Lungs ablaze, he rolled over and gazed up at the sky. The brilliance of the sun made him grimace, his shut lids purple with sun spots. That was fine, he thought. Anything was better than those dead eyes, those clawing fingers. He shuddered, struggled to rid his mind of the image.

  He sensed someone standing over him, blocking the sunlight. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes. Both women were staring down at him.

  Eva lowered to one knee, the smooth, dark line of a leg folded a few inches from his face.

  Eddie hardly noticed.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  He grunted. “Wonderful.”

  Claire, crouching at his other side, “My God, your feet are bleeding. What happened out there?”

  Eddie swallowed, his heartbeat an arrhythmic tattoo.

  “Eddie?” Eva asked. She put a hand on his shoulder.

  He kept his voice level. “I went deeper than I planned and hit bottom. I’m fine now.”

  Claire exhaled pent-up breath. “Had me scared.”

  He closed his eyes, swallowed.

  Thought of the dead stare.

  “Me too.”

  A shudder ran from Ben’s shoulders to the small of his back. He felt a little disoriented, but there was a giddiness too.

  He moved through the cave toward the hot sunlight. He remembered getting a check once for seventy thousand dollars. Driving to deposit the check, he was elated and unbelieving and frightened as hell that something bad would happen on the way there.

  This was like that, only far more powerful. His excitement was bursting within him, but his fear of losing the weird, wonderful music was stronger. Ben emerged from the cave and began a brisk jog down the beach, his steps accelerating. He played it back in his mind, listened to the elegant, urgent string part. His fingers fluttered in rhythm to the tapping he heard. And beneath it all, the deep thrum vibrated in his memory.

  Another minute brought him to the castle. He had no idea if Eddie was there, but he had to coax the music out of himself and into existence. He ran to the piano in the great hall. Shaking a little, he began to play. He cried out when his fingers hit the right keys; the violin part filled the room. It was strange, wild, unmistakably sinister. With his left hand he played a chord, grimaced when it sounded wrong, and chose another. Yes.

  The right hand spun out the second part of the melody. His left hand found another chord, pounded. He toed the sustain pedal and the chord echoed through the hall, took on the quality of a high-tension electrical wire, the thrum he had heard.

  Yes.

  Ben played the chord again, his right hand still skittering over the keys, the violin part a convulsive, erratic orgy of terror. My God, it was happening, and he continued to play, his hands exploring, locked in now, making order of chaos, bringing the song to life. Later they would add the percussion, the winds. For now, hearing the notes was more than enough.

  Vaguely he heard a door open, a female voice hushed by another. Their footfalls were dull whispers in the hall, and he allowed himself a moment’s vanity. Listen, he thought. Listen to me play.

  Like she’d heard him, Claire’s eyes dropped to his agitated right hand, his flexing left. It was intimate, sensual. His entire body resonated with those sustained, bone-chilling bass notes, his forearms full of tendons, his neck corded and alive. Claire’s big blue eyes traveled up his arms to his face, open admiration written on her features.

  Eddie seemed to jump. Ben had forgotten he was there. As Ben watched, amused, Eddie snatched the notebook from Eva’s hands and the pen from her ear.

  She made a grab for the notebook, but Eddie was streaking black lines across the paper. He noticed Eddie’s hand shaking as he made harsh black dots on the lines, not worrying about rhythm yet, just getting down the notes.

  When he looked up, he was disappointed to see Claire gone. Then he realized where she was going, to get her laptop. She would record it all in there, and now they would have something for Lee Stanley.

  Ben played. He chanced a look at Eva, but she was watching Eddie, biting her lower lip, not at all the dispassionate goddess he’d come to know.

  What’s in the notebook, Eva? he thought. What don’t you want us to see?

  Chapter Ten

  From the Journal of Calvin Shepherd

  December 21st, 1923

  Why, Dear Journal, have I neglected you for so long?

  If I am honest, I must admit it is a product of my soul-destroying shame.

  I am only forty-seven, yet the female servants now in our employ—five in all—seem not to see me, as though I were a dusty vase, a bit of faded drapery. More cruel than this wilting apathy is the betrayal my body has visited upon me, for rather than diminishing with age, my concupiscent urges have doubled and even trebled over the past several years, so that I am left with nothing save a raging, foaming, yet unrequited desire to couple with the fairer sex.

  It has been nearly a year since I have lain with a woman, and even that clumsy, abbreviated fiasco of grunts and pleas was procured with a sizable fee and a solemn pledge not to utter a word of the affair to another soul. The other party to which I now refer is still in Robert’s employ as a scullery maid, and despite her unremarkable features and her tendency toward coarse language, she assumes a pose of aristocracy when I appear, as though mere eye contact with me would sully her person.

  I blush to confess that I still beg her to lay with me. She says she will…for three months of my wages.

  Oh the indignity of my plight!

  And I have not yet come to the worst.

  My cravenness has transformed me into an accomplice in Robert’s exploitation of Gabriel.

  His first theft was the very song we heard Gabriel play that first afternoon in Greece. The only element of the piece original to Robert was the title, “Forest of the Faun.” Upon its debut, the song was an immediate success. Months later, when Robert caused a sensation in San Francisco by unveiling a plagiarized symphony cobbled together from Gabriel’s works, I was sure his villainy could get no worse.

  If only that had been the truth.

  Would that I could transport myself back to that fateful day eleven years ago and somehow prevent us from ever entering that ancient Grecian glade, perhaps we never would have found the child in the woods.

  Oh, Journal, locked in your lightless trunk as you have been these eleven torturous years, you have not witnessed the meteoric rise of Robert Blackwood—the Shameful Imposter—to the zenith of the music world. Since he discovered Gabriel and transported him to our island like an exotic pet, Robert has produced three complete symphonies, eleven concertos, and numerous other works. The reception to this body of work has been ecstatic, adoring, his name now mentioned in the same breath as Vivaldi and Wagner. And though this farce has vexed me beyond description, tonight I hope that I will finally see some benefit from Robert’s treachery.

  The boy has not set foot on the mainland since Robert brought him here, and the only company he has kept has been Gregory and Becca Blackwood and Henry Mullen’s two daughters Amarinda and Tassee. But now in his insatiable quest for further adulation, Robert has taken it into his mind to introduce Gabriel as his prodigy to a select crowd of adoring fans. Among those in attendance will be the one woman who sets my heart aflame, the widow of the well-known merchant and music aficionado Frederick Milledge, Angelica Sparks.

  I, of course, refer to her by her maiden name, and though I do so in an attempt to forget that anyone else was ever her lord and master, in my defense Angelica has taken to using her maiden name as well.

  Thus I go to bed tonight in high spirits.

  Oh, Angelica, could you possibly be my salvation?

  From the Journal of Calvin Shepherd

  January 4th, 1924

  Though it is now a new year, this bleak, cold day possesses the aura of an ending rather than a beginning. I noted in my last entry how stern, how abusive Robert has become in his methods of exploiting Gabriel’s ability. Had I harbored any doubt as to his feelings for the boy, those doubts were obliterated New Year’s Eve.

  Gabriel appeared in the great hall at the appointed time to perform for Robert’s guests. Without including myself and the other permanent tenants of Castle Blackwood, the party numbered forty-five—eighteen couples and nine singles, the lovely Angelica Sparks among the latter number.

  I marked her reaction as Gabriel stood and bowed to the gathered crowd. Like the rest of the onlookers, she was obviously taken by his strapping appearance. Though he might never achieve the robustness of the mountainous Henry Mullen, at the age of seventeen Gabriel has already surpassed the six-foot mark. He is muscular of limb and torso, and has a face so handsome that the angelic name given to him eleven years ago now seems eerily prescient.

  I shall now, to the best of my ability, recount Robert’s unconscionable introduction and the resultant unraveling of the entire affair.

  Robert made his way to a position just in front and to the left of the grand piano. Above him the chandeliers had dimmed and a stage light rigged by Henry Mullen brought the man into stark relief.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Robert began, “I reveal to you tonight a source of joy to which we here at Castle Blackwood have been privy for more than a decade.”

  Robert gestured for Gabriel to join him, which the boy did, looking quite dapper in his black suit coat and white bow tie. A hand on Gabriel’s shoulder, Robert went on, “My biological son is named Gregory, which means ‘vigilant,’ or ‘alert’.”

  Robert picked Gregory out of the crowd with his stony gaze. “Would we have known his true disposition, we would have chosen a name more apt…one that means ‘dazed’ or ‘uninterested’.”

  I could not help but blanch at such cruel words so publicly spoken. From where I stood I could not see Gregory’s reaction, but I certainly saw Gabriel’s. His bland expression went steely, his large brown eyes lingering on Gregory.

  Robert continued, “Though God deprived me of an heir who bears the innate proficiency with music that has passed through generations of Blackwoods, He was good enough to rectify His error by leading me to Gabriel. This young man has the ability to surpass even his late grandfather Joseph in composition and performance.”

  With that, Robert muttered something at Gabriel’s ear and took a seat beside his wife. I noted that Gregory did not look up at his father as he sat, stared instead at Gabriel, who gazed intently back at him.

  The crowd rustled uneasily as the boys watched one another. I do not believe in telepathy, but if one were searching for proof of its existence, I believe Gabriel and Gregory would be a good place to begin.

  Robert, who had been nodding and receiving approbation from the guests behind him, turned and realized that Gabriel had not moved. Robert grew very still. The air of the great hall gravid with emotion, Gabriel broke his communion with Gregory and stared directly at Robert.

  Then, without a word, the boy strode down the aisle and exited the hall.

  For a moment no one spoke, even the guests who hardly knew Robert recognizing the deep humiliation and simmering rage now plaguing their host.

  He stood, said, “Stage fright, I imagine,” then followed Gabriel out of the hall, his measured steps revealing a poorly concealed haste.

  A murmur arose, and I picked Angelica out of the crowd, wanting in some way to share the import of the moment with her. She returned my gaze and nodded toward the back of the hall, where the two primary actors in our mystifying little play had disappeared. I nodded, favoring her with a knowing glance. Worry not, I tried to communicate, I shall make all right.

  She smiled, a smile such as I have not experienced in many, many years, and I went after them. As I clambered up the stairs, I knew full-well that I had no intention of interfering in the ugly scene about to be enacted, yet it felt exhilarating to be part of the thing, and what was more, to have Angelica believe that I, Calvin Shepherd, meekest of the meek, had the power to improve the situation.

  Dearest Journal, I must now confess another secret. I do owe Robert Blackwood one debt for which I have never expressed my gratitude—nor will I ever verbalize my appreciation for—the peculiar architectural detail contained within Castle Blackwood, for Robert must never know that I’m aware of it. If he did learn of my awareness…I am loathe to imagine the consequences.

  My life is not completely without occasional moments of excitement; the bulk of these moments are attributable to the secret network of tunnels Robert included in his design of Castle Blackwood. These tunnels are narrow things and quite dark. The only source of illumination present in these serpentining passageways is the dim light that passes through the mirrors into which people gaze, having no idea that they themselves are being watched. Robert made certain that this castle would be a voyeur’s wonderland, and as far as I know, no one else has stumbled onto his secret. Many a night have I spent spying on Elizabeth Blackwood and her daughter Becca. I know no joy greater than gazing upon the stunning Amarinda Mullen, Henry’s young daughter, as she explores her nubile body!

  I slipped inside the master suite and entered the tunnel. As I made my way down the passage to Gabriel’s room, the voices began to clarify.

  “How dare you embarrass me?” Robert was shouting. I reached the mirror and peered through. I couldn’t see Gabriel’s face, but the boy’s strong shoulders were heaving, either in fear or rage—I could not yet tell.

  “You will march back into that chamber,” Robert went on, “and you will perform the solo I selected for you.”

  Gabriel stood unmoving by the window.

  “Answer me, damn you.”

  Robert’s hands knotted into fists, evidently ready to abuse the boy, but Gabriel surprised him by asking, “Why are you cruel to Gregory?”

  “He has nothing to do with this,” Robert said.

  Gabriel approached Robert and said, “You’re a wretched father.”

  Robert slammed a fist into Gabriel’s midsection. The boy bent in half, coughing, but he did not otherwise make a sound. When Gabriel straightened, he appeared somehow taller, broader than Robert.

  The boy said nothing but moved to the door.

  “You’ve come to your senses then,” Robert said, but Gabriel did not answer.

  I made my way as swiftly as possible back to the great hall, where the guests were already reacting to Gabriel’s reappearance. Robert rejoined them. He gave Gregory a withering look, folded his arms, and turned to the piano, where Gabriel now sat.

  Without delay, the boy reached out, plunked a single note in the middle of the keyboard. Then, he repeated the same note, index finger pointing down like a small child experimenting with the piano for the first time. He played the same note a third and fourth time, then paused and stared at Robert. All eyes were on the pair.

  Still looking at Robert, Gabriel slammed all ten fingers on the keyboard, a bone-jarring, fiendish cacophony.

  The crowd shifted uneasily. From Gabriel, a barely perceptible smile. Then the boy’s fingertips dazzled over the keys, the song foreign to me and absolutely astounding. A sigh seemed to escape from the audience as the melody took shape, the dissonant, darkly beautiful melody. It was like nothing I had heard before, and from the look on Robert’s face, I judged that he had never heard the piece either. Gregory and Elizabeth were spellbound, but Robert was sitting back in his chair, a hungry sort of scowl on his face. I did not, at that moment, understand what Robert was thinking, but I soon found out.

  The boy finished to a thunderous ovation and a tide of ecstatic praise. With what I can only imagine was a Herculean act of will, Robert controlled himself until our guests departed the next morning.

  Then he and Henry Mullen administered such a violent beating that Gabriel lay unconscious for the better part of three days.

  Part Three: Eddie

  Chapter One

  On the tenth try, Granderson answered his phone.

  “Do you have any idea what time it is?” Granderson asked.

  Chris wished he had the guts—and the ability—to kick the man’s pompous ass. “Do you have any idea how badly Marvin’s guys will hurt me if they get inside?”

  “Don’t let them in,” Granderson said.

  Chris rolled his eyes. Fucking comedian.

  “I didn’t let them in last time,” Chris said.

  No response.

  He clutched the phone tighter. “You said you’d stay and protect me.”

  A yawn. “And I’ve done so for the past three nights. You never said the arrangement was permanent.”

  “Jesus Christ, I didn’t think I had to. I mean, they could be here already and I wouldn’t know it.”

  “You’d know it.”

  “Thanks for your help.”

  Chris wanted to hang up, but he was too frightened. Having Granderson on the phone was better than nothing.

  “Is that all then?” Granderson asked.

  Chris pried open the Venetian blinds, peered down the valley at the guest house. “You’re still down there, right?”

  “It’s night,” Granderson said. “Where would I be?”

  “Your house is dark.”

  “I don’t make it a habit to sleep with the lights on.”

  “It’s only nine. What are you, some kind of monk?”

  Granderson didn’t respond.

  Chris dropped the blind, paced the dark guest bedroom.

  “Good night,” Granderson said.

  “Wait.”

  A long pause. “What now?”

  Chris bit the nail of an index finger, a childhood habit that had returned in the last few nights. “Did you talk to my father today?”

  An even longer pause. “Yes, we spoke.”

  “Why is it you can get through when his own son can’t?”

  “Maybe you should be a better son.”

  Chris ground his teeth. “Did you at least ask him if he’d help me?”

  “We didn’t discuss it.”

  “You didn’t bring it up?”

  Silence.

  Then a click.

  Chris stared out the window that overlooked the driveway. It was one of the reasons he’d chosen this room, he’d at least see any car that pulled in.

 

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