Reverb (3 page)

You pompous, self-aggrandizing prick.
“I have devoted my entire life to music. I work my ass off, round the clock, since well before you came along. I’ve made millions on my own, without your money or connections. And somehow, according to you, I owe all my success to this family. Well, that’s bullshit, Edward.” 

“It’s not my intention to minimize your achievements. Your dedication is beyond reproach. But your commitment to this family will be equally fulfilling when you invest some of the energy you’ve given so exclusively to your music, and redirect it into managing the Trust.”

“I have no commitment to you or this family. And you sure as hell have no right to sit there and tell me that I am behaving like an arrogant child, following the path you not only paved, but shoved down my throat.” I’m almost shouting. My heart’s racing. It’s hard to catch my breath. “I don’t want to be part of your world, Edward, and I won’t let you pull me away from the one thing I love.”

“It is narcissism, at best, that the only thing you know of love is your own talent.”

“That’s not what I meant. You’re taking what I said out of context.”

“Am I?” Edward rises and spreads his hands on his desk. “You have served yourself and no one else all of your adult life. You’ve cultivated relationships merely to satisfy your muse. Two years from thirty, you’ve not even the prospect for a wife, or children to inherit your name.” He shakes his head and takes a few measured steps from his desk and looks at me. “Serving the family Trust will compel you to step outside of yourself, and the infinitesimally small world in which you operate. Like it or not, you are a part of this family, inexorably linked to its past, and destined to help carve its future, and the thousands of lives we affect. The only question is how you will play the hand you have been dealt.” He moves to the front of his desk as he speaks and stops in front of me, not two feet away. His eyes are fixed on mine, boring a hole right through my head.

He’s too close.
Run.
Escape while I still can.

“There is no such thing as destiny. I choose, father. And I will not let you manipulate me into taking a position for which I have no passion, or interest. It’s my life. Everything is transitory, Edward, even this family. I am not the answer to your need for immortality. I can’t save you. This conversation is over. I’m leaving.”

“Sit down, James.”

“Fuck off, Edward,” comes out of my mouth and I feel strangely vindicated, until he backhands me. My right eye explodes and I bury my face in my hands, push hard against my eye to counter the throbbing. The entire right side of my face is on fire. Stumble back, out of his range, wipe the tears from my eyes on my shirtsleeve then rub my cheek where Edward connected.

I’m frozen, like a deer in the headlights, shocked. Until now, Edward’s never raised a hand to me, or Ian, as far as I know. Can’t recall my father
ever
being violent. He’d always been so contained, controlled. I stare at him, trying to gauge his state of mind. He doesn’t look at me. He goes to the bar and pours himself another whiskey, and in one swift gulp drains the glass.

---

EDWARD

His inability to maintain even a modicum of decorum makes it clear to Edward that his son is on something. Edward would have expected this behavior from Ian, but not from James. Boy’s been far too productive to be ravaged by drugs. Yet, his behavior is fundamentally disturbing.

James holds his cheek, stares at him as if he’s Satan. Tears in his eyes, and Edward sees the grief stricken boy, the day he’d arrived at Castlewood, directly after his mother and step-father died. He’d been unable to talk to his son then. It is unfortunate they’ve yet to move off that mark.

“Please, sit down, James.”

James stands his ground. He has Anna’s striking beauty, with his thick, fine chestnut hair hanging over his brow and in his eyes—worn wild, just as his mother did, framing his square jawline, his full lips. Wide, glassy green eyes are fixed on Edward’s.

“I’m leaving, Edward. Tell Stefan to take me to Canterbury, or give me a phone, or I’m taking one of the horses and riding to Hythe or Folkestone to get a cell connection for a taxi.” His arms are crossed over his chest, his elegant hands tucked against his sides. He glares at Edward, waiting.

“You must have become a hell of a rider, son. Doubt I’d be able to make a ten mile journey in the dark, in the rain, without injury to the horse or myself. But, of course, the horses are yours, as is everything here. You don’t need my permission to take one.”

“Damn you!” He glares at Edward. “I. Don’t. Want. It. Do you get it?”

Edward’s ire rises. “Do not address me with that tone again,” and he would have smacked James a second time if the boy hadn’t been out of range. “I have neither the right nor the will to break five hundred years of tradition by passing on the Whren legacy to anyone other than a blood heir. Ownership of the Trust will transfer to you upon my retirement, or death. A simple fact to do with what you will.”

James runs his hand through his hair, clearly agitated. He looks around the room as if he’s trapped. “You can’t keep me here, Edward. I’m not thirteen anymore.” He shakes his head with obvious disdain. “I want a phone. I want it
now
.”

“You are not a prisoner here, James. You agreed to this meeting tonight, which I assumed you were well aware of its content, as it was our last discussion before you moved from here, you may recall.”

Clearly, he doesn’t. Eyes drift, as if he’s thinking back, then he fixes on Edward again. “I don’t give a shit what the hell our parting words were. Just tell me where I can find a phone.”

“We’ve yet to resolve any business here tonight. I’d like to do that before you go.”

“What makes you think I care what you want.” His tone is low, angry, practically growling. “I’m leaving. Tell me where there’s a goddamn phone or I’m going to rip this house apart to find one.
Do you understand?
” He's infuriated, sweating, his eyes wide and unblinking, confirming Edward’s fear James is either on drugs or withdrawing from them.

Howard gently knocks on one of the sliding walnut doors.

“Come.” Edward says.

Howard enters, his thin lips pursed, he narrows his brow at James then looks at Edward. “May I be of assistance?”

“Thank you, Howard. Please notify Stefan he’s to be available for my son throughout the evening, and to deliver James to Heathrow for his flight tomorrow morning.”

Howard nods. Again he glares at James, scrutinizes him. “You are here to bury your brother, not malign your father. Enough, James.” And he turns around and walks out of the room.

James spreads his hands in surrender, shakes his head and laughs at Howard condescendingly, then looks back at Edward. He studies his father, they stare at each other for a long, tense moment. “I’m sorry for you, father. You’ve lost one son by playing God, and you’re about to lose the other.”

“I’ve no illusions of omnipotence, son, hence our meeting tonight. I have been, and remain humbled by that which is greater than me. What humbles you, James?”

He shoots Edward an insolent grin. “Not you. Not anymore.” His grin fades as his jaw line tightens, hollowing his cheeks, revealing his mother’s high cheekbones. “Watch out, Edward. You're not in control.” Deep forest green eyes stay fixed on Edward another moment, then he turns and walks out of the study.

Edward watches his son leave, but James’ insolent grin remains in his mind’s eye. He recalls that same grin on the boy’s face when he was seventeen, on the hillside overlooking the Kinloch Hourn Estate. He’d disappeared from Castlewood after refusing to even discuss attending the acclaimed Social Sciences PhD program at King's College upon graduating from The Royal Academy. An unusually warm afternoon for the Highlands, and Edward remembers being winded when he made it to the top of the hill to talk to his son. He’d tried to enlighten James as to why it was important to prepare himself for his responsibilities ahead, in part, as the landowner of all they could see—the lochs that fed the farms; the forests their timber companies harvested; the commodities they sold, the people they employed.

“Some friends from school got signed by Capital Records, and they’re paying me two hundred thousand dollars to co-write and produce the music for their first release. I’m leaving on the twenty-ninth, my eighteenth birthday, and moving to L.A.” He looked at Edward passively. “And you can’t stop me.” Edward had wanted to slap that insolent grin off his face, but refrained. Perhaps that was a mistake...

His impudence at seventeen can be rationalized away as teenage angst. But at twenty-eight, there was little justification for his disrespect—drug abuse the most obvious. Traveled this road with James only once, when instead of the agreed upon Blue Danube, he played something about American idiots with a lot of foul language at Edward's appointment to the Shadow Ministry. It was obvious to everyone he was on something. Howard took him back to the Chelsea flat after that, and since then, drugs had ceased to be an issue with James. Until now.

Images of Ian come to the fore, stoned out of his mind, slumped in Edward’s chair and spinning it round and round, singing television jingles to shut down what he considered his father’s diatribe on responsible behavior. Edward pictures the chair twirling faster, and Ian’s face becomes a grinning mask, and he starts to feel faint as Ian’s face flashes by. Then the chair stops, but now it’s James Edward sees sitting there, wearing his insolent grin, Death standing behind him holding the chair still.

The room becomes stifling. Edward has to get out. He keeps his pace measured, and somehow makes it outside to the rose garden without faltering. Draws in the misted air with great gasps, then sits down on the marble bench near the Rodin and watches the condensation as it collects and drips from The Madonna's carved breasts.

He recalls his last exchange with Ian, four months earlier, entering the Chelsea flat and finding his son unconscious on the white Foust couch. It was marked with bloodstains from careless injections and burn holes from fallen ash. Stench in the apartment revealed Ian had been there quite some time. Yet, it never occurred to Edward when he threw his son out that rainy afternoon it would be the last time he would see him alive.

First born dead from abusing drugs, and his remaining child likely heading down the same path. If Edward lets James return to the States and the lifestyle he's adopted there, it could lead to his undoing. Could mean scandal, prison, or worse—end up where Ian took it, and Kathryn, Ian’s mother, before him.

Edward shudders as if a ghost has passed through him, huddles into himself for warmth, but the cold does not pass. It clings to his bones and Death sits down with a groan beside him and refuses to leave. “I won’t let you take my son,” he whispers aloud to no one. Warm tears spill on his cheeks and to his disgrace he’s crying—grief, sadness, frustration consuming him until he’s able to delineate the voice of reason through his fear.

This time he isn’t going to turn a blind eye and do nothing. Edward will not lose his only remaining child. A month or two in a private, discreet recovery program could teach James self-restraint, help him achieve some measure of balance by learning to moderate his obsessive behavior. He’d emerge drug-free, slave to nothing. The experience may even impress upon his son some of the privileges that come with positions of power. But Edward must act now, tonight, before James leaves Britain. He must use his resources to prevent his remaining son from harming himself, the family name, or God forbid, succumb to addiction, and sever Edward’s only real connection to his beautiful Anna.

Creaks and pops of his bones echo in the quiet garden as he stands. Death does not accompany him as he walks back inside. It stays out in the damp night, filling the air with plumes of steamy laughter, and gives him a sly wink just before he enters the portrait-lined hall.

Edward returns to the study, sits down in front of the laptop and pulls up Home Secretary Rt. Hon. Douglas Perkins profile. Five hundred thousand dollars in donations to his Reform Referendum should be more than enough to call in one small favor.

BOOK ONE

Entropy

Chapter One

Martin Risner stares out the living room picture window and watches the towering redwoods sway against the deepening indigo sky. He counts seconds between the lightning flash and the sound of the thunder. Storm’s still off a ways. But it’s coming, and a smile creeps across his face. Martin loves storms—the power, the drama, the rain. Had John shared his enthusiasm, they’d be enjoying the storm together right now.

Christ, they’re so old and boring.

He looks through the telescope—John’s housewarming gift to the both of them years ago, and spies lightning cells dancing along the southern ridge. He watches, astounded by the beauty, and saddened by another shared moment missed.

Front gate buzzer sounds.

Can’t be anyone for John’s clinic. Everyone in the area knows to use John Muir Hospital in Auburn if there’s an emergency after five. Has to be some idiots looking for wine tasting who didn’t bother to read the sign on the stone wall that says ‘Private Residence.’ Martin can’t see who it is. Gate camera is still out. John promised to fix it about a hundred times already.
Promises. Promises.

He ignores the first three rings, but by the fourth he goes down the hall and presses the button. “What is it?”

“Martin, is that you? It’s James Whren. Could you open the gate?”

His heart practically skips a beat.
No. Couldn’t be.
The voice, and British accent sounds familiar, but strange, more East End than cultivated. Besides, James hadn’t used his father’s last name since he left England.

“Who is this?”

“Martin, it’s James—Logan. Will you please open the gate?”

“James?” He can’t believe it. “Is that really you?”

“Yes! Open the gate, Martin.”

He presses the gate release. It has to be some sort of joke. James has never just shown up. But Martin isn’t too concerned with letting whoever it is in. Cameras at the front of the house still work. Can see who it was without ever having to open the front door. Would be wild if it
was
James.
My beautiful James.
Last time Martin saw him was at Ian’s funeral, over a year ago now. Was some weird rumor going around about him after that. What was it?

He turns on the floodlights and lights up the front of the house like daylight. He’d heard James was on a DreamWorks project at Apple in London. No
.
It was something else. Something stupid and he’d dismissed it.
Oh well.
He’ll think of it later.

Martin stands in the foyer and watches a white SUV come on to the security monitor. Windows are up and reflective so he can’t see who’s inside. He waits for the car to stop when it comes to the center circle, but it doesn’t. It keeps going, very slowly, and sideswipes the fountain. Martin stares at the screen in shock. Car finally jerks to a stop. Then the horn starts blaring.

He can’t believe it. And right then it hits him he’s not watching TV. Martin runs from the house and out to the car,  hesitating only a second when the driver’s door swings open.

A young woman sits behind the wheel. She has one hand on the horn but releases it upon seeing Martin. Her other hand holds the face of a young man seemingly asleep in her lap. Upon closer examination Martin sees the man is James.

“Are you Martin Risner?” she says above the
beep, beep, beep
of the open car door.

“Yes.”

“Your friend needs your help. I’m not sure he’s breathing.” She looks at Martin. Tears streak down her freckled cheeks. Flaming red hair tumbles over her shoulders and frames her wide, delicate face.

Martin reaches over and pulls the keys far enough from the ignition to stop the incessant beeping.

James suddenly opens his eyes, gasps for air and bolts upright. He sits in the passenger seat holding his right side, choking, struggling to breathe. He's very pale. His lips are purple, bordering on blue. He stares at Martin then looks back at the woman driving, glares at her actually.

“Fuck! Why are we here, Kate? I thought you were going to drop me at a motel. This is stupid—” Then he takes a deep breath and starts coughing again.

“I never said that. Look, I’m just trying to help you—”

“You’re not. You’re making it complicated.” His face contorts in pain as he starts to get out of the car, but he keeps moving with only a moment’s hesitation. Moves his legs out and onto the gravel drive, and then just sits there.

Martin goes around the car to the passenger side, and sees John coming from the clinic toward them, his white lab coat whipping around his lanky frame.

“It’s James Logan.” Martin yells as John approaches. “Something happened to him.”

James pulls himself out of the car, stands, almost falls. Martin moves to help, but James pushes him off. He leans against the car panting icy smoke, holding one hand out to keep distance, with the other he clutches his right side, all his attention focused on the simple act of breathing. He looks at Martin as if to speak, then his eyes roll back in his head and close as he slides against the car onto the ground.

Martin moves to catch him but misses. Kneels next to James slumped motionless against the SUV, and shudders in sudden terror that James is dead. Second later, John kneels in front of James. Martin stands, moves out of John's way, where he so often finds himself these days. The woman James called Kate comes around the car and stands beside him.

“Are you hurt?” John glances back at her.

She shakes her head as John turns back to James and feels his neck for a pulse.

“No! Get away!” James wakes, panicked, punches John in the chest with the base of his palm then slugs him in the jaw with a closed fist as he scrambles to get up.

Martin gasps as John’s head snapped back, but then John turns back on James, grabs his wrists and pins them against the car on either side of his head.

“
What the hell’s wrong with you!
James! It’s me. John. Look at me!”

James freezes under John’s grip. Trembles violently. Eyes are black, wide, and vacant. “Get the fuck off me or I’ll fucking kill you." He speaks in a harsh whisper but Martin hears him and is stunned. The James he knew abhorred violence, and rarely cursed.

“James,
look at me
! I’m John.
You know me.
Focus on me
.
” John releases him, holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m trying to help you. Okay?”

James doesn’t respond. He sits there shaking, his hands still fisted against the car, black eyes fixed on John—but not on him, more like through him, locked in some terrible place. When he blinks, tears fall. Then his eyes roll back in his head again.

“Hey! Stay with me, James.” John stays kneeling in front of him. “Hey. Hey! Focus on me.”

James looks at him then. Connects. His dazed gaze travels to Martin, then Kate, then back to John. He brings his arms to his sides and spreads his long fingers wide on the gravel drive. “Shit. Man. I’m sorry...I...I thought...You okay?” He reaches up to John’s face where he’d hit him, but in doing so it must have hurt because he sucks in his breath sharply, brings his hand to his ribs and holds them, again struggling to breathe.

John studies him. “I’m going to check out your ribs, okay?” He moves slowly, gently probing James torso. “Can you stand?”

James stares back at him blankly.

“Come on, man. Stay with me, James. Focus on me.”

He does, squints at John then flashes his infamous wily, single dimple grin.

Martin smiles, can’t help it. Even totally ravaged, James is still magnificently adorable.

“You need to lie down before you puncture a lung, if you haven’t already.” John glances up at Martin. “Let’s take him to the guestroom. He’ll be more comfortable than in the clinic. Get his left side, I’ll get his right.” He looks back at James as Martin takes position. “I’m going to take your arm and put it around my neck. And Martin is going to do the same with your other arm. Ready?”

“Hey, Martin.” James says casually as Martin kneels down beside him. His usually stunning green eyes were now black marbles. His hair is longer than Martin has ever seen it—hangs just past his shoulders in soft waves, framing his slightly stubbled cheeks and accentuating his square jaw.

“Okay. Here we go. Ready?” John takes James’ hand and draws his arm around his shoulder and nods at Martin to do the same.

James sucks in a gasping breath just this side of a scream as John and Martin help him stand.

John looks at Kate as he guides them forward. “What happened to him?” James takes a few drunken steps but for the most part, Martin and John carry him.

“We were in a car accident up near Tahoe.” Kate follows them. “He wouldn’t go to a hospital. He wanted me to just drop him off at a motel but I wouldn’t, so he told me to take him here.”

“Was he unconscious most of the time, or was he in and out?”

“In and out, but more out after a while.”

“What was his longest period unconscious?”

“The half hour before we got here.”

James’ dark flannel shirt ripples in the fierce wind. He looks absolutely gaunt. He’s easy to carry, surprisingly light, especially for almost dead weight. James is close to six feet, was an avid runner and surfer, a beautifully built athlete.
What happened?

“It’s going to be okay, James. You’re going to be fine.” It soothes Martin to repeat it endlessly as they round the car and head for the house. Cold wind whistles through the trees, and before they make it to the front doors, an icy rain starts to fall. Martin feels James shivering.

“Did he vomit at all? Spit up blood.” John continues the third-degree.

“He didn’t throw up, but he spit up something and it may have been blood. I couldn’t see.” Kate paces John, practically yelling her responses over the wind and rumbling thunder.

“We’re almost there. You’re going to be okay, James,” Martin chants as they drag him through the doorway into the warm house. They make their way through the foyer to the guestroom and John tosses aside the quilted maroon comforter and they gently release him onto the double bed.  His eyes are still open but he looks dead, like he’s been dead for quite a while. “You’re okay, James. John’s going to take care of you. You’re going be fine.”

“I’m sorry, Martin. I shouldn't be here.” James closes his eyes.

John sits on the bed next to him. “Would you get his boots off, Martin?”

More a command than request, as again was so often the dialog between them of late. James does not stir as Martin removes his boots, and John gently unbuttons his shirt. Martin feels that familiar twinge of desire watching John strip him. James was on the bed, unconscious before him, not frenetically working, enraptured with his muse. Martin’s spent many hours fantasizing about having James in his bed...He looks away, at Kate, to suppress his misplaced, unrequited lust.

She stands in the doorjamb, as if unsure she's welcome, staring down at James. Young, mid-twenties; her red hair pulled over her slender shoulders is offset by an oversized black cashmere sweater. Irish ancestry most likely, by her fair skin tone and blushed cheeks. Then all the color suddenly drains from her freckled face. Martin looks back down at James as John peels back his flannel shirt.

Torso still defined, but red, purple and gray bruises spot his flat, tight stomach. A three inch gash across several ribs is oozing blood but has started to clot. White of bone presses under his skin below the gash along his right side. It’s disgusting.

“Oh, my God. He’s a mess.” Kate whispers. She draws in a quick breath, her soft mouth quivers. She blinks and tears slide down her cheeks.

“Lying flat will keep the pressure off his lungs.” John lifts James’ eyelid and shines a penlight he’s retrieved from his lab coat pocket in his eye. James doesn’t stir, his black eye stares ahead blankly. “It’s either a concussion, or drugs, that concern me.” John lifts James’ other eyelid. “Concussions are tricky. Bleeding in or around the brain can cause seizures, coma.” John releases James’ eyelid and it closes. “And it’s even trickier if he’s on something.” Then he unbuttons James’ shirtsleeve and pushes it up his forearm. “God damn son of a bitch,” he whispers.

Martin’s breath catches in his throat. He hears Kate gasp.

James’ wrist is callused, bruised, the skin stripped to red in parts, like irritation from restraints. But even more disturbing is the long vertical cut on the inside of his forearm. The jagged red scar runs from the base of his wrist, six or more inches up the middle of his arm. John unbuttons James’ other shirtsleeve and pushes it back. His left arm is equally disfigured.

“These wounds are fairly recent, maybe a few weeks or so old.” John runs his fingers gently over the cuts. “And they’re not defensive wounds.” He glances at Kate. “You know anything about this?”

Kate stares back at him and shakes her head. “I met him two hours ago, when he smashed into me.”

Martin is sure he’s going to be sick. “Why would James do something like that?”

“I don’t know, Martin. But it looks like he was serious. I think your friend is in some major trouble.”