And then someone, something must die…
IN THE WEE HOURS
Lyle awoke to the sound of music… a piano… something classical. The delicate melody sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn't identify it. He'd bought some classical CDs for background music in the waiting room, but he'd picked them at random and never listened to them himself. Never understood why people liked classical; but then, he couldn't understand why people liked to drink Scotch either.
Charlie? Not a chance. Not Charlie's taste at all. And Charlie was in the sack. He'd come back from his night ride with Jack babbling about how bustin' he was, how they'd set it up to give Madame Pomerol a taste of her own medicine, and how he wished he could be there when it went down. But then he'd faded fast and said goodnight.
Lyle threw off the sheet and swung his feet to the floor. He didn't want to know the time. Whatever it was, it was too late. He'd given up on trying to keep the windows closed so he'd turned off the AC and gone to bed with them open. The temperature at the moment wasn't too bad, though.
But what's with the music? The same song over and over.
Had Madame Pomerol and her husband screwed with his music system as well? After last night he'd hoped he'd heard the last of them.
As Lyle pounded down the stairs toward the waiting room, he noticed something about the music… thin… just a piano. Where were the strings and the rest of the orchestra? And then he realized it wasn't a CD… it was live… someone was playing the piano in the waiting room.
He burst into the room and stopped dead on the threshold. The lights were out. The only illumination came from the faint glow of the street lights through the open front door. A dark figure sat at the piano, tinkling away on the keys.
Lyle's shakes from earlier in the evening returned, now more from dread than adrenaline, as he reached for the light switch. He found it, hesitated then flipped it.
He groaned with relief when he saw Charlie seated on the piano bench, his back to him. Charlie's head was turned, his eyes closed, a small smile playing about his lips as his fingers danced over the keys. He seemed to be enjoying himself.
The look on his face sent a trickle of ice water down Lyle's spine.
"Charlie?" Lyle said, closing the front door and moving closer. "Charlie, what are you doing?"
He opened his eyes; they were glassy. "I'm playing 'Fur Elise.' It's my favorite." Charlie's voice… but not his diction. He looked like he used to get back in his pre-born again days when he was doing a couple of blunts a night.
The cold spine trickle became a torrent. Charlie didn't play piano. And even if he did, he wouldn't be diddling this light-fingered tune with the funny name.
Lyle's tongue felt thick, sticky. "When did you learn to play piano, Charlie?"
"I had my first lesson when I was six."
"No, you didn't." He put his hand on his brother's shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. "You know you didn't. What are you pulling here?"
"Just practicing." He picked up the tempo. "I've got to play this note perfect for my recital."
"Stop it, Charlie."
He played faster, his fingers flying over the keys. "No. I've got to play it twenty times a day to make sure—"
Lyle reached over and grabbed his brother's wrists. He tried to pull them away from the keyboard but his brother fought him. Finally Lyle threw all his weight into it.
"Charlie, please?"
They both came away from the piano together, Charlie tipping over backward on the piano seat and landing on the floor, Lyle staggering but keeping his feet.
For an instant Charlie glared at him from the floor, his eyes blazing with rage, then his face cleared.
"Lyle?"
"Charlie, what on—?" Then Lyle saw the blood on the front of his shirt. "Oh, Christ! What happened?"
Charlie stared up at him with a bewildered look. "What goin' on, bro?"
He started to rise but Lyle pushed him back. "Don't move! You've been hurt!"
Charlie looked down at the glistening red stain on the front of his shirt, then looked up again.
"Lyle?" His eyes were afraid. "Lyle, what—?"
Lyle tried not to lose it. His brother, something awful had happened to his baby brother. They'd been through so much and now… and now…
He wanted to run for the phone to call Emergency Services, but was afraid to leave Charlie's side. There might be something he could do, needed to do right now to make sure he survived until help arrived.
"Take your shirt off and let's see. Maybe it's not so bad."
"Lyle, what wrong with you?"
Lyle didn't want to see this. If it was only half as bad as it looked it was still terrible. He yanked up Charlie's shirt—
And gaped.
The skin of his chest was unbroken, without a trace of blood. Lyle dropped to his knees before him and touched his skin.
"What on earth?"
Where had all that blood come from? He yanked the shirt back down and gasped when he found it clean and dry and pristine white, as if fresh from the dryer.
"Lyle?" Charlie said, a different kind of fear in his eyes now. "What happenin' here? Is this a dream? I went to bed, next thing I know, I'm here on the floor."
"You were playing the piano." He struggled to his feet and helped Charlie up. "Don't you remember?"
"No way. You know I can't—"
"But you were. And playing pretty well."
"But how?"
"I wish to hell I knew."
Charlie grabbed his arm. "Maybe that it. Maybe that crack in the cellar let a little bit of hell into this house. Or maybe there always been a bit of hell in this place, considerin' what happened here over the years. Whatever it is, it's gettin' to you."
Lyle was about to tell his brother to cool it with that shit when the front door unlocked itself and swung open.
SUNDAY
1
Gia cleaned up the breakfast dishes. Not a task she minded as a rule, but today… scraping leftover scrambled eggs from the bottom of a frying pan roiled her already queasy stomach. The eggs had been for Jack; she'd whipped them up and mixed in crumbled soy bacon strips for a don't-ask, don't-tell breakfast. He hadn't asked if he was eating real bacon and she hadn't told. Not that he would have minded. Jack ate just about everything. Sometimes, when he was in his Where's-the-beef? mode, he'd complain about too many vegetables, but he rarely failed to clean his plate. A good boy. She never had to tell him about the starving children in China.
He'd said he had an appointment with a new customer this morning—someone who claimed he couldn't wait until Monday—and had wandered off to the townhouse's little library to kill some time before he had to leave.
"How about a shnackie?" he said as he wandered back.
She looked up and smiled at him. "You just ate breakfast an hour ago."
He rubbed his stomach. "I know, but I need a little shomething."
"How about a leftover bagel?"
"Shuper."
"You've been reading one of Vicky's Mutts books, haven't you?"
"Yesh."
"Well, get yourself out of Mooch mode and I'll toast you one."
He sat down. "After a week of this you'll never get me to leave." He looked at her. "Wouldn't be so bad if I stayed, would it?"
Oh, no. Their recurrent topic of contention: whether or not to live together.
Jack voted yes, and had been pushing for it—gently, but persistently—since late last year. He wanted to be a bigger part of Vicky's life, be the kind of father her real father had never been.
"It would be great," Gia said. "As soon as we're married."
Jack sighed. "You know I'd marry you in a heartbeat if I could, but…"
"But you can't. Because a man with no official existence can't apply for a marriage license."