The engine came to life and Coltrane leaped from the speakers. The cacophonous beauty of his trumpet on My favorite Things spun out like a feverish dream—rising and falling—anxiety and wonder twisting together into something that came within a breath of an epiphany. In the stillness of the parking lot, it rang out like a screaming madness. Horus dropped the volume a notch and pulled out of his spot.
He slipped on his sunglasses and adjusted the visor to protect himself from the blinding rays of a dying sun.
It would be December tomorrow. When precisely did this tune start to be counted as a Christmas carol? Horus wondered. When the kids were young, not even Julie Andrews' popular rendition came on the radio this time of year. It was all Jingle Bells, Frosty, and the Little Drummer Boy. Somewhere along the way, My Favorite Things slipped in and became a staple.
There was even a Rod Stewart version of it playing, when he was in the gun store the other day. The shop had been oddly festive with plastic holly and multicolor LED lights festooned over the wall display of rifles.
His eyes flickered to the glove box. The Springfield 9mm seemed to have its own gravitational pull. He had bought the pistol to feel safer. But it only seemed to foreshadow impending violence. Its few pounds of steel reached out and drew the forces of fate together for an inescapable confrontation.
There was a quote from the playwright Chekhov, Horus had read once that suggested if a gun appeared in the first act of a play, it needed to go off by the third. What act was he in now? How long did he have until the inevitable?
Kyle Silver loomed over every moment of his life. Horus wasn't sure what he was—how he was still alive—how he could be in more than one place at once. But he no longer doubted he was back from the dead. Perhaps the incantation on the pergola that stormy day had worked some magic and granted him immortality. Perhaps the Devil himself sent Kyle back to torment Horus. Whatever caused him to be here, he was no mere ghost. That night at the mall, Horus had pulled off the bastard's wig.
Why Kyle needed a wig was another question. But Horus had clutched in his hand a skullcap with long, filthy strands of black hair. It smelled of sweat and grease. The mane was matted and had food-stained into it. Kyle must have never taken it off. Had death made him lose his hair? Had he turned into some sort of nosferatu? If Horus got a better look at his hands, would he find claws there?
Kyle had always been vain. Had he gone bald, it wouldn't have been a surprise that he'd hide it behind a toupee.
The hairpiece had gone missing somewhere between the plaza and the hospital. One of the paramedics must have taken it. Thrown it away as garbage, or perhaps he took it for himself? Or maybe he worked for Kyle and was ordered to retrieve it. That paramedic who sat in the passenger seat and talked to his partner about the Cowboys' game had seemed a little shifty.
The 101 slowed past an accident. A BMW with a crushed bumper was being hoisted onto the back of a tow truck. Horus took off his sunglasses and switched the headlights on. The light of day had slipped away without him noticing.
His mind wandered and he began thinking about the report he had to write over the weekend. R.J. wanted to get some psychological diagnosis on why Amy had stopped transforming. Horus could see no rational explanation for her being a werewolf in the first place. How the hell could he ascribe a reason for her no longer being one? The only thing the latest session made clear was that she was now happier and more confident than Horus had ever seen her. Amy was almost chatty compared to their previous interactions.
On the night of the eclipse, the girl had surprised everyone by snapping back into her human form early. She not only reverted to being Amy three hours before they were expecting it, but she was conscious, which was a first. Taken alone, the incident was interesting. But she hadn't changed the next night or the one after that. It was like nature finally righted itself and the world—or at least that part of the world—was back to normal.
Now if only nature would do the same with Kyle, and send him back to the nether world where he belonged.
Horus entered through the security gates of his development and headed down the streets to his townhome. From down the street, he could see a man with long hair waiting by the curb in front of his house.
Panic sent a tremble through his fingers and his brain stalled. His mind hit free fall and his foot eased up on the gas pedal. Nine houses, eight houses—he drew closer to Kyle Silver. Horus knew he couldn't let himself drift into a stunned stupor. He had to act.
He shut off the headlights and reached over to pull the Springfield from the glove box. His thumb traced along the top, checking for the ridge that told him that there was a bullet in the chamber, like the clerk at the store had showed him. He released the safety and rolled down the passenger window.
Three houses away—two.
He held his arm rigid and aimed as he pulled up. Kyle leaned down and disappeared below the top of the car door, vanishing.
Sweat greased Horus's hand and made the weight of the gun feel like it was tugging itself loose. Had he been spotted? What was Kyle up to? Was he sneaking around the car?
Slowly the figure rose. A strand of blonde hair gleamed as it caught a ray from a porch light. Slender shoulders were wrapped in a pink cardigan. Her hands fumbled to tie a small black bag, while a leash tugged between her fingers.
Horus drew the gun behind the center console as she turned around.
"Oh, hello Mr. Benning. I didn't notice you there."
"Good evening, Mrs. Alderson. Nice night for a walk."
***
A whole pot of coffee, that's what Darren needed. The towering cardboard cup in his hand felt like it was about right for the job. After his fight with Noelle, he had barely slept. He should be back at his hotel in bed. But duty called.
He pushed through the tinted glass door. The receptionist desk was empty but a bored-looking salesman sat in one of the waiting room chairs with a briefcase by his feet. The Saturday paper was twisted so that he could work on a Sudoku puzzle.
Darren nodded at him. "Tim."
Tim nodded back and returned to his number grid. He was the weekend security. A silenced Beretta was tucked away under the jacket of his baby-crap brown suit. A button on the briefcase triggered an emergency beacon to home office by satellite, in case the communication lines were cut. SBI was nothing if not cautious.
Darren kept thinking about all the things he should have said to Noelle, stirring up dormant anger and regrets.
Noelle was eager for him to get back home. She wanted him there with her to attend everything from Christmas pageants to caroling cocktail parties, to fundraising dinners. Darren didn't blame her. Things were dragging on longer than he had hoped. But she refused to understand that he didn't make the decision when he got to leave. She had badgered him to give an exact date for his return.
"I don't know exactly but I'll be home soon, hon. There are just a few things to tie up."
"Will you be here for the twelfth? The Ellisons are having a wassailing get-together and I don't want to go there alone. At their Day of the Dead taqueria party, I was treated like Penelope at the loom."
"What the hell are you talking about?" He could swear that Noelle made up words just to make him feel stupid.
"The point is, my dear Darren, people are beginning to talk about how long you've been away. They think that this work excuse is just a ruse and that you've abandoned me and the children, perhaps for some other family. And I'm beginning to think they may be right."
"Oh please, will you cut it with the drama. I'll be home in a week. Two at the most."
Things had gone downhill from there.
Darren swiped his key card and entered the office. The blue-gray fabric panels filled the vast space with a lifeless sea of empty cubicles stretching out to the windows on the far wall.
Although, unfortunately, the office wasn't completely empty.
Josh Higgins cut Darren off as he tried to make it to his office without being spotted. He was hoping not to have to talk to anyone until he'd finished the coffee.
"Mr. Palmer?"
"You're in early, for a Saturday." Josh had thick glasses and shoulder-length blond hair. In his white short-sleeve dress shirt and maroon tie, he couldn't have looked like a bigger nerd. He was probably coming in early to suck-up for a promotion. What would he do—what would any of these sorry bastards do—when the operation was over and SBI pulled out leaving nothing behind but the industrial carpeting and furniture scrapes on the bland white paint?
"I've been reworking Dr. Benning's threat assessment. His buying a gun obsoleted the original."
"Great. Email it to me when it's done."
"Sent it to you fifteen minutes ago."
"Good, good. Any word on Wiley?" Darren didn't really care if the psychiatrist had a bazooka. He was an untrained sixty-year-old with a heart condition. Maxwell Wiley, on the other hand, could throw everything into jeopardy.
"He's left the country again."
"I know that. What I want to know is where is he? Did he go to Mexico like last time?"
"Rajakumar is there trying to track him down. Still no confirmation."
"Let me know as soon as there's anything."
Darren reached his office and shut the door behind him. One good thing with this off the books, stealth operation, he didn't have to follow SBI's open-door policy. But his hopes for some peace and quiet came to an end when the phone rang the moment he sat down. He recognized the number as Charles Conner's. It was coincidences like this that made him paranoid. Made him think Conner was watching him from a camera planted somewhere in the office. But it need not be so nefarious. The building's security was tied into SBI's main system. The moment he swiped his card, they would know he was there. Perhaps Conner had waited a respectful few minutes to let him settle in and Josh's interruption just made the timing seem suspicious.
He forced his face into a smile as he picked up. It might have made him look ridiculous but it helped him sound positive and confident on the phone. Maybe he should have tried it with Noelle. "Conner, give me some good news."
"I was about to ask the same from you." There was no perceptible smile on Conner's end.
"We're ready here. We've got eyes on the key players. Cameras on Aira. People inside. There's nothing else for us to do but wait. But the longer we do that, the more we risk the situation on the ground changing." With any luck, he'd get the hint that it was time to stop delaying and go forward with the plan. And Darren could get home to his family.
"What about the warehouse?"
Darren stifled the sigh his body wanted to expel. This was all in the last report.
Just tell him the facts and don't forget to smile.
"Equipped exactly like you asked, sir. The garage entrance is in a blind zone. The barracks are set up. There's food and water for two weeks. All as specified."
"Well then." Conner seemed to be chewing something over. "Looks like it's time to deploy the assault team. Get a transport ready. They'll arrive on Monday."
***
Author's note:
This was a bit of a transition chapter. I'm not sure if I did a good of a job with it as I needed to, but you will have gotten a bit of a glimpse of the format for the final three chapters: more shorter scenes. And yes, three chapters until the end. Although fair warning: this is intended as a three-book series so don't expect every storyline to get wrapped up.
Approaching the end has me thinking a lot about this project. I see that if and when it comes time to edit this book there will be lots of restructuring and plot mending to be done. The main plot of this first book is the Music Box vs. SBI, but I feel I botched it rather badly by keeping Jorgenson and the nefarious corporation under wraps too long. The thought of trying to rescue this book is incredibly daunting and has me wondering if I shouldn't just call TTWB a failed experiment and move on. I'm excited to start writing book two but I also wonder if I'm investing too much time in the wrong project.
Anyway, I'm not looking for sympathy here. I just wanted to give a bit of a state of the union to loyal readers.
Finally a note on the music. The selection doesn't have a heck of a lot to do with the chapter but I've been listening to Under the Table and Dreaming a lot while working on it. And the moon is a satellite, so...
Addendum June 8th, 2015: Huge thanks to everyone who gave me words of encouragement after reading this Author's Note. I would like to assure readers that the funk I was feeling is over and there will be a Book Two. I should begin posting it toward the end of the summer of 2015. Thank you all!