Bone Music (Burning Girl #1)(96)



“Take breaks, Ed. Good night.”

He hangs up, just sits there for a while, disgusted by the primal, lizard-brain urge he feels to pop open his laptop and take a peek at Dylan’s show.

Instead he lifts the screen and logs in to the feeds from ground teams A and B.

In seconds he’s looking at two different night vision angles on Martin Cahill’s trailer. There’s tinny audio via parabolic microphones, distorted, watery-sounding music drifting from some stereo he can’t see. Watching a creepy night vision version of something as innocuous as a friendly cookout seems comic. The green flares around each body and blazing, whited-out eyes are appropriate for fast-moving predators, crawling through brush. Not a bunch of lanky, slouching shadows hanging out around a smoking grill.

Even with the lousy sound he can recognize the song they’re all listening to. “Angel of the Morning” by Juice Newton. And he can see her there on the deck, leaning on her elbows, sipping a beer, it looks like. Her eyes are pinpricks of flare. She’s either staring at the group of men talking in the driveway nearby or gazing off into the night, maybe as she entertains fantasies of tearing a serial killer apart with her bare hands.

“You are something, Burning Girl. You are really something.”

It takes him a few seconds to realize he whispered these thoughts aloud.





34

“Juice Newton?” Charlotte asks. “Seriously?”

Marty’s iPod is hardwired to the three little speakers he’s mounted on the deck rail. Besides being a few generations out of date, the poor thing looks like it’s been through a ground war between rival paint manufacturers. But it’s working, and that’s all that matters, as Marty pointed out when she tried, in vain, to scrape some of the paint off the display with her fingernails.

“Hey. Don’t make fun. Some of us enjoyed it when songs had actual lyrics.”

“Not judging. Just surprised, is all.”

It’s a cool, breezy night, more so up here in the hills, but Marty’s stripped down to shorts, tank top, and an apron and put his hair in a ponytail, all so he can withstand the heat of his grill, which looks considerably newer than his iPod.

Maybe it’s the half a beer that’s done it, but she feels truly relaxed for the first time in days. It doesn’t hurt that Luke’s there, doing his level best to make small talk with Marty’s crew. The sight of him down in the driveway with the other guys, out of uniform and in what looks like one of his best dress shirts, has removed the constant replay of their last cruel words from the tape deck in her mind. Now she’s calm enough to notice Marty’s interesting taste in music.

She’s surprised nobody else has said anything. Stevie Nicks, ABBA, even a track or two from the Go-Go’s. And, of course, the song playing now. She hates to stereotype, but the last time she checked, “Angel of the Morning” wasn’t exactly a fan favorite among guys who threw up drywall for a living.

“Take it you’d’ve said something if he’d heard from his brother,” Marty says.

“That’s correct.”

“And I take it you’d’ve said something if he got shitty with you out on PCH earlier.”

“Like I said, he apologized.”

The closing chords of “Angel of the Morning” are replaced by gentle piano and eventually the soft, familiar voice of John Denver. It takes her a second to recognize the specific song, “Sweet Surrender.”

“All right,” Charlotte says. “Where did this music come from, Marty?”

Marty sets his tongs down, wipes his hands on his apron. “Well, if you must know, this was one of your grandmother’s playlists.”

“Gram never had an iPod.”

“That’s right. She had all these on a mixtape, and I made a playlist of ’em after she died.”

“Wow. How come she didn’t play them for me when she was alive?”

“’Cause she didn’t want to make you sad.”

“Sad? Why would they make me sad?

“They were your momma’s favorites. That’s why she made the tape. Back when she was getting sober, she’d listen to it every night before bed. Said it calmed her heart some, especially when she was still jittery from the withdrawals.”

“I see.”

“Dammit. Now I made you sad. Want me to put something else on?”

“No, I’m not sad. It’s nice. Leave it. I just . . .”

“Just what?”

“Do you think we didn’t talk about her as much as we wanted to because we thought we’d have to talk about everything that came after?”

“Your mom, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“I take it your dad didn’t talk about her much?” He flips a steak, his lack of a direct answer an answer in itself.

“Why would he? Weren’t they getting divorced?”

“Meh. It wasn’t the first time she’d walked out on him. They might have patched things up again. For your sake.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Why didn’t you marry my grandmother?”

“Luanne didn’t want to get married.”

“Did you?”

Christopher Rice's Books