People my father’s age think that I’m a tech-head because I can work a computer and cell phone and appear to know what I’m doing. It’s bogus. I’m an analog man. I appreciate the tangibility of doing things without a mouse: the dusky smell of pencil shavings, the splash of paint on a canvas. I dig phone calls more than Facebook messages, prefer week-old postcards to eye-blink emails.
So I gravitated to the wallet while my brother gleefully poked through the menus on Drake’s cell phone. It was an expensive thing, brimming with programs for the visually impaired. In addition to the standard calendar and address book, it featured a GPS receiver and map software, both of which were voice-enabled and did text-to-speech.
“Cracked case, off-brand,” Lucas observed as he eyed the phone. “The guy’s got some archived voice mail, but we need a password to get to it.”
He sat in the corner comfy chair, his face glowing ghost-white from the phone’s large LCD. The screen sputtered, and my brother frowned. “Bad battery?” he said, looking at me. He knocked it against the armrest and the screen flicked on again, feebly.
“Jeez, careful with that,” I said. “It’s been banged around enough already today, riding shotgun during your fire-escape stunt work. You’re the one who probably busted it.”
“I accept no responsibility,” Lucas sniffed, tapping the screen. It glowed bright again, like before. “I did not have sexual relations with that woman.”
“Just tell us what’s inside before the thing croaks.”
He nodded and began tapping the phone’s buttons again. “Lots of numbers in the addy book—whoa—including Dad’s friend, Sophronia Poole. And hey! Tetris!”
Tinny eight-bit music streamed from the phone’s speaker now, a goofy beep-boop-bleep version of the game’s anthem, “Korobeiniki.” I snickered. An old Russian folk song about peddlers, now forever associated with falling bricks.
“Love that game,” Rachael murmured from beside me. She hummed along as she dug into New York State’s criminal database.
Music.
I sucked in a quick breath. The tune was reminding me of something. Something familiar, important. What was it? A ubiquitous song, yes. Something you’ve heard before, but couldn’t quite—
“Lucas, I need that film geek brain of yours,” I said. I pointed to our entertainment system. “Grab that stereo cable over there, the one we use for the iPod.”
I glanced at Rachael’s laptop. “That thing takes memory cards, right?”
Click. Double-click. “Mmm-hmm.”
I rummaged in my satchel, finding the memory card I’d used to record Drake’s Casio jam session. I pressed it into the appropriate slot of the computer. Rachael gave me a cool look over her specs: Watch it, bud. I’m driving here.
Lucas triumphantly slapped the cable into her palm. Bliss, who’d taken residence on the couch arm near Rachael, batted at it. Well ahead of me, Rachael plugged the cord into the PC’s “line out” port. She opened the card’s audio file and launched a program to play it.
“Name this tune, Lucas,” I announced. “I know it sounds familiar, from a movie, but I don’t—”
The disorganized notes I’d played to bait Grace yesterday thundered from the speakers. We winced. Dali and Bliss hit warp speed, scrambling from the room.
“Uh, ‘The Kittyfright Concerto,’” Lucas said.
I gave him the middle finger. He stuck out his tongue, then turned down the volume.
And now, Drake’s song was playing, that whirlwind stream of high notes… followed by booming low ones. Lucas’ head began to bob along. He snapped his fingers. The bob became an enthusiastic nod. Rachael hit the “stop” button on her program.
“Natural twenty, baby,” he said. “It’s from Fantasia, the Disney film. We watched it for my History of Animation class last month.”
“That movie’s effed up,” Rachael said. “If there were ever a movie to see stoned…”
“That and The Wall, yep,” Lucas agreed. “Anyways, the song’s called ‘Night on Bald Mountain.’ Chart-topping classic, nineteenth century. There’s a monster in it, he drags souls to Hell. Heh! And guess where the composer’s from?”
“The Soviet Union,” I said.
“Russia,” Lucas and Rachael corrected. I sighed.
“So what does that mean?” I asked. “The song. You’ve got a Russian connection, and the Dark Man, maybe? Dragging people to Hell? Babe, can you… ?”
“Uh-uh. Baby steps, snookums. Working on Daniel Drake here.”
Right. I gazed down at Drake’s personal effects scattered on the steamer trunk. We’d examined everything: the letters, the photos, the dog tags. They told a story that ended a decade ago. I wanted something more current, to fill in the gaps. The cell phone was a good lead, but…
The wallet.
I picked it up, glanced at my tribe. Rachael was pointing-and-clicking. Lucas was still standing, thumbs tapping on Drake’s phone, reinvested in Tetris.
As my fingers slid across the wallet’s brown pebbled grain, I felt a sudden rush of guilt. Of all the things I’d done over the past two days—digging through databases, breaking into the man’s house, stealing his lockbox—this felt wrong. Voyeuristic.
I unfolded the wallet and gingerly removed the items. Some cash. A state-issued ID. A credit card. An insurance card.
I tugged at the contents of a small pocket. Two items fell onto the table. One was a white card, featureless save for a row of Braille on its surface. I set it aside, frowning.
The other card was well-worn, its ink slightly faded. It was an appointment card, dated for August 7th, two years ago. The appointment was with a Dr. Sophronia Poole, Psychiatrist.
I gasped. He hates doctors, my father had said.
“She was Drake’s shrink,” I said. “Poole, Dad’s friend.”
I flipped it over. On the back, in crisply-drawn letters, was a list. Payard chocolates. Coltrane, Davis. Sunflowers. J. Deaver, D. Baldacci. Sushi (spider roll).
Beneath this, in more ragged lettering: W. Taylor. D.A. B-friend.
“Man oh man,” I said. “I think he had a thing for her… and so did Dad. Poole and Dad were dating, guys. I have no idea how Drake found out—shit, we didn’t know—but it’s here. The man wrote a grocery list of the things she dug, including Dad.”
“Ménage à yeesh,” Lucas muttered, glancing up from the game. “Patient falls for his doctor. That’s pretty commonplace, right?”
“Transference, yeah.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t fall for you,” he said.
Rachael looked up from her computer. “Boy, you pick the winners, Z. Daniel Drake has been arrested four times in as many years. Disorderly conduct, driving under the influence, two counts of assault. Loves the bottle. He lives up north in Haverstraw. Rural area. No current employment record—he’s on disability for a burn leg after he was involved in a hit-and-run last year; he was the ‘hit.’ I don’t have a phone number for him. It’s unlisted.”
Lucas interrupted, reciting seven digits from the cell phone’s screen. “It’s here, under ‘Danny,’” my brother said. “Can’t tell if he ever called the guy, though.”
I waved my hand, motioning him to toss me the phone. I snatched it in the air, saw that Daniel Drake’s number was highlighted, and hit the “call” button.
“What are you doing?” Rachael asked.
“Besides mooching off the dude’s minutes,” Lucas said.
I put a finger to my lips. The phone on the line rang once. A woman’s voice announced that the number was disconnected.