The sheriff’s hands stop working. “Angela Carver? Where is she? Did she see it?”
When I try to shake my head, the gauze tightens until I gag. It’s a relatively small nick, but the throb worries me. I was never blessed with a beautiful voice. Still, if the wound interferes with singing, it’ll rob me of one of the few tools my body has left.
“I don’t think so. I kept his attention.”
“Did he mention specific targets?” Sheriff Saunders asks.
“No.”
“So, Angela, is she still here?”
“I guess so.” The pain increases as my adrenaline plummets. I doubt I’ll be able to swallow in a few hours.
“I need you to make an introduction,” Sheriff Saunders says.
I don’t want to see Angela’s child again. I just want to be back across the creek, lying in bed with a guitar across my stomach, fingers forming familiar chords and strumming patterns that don’t require thought.
Sheriff Saunders takes me under the arm. “Ready? One, two . . .” She heaves, lets my full weight rest against her while a young officer fetches me a borrowed cane.
I lead the sheriff around the building to the side door. It’s still unlocked and as soon as she opens it, I hear a Troubadours’ classic wafting up from downstairs. I doubt Angela heard any of the sirens from inside this soundproof cocoon. Sheriff Saunders takes my arm so I don’t stumble on the stairs. Something gentle in her touch lets me know this isn’t my fault. It’s as close as a woman like her can come to saying sorry. All her anger is transferred into a hard knock on the studio door. It sounds like we’re serving a warrant. Felix answers with the Gibson strapped low across his waist.
“Angela Carver?” Sheriff Saunders says, looking past him. “We need to speak with you.”
* * *
• • •
The sheriff lays it all out. She talks about the threats Victor made, explains how all the people in attendance and the media coverage make the concert an enticing target. It’s a convincing case for shutting things down, but Angela sits defiant, arms crossed and mind made up that she’s going onstage. Added security or whatever the sheriff wants will be tolerated, but she won’t cancel.
Felix looks less certain. He sits in the corner rocking the child as Angela’s protests stir it from sleep. The pillowy white bandage on my neck has developed an insatiable itch. The more I scratch, the more I believe the itch would remain even if I scraped the skin off. When I pick at the dressing, Angela and the sheriff stop debating long enough to scold me.
“I can’t recommend this, Miss Carver,” Sheriff Saunders says. “But if I can’t stop you, I’m going to assign you and the rest of your group an escort. I’m also going to call in some state troopers for the concert.”
“I appreciate that,” Angela says. I know she isn’t scared, just making concessions so they get to perform. The resolve makes me proud of her, and I wonder why I still feel anything for a woman who hasn’t been a part of my life in a decade. Perhaps it’s only my imagination, but if anything scares Angela, it’s my continued presence. Is she wondering about how well I know the sheriff? Wondering if I’ll turn her in for stealing my songs? Maybe a little bit of bluff is a good thing. I decide to let her mind wonder.
After the negotiations, Sheriff Saunders dons her hat and ascends the stairs. Before I can begin the climb, Angela takes me by the sleeve.
“Hollis, I’m glad you’re okay.” Her hand rises to touch the bandages.
“Of course,” I say. “Couldn’t lose your writer.”
I don’t know why I said it. Something deep inside just feels the need to lash out.
“That’s not fair, Hollis.”
Fair. I never want to hear the word uttered again.
THE INTERVIEW
Day Five of the Contamination
Sheriff Saunders gives me another ride across the creek. The whole time we’re surging through the cresting swells, she insists I should be going to the hospital. I tell her to just drive. As we pull up to the house, Rosita comes out onto the porch. She’s barefoot, her black jeans and tank top a dark blot among the chipped paint of the pergola.
“What’s the story with you two?” the sheriff asks.
I don’t have a satisfactory answer, but I know what I’d like it to be. Despite the theft and dishonesty, I can’t help feeling a connection between us. Something that goes beyond my need to avoid being alone or her search for more fractured men to add to The Body Book. When she came clean about the theft, I justified it by considering the lengths I’d go to preserve my own art. I almost betrayed Angela for Russell’s money, and that made me feel too hypocritical to judge. Now, I’m wondering if I’ve deluded myself into believing Rosita might eventually care for me. I know I still want her. This realization scares me.
“She came to interview me.”
“That was days ago,” Sheriff Saunders says. “You don’t have to tell me the truth, but don’t lie.”
It’s a fair compromise, so I nod in agreement. As Rosita paces back and forth across the porch, I hear the soft notes for the chorus of another song.
“Jesus,” Rosita says as I climb down from the cab. “What happened?” She covers her neck as if guarding against a similar wound.
“Let the sheriff fill you in,” I say. Luminous music swirls inside my head until all of creation is smothered by song. The notes reach a crescendo as I climb the porch steps, echoing in such a cacophony it makes me teeter. Rosita helps me inside. The sheriff follows without invitation. We’ve gone past pretenses anyway.
“Where are we going?” Rosita asks.
“The bedroom,” I say. “I need a guitar.”
In my mind, the troubadour is dying. Some injury he’s hidden from the boy for days is festering. A putrid smell emits from his flesh and breath. I’ve discovered the man used to be an astronomer and views his coming demise as the natural order of creation. He knows the atoms in his playing hand are filled with the particles from exploded stars. This cosmic dust is also in the boy. Because of this, he knows the boy will understand the songs. The man takes the guitar and strums slow. Lets the boy see the way his fingers change position on the chipped neck. When he hands it over and the boy plays, the rough notes become a symphony in the darkness of their camp.
Back in reality, Rosita chastises me with each step down the hall, asking why I left without her, if I met Angela and what was said. This might just be self-preservation, but underneath that cynicism, I believe she’s concerned about me. It’s been so long since a woman inquired with worry in her voice, I can’t help but smile as Rosita helps me sit on the edge of the bed.