catching himself with one elbow, remembering for once not to throw up his hand to break the fall. Liz had grown silent, the only sound the rhythmic pounding of the shower and the pulsing, too-heavy beat of his heart forcing blood through his veins.

  In the room beyond, oblivious, Dexter was pouring shots of corn whiskey, staring at them, sliding the glasses in odd patterns, emptying them back into the bottle and repeating the action, fingers nervous, almost frantic, with motion. The corner of his lip twitched, unconscious dance of energy defined and trapped. Waiting. Shifting his gaze to the door once more, he cursed softly and rose, moving to the window and staring out over the alley behind the apartment building. A drizzle had begun to wet the stone and brick, running in slow rivulets down and away, slickened and discolored by oil and chemicals, debris and long-dried blood. Quick rinse of the city’s epidermis, growing slowly in strength as his fingers, never still, tapped Hank Williams backbeats on the window glass.

  The rain began to fall more steadily, and Brandt leaned in close beneath the wide-spread wings of the stone angel perched over his head. He watched the slow drift of traffic up and down Elm, long-dead memory of a man and his family pressed behind him, seeping through the chill of the rain and the soft brush of Syn’s thigh to his. In his lap, the guitar rested gently, held close as his fingers caressed the polished maple neck. He didn’t play—not yet. He held the guitar, fingers slow-dancing with the strings, mind drifting with the mist. The notes rippled up the tendons of his arms, itched at his fingers, but he held them in check.

  Synthia leaned closer, soft hair tickling at his neck as she laid her head on his shoulder gently. Brandt let his head cock to the side, resting against her and letting the scent of her seep through his senses, letting her proximity dull the pain that was the music before it could cut his heart. Too long. Too fucking long he’d waited. Brandt hadn’t realized until that moment how much he’d been counting on watching Shaver and Dex walk through those wrought iron, spear-tipped gates. It was another emptiness, piled on the void that had been his life. It brought him that much closer to the pain, and the closer he got, the more he knew he had to play.