Revenant Rising (73 page)
“Of course I do, but I don’t want to hear about it on an hourly basis. Or be directly involved. Okay? Do you know the Chinese proverb that stipulates if you save someone’s life then you have to keep it safe forever? I think I was starting to subscribe to that notion, and that can be one helluva burden if you can’t figure out a way to let go.”
“Given the circumstances, I think your slip into that mode was inevitable, as was your need to escape it. I’m just sorry the situation couldn’t have been handled in a less draconian way.”
“Don’t be sorry, Laurel, and don’t let this cause a permanent rift with Colin. You come across as rather draconian yourself—this cutting Colin off cold and hiding out where you know he’d never look for you. I think it’s safe to say you weren’t told about the video and his participation in Rayce’s concert tonight because you never gave him a chance to fill you in.”
Rather than admit by word or deed how right he is, she focuses on the other items brought to the table and asks where they fit into the scheme of things.
“The video tape is a collection of concert highlights you should see and the CDs are yours to keep. Having read the circumstances of your upbringing in the background report I ordered, it’s reasonable to believe you’re unfamiliar with Colin’s catalogue because you were otherwise engaged at a time when most girls get interested in contemporary music and start lusting after rock stars. And these,” he says, selecting an envelope, opening it, and removing two small photographs, “these are pictures of Colin’s boys.”
No one has to know that her heart skipped a beat when he slid the photographs across the table. Now she struggles not to reveal that she’s holding her breath as their images enter her vision. The older one’s gap-toothed grin and shrewd blue eyes suggest more than a passing acquaintance with mischief; his ruddy complexion, tousled mop of blonde hair, and askew necktie jibe exactly with her ideal of an English schoolboy, and he looks enough like Colin that she could pick him out in a crowd. The resemblance is not so strong in the younger one, who is darker in coloring and blander of expression; his wide-eyed gaze is endearing for its solemnity and his chubbiness appealing for the reminder he was a baby not that long ago.
“You can keep those, too. I was going to give them to Colin when I found out yesterday that he’d lost his copies, but since he’s going home tomorrow there’s no great need.” Nate pushes back from the table and picks up the video. “Watch this whenever you wish. There’s a VCR and monitor in the room you’ll be using, and you can turn up the volume as much as you want. You won’t disturb anyone if you want to really crank it.”
Toting her carryall that now contains the photos and the audio CDs, Nate leads the way to a room on the third level and points out features and amenities like an obsequious bellman cadging for a tip. After the closet, en suite bath, and thermostat are identified, he shows her the remotes for the TV and VCR and how to use the phone for either inside or outside connections.
“There’s water there, too.” He indicates the obvious crystal carafe and tumbler on the bedside chest. “In case you get hiccoughs.”
Near dawn, following a brief period of shallow sleep, Laurel eyes the instruments of her torture as dimly defined by the bathroom nightlight. The phone still doesn’t tempt her, but resistance to the VCR has worn thin after too many dark hours of contemplation. Nate loaded the concert tape in the machine during his bellman impersonation last night, so she has only to move her hand to the remote control on the nearby chest and reposition her head on the bed pillows to vicariously attend her first-ever rock concert.
Impatient at the start, she fast-forwards through stock titling and a list of credits before realizing this is a mix tape containing highlights from several concerts and including more than one rock star of her acquaintance. She recognizes a familiar figure through the blur of the fast-forwarding, backs up the tape and switches to play mode.
“Aren’t you all the lovables!” a wolfish Rayce Vaughn shouts at an unseen audience that must number in the tens of thousands if crowd noise is any indicator. He lifts bespangled arms as though bestowing a benediction amid eruptions of flame, smoke, constellations of kaleidoscopic light, and the increasing roar of the concertgoers. His patter continues unabated as it did at the Tavern party.
“A great many of you ladies know me as RV, the ultimate recreational vehicle . . . For those who don’t, see me after the show.” He waits a few beats for the slow ones to catch on, then follows up with more rapid-fire shtick prior to introducing a guest artist. “We’re honored to have joining us tonight on ocarina and pan-flute, that apprentice Adonis known as . . . Colin Elliot!”
Instead of hitting fast-forward, Laurel turns up the volume and gives herself over to a power that is at once spellbinding and daunting. She moves through apprehension and amazement and crosses the threshold of a final frontier to confront sensual confusion of heroic proportions. Raw untranslated sound penetrates the filter of the recording to materialize into a tangible object she can feel in her gut; vivid in-your-face visuals dissolve into imperceptible sensations that sweep over her and sink into her pores. If smell and taste figured in, salt and musk would be present.
She comes to a full sitting position and kicks off the covers to welcome a rush of cool air across her Tshirted torso and bare legs; she rewinds the tape and watches every minute of it with the skeptical attention of a nonbeliever searching for supporting evidence and finds nothing that wouldn’t underscore the obvious—that Colin Elliot’s appeal goes way beyond physical attractiveness and whatever it is that he generates with voice, guitar, or keyboard is invasive beyond the usual reach of music.
She replays a segment identified as June 1984, Red Rocks, an outdoor venue where he sings of amber sunrises, auburn sunsets, and burnished days in between. His hair is longer and lighter than it is now, his facial features sharply drawn beneath a black Western hat worn low on his brow; shirtless, his toned physique is showcased by an open leather vest and skintight jeans. The overall effect is damn near stupefying—paralyzing, even.
She watches the segment again, but unlike the time she held the marathon replay session with the short clip of his Icon Awards appearance, she’s not trying to flush him out of her system by overexposure; she’s trying to reinforce a few belated conclusions.
In the interest of reinforcement, she replays a segment that includes Rayce, two female superstars, and Colin in an enormously moving rendition of the Burke Ballentyre classic about friendship. She’s heard the song in countless fully orchestrated elevator versions, but never in a way that conveyed what this quartet is telling her with their competing solos and unconventional harmonies. During a piano interlude, she’s forced to stop the tape or risk overdosing for all the wrong reasons.
Any attempt to describe the impact of this tutorial would have to depend on Emily’s vocabulary and storehouse of musical vernacular. Come to think of it, wasn’t it little sister who first suggested that a rock concert equated to a mass seduction? And it was definitely Emily who once pointed out that music isn’t worked, it’s played, and that the term ‘rock music’ is not the oxymoron Laurel always insisted it was.
All this washes over her, along with spray from multiple showerheads in a bathroom that would put most spas to shame. Still overwhelmed by reactions she can’t yet identify—isn’t ready to identify—she dresses in clean underwear and last night’s clothing and hurries downstairs to the kitchen. The housekeeper explains that Mr. Nate is gone for the day and that she should have whatever she wishes for breakfast. Laurel declines the breakfast offer and asks instead for a couple of large plastic trash bags to facilitate the move from the hotel.
After returning to the hotel by cab, she settles the bill, arranges for retrieval of her car, and requests that her baggage be called for in a half hour. She meets the deadline with minutes to spare and defies the bellman to look askance at the motley assortment of bags when he comes for them. That leaves just the glut of phone messages to deal with. The decision to delete all of them unheard doesn’t come easy. Nor does the decision to stop tracking the departure hour of a flight bound for London.
Nothing like the after-effects of an all-nighter and a shitload of frustration to improve one’s mood at departure time. Colin glowers in the front passenger seat as Bemus makes next to no progress toward maneuvering the Jaguar saloon into the curb lane at JFK’s British Airways terminal. They’re late; there’ll be no unrushed checkin, no time for an eye-opener and something from the breakfast buffet in the Concorde Room, no chance for a relaxed look at morning newspapers and fellow passengers before boarding.
At this rate he’ll be lucky to make boarding at all and have no one to blame but himself if he doesn’t. He’s been dragging his feet every step of the way since Bemus alerted him before dawn to get his arse in gear. First he insisted on ringing both Laurel’s hotel and New Jersey numbers before he would do anything else, then he lollygagged his way through showering, shaving, and dressing. And only Nate Isaacs would have spent more time scrutinizing a hotel bill and inventorying belongings before settling up and vacating the premises.
Time-wise, they were already in the red zone when he demanded a stop be made at the Phillippe Hotel, where a confrontation with an assistant manager resulted in a standoff rather then anything concrete about Laurel’s whereabouts. Then he got picky about the route taken, insisted that bridges were faster than tunnels, and developed a craving for coffee that had to be satisfied before they were committed to a limited-access highway.
Now he takes another look at his watch, calculates time against distance to the drop-off point, determines that Bemus is idling in park, not drive, and makes his move. He leaps out of the halted car, circles behind it to the other side and yanks open the driver’s door. This is no Gibby Lester–like weakling he intends to displace; he’d better hope surprise is working in his favor when he levers Bemus from the driver’s seat with a hard twist of the bodyguard’s beefy arm.
