Bone Orchard (3 page)

Aunt Bessie. God bless the old cow. She’d been feeding Lazarus for most of his adult life with her boxed, frozen fare. With a gingered hair helmet raked back in a bun and a smile-that-valium-built plastered across her round, cabbage-hued face, dear Aunt Bessie had dedicated her fictional life behind the apron to packing the deep-freezes and cupboards of her devotees with anything made of starch, eggs and milk that they were too lazy, or simply too stupid to mix themselves.

Hands-down, her specialty was Yorkies drowned in gravy, but there were also stuffing balls and croquettes, roasted potatoes basted in duck fat, mashed carrots and swede, spotted dick, dozens of puddings and crumbles, a token green selection of button sprouts, and of course, toads-in-the-hole, which would spotlight tonight’s menu.

There really is no acceptable way to cook a toad-in-the-hole other than properly baking it, but Lazarus was ravenous.
He nuked
a package of Tidgy Toads in the microwave, then slid them onto a plate and reached for the chef’s knife in the block to slit the plastic film. The slot in the block was empty, and he puzzled for a moment, searching his memory as to where he might have left it after his sandwich earlier. Stomach rumbling, he simply grabbed an unnecessarily long bread knife to administer the task, snatched a Beck’s from the fridge and headed off to feast.

Lazarus sat in the formal dining room at the head of a table so long that it required two sizable chandeliers to light it. Three walls were papered with an ostentatious green and pewter floral Damask pattern, the fourth paneled in dark oak salvaged from a galleon of the Spanish Armada. Lazarus had been bombarded with hundreds of similar details about the mansion during the walk-throughs, but quite honestly, didn’t care. His reasons for buying Bentwicke Manor had nothing to do with pomp and everything to do with anonymity. It was quite a paradox.

Wind groaned and prodded at the eaves as Lazarus inhaled his pudding and sausages in solitude and washed it down with the beer. He leaned back in his chair and looked at the grand fireplace. The mantle was enormous, and most certainly hand-carved. The number of painstaking hours that delicate work had taken would no doubt have boggled the mind. Lazarus chuckled. Tucked inside it now was a hundred-watt Marshall amp head on a four-by-twelve slant cabinet, and propped on a stand beside it, an 80’s vintage Gibson Flying V guitar.

When was the last time he’d picked it up?

He wasn’t sure. There had come a time when music no longer delivered the high it had in his youth. He couldn’t remember exactly when. It had been a gradual process, he supposed. Even as the band continued to churn out records and tour and even win awards, he’d moved on to other things in search of that high. More destructive things. That’s when he’d decided he needed to “get away from it all,” as he’d told that odd kid Dylan from the nursery. He didn’t want to go down in flames, so he’d gotten himself away from the fire.

Lazarus slid onto the piano bench in the music room and lifted the lid off the Bosendorfer grand. He brushed his fingers over the keys, expecting to find them cold, but felt radiating warmth instead.

Was he imagining it?

It didn’t matter. He played. It began with Chopin’s Ballade No. 1 in G minor, but fluidly drifted into some improvisational jazz that morphed into Count Basie’s big band style and finally rock, finishing up with a final, pounding return to Chopin.

He let the final chord ring out, letting a bit of his heavy metal flair for the theatrical bleed through. Scratching his nose on his shoulder, Lazarus realized he was still wearing the dirty, twill work shirt he’d been toiling and sweating in all day.

“Jesus.”

Quite frankly, he stunk.

Lazarus did not see the door silently sweep closed on the right side of the second floor hallway just before he reached the top landing of the curved, main staircase.

He walked straight past the door to the end of the hall and pushed another open on the left. It was his bedroom, the only room in the entire house that he’d furnished completely when he moved in. It was every bit what one might expect from a world-class rocker, a lavish amalgam of eclectic textures and styles, at once raw but ornate, kitschy but luxurious, nothing if not flamboyant, yet somehow almost tasteful. It was the black and crimson lair of a former hedonist with plenty of money and a healthy sense of humor about how he’d earned it.

Stepping into the room, the door immediately began to swing shut behind him. He was used to this. The thing would not stand open, never had. It was just one of those little daily annoyances that wasn’t quite important enough to make a priority to fix, but became extremely irritating if one was in a less than effervescent mood. He’d thought more than once about just tearing the goddamned thing off the hinges and stowing it in the stable. He lived alone, after all. What the hell did he need doors for? Glancing around the room, he spotted a temporary solution of such archaic utility that he felt momentarily foolish.

A doorstop.

Walking over to a bank of bookcases, he slid a gilded trophy from one of the upper shelves. He hefted it in his hand. It was a good five pounds. His eyes skimmed over the plaque fixed to the blocky, tapered base…

National Academy of Recording Arts & Sciences

BLACK RYDERS

Best Metal Performance – 2005

“Massacration”

Lazarus propped the obstinate door open with the Grammy and went to take a shower.

CHAPTER 4

The band had put out some records Lazarus was proud of. The album that had won the Grammy was not one of them. He doubted any hardcore Black Ryder fan would have cited it as their best, or even second or third best, for that matter.

He’d only showed up to accept the award at all because he felt some small degree of pride for having ended
a
four-year streak
owned by the Yanks
.

Steam billowed up around him in the bathroom as he showered. The water was near scalding. When it came to cleanliness, Lazarus was vigilant to a fault. He cut the shower and shivered. The house was almost always cold. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist.

He wiped clear a swath of fogged mirror and stared at his reflection. Scars and tattoos covered his torso. Each one told a story. Many of them he’d forgotten.

Back in the bedroom, he toweled himself off and pulled some clothes from a chest of drawers. He slipped into a pair of jeans and a worn t-shirt and began to towel his hair dry. Then he saw something that froze him stock-still.

The bedroom door was closed.

He stood there for a few moments staring at it. There were times when his memory could justifiably be called into question. God knew he’d annihilated enough brain cells over the years, but there was no question he had propped that door open just a few minutes ago.

Lazarus cracked the door open and what he saw prickled his skin. The Grammy sat in the middle of the empty hallway. It had been placed on the center medallion of the Afghan rug that ran from the staircase to where he now stood, one eye peering from the open sliver between jamb and stile.

Thankfully, the hinges swung silently as he eased open the door and stepped out into the hall. Every sense was heightened. He could hear the thud of his own heartbeat in his ears. He could feel his bare feet crush the soft wool of the carpet. He took two steps forward and the door clapped shut behind him. In the noiseless vacuum it sounded to Lazarus as loud as the slam of a car bonnet.

He cringed, gritting his teeth expectantly, but nothing happened. The sun had set completely while he’d showered and dressed, and the corridor sconces cast a muted glint to light his path, though he did not remember turning them on. He crept to the gilded gramophone and scooped it up, finding it vaguely warm like the piano keys.

For a moment he considered retreating to the bedroom, but then pressed on, slipping quietly down the stairs, becoming one with the shadows. He reached the last tread, and his eyes set upon a slice of light that spilled out from beneath the parlor door. A shadow cut across on the other side. If he had still entertained any ideas that this was in his mind, they were thoroughly extinguished now.

Lazarus took a deep breath. He stepped down and an instantaneous shock of heavy metal blasted from the parlor as if his foot had tripped an alarm. It was a raw shriek of distorted guitars and growling bass driven by a relentless, thundering pulse of drums that thumped in his chest and rattled the windows. It was familiar enough. He’d written the song.

His breath rasped. Mouth dry. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and squeezed his heart like the screw of a cider press. Wrenching the trophy in his hands, he raised it above his head. He steeled himself, drew in one final breath and stormed the parlor door.

It crashed open with such force it nearly splintered. Lazarus burst in with wide, frenzied eyes, gripping the Grammy over his head like a war hammer. He was met with peals of purring laughter. The fan-girl from the garden lounged on the sofa, Doc Martens resting comfortably on his coffee table.

“You should see yourself,” she giggled.

Lazarus caught his own reflection in a window, and with more than slight embarrassment, lowered the Grammy.

“I see you’ve graduated from trespassing to breaking and entering.”

The girl stretched on the sofa, briefly exposing a toned patch of bare midriff.

“You won’t call the cops on me.”

Lazarus set his “weapon” down on a side table and faced her without moving any closer. The music was beginning to get on his nerves.

“And why’s that?”

She smiled. Perfect little white teeth sparkled in a frame of blood red lips.

“You’re lonely,” she said with a demure condescension that actually elicited some agitation in Lazarus. He laughed it off.

“And what gave you that idea? Was it the large lock on the front gate? Or all the ‘No Trespassing’ signs?” He stormed over to the Krell stereo amplifier and saw that his iPhone was docked into it. Lazarus had no idea it even
had
an iPhone dock.

“Perhaps the ‘Beware of Dog’ sign is just a cry for help?” he added sardonically. With a tap of the mute switch on the Krell’s brushed aluminum face, the musical assault ceased. He yanked the phone from the dock.

“And where
is
that dog?” she asked.

Lazarus shrugged. “He kept digging up my garden. I had to give him away.”

The girl leaped up off the sofa so quickly that Lazarus flinched. She slinked across the room and fished a pack of cigarettes from a skull-emblazoned duffel that proclaimed, “Fuck the World” in frilly pink script.

Real goodwill ambassador this one,
Lazarus thought. He watched her draw a cigarette between her lips and before he even realized he was doing it, his eyes were rolling down the rest of her. She lit the cigarette and Lazarus snatched it out of her mouth. 

“Those things’ll kill you,” he said, taking a deep drag himself.

The grandfather clock boomed behind them and the girl nearly jumped out of her skin, the first of eight chimes to mark the hour. She let out a nervous little laugh.

“Jeez, that scared the crap outta me.” The laugh faded but the smile remained and she stepped past Lazarus, sliding her body across his as she did. Lazarus felt his pulse quicken. She smoothly popped the iPhone from his hand and walked back over to the stereo.

“Why do you have a cell phone if you can’t get a signal out here?” she asked.

Lazarus tried to grab it back, but she slapped his hand away playfully.

“Why do you care?” he asked. It came out more forcefully than he’d intended.

“God, it must be so boring out here. Don’t you have Internet or satellite TV?”

“Look at you, Nosey Posey.”

“Just making conversation,” she backtracked, feigning offense. Her fingers scrolled through his tune selection. She grinned and docked the phone back into the stereo. Music poured from the speakers again, a less aggressive track this time, “Astral Oasis.” It was one of his personal favorites.

The girl danced away from him, pretending to lose herself in the music. Or perhaps actually doing so. There was no way to tell. Lazarus watched, wary.

“You’re a bit young for a Black Ryder fan.”

“I’m older than I look,” she shot back.

“And how old would that be?”

She glanced back over her shoulder and pouted. “Eighteen.”

Lazarus laughed. “How old are you
really
?”

She circled around him. “Still eighteen.”

He watched her dance her way to the skull bag and pull a Canadian passport from a side pocket. She handed it to him and spun away, mini-skirt twirling dangerously. He flipped it open. A photo of a clean-cut version of the vixen in his parlor smiled back at him.

Kathleen Van Winkle.

“My sister was a huge fan of yours. She knew all the words to all of your songs.” She swayed to the music, her movements becoming more and more suggestive with each passing second. “She saw you in concert every time you played Calgary.”

“Well, Kath—”

“Kitty,” she interrupted, inching closer. “I go by Kitty.”

“I’m sure you do,” Lazarus said curtly as he pushed past her. “I’m flattered, really, but you need to leave.”

He reached for her bag, but Kitty raced over and wrenched it from his hands.

“Don’t touch my stuff,” she snarled. The coy charm had vanished in a heartbeat. It had been instantaneous.

Lazarus recoiled and she softened.

“Sorry,” she said with a disarming smile, returning seamlessly to her dancing. “My sister got backstage once.”