They started out in Hartshorne’s white Sedan Deville at three PM, made a single stop for lunch, and pulled into Nashville at nine fifteen.
Lights out in the little frame house.
“You okay going in by yourself?”
Baker was eager to get away from Hartshorne’s Bible speeches and the odors the reverend gave off: bubble gum and body odor and for some reason, an overlay of Wheatena cereal.
“Sure.”
“Okay, then. Walk with the Lord, son.”
“Yessir.”
Baker got his duffel and his pillow from the back and fished out his door key. The Cadillac was gone before he reached the door.
He walked into the empty house.
Heard something.
Not empty- a burglar?
Laying his duffel and pillow on the floor, he tiptoed into the kitchen, snuck all the way back to the laundry room where Danny kept his pistol.
Ancient Colt, Danny called it protection for the road though the only time he’d had to use it was when some Klan-type guys loitering near their motel in Pulaski made remarks about seeing them going into a nigger juke-joint.
One flash of the Colt and the idiots dispersed.
Remembering that now- recalling the power that came from a couple pounds of honed steel- Baker hefted the pistol and advanced toward the noise in the back.
His parents’ bedroom. Some kind of commotion behind the closed door.
No, not completely closed; the thin paneled slab was cracked an inch.
Baker nudged it with his finger, got a couple more inches of view space and aimed the pistol through the opening.
Dim light. One lamp on a nightstand, his mother’s nightstand giving off a pinkish light.
Because of some silky material that had been tossed over the shade.
His mother on the bed, naked, astride his father.
No, not his father, his father was off to the side on a chair and another woman, blond and skinny, was astride him.
The man under his mother, heavier in the legs than his father. Hairier, too.
Two couples, panting, heaving, bucking.
His gun arm froze.
He forced himself to lower it.
Backed away.
Took his duffel and left his pillow and walked out of the house. Made his way to a bus stop and rode downtown and got himself a room at a motel on Fourth.
Found the marine recruitment office the next morning, lied about his age, and enlisted. Two days later, he was on a bus to Camp Lejeune in North Carolina.
It took another week for a panicky Dixie Southerby to locate him.
The marines told him to come back in two years and sent him home.
Dixie said, “What’d you do that for?”
Baker said, “I got restless. Can I go to military school?”
“You don’t want to live at home?”
“I’m big enough to go away.”
Danny said, “That’s a mature decision, son. It’s time for your mother and me to hit the road, anyway.”
Military academies turned out to be too expensive but Fall River Bible School and Seminary in Arlington, Virginia was flexible about tuition for “students with spiritual leanings.”
Baker settled in, met some nice people, and was starting to think he might even fit in somewhere. A month into the first semester, Mrs. Calloway, the head counselor, called him into her office, with tears in her eyes.
When he got here, she hugged him. Not customary for Mrs. Calloway. Not much touching went on at Fall River, period.
“Oh, you poor boy, you poor lamb.”
Baker said, “What?”
It took a long time for her to tell him and when she did, she looked scared, as if she’d be punished for doing it.
The van had been hit head-on, by a drunk on I-40.
Danny and Dixie returning to Nashville from a gig in Columbia. Grand opening of a car dealership, two-hundred-dollar fee, not bad when you figured it was only a one-hour drive.
All those years on the road without a mishap. Fifteen minutes out of town, the van was turned into scrap.
Both of them dead on impact, their stage clothes strewn all over the interstate.
Danny’s guitar had sustained irreparable damage, sliding around the rear of the van, its soundboard crushed, its neck severed and splintered.
Dixie ’s mandolin, its hard-shell case covered by a newer Mark Leaf space-age plastic supplementary case and swathed in three packing blankets, the way she always wrapped it, came out unharmed.
Baker went and retrieved the instrument from the closet, same way he’d done so many times before.
Stared at it, touched the taut strings, the ebony bridge, the mother-of-pearl tuners with their gold-plated gears.
Not too many F-5s were gold-plated or triple-bound. This one was and everyone who’d seen it opined that even though it was dated 1924, not ’23, it was from the same batch as Bill Monroe’s. Monroe ’s had gotten damaged years ago; the story that circulated was some jealous husband had caught the bluegrass king in bed with his wife and taken out his anger on the instrument.
Stupid, thought Baker. It was people who deserved punishment, not things.
Staring at the F-5 and realizing what he’d just told himself.
Maybe he should smash this thing. What did music bring other than sin and misery?
That poor girl.
That rich boy, was he any better off?
Maybe he’d call that shrink, Delaware, ask if he had any ideas about helping Tristan.
Nah, the guy was long gone back to LA, by now. And what the hell was it his business if the boy had emotional issues, that mother of his…
He’d done his job.
So why was it gnawing at him?
Like the girl, like the boy, like everyone else in this goddamn world, they were just people. With their talents and their weaknesses and their heartbreaks and their egos.
People. If there was a God, he had one hell of a sense of humor.
Or maybe there was wisdom behind it.
People, able to change. Able to better themselves, even though so many failed.
The people he and Lamar met day after day…
Maybe there was more…
Hands- must’ve been his, but it felt like they were someone else’s- lifted the mandolin out of its case. The back all shiny, those silky, sculptural contours where some Michigan craftsman had carved and tapped and carved some more under the watchful eye of the chief acoustical engineer, a genius named Lloyd Loar.
Loar had signed the instrument on March 21, 1924. Anything with his name on it was worth a bundle to collectors.
Baker’s fingers grazed the strings. EADG. Perfect tune, after all these years.
He knew because he had perfect pitch.
His left hand formed a G chord. He told his right hand not to move but it did.
A resonant, sweet sound rang out, bounced against cold walls devoid of art or family mementos, ricocheted against discount-outlet furniture and linoleum floors. Ended its flight and burrowed into Baker’s skull.
His head hurt.
His hands moved some more and that helped a bit.
An hour later, he was still at it.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
JONATHAN KELLERMAN has brought his expertise as a clinical psychologist to numerous New York Times bestselling tales of suspense, including the Alex Delaware novels. His most recent novel, Gone, was a #1 New York Times bestseller. He has won the Goldwyn, Edgar, and Anthony Awards, and has been nominated for a Shamus Award.
FAYE KELLERMAN is the New Tork Times bestselling author of the Peter Decker/Rina Lazarus novels, as well as the historical thrillers The Quality of Mercy and Straight Into Darkness and the short story anthology The Garden of Eden. She has won the Macavity Award and has been nominated for a Shamus Award.
