Part 31 (1/2)
”Because, Dr. Conyors-and I wish you'd let me call you Barrett-I sometimes struggle with what goes on between my ears. And after my sessions with Dr. Mayfield I found myself losing great big chunks of time, and then waking up with something horrible happening.”
”You dissociate,” she said.
”No s.h.i.+t.”
”So you know?”
”Of course, I didn't always, just thought that I had blackouts. I'd be sitting having a conversation with somebody and the next thing you know I'd be getting raped in the laundry room and not remember how I got from point A to point B.”
”Does that still happen?”
”The rapes?” he asked with a twisted grin.
”No, the memory lapses?”
”Not for a while, we all seem to be sticking together.”
”We?”
”Yes, I know ... but I don't know how else to describe it. That's why everyone thought I was schizophrenic, because I do hear voices. But that doesn't make me schizophrenic, does it?”
”No.”
”Let's go into the library,” he said, without waiting for her reply.
Putting the cat down and carrying her mug, she followed him back toward their usual meeting place. As he turned to open the doors, Fred attacked his ankle, pus.h.i.+ng up his pant leg. She looked down and noticed something askew with his monitoring bracelet; it wasn't latched.
”So you have been out.”
He froze, and then pushed open the doors. ”You're mistaken,” he commented.
”You've tampered with your bracelet.”
He sank into a leather club chair and crossed his ankle over his knee. ”Oh dear, I'm coming undone,” he smiled and squeezed the sides of his electronic tether until they clicked firmly into place.
”So, where are you going, Jimmy?” she asked, taking the opposing chair.
”I think you've jumped a couple steps, Dr. Conyors. Perhaps if you'd play a little music with Jimmy, I might come up with some better answers; help connect the dots.” His blue eyes focused on her face, his expression filled with longing, yet his voice carried something dark and threatening. ”I'll make it worth your while.”
”I don't want your money,” she replied.
”That's not the offer.” He blinked and his tongue flicked out and ran across the tip of an incisor. ”Whom do you love, Barrett?” he asked.
”Where is she?”
”Patience ... I once knew a woman named Patience ... not a pilgrim at all, but a just and righteous woman. Shall we play?” he stood up and extended a hand across the s.p.a.ce between them. ”It would mean so much to Jimbo.”
”What have you done with her? Where is she?”
”I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about,” he answered, ”but music has a way of jogging the memory. One duet, Dr. Conyors, what could it hurt?”
Barrett stood, her thoughts swam. She'd been right, and that knowledge did little to comfort her. She should have pushed sooner, tried harder, found something to get Jimmy sent back, but now ... .”I'm leaving,” she said, knowing that she had to get out of there, to find Hobbs.
”Do you think that's wise?” he asked. ”Life is so fragile, so delicate, so fleeting. We have to be careful with the ones we love; there aren't all that many, are there?”
”If you do anything ...”
He put a finger to his lips, ”Sshhh, this is not a time for hollow threats and paper tigers. All we ask is for a little music. Is that so much?”
She glared back at him.
”Well?” he glanced back at the Bosendorfer. ”It's your move.”
”Yes,” she said.
He exhaled. ”I thought we could play Brahms.” His voice light and excited as he led her to the piano, where the score for the E Minor Sonata lay open on the lyre.
”That's a different cello,” she remarked, noting the flame-varnished instrument that had replaced the darker one.
”I had an accident. This was my first cello,” he answered, picking it up and settling down in his chair. He took his bow from the stand and tightened the nut, bringing the pale horsehair taut. He picked up a cake of well-used black resin and ran it across the bow. ”It's still quite good, eighteenth-century French.”
Barrett said nothing as she pulled back the intricately inlaid rosewood piano bench and settled behind the keyboard. She knew that this had been orchestrated, that since her first visit he'd been waiting for this moment. She stared up at the black notes covering the page.
”You start,” he commented.
She nodded and, taking a quick look at the key signature, she raised her hands, letting her long fingers fall onto the ivory. The first chords filled the room with a lush sound. Barrett couldn't help but admire the piano's responsive action, making her own beloved Mason and Hamlin seem like a vapid imitation of what a piano could do.
And then Jimmy began. A haunting run of notes rose up from his cello, they hung in the air and mingled with the steady advances of her accompaniment.
The music wasn't difficult for Barrett, and she found herself wanting to match Jimmy's virtuosity, and finding moments of exquisite beauty as they progressed through the movements written in a minor key. Time vanished and she struggled to not think about the powerful sadness and longing that infused his playing. And always in her thoughts was Justine, that she was doing this for her. That she'd play this music, and so what if she enjoyed it, or felt like she was rediscovering a limb that had been removed. The music soared, filling the cavernous s.p.a.ce, filling her, filling him.
Tears streamed down her face as she turned the last page-a part of her didn't want the music to end, but it did. The final chords resonated through the room. Neither she nor Jimmy spoke as they stayed perfectly still, letting the last harmonics melt into the dark wood and priceless carpets.
She looked at him.
He gazed back at her and nodded his head slowly, ”Do you know how amazing you are?” he finally asked.
”You play beautifully,” she replied, sincere in her response.
”Why did you stop playing?” He seemed on the verge of tears. ”You could have gone and done anything.”
”Maybe another time, we can talk about that. I kept my end of the bargain, Jimmy. You need to tell me whatever you know about my sister.”
His eyes shut tightly, and then he opened them. He glared at her and abruptly stood, holding the cello roughly by its neck, almost as if he were strangling it.
”Why do you spoil things?” he walked across to the cello stand and clumsily replaced the instrument in its padded cradle. ”Wasn't it beautiful enough for you?”
”It was,” she replied, as the traces of the music coursing through her fingers and through her body were replaced by the sickening tingle of fear. ”But we made a deal.”
”Yes, it's time to play, Let's Make a Deal. Okay, so the lovely Dr. Conyors has played the lovely Brahms and now she'd like a bit of information about the lovely Justine. I can see by your outfit that you've come without your wire today. So, perhaps we can chat and do a little t.i.t for tat ... and what lovely t.i.ts she has.”