American Quest (16 page)

Gloria shrugged, self-conscious.

He gave a very small nod. “Would you care to join me for dinner this evening?”

Gloria swallowed. She had truly hoped Sileny would come by. Her isolation had been preying on her despair. She had never been alone this much.

She considered Vance’s offer. She knew she should hold only hatred for this man, but she longed for some level of contact. She could not bring herself to actually say “yes,” but she nodded.

“I would welcome that. I’d be delighted to have your company.” He spread his hand through the doorway, beckoning her to pass.

She stepped out of her room. The living quarters indicated that Aaron Vance was a collector of art, fine art of a caliber she could barely conceive. Gilded crown molding, marble floors, a Rococo secretary, an ebony reproduction of a bust from Egypt in the time of the pharaohs. Wait. Gloria stole a second look. The bust was not a reproduction; it was an original.

Vance led her to a carved table already set for two, adorned once again with scrolled stems of fresh calla lilies.

She sat and he poured the wine. She had no intention of touching any of it.

Sileny appeared bearing a charger, and inclined her head at Gloria. Gloria greeted her warmly. Sileny set two plates before them on the table then disappeared.

Just seeing Sileny made Gloria relax a degree or two. She dipped her fork into the amuse-bouche, a single smoked oyster dressed with a vinaigrette of apples, shallots, and some kind of herb. Perfectly balanced, luscious flavors that reminded her of her infrequent high-ticket business meals.

She thought of her dinner with Bruce just a few nights ago at Carlotta’s when they discussed how you could tell a good soul by the way he or she cared about certain things. Carlotta cared about good food. Apparently, Sileny did as well.

She took another bite. “I can’t tell what the herb is in the apple vinaigrette. Sage maybe.”

“Rosemary,” Vance replied. “I have a special fondness for cooking with it.”

Gloria gave a start. “You made this?”

“I cook at home whenever I possibly can. It is one of my passions.”

Gloria looked toward the kitchen. How idiotic of her to think that Sileny, the woman with no mouth, had prepared this.

“If you enjoyed the oyster, my dear, I think you’re in for a treat. The main course is a Madeira roast duck. One of my specialties.”

Looping arpeggios sailed from Charles Forte’s guitar before he crunched them in a series of titanic power strokes. The crowd went berserk.

Bruce couldn’t believe the incendiary performance. Though his mind never wandered more than a step away from Gloria, he still marveled at Forte’s scorching guitar riffs.

“Did I really just hear that solo?” Jamie cried over the euphoric crowd.

Bruce applauded and put his fingers to his mouth, giving a loud whistle. The solo was nearly unimaginable. Forte was back at the microphone now. He wasn’t nearly as accomplished a singer as he was a guitarist, but he had powerful pipes. At once lilting like Colin Meloy and growling like Eddie Vedder.

He nodded at Jamie. “He’ll be headlining at the Garden; it’s just a matter of time.”

The song ended with an expertly orchestrated shuffle—the band was tight all the way around—and Forte drank in the audience’s appreciation. Bruce clapped along, but a tingle of frustration worked its way into his heart. He hadn’t divined anything from the show that might have been a sign. Forte did some Hendrix early on, and later tunes by Mitch Ryder and Marvin Gaye. The rest of the show was original material. No Zeppelin. No “Stairway to Heaven.”

Jamie read his expression and her smile slipped. “Yeah, I’m not sure why we’re here, either. It’s hard to believe the Auxilia just wanted us to enjoy a good show.”

Bruce pursed his lips. Forte kicked into another song, announcing that it would be the last of the evening. “Let’s see if we can talk to him when he comes off.”

They hung around. They waited. Bruce ordered a soda, worried that anything stronger might dull his senses. The crowd pressed in and Bruce kept his radar up, but nothing seemed relevant to what they were looking for.

Finally, Jamie spotted Forte.

Bruce threaded his way to the other side of the bar where Forte stood looking as if he were trying to get the bartender’s attention.

Bruce stuck out his hand. “Great set tonight. Can I buy you a drink?”

Forte shook Bruce’s hand. “Yeah, thanks. I’ll take a Rolling Rock.”

“One Rolling Rock for the rock-and-roller.”

Bruce placed the order and introduced himself and Jamie. The three of them chatted about music. Jamie did most of the talking, thank God. All Bruce wanted to do was grab Forte by the jacket and shake out a sign. Demand he explain his place in all of this, what those diner lyrics
meant. That probably wouldn’t have been the best approach.

Jamie made conversation, gently probing. Bruce shifted his weight from one side to the other. He glowered at the beer bottle in Forte’s hand and his eyes rested on the number thirty-three. If Gloria were here, he’d be telling her . . .

If Gloria were here, she’d be safe and he’d have taken her to this show just for the sake of going to hear a red-hot musician. In fact, they probably wouldn’t have even come across Forte because they never would have been in Maine, and they wouldn’t have seen his show until some distant day when the guy made it to the Garden.

Bruce sighed. No, if Gloria were here he’d be telling tell her about that number thirty-three on the label of Rolling Rock. How during the Great Depression, the company had come up with a thirty-three-word slogan that they wanted printed on the label. That the printer mistook their meaning and printed the number thirty-three instead of the thirty-three-word slogan.

He’d tell her that they filled those bottles with beer and sent them out into the world, screwed up labels and all, because they never wasted anything during the Depression.

A true fact, not a fake fact.

It was another one of Bruce’s stupid useless facts—facts that had stopped being useless when he met Gloria, because they made her smile and even laugh.

The thought of Gloria’s smile made it impossible for him to remain patient.

“So, Forte,” he said, interrupting Jamie mid-sentence. “How come you didn’t do ‘Stairway to Heaven’ tonight?”

Forte’s black rough-cut hair spiked around his face. His forehead still glistened from being onstage. He cocked an eye at Bruce. “Why would I do that overplayed crap?”

Bruce felt confused by this response—and surprisingly angry.

Jamie picked up on the look in Bruce’s eye and stepped in front of him. “What my friend here means is, well, we heard something of yours.”

She began to sing:

Forte’s eyes narrowed as Jamie sang more of the revamped lyrics. Bruce saw it in his face. This guy had written them all right.

But Forte struggled for an air of nonchalance. “Where’d you come up with that?”

Jamie tilted her head. “We heard it on the jukebox. At a diner not far from here, and your name was listed as the artist. That’s what led us to find you tonight.”

Forte shook his head with a laugh. His expression seemed to flicker, a click of recognition before slipping away under a posturing smirk.

Bruce got angrier.

Forte shrugged and turned to Bruce. “Weird, man. You know what she’s talking about?”

“Yeah, I know exactly what she’s talking about. I was there. And you know what else? I think you know exactly what she’s talking about, too.”

Forte shifted. He held on to the smirk a moment longer and then couldn’t seem to keep it up anymore. He grew serious. “This is too weird, man,” he said, looking down at the floor. “I don’t get it.”

He rubbed his hair back and forth.

Jamie laid a hand on his arm. “Just tell us what you know about those lyrics.”

Forte shrugged. “Nothing, really. I wrote’m down a long time ago, must have been about a year. I was bored, just screwin’ around, you know? I sure as hell never recorded it. I don’t have a clue how you could have seen my name on the jukebox. That ain’t right.”

Bruce took a step closer. “Well it is weird, and it is right. A lot of weird things have been happening lately. But that’s exactly the way we heard it. And for us, it means something way more important than you can imagine.”

Forte did that hair-rubbing thing again. “Look. I can’t tell you how strange this is. Bruce and Jamie, right? Where are you folks from?”

Jamie smiled at Bruce, a soothing smile. A shut-up-and-let-me-handle-this smile. She turned that smile back to Forte.

“We’re from New York, both of us. Bruce and I are real good friends. There’s this, this . . . we’re trying to find . . .”

Bruce cut in. “I’m having a little trouble with my fiancée. Got me pretty worried.”

Jamie’s blue eyes looked at Bruce as if she wasn’t sure whether he might fly into a fury or spill all of the insane, truthful details. She needn’t have worried. Bruce wasn’t quite that far gone yet.

Forte was clearly intrigued by even these vague hints. Where he’d been the picture of the aloof rocker minutes ago, now he seemed focused. He put a hand to each of their shoulders.

“Tell you what. Bruce? Jamie? I think you guys need to drive me to my next gig.”

GLORIA TRIED THE DOOR. Amazingly, it opened. She’d expected it to be locked, but no; it opened into the most amazing penthouse living area she could imagine.

And she was alone.

Completely, utterly, alone. No Aaron Vance, not even that gentle mouthless one, Sileny. Gloria ran to the main vestibule and groped for a door.

None existed.

No external door in the entire penthouse flat.

All right. At least she was out of that bedroom. Still more freedom than she’d thought she had.

She stepped into the kitchen and checked the cabinets. Inside them was every appliance she could imagine. And the cookware! Single cast. Not assembled, anodized, or plated. Single cast bonded metals for perfect convection. Her mind ran through the inventory of what she’d find in her own cabinets. Cheap materials that transferred a haphazard distribution of heat from the stove.

She could cook here if she wanted to. It seemed wrong to have shared a meal with Aaron Vance last night and she didn’t want to do that again. Better to prepare her own meals. She checked the refrigerator. Foie gras. Octopus? She even found black truffles the size of golf balls. Whole black truffles! Casually stored in plastic for ripening in the crisper tray.

She could make anything. Anything.

If she were going to be kidnapped and imprisoned, she could think of worse facilities in which to be held hostage.

Her heart fluttered. A sickle of unease sliced at her. What was the point of appreciating any of her surroundings? She was being held against her will, period. It could never be acceptable, no matter how luxurious.

And yet her body insisted that she eat. She wouldn’t make anything extravagant. Let it be dry toast and cold cuts. She would eat only the simplest food, wear the plainest clothes, and utilize only that which was necessary. She would let her actions and attitude speak of her protest, if not through outright words. Yes, that’s what she would do.

But for right now, she was famished.

“You want to tell us where we’re going?” Bruce said, drumming his fingers on the van’s dashboard. They’d picked the musician up at first light. Though the guy had rocked the house the night before, he seemed impervious to the lack of sleep, and that suited Bruce just fine. Sleep got him nowhere closer to getting Gloria back. If he could, he’d skip sleeping altogether until she was safe.