Bone Music
But that’s the easy way out.
Is it better to be helped by people who actually care about you? Or is it better to be helped by someone with a self-interest that matches your own in some way? Which camp does Marty belong in? Which camp would Luke belong in, if she lets him back in?
Finally, her arms respond to this storm of thoughts before her mouth can.
She holds the notebook out to him. “I want you to read this,” she hears herself say.
“What is it?” he asks in almost a whisper.
“It’s my story. I mean, it’s not a novel or anything. I wrote it in the past two days. But it’s not my father’s version, and it’s not Hollywood’s version. It’s mine. It’s actually what happened to me. And if you’re gonna help me, I want you to read it.”
“Deal,” he says. He takes it from her grip.
Then he brushes past her, and to her shock, she realizes he’s about to sit down at Marty’s desk with it.
“Well, you don’t have to read it now.”
“Why not? I’m all out of cop jokes.”
“OK. Well, go in the guest bedroom, where you have some privacy. I don’t want the guys coming in and . . . you know. Flipping through it or something.”
He nods as if this were the most normal of requests. As if everything about this exchange is normal. He’s pulling the door shut behind him when she calls his name. He stops.
“I want your help. But I don’t want your agenda. And I want you to listen to what I’m thinking and not tell me what I’m thinking. Can you do that?”
He nods. Then when she goes silent again, he holds up the notebook and waggles it a little, as if he’s reminding her she just gave him a job to do. Then he pulls the door closed behind him with a soft click, and for a while she just stands there, wondering how something that feels so important could happen so quickly.
When he notices she’s awake, Marty asks, “What’s he reading in there?”
Beer plus red meat equaled a wallop of a nap as soon as she’d cleaned her plate. Now she’s come to in one of the deck chairs. Most of the guys are gone, but a few stragglers remain, sitting in a circle of chairs someone brought down to the driveway after she nodded off.
“He’s still reading?” she asks.
“Yep. Even came out and got his steak finally, then took it back in there so he could read some more.”
Well, that’s something. She’d figured he’d ask to take it home with him so he could only pretend to read the rest.
“Uh-oh,” Marty says.
He moves to the deck rail like a dog perking up at the approach of a stranger. A pair of high-riding headlights swing into the driveway. A sheriff’s cruiser, just like the one Luke drove her around in that day, only the deputy who steps from it is half Luke’s height and twice his age.
“Whatcha need, Henricks?” Marty calls to the man.
“Luke Prescott here?”
“He’s inside. Why?”
“His cell’s off. We tried calling him a bunch from the station. We’re getting calls from Dorothy Strickland, lives across the street from him. Says his alarm’s making all kinds of racket. But it’s weird. Sounds almost like music.”
“Bailey,” Charlotte whispers, getting to her feet.
“Go,” Marty says quietly. “Get Luke and go. I’ll stay here.”
She slips inside as Marty says, “We’ll take care of it. Thanks, Henricks.”
35
The alarm’s still singing when they get to Luke’s house, the same two-tone chime Bailey used to get their attention the first time. This time the sound fills Charlotte with excitement instead of dread.
“Stop!” Luke calls out. “We’re here.”
The music stops, but there’s some kind of flashing light in the living room. It strobes through the rest of the place like some effect in a cheap haunted house. It’s the monitor of Luke’s desktop, she realizes. It’s flashing the same words over and over again. TARGET ACQUIRED.
Luke hits some light switches, but it doesn’t make the words on-screen seem any less ominous. When he takes a seat at his desk, the words stop flashing. Further proof Bailey can see and hear them through the monitor’s built-in camera.
New words appear on-screen, white on black. Comically large, but devoid of any ironically cheerful graphics this time.
Check your e-mail, brother.
Luke taps a few keys. The monitor doesn’t respond. He throws up his hands.
Bailey does something that returns the computer to Luke’s control, and a few keystrokes later, Luke’s clicked through a link in a new message from the address [email protected] They’re staring at the website for a plastic surgeon named Frederick Pemberton, based in Newport Beach. The man looks like the victim of his own profession, with a sculpted nose that doesn’t match his uneven features. On top of that, his headshot is so airbrushed he looks like a cartoon appearing though a cloud of fog.
Luke’s hands are on his lap, but a Word document suddenly opens on-screen, partially covering the web page. Text, typed by Bailey’s unseen hand, appears in the white space.
You’re welcome.
“Charley.” There’s hesitation in Luke’s voice—hesitation and warning—and it’s fighting with his resolve not to give her any more fiery lectures; she can tell.
“I know,” she says. “I know what you’re going to say and I agree. Bailey?”
Yes.
“I can’t go off just this. You need to tell me more.”
Trust me. It’s him.
“Bailey,” Luke says suddenly. “What was Mom’s nickname for the dog we had when you were in seventh grade?”
We didn’t have a dog when I was in seventh grade. We had fish, asshole.
“Probably should have done that sooner,” Luke mutters. “Sorry. As you were.”
And their names were Siegfried and Roy because you thought it was funny to name fish after tigers.
Charlotte clears her throat. “Bailey, I know you don’t discuss procedure, but I can’t just go off a name like this.”
It’s not funny, FYI. Naming fish after tigers. It doesn’t even make sense.
“It’s definitely him,” Luke says.
“It makes even less sense because those weren’t the names of the tigers,” she says. “Those were the trainers.”
Silence.
“Well, shit,” Luke finally whispers.
Any more talk, computer lab. New library. Same chat room.
“Why?” Charley asks. “What are you afraid of, the FBI?”
Screw the FBI.
“Yeah, that went great,” Luke says.
Relax, brother. They only had a subpoena to look at your phone records and e-mails from more than 180 days ago, and you bored them to death, so you’re fine. Not afraid of FBI.
“Bailey, who do you think is watching us?” she asks.
Maybe it’s whoever you’re afraid of. They seem worse than FBI. Otherwise you wouldn’t be dealing with me.
“All right,” she says. “Well, don’t be afraid of them.”
Startled, Luke looks up from his palms.
The lack of any new text suggests Bailey’s also surprised.
“What?” Charlotte says. “You think they’re going to try to stop us? We’re doing what they asked. We’re trying to find a bad man. They should be thrilled.”
“We’re doing what Dylan asked,” he says. “They might not be such a team, remember?” He looks instantly regretful. “Take the chair. Talk to him. I’ll get you something to drink.”
So he’s trying. That’s good, she thinks.
If you’re going to make me discuss procedure, I want to hear yours. Why are you going after this guy yourself?
“It’s a long story,” she answers.
So’s mine, but you seem to know it all already.
“I know the version your brother knows. That’s all.”
Touché I guess.
“How sure are you this is the guy?” she asks.
85 percent.
She laughs.
Let me put it this way. If you’re planning to share what I tell you with the press, I’d say I’m 90 percent sure. If you’re planning on taking out a hit on this guy, I’d drop it to 75 percent.
“Well, that is certainly manipulative, Bailey Prescott.”
???
“So whatever you’ve learned, you’re willing to see the guy’s life destroyed by the media, but you don’t necessarily think he deserves to die. Is that it? Do either of those things have anything to do with whether or not he’s a serial killer?”
White space.
Luke returns, sets two Sprite Zeros down on the desk next to the keyboard, starts reading over her shoulder.
“Did we lose him?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
Answer me this.
They both perk up.
You’ll do surveillance on this guy before you do whatever it is you’re planning to do, right?
“Yes,” she answers. “Lots.”
OK. It goes like this.
Luke hurries into the kitchen and returns with a dining table chair, which he places right next to hers as the Word doc begins to fill with text.