Vision (24 page)

An intruder had been there.

“Everything look okay in here, A-man? I didn’t leave it a big old mess, did I?”

“Not any more than usual,” Aaron said.

Shivers raced up his spine. It was unmistakable. Deliberate.

It was a signal.

Bobby fumbled around until he found his guitar, had Aaron grab the last of the nightcrawlers, and pushed out onto the stoop.

Like a tomcat marking his territory, the killer had been there.

Biding his time. Toying with him, until the time was right to pounce.

He and Gabe sat on the dock at Scratch Lake, shoes off, pants rolled up, their feet dangling into the water. It was still icy cold in late May, but with the sun warming their heads, Bobby didn’t care. The tickle of the fish nibbling at his toes, Gabe’s feet impishly brushing his, was pure heaven.

Gabe held onto the fishing rod while he tuned his guitar.

“Look at this!” Aaron shouted, gleefully skipping stones across the still water as Pete’s excited barks echoed across the lake.
Plink, plink, plink
.

Bobby knew that somewhere on the other side of the lake, his boat waited, abandoned. He had no further use for it anyway.

He smiled at the sounds, marveling at the way the water glittered like scattered diamonds. The caw of birds, the rustle of the leaves, the green shore reflected in the mirrored surface. He wanted to capture the scene and keep its essence safe inside its own little snow globe, preserved for all time.

Gabe kept silent, as if she knew these moments were sacred to him. As if she knew his mother’s bones lay thirty feet below them in her unmarked grave.

They hadn’t spoken about his visions since that day in the park. He didn’t want to destroy the happiness he felt just being here with her.

Laughing, Aaron plopped a bouquet of wildflowers in Gabe’s lap, a gaudy bundle of yellows, purples, pinks and blues.

“So pretty,” Bobby said, lifting the flowers to his nose.

Returning them to Gabe’s lap, he tipped her face up toward him with a finger. A flash of teeth. Her smile.

“I can see why you love it here,” she said. “Much more peaceful than Madison Square Park.”

Bobby leaned in to kiss her, the flowers crushed between them.

“Oooh!” she giggled. “I felt a tug!” She reeled in the rod and yanked it out of the water, pulling out a soggy clump of lake weed. “Yuck. I think we need another worm.”

Bobby laughed and propped the guitar on his lap. “Forget it for now. Time to give the fish a concert.”

His fingers slid over the frets, finding their positions. Letting the light, the warmth, the laughter filter into his hands and out through his fingers, he began to strum, the notes falling into place, the words connecting to the moment.

“Bobby, That’s beautiful. Will you play it tonight?”

He didn’t answer, just kept playing, weaving the light into song, weaving the moment, Gabe’s smile, the bouquet, his memories of Scratch Lake, and of his mother into a portrait he could keep with him always.

W
hen they got to Mr. Cooper’s house on the other side of town to rehearse for the party that evening, Bobby got out of Gabe’s truck and squinted at the small, white rectangle nestled in a yard filled with flowers.

“It’s small, isn’t it?” Bobby said as they walked up the path to the front door. “I expected something fancier.”

“It’s sweet,” Gabe said. “Feels homey.”

“I guess.”

Mr. Cooper opened the door, admitting them to the delicious scent of coffee.

“Hey, there! I’m not much of a chef, but I have some coffee and banana bread.”

He led them through the dark living room to a brightly lit kitchen gleaming with aluminum appliances.

“So,” Mr. Cooper said, “pretty short notice to throw a band together, huh?”

“Yeah,” Bobby said, closing his eyes against the lights. His medicine, he realized, had started to wear off, and he hadn’t brought his glasses. “Pretty crazy.”

“Bobby, if the lights are bothering you, we can go right into my studio and get started. Aaron, in my den is a big TV; the Wii football game is already set up. You can take Pete in there and knock yourself out. We’ll be downstairs.”

“The doors are all locked, right?” Bobby asked. He reassured himself that Pete would bark if anyone tried to get in. And they were going to be right downstairs.

“He’s perfectly safe here. The house is alarmed,” Mr. Cooper said. “I know it’s the country, but my collection of antique instruments is pretty valuable. I wasn’t about to take any chances, being a paranoid city guy at heart.”

Once in the basement, Bobby was relieved to open his eyes to soothing dimness. Of course, it was nearly impossible to see anything.

“Wow,” Gabe said, “what an amazing place! These instruments are incredible! Oh, my God, look at this baby grand!”

Bobby stood a bit stiffly, seeing little more than dim halos of light.

“Oh, I should have realized,” said Mr. Cooper. He led Bobby to a stool. “Sit right here and I’ll give you a show.”

One by one, Mr. Cooper placed the strange and exotic instruments in Bobby’s lap, gliding his fingers over the parts, describing their details and countries of origin.

“This is a sarod, from India,” Mr. Cooper said, describing a small, light, stringed instrument. “I bought it in a Hindustani market after a heated bargaining session. It’s a beauty, with inlaid pearl designs in the body.”

From across the room, Bobby heard the tinkle of notes as Gabe ran her scales.

Mr. Cooper laughed. “Your father figured you’d get itchy fingers when you saw that. And for you, Mr. Pendell,” Kenny Cooper said, “I have a special treat. Here.”

The guitar Mr. Cooper laid in his lap was light and thin. Bobby ran his hands across the sleek surface. “An electric?”

“Not just any electric guitar. This Stratocaster used to belong to Eric Clapton. The body is painted in a psychedelic rainbow of colors. Go ahead, try it,” he said, handing him a pick.

Bobby dragged the pick across the strings, astounded by the crystal clarity of the notes. He hadn’t noticed the drum kit off to the side, but after a few strums, the beat joined in, followed by the cascading splendor of Gabe’s piano.

He closed his eyes and let the music inhabit his soul. They played his songs, improvised songs, old blues songs, old rock songs. Next thing Bobby knew, there was a microphone in front of his face and he was singing, his raspy tenor filling the room.

They played so long, Bobby lost all track of time.

“Woohoo!” Gabe said. “You are fucking amazing, Bobby Pendell. In two hours, we’re going to blow the roof off the Graxton Grill.”

“Wait. In two hours? How long have we been down here? Where’s Mr. Cooper?”

“He said he needed to make a phone call,” Gabe said.

“Shit,” Bobby said, rising to his feet. “I should check on Aaron.”

Bobby stood, the dimness gathering around him in deep pools. He had no idea where the staircase was.

“Hold on,” Gabe said.

Upstairs, the bright light brought tears to his eyes. “Aaron? Where are you, scamp?”

“He’s not in the den,” Gabe said. “Yo, Aaron?” she called. “I don’t think he’s in here. Maybe he’s outside with Pete.”

“Crap,” Bobby said. “I thought the place had an alarm.”

There was no sign of Mr. Cooper. And then, Bobby felt it—that strange tugging sensation, calling him toward a long, dark hall.

“I’ll go look for Aaron outside,” Gabe said. “Wait here.”

Bobby waited until she’d gone. Sliding his hand along the wall, he followed the elusive thread that tugged him to its source.

From behind a door, he heard Mr. Cooper speaking in an angry whisper. “Who told you that you could come here tonight, damn it? I told you to call first, to never show up unannounced.”

The tugging sensation had dissipated, and Bobby was left to wonder if he’d even felt it in the first place. He puzzled over Mr. Cooper’s anger at his mysterious visitor. Bobby didn’t get the chance to hear the response.

Gabe came to get him. “I found Aaron. He’s in the back yard.”

“I should wring his neck,” Bobby grumbled. “I told him to stay in the house.”

“Don’t be so hard on him, big bro; we were the ones who lost track of time.”

“I guess,” Bobby admitted reluctantly.

“He’s a happy kid, Bobby. Mostly because of you,” Gabe said.

In Mr. Cooper’s well-groomed backyard, Aaron chased Pete in and out of the blue shadows that crept in long stripes across the grass.

Gabe broke suddenly away from him, twirling around in a little-girl pirouette. “We fucking rocked it, Bobby. It was like—it was like fireworks exploding inside my skull, playing with you.”

He watched her spin, a blur of orange light, a beautiful dancing flame of a girl.

The shadows had gotten longer, zebra stripes of indigo and deep orange, an abstract portrait of the evening. Bobby tried to dwell on how to scaffold his music with vivid light, how to twine this color into his words. But what words and notes could capture the late-afternoon light in Gabe’s hair?

She squeezed his hand. “Daddy and I will be here with you all the way. Mr. Cooper, too. You’ve got a whole town watching your back. In fact, I think the whole town is coming out tonight to hear you play. Daddy’s been talking up a storm.”

He let a finger trail the arc of her cheek. It came away wet. “Don’t,” he said. “Not on account of me.”

She sniffled and laughed. “Sorry. I promise not to be maudlin. Ever. Kiss me.”

He was about to lean into a kiss when the tug of something strangled and twisted tiptoed in with the falling dark, this time sharp and clear, unlike the muffled sense he’d had inside the house. Bobby stood stiffly, watchful. “Shit. He’s here.”

“What?”

“You remember when I found the bench the homeless guy was murdered on? It’s that feeling I get.”

“Bobby, I talked to Dr. Constantine about those visions. He says he’s certain they’re a symptom of the tumor.”

“I can prove to you that he is full of shit. And it doesn’t matter if you believe me or not, Gabe,” he snapped. “Just take Aaron inside. Now.”

“And leave you out here? It’s getting dark.”

“I may as well get used to that.”

After some more discussion, Gabe finally took Aaron back inside the house and left Bobby alone in the falling night.

Slowly, he found his way by touch and smell, fine-tuning his impressions. No. The killer wasn’t here now. But he’d
been
here.

He followed the fence to Mr. Cooper’s stand-alone garage at the end of a long driveway. Foul and thick, the evil clung to the sweet night air. Bobby bumped to a stop at the garage and pressed his hand to the door.

There was something in there. Some artifact of the murders. He knew it.

He grabbed the door handle and pulled. The door rolled up, releasing an over-powering sensation of death, like an open furnace door.

The killer had left something behind.

The garage was pitch dark. Stepping inside, heart pounding, Bobby fully expected cold hands to close around his throat at any moment.

Instead, he collided with a vehicle that came up to his waist, his touch revealing four oversized rubber tires and the open top of a streamlined fiberglass chassis. Running his hands across the smooth surface, Bobby concluded it was a very high-end all-terrain vehicle. Probing the seating area, he recoiled. It burned with hideous energy.