Melody Burning (16 page)

“I’m okay, man,” the guy yells. “I’m okay,” but they keep walking him out and then he is off somewhere in the crowd, gone.

Was it him, or wasn’t it? I don’t know, but my heart is just breaking now. Suddenly the drums start again and somebody puts my mike in my hand. The lights hit me.

The audience disappears into the blackness, and I yell back to the band, “So Not Free.” I have no idea what we rehearsed—my mind is a blank. I have almost no idea even who I am, because I know now that what happened in that dark crawl space was way bigger than it felt at the time. It’s burning me alive from the inside. I have to see him again.

I look out into the dark. Some longing part of my soul is looking back at me, and I feel this song as I have never felt any song before in my life. The words come out of me echoing with the loss of being a kid and looking at a future you thought would be free—the wonderful adult world that in reality is even less free than ours, and ours is
so not free
.

I sing not only from my heart and soul but from an even deeper place. I sing from behind the bars of life, but as I sing, I also see that the song is not entirely true—that all we have to do to find our freedom is to find love.

For a long moment, there is silence. Then a sound hits me. It’s so loud that I think a bomb has gone off. Then I realize it’s people clapping. They are clapping and yelling and stomping.

Somebody is yelling at me from the wings. Yelling at me to do something.

More. Yes, that’s what they’re yelling.

When I put the mike up to my lips, the whole audience turns off like a switch. I sing “Nature Boy.”

At first, I sense a withdrawal from the crowd, as if they’ve been in the dark and are getting hit by light.

It happens again, though. Here I am singing this old song, and something opens up in me—a door, like, to another world.

The song ends. The applause comes again. The crowd surges forward, and I notice that a couple of the guards have their uniforms torn up, and there are cops—real ones—coming up on the stage and surrounding me.

As they lead me off into the wings, I say nothing. Being up there was incredible, and I know what it is now to be truly high, in the sense of being taken totally out of myself, of letting my heart flow like a river, of becoming something primitive and completely free.

Mom’s face is covered in tears. She shakes so much it scares me. She looks suddenly little and old. I see that she is crying not only with joy for me but also with sorrow for herself. This is her own life’s dream, and now it has come true before her eyes, but it’s not her.

When I embrace her, it does not feel like it always felt before, and I know exactly how it’s different. She’s not holding me. I am holding her.

When my mother grows old, this is how it will feel to cradle her in my arms, and I will do that. I will never turn away from her.

Then, as if she has read my thoughts, she leans back and looks me in the eyes. We both laugh and cry at the same time, me and my dangerous, evil, wonderful mom. Then Julius interrupts us. There is a police car waiting for us. We can’t use the limo—the crowd is too hysterical.

I cannot express how weird this all makes me feel. You know they are putting you on a pedestal, but you still feel like yourself anyway.

So here we are in the back of a police car, and the cops are handing me programs for autographs for their kids. It’s looking like I’m more of a guy thing than a girl thing, which is okay, I guess. Wonder who buys the most music?

I am a bit boy crazy, so it fits, I suppose. Interesting to be boy crazy while sealed up in the cocoon of fame. No boys in here, that’s fer sure. Unless I want to be taken to a tea dance by some guy from, say, Megadeth, which I’m sure our publicists could arrange. Problem is, no celeb is going to date jailbait, and guys my own age are way too intimidated. I mean, who would invite me to a prom?

I have a tutor, hello? Is there a tutored-kids prom somewhere? Note to self—check that out.

We go into the Beresford by the back entrance, and the pig Frank is there. I’ll get him, one way or another.

Back upstairs, the silence is kind of strange. You get used to applause real fast—and miss it just as fast.

I am sitting in the middle of my bed. I scoot up to the head of the bed and press my ear against the wall. It seems like just a minute ago I was being terrified by his breathing. But now it’s totally quiet. Just the wall, nothing more.

I go out to the hall, heading for the den. From Mom’s room, I hear music. And this is incredible: it’s
my
music. She never just listens. It’s always for work. Not tonight, though. She kissed me earlier. She had tears in her eyes.

Now she’s shut up in there, and I’m wandering the halls, full of wishes that won’t come true and desires that won’t be fulfilled.

I go into the den and look at where his hatch used to be. Knowing Mom, the entire apartment is now encased in concealed armor plating.

He couldn’t get in here, even if he
was
in the building.

I know he won’t be coming out of juvie anytime soon. My one real way to get to him is to persuade Mom to hire a lawyer who can game the system for information.

Now that the concert has come and gone, maybe Mom will calm down, not only about my music but about life in general. She’ll realize that she can’t go bananas just because I like somebody.

Once we were transferred from the cop car to the limo, she put her head back and closed her eyes. Normally, she would have been all over me with critiques, checking things off on her clipboard, yelling into her BlackBerry, and sucking the plastic cigarette.

I leaned over and kissed her cheek, and a sort of rueful little smile came and went on her face. The rest of the way home, the car was quiet.

I go back to my room, lie down, and close my eyes.

Was it him in the audience, after all? Did I make a horrible mistake tonight?

No, he’s lost deep in Willamette, or maybe somewhere else by now, even farther away. Could be anywhere.

Tomorrow is Sunday, but on Monday I’m going to ask our lawyers about him, and Mom is going to let me. She has no right to stand in my way.

I look at the clock—it’s nearly three. I’m unbelievably tired but I’m also wired.

Safe in this big, strong building. Lonely. And so to sleep, perchance to dream of my poor lost boy.

C
HAPTER 16

F
rank arrived at Mr. Szatson’s house gobbling Tums. Building the first device and then nearly getting caught had brought the whole situation home even more forcefully. If he did this, people were definitely going to die, and he was definitely going to be found out and given the needle.

He had no appointment and no idea how Mr. Szatson would react. But this was how it had to be.

As the ornate black gate swept open, he looked for signs of the guards he felt certain were there, but he saw nothing except the peaceful lawn and the flower beds.

He’d never considered himself a man with much of a conscience. What he had was a will to live, not a will to help others stay alive. But, dammit, didn’t Szatson realize what he was doing? The investigation would be incredible. If they didn’t both get caught, it would be a miracle.

He stopped his car in front of the house and got out, going up the steps to the big white front door. It was a formal house, red brick, that had once belonged to the chairman of some film studio. Probably to famous actors as well.

As he lifted his hand to ring the gleaming brass doorbell, the door swept open. Mrs. Szatson stood in front of him.

She smiled at him. “Luther?” she said softly, her voice a gentle lilt.

Szatson appeared behind her. “Good to see you again, Frank.” He smiled. “Come on in.” As they walked toward his office, he added, “Are you bringing a problem to our doorstep on a Sunday morning?”

“A little problem.”

This time, there was the ghost of a reptile in Szatson’s smile. “I don’t handle little problems.”

“It’s not a little problem.”

“I thought not.”

Szatson crossed his big office and dropped into a chair. He gestured to Frank, but Frank remained in the doorway.

“Mr. Szatson, I don’t think we can do this.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Szatson, it’s the crime of the century. It’s going to be investigated beyond anything we’ve ever known. It’s going to draw incredible, detailed, and prolonged attention to you.”

“Frank, excuse me for being so blunt, but don’t think ahead. That’s my job, okay? So don’t. Now, if you don’t mind, my wife and I have to leave in five minutes.”

He came over to Frank and put a friendly arm across his shoulder. “Frank, Frank, Frank . . .” He chuckled. “You’re the smart one, so do the good job you’ve always done, you hear me?” Now he laughed. “Whatever will be will be, am I right?”

Not ten minutes after he’d arrived, Frank was back in his car. And what had he accomplished? Not a thing. It was still on. His warnings had been brushed off.

He drove around the corner and pulled over. He gripped the steering wheel, fighting for breath.

He couldn’t do this, no way. But either way, he was a dead man. If he went through with it, he’d certainly be collared, imprisoned, and given a death sentence. Of course, Szatson would never allow him to walk away now—he knew too much. Szatson wouldn’t just send him back to jail, either. He might even do it himself. But it would be done, no question. Frank would be dead, age thirty-two.

He drove back to the Beresford, passing the Beverly Hills Hotel and the restaurants and expensive boutiques along Sunset, then Amoeba Music and the ArcLight Cinema, where he sometimes went to the movies.

He turned into the parking garage, went down to his space, and cut the engine. He started to get out, but instead he began shaking. A feeling came over him as if he was immersed in ice water, and the shaking became almost uncontrollable. He gripped the steering wheel, striking his head against it again and again.

Now that his attempt to scare Szatson off with warnings had failed, what was his next move?

He went into the building and headed through the employees-only door into the office zone. As he passed security, he tapped on the window, and Joe gave a wave of his fingers. Joe was happy with his little bit of money and watching his damn screens. Then he passed what had been the office of Renee Titer, who had been their rental agent back in the days when they did that.

Oh, how careful was this plan. The building was even designed for fire values, the structure coming in just this side of codes—except for that shaft extension, of course. That was the key to the whole plan, as it had been from the first.

From the first
. That was the amazing evil of it. True evil. Satanic evil.

He reached his office, standing for a moment and looking at the black door with the sign on it that said, simply,
SUPERINTENDENT
. Then he went in and sat down. For a time, he stared into space. He opened his desk.

The new detonator he had built was black because he had covered it with electrical tape. It was about the size of a box of matches. He took it in his hand. It was feather-light and so simple. Its job was to ignite a tungsten filament. But this would happen deep in one of the fuel tanks, inside the oil.

He cradled it. He felt the weight of the building above him, and in his mind’s eye he saw the people in the apartments above, some sleeping, some watching TV, some just getting up late on a Sunday morning, others making love perhaps, whatever. He thought of the little singer way up there where there would be no escape. That death alone would make this fire famous.

He laid the detonator on his desk and looked at it under the hard fluorescent light. He could smell the faint odor of the electrical tape. Why had he covered it with tape? He’d wanted it to survive, somehow. But why? It would not survive, not any part of it.

He peeled back some of the tape. The electronics were simple. He had put them together in ten minutes—a twelve-volt battery, a small timer, a piece of tungsten. He’d designed it himself, and he knew it would be effective.

His fingers seemed huge in comparison with the small timer he’d bought at Target. He pressed the Set button. It began counting back from thirty minutes. Half an hour to the worst disaster in Los Angeles since the Northridge Earthquake.

He would drop it in tank two, the center of the three tanks, then he would tell Joe he was leaving, and he would go down to the IHOP on Olympic and eat pancakes until he heard the sirens.

Briefly, he thought he might just go ahead and kill himself. But he knew he was too much of a coward to do it.

Twenty-seven minutes. He touched the box. It was a strange thing to contemplate what it would mean to this building and its occupants, to the city and the world, if he closed it and took it down the hall.

He watched the timer count down until it reached the twenty-five-minute mark.

Making sure nobody was in the hall, he left his office. As he walked down the corridor with the device, he found that he had to wipe away tears. But he didn’t feel sad, at least not in any part of his heart that he was in touch with.