They had found an open coffee shop, but he could only stare at the plastic lid of his cup. His mind kept torturing himself with the horror of his last vision—that the ghost who had haunted his memories and her nightmares was—him. No, he loved her, he had always loved her. He would rather die than hurt her. But the rage he had felt…that unspeakable, consuming rage.
No. He forced it from his mind. No.
The first hint of dawn was breaking across the sky when they entered the building that was already alive and jostling with activity. A program assistant escorted them back to the studios where they could set up and meet with the hosts.
Everyone was bursting with excitement, but it did nothing to ease his sense of dread, knowing that at any minute, miles and miles would begin separating him from Emily. That he would not be able to protect her. That he would no longer be able to keep her safe. That she probably still hated him, as well. But as he tuned his guitar, he bit down on his lip and thought bitterly: keep her safe from whom?
Before Andrew knew it, they were on the air.
They chatted and joked with the DJs about touring and life on the road as well as the charity shows they had both supported. The room was full of staff and grew more crowded as the minutes passed. He glanced at the clock. He knew the girls would be on the road themselves by now, and he prayed they had the radio on at least, keeping them joined in some way.
“So what would you like to play for us today? We’ll give you the first shot, and then we’ll beg for our favorites,” said the host.
Andrew smiled, causing the female producer to bobble her coffee cup and drench her white shirt in brown liquid.
“Well,” he began, speaking calmly into the microphone, “you see, there are three women out there in some godforsaken minivan heading up the coast that are royally ticked at us right now.”
“What did you do?”
“Long story. I’m hoping they haven’t snapped off the radio by now. But if not…Emily, luv, if you’re out there…”
He thought of everything he could say at that moment: I’m sorry, I love you, I should have asked you to tour with us long before now, marry me…Run.
Christian strummed the opening notes, and the song began. A love song, an apology. Andrew sang, the words becoming more and more plaintive, his guitar matching the heartbreak in his voice. When the song at last drifted to a whispered close, the room exploded in cheers.
Christian looked at Andrew with one eyebrow cocked and nodded appreciatively. Simon smiled, equally pleased. They went to a commercial break, and Andrew’s cell phone rang. His heart swelled when he saw the caller ID.
“Hey,” he whispered, his cheeks hot and his pulse racing.
“I love you!”
“I do too. God, I’m so sorry.”
“No, it’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have run away.”
“Listen, luv, we’ve only got a minute until we’re back on the air. I was a fucking prat, a complete fucking prat not to ask you right away. I was so afraid you’d say no. Christ, Emily, I love you, I’m not alive without you. Please come on tour with us.”
He could hear nothing but her quick breathing on the other end, and his throat tightened up.
“Please say yes. Emily? Emily, are you there?” He panicked, sure that she would say no.
“Yes! Of course, yes.”
The weight of relief smashed into him, and before he knew what he was saying he blurted out, “Marry me.”
The room went stone silent. Evidently they were back on the air.
Christian smiled like the cat that had eaten the canary. “Hey, you just made it official. You got witnesses now, dude.”
Andrew looked around at the wide-eyed anticipation in the room; the hosts were nearly falling out of their chairs at this once in a lifetime occurrence. Sommers and Bolen had suddenly turned up out of nowhere.
“Emily? Are you still there?”
“Uh huh.”
He clutched the phone tightly in his hand and whispered so that only she could hear.
“Marry me now, not later. Now. Tour with me. You can write your book. We’ll be together. We’ll share the same bed every night. I’ll know you’re out there. I’ll know you’re safe. Marry me. Dear God, please say yes.”
Anyone tuning in would swear they’d hit dead air. The room balanced on pins and needles awaiting her answer. Andrew could feel the heat of her blush on the other end, the fast rustle of her breath, and the tears glistening on her cheeks.
“Yes.”
The space about him erupted in cheers. He could see the DJs high five each other, the staff applaud wildly. He could see Simon’s shocked face and the incessant flash of Bolen’s camera. But he didn’t care. She had said yes.
Andrew and Christian were still laughing as they left the studio; Simon remained silent. Evidently the thought of both his band mates married was too much for him to contemplate. Sommers and Bolen were thrilled as well, having gotten a bit of guts and bones for their efforts, so Andrew fought to keep his elation to a dull roar.
In the car he checked his phone; he’d received a text from her:
Love you so! Meeting bodyguards @winery 2 celebrate!
He texted back, rolling his eyes as he did so:
Love you, girl. Bodyguards a +. Don’t inhale.
He was still upset that they had gone on ahead, but somehow the terror of what he had felt last night and this morning had subsided slightly. Four men, albeit four stoned men of marginal intelligence, could hold the fort until they got there. Still, he itched to be done with this and get on the road.
Once they arrived back at Neil’s house, it took a lot longer than expected to set the lights, since Sid had decided to do some last minute rewiring that caused a plethora of electrical problems. S.J. was micromanaging every detail, which further fueled his irritation. It was already well past noon.
He checked his phone. Nothing.
Why did time seem like it was going backward? A knock came from the door, and Christian trotted over to answer it. Surprisingly, Neil stood there. The last time Andrew had seen him he was in the audience with his mum, looking grave. Now, when he saw Andrew, a wide smile came over his face.
“Congratulations on the happy news,” he said. “And you sounded excellent.” As they shook hands, he gripped Andrew’s shoulder with his other and clamped down hard. “Just so you know, you truly don’t need any marketing—you do a fine job without it. Between your music and your charm, the phones were ringing off the hook at the studio.”
The click of Bolen’s camera fired off.
“Neil St. John, well I’ll be.” Sommers had materialized out of nowhere, studying their close stance with great interest.
“Mr. Sommers, a pleasure to see you again,” Neil said with a consummate balance of sincerity and enthusiasm. “I loved your article about The Who in The New Yorker. Kudos on that. It was a fine bit of writing. Is it going to be part of your book?”
Given such an opening, the journalist could not help but expound on the details of the latest chapters to which Neil listened with great interest. Finally, S.J., impatient for things to get going, joined them.
“Fine work with KFOG,” Neil commended her. “I had a meeting there this morning, as a matter of fact. Everyone was talking about the show. I’ve never seen the place like that before. It was utter madness. I don’t think they wanted the band to leave.”
“No they didn’t,” S.J. replied. “They were quite a hit. Between the apologies and career-crippling marriage proposals, I honestly lost track of how many songs they played.”
“Four.”
She looked straight down her nose at him. “I’d love to chat, but if you’d pardon me, we’re already behind schedule.” She nodded bluntly in farewell and returned to the opposite side of the room with Bolen where she began to move more paint cans around for a particular shot.
“Never knew all this mess would come in handy,” Neil remarked to Andrew, who laughed darkly in return.
> “You know, it’s remarkable,” Sommers pointed out. “But you two have the same exact eyes—same color and shape and everything. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, but the shade is so unique, you don’t see it every day.”
There was a highly tense moment as those eyes met, and a knowing but guarded expression swept over Neil’s face. The reporter was putting two and two together. Andrew’s resemblance, living in Neil’s house…As if sensing Andrew’s inner turmoil, Neil casually smiled and turned to Sommers. “Oh, bloodshot eyes are more common than you think, Glenn. Especially given all the dust while Andrew and his mates have been good enough to live in my property as I destroy it around their heads.”
Andrew didn’t know what he had expected Neil to say. Neil valued his privacy. Of course he wouldn’t announce to God, the world, and Rolling Stone that he was his son. Of course not.
“That was quite a stunt you pulled the other night,” Neil said to him quietly after Sommers excused himself to take a cigarette break in the back garden.
Andrew didn’t reply.
“She was worried about you.”
Andrew didn’t know what to say, not sure of the implications of Neil’s words. But just then the doorbell rang again, signaling the pizza delivery boy dropping off lunch, and Christian and Simon walked over to join them, ending any hope for a conversation. S.J. had exited to the back garden to smoke with Bolen and Sommers, leaving the four of them to huddle around some compound buckets in the living room. They were chatting about the upcoming weekend when Neil cleared his throat.
“I am concerned you gentlemen don’t have a manager yet. You need one, desperately. If you didn’t before, you definitely do now.”
Andrew ran his hands through his hair. “It’s an important relationship. We’ve got to find the right person. You said so yourself.”
“What happens if I have the right person?”
“Really?” Simon mouthed, chomping down on a large slice of pepperoni.
“Who?” he asked.
Neil paused. “Me.”
Andrew dropped his soda can on the floor.
“Seriously, man?” Simon asked.
“But…you’re retired,” Christian mumbled, blinking like an owl with cataracts.
“Think about it over the weekend, that’s all I’m asking. I can provide references if you require.”
“You’re truly serious?”
“Andrew, I know how this must look, but please see that I—”
The loud buzz of the newly functioning doorbell interrupted him.
“Damn pizza boy,” Simon complained. “He forgot the salads.”
The whole crew had wandered back into the living room while Simon got the door. Andrew was about to pull Neil aside when he spotted the man in the entranceway. He definitely was not a delivery boy.
He wore a rumpled jacket, trousers, and a loosened tie that hung over his middle-aged paunch. He peered around the room as he took out something from his pocket to show Simon.
A badge.
“Mr. Andrew Hayes?” the portly man asked, his bald spot shining in the Klieg lights.
Andrew crossed the room in three strides. “Yes, and you would be?”
“Detective Kent from the SFPD. I also need to locate a Miss Emily Thomas. Are you familiar with her?” At the mention of Emily’s name, Andrew felt his heart drop.
“Yes, she’s my…fiancée. Why, what’s the matter?”
“Do you know if she’s at home?”
“No, she’s on holiday—traveling. What is this in reference to?”
“Is there a place we can discuss this in private?” the detective asked, motioning toward the sea of people behind them. Andrew stepped into the foyer; Christian and Simon were by his side in an instant.
The detective frowned at them.
“No, it’s all right. Anything you say to me, you can say to them,” Andrew insisted wanting the detective to continue.
“Are you familiar with a Dr. Pavel Vandin?”
“Yes, he’s a professor. Emily’s professor. What about him?”
“This morning, a Miss Laura Schandler was admitted to San Francisco General. She had been severely beaten and is in intensive care. They’re not sure she’ll regain consciousness.”
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
“Due to her allegations against Dr. Vandin, we acquired a search warrant for his home, and this is what we found.”
He handed Andrew the photos. The shots showed a wall papered with photographs of Emily. A depraved shrine, with obscene words scrawled across the pictures—some that had been torn, while others had been mutilated past recognition.
His hands shook so badly that he had to give them to Simon to hold.
“Fuck,” Simon groaned.
“We also found extensive information about you as well, Mr. Hayes. Medical records, even. With Miss Schandler’s assault, it’s imperative that we locate Miss Thomas. She’s in extreme danger.”
“But she already let you guys know she was heading out of town. She called Detective Obester before she left, she told me. And he told her Vandin was still out of the country.”
“Out of the country? From our records, Dr. Vandin never left.”
“But Detective Obester told her—”
“Detective Obester?”
“Yes, Anthony Obester. He’s handling the rape case against Vandin. He’s been taking care of Emily, keeping her apprised of what’s going on—she just called him to let him know she was heading to Mendocino. Don’t you people talk to each other?”
“Miss Thomas has been calling the San Francisco precinct? Headquarters?”
“Yes, I think so. But he also gave her his cell phone. She may have been using that. He’s an acquaintance of Emily’s from New York, a friend of the family. He wanted to make sure she was safe.”
“Sir, we never give our cell phone numbers to civilians. Ever.”
“Then I guess Detective Obester is different.”
“Mr. Hayes, I hate to inform you, but the only Detective Obester I know is serving his duty with the National Guard in Iraq. He’s been stationed there for the past year. There’s no Detective Obester currently active on the force.”
“Then who the hell has been calling her all this time? She has to have been talking to someone from the police department.”
It was then and only then that he finally understood what had been prowling at the edges of his mind this whole goddamn time. Of course no cop would act like this; of course no cop would give her his cell. Of course no cop would want to know her every move. His shoulders were shaking. He had been blind, stone cold blind.
“Where is Miss Thomas, Mr. Hayes?” the detective demanded.
He fought down the panic rising in his veins. He had announced to the world on the radio show what she was doing and where she was headed. He had offered her up to him single handedly.
His knees buckled. Then he felt it. It wasn’t Christian’s hand that held his shoulder, or Simon’s—but Neil’s. He stood behind him, his voice low and urgent, but he couldn’t hear or understand.
Sommers was watching everything with rapt attention, and Bolen was firing off shot after shot. Andrew’s photograph would be linked to him forever, a black and white masterpiece, an iconic image of the true tortured artist, his guts and bones and heart ripped open.
Click. His voice broke from his throat. Click. One word clawed its way free. Click.
“Vandin.”
23
* * *
“CAN’T YOU GO ANY FASTER?” Christian demanded, his hand wringing the door handle as they raced across the Golden Gate Bridge.
“Why aren’t they answering? All three of them? Why the fuck are they not answering?” Andrew sat coiled in the passenger seat, his cell phone fixed to his ear, unable to reach any of the girls.
Simon gunned the engine in response, straining the truck to its limits. Like an invasion of ghosts, the fog swirled across the windows, shrouding their view as they barel
y missed spinning into the oncoming lane. Only the bridge’s orange spires and the churning expanse of water below were visible. Andrew had read long ago what happens to a person who jumps from such heights. The impact fractures nearly all your ribs. The shattered ribs then shred the internal organs and rip the aorta from the heart.
“Don’t go there, mate,” said Simon as though reading his mind. He glanced darkly at the look of anguish on his friend’s face and back to the highway ahead. “We’re going to get there in time. They’re going to be fine. The police know to look for them.”
“Yeah, for all the fucking help they’re going to be,” shot back Christian. “Fucking useless cops. You heard what the detective said: he’d contact the authorities up there. You don’t see him moving his fat ass to help.”
Andrew’s memory ratcheted back to when they were still standing in the foyer of their flat. It was barely a half an hour ago, yet it already felt like days. Neil was firing off question after question to Detective Kent while he gripped his cell phone.
The line connected, and he almost cried out in relief. “Emily! Thank God—”
“Hi! This is Emily, please leave a note.”
He swallowed down his panic. What could he say to warn her and not terrify her in the process? “Luv, it’s me. Call me as soon as you get this message. It’s urgent. Please, sweet girl, right away. It’s about Vandin. Don’t answer any calls from Detective Obester, just don’t. Get yourself, Zoey, and Margot to a police station right now. It’s vital that you do this. Call me when you get this. Emily…I love you.”
He ended the call and immediately. Fuck, bloody hell, why wasn’t she answering? He dialed again. Again the message sang to him. He could hear Simon and Christian both curse silently. Evidently they had been thrown into voice mail too.
“We’re out of here,” Andrew announced sharply.
“Whoa, one minute, Mr. Hayes, we’re not done yet. There are still a few more questions I need clarification on.”
“Clarification? What the hell have you people done to help Emily? Nothing. How’s that for clear? Now if you’ll excuse me.”
Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story Page 40