For Two Nights Only

  I reached out and grabbed her by the elbow. “Wait.”

  She turned, her eyes squinting in skepticism for what was to come.

  “Tell me something about him. You know him better than I do. I’m usually very good at this, getting inside someone’s head. Not him, not this time. Just tell me one thing that’s real.”

  Her shoulders relaxed and she shook off my hand, taking a step inside the room and letting the door swing shut. “What do you want to know?”

  No question clearly won out over any other, nothing would give me precisely what I wanted to know.

  “Tell me why you think he is who he is. What turns someone into the type of person who’d do something like this?”

  She looked down at the ground, rubbing her left arm as if trying to comfort herself. I waited patiently for her to start.

  “He’s a boy who doesn’t understand his father. Every boy needs to, but he didn’t. It affected everything for him. His relationships with his siblings, his notion of trust. That’s what you need to know. He needs compassion.”

  “That’s true for everyone. Do you know why he needs to hold something over my head? What’s the safety net for?”

  She smiled. “He hasn’t told you anything?”

  “Clearly not.”

  She leaned back against the door. “I’m surprised. It’s what I thought he might’ve slipped on, he told me you were asking about his childhood a lot. Darin saw something when he was a boy. I don’t know how old he was, he’s only talked about it once with me. I think it was his way of testing me, seeing how I would react. We were in bed, right after, you know, and he was talkative. He always gets a little talkative afterwards. I remember being hurt because I realized he’d been thinking about the memory instead of what we’d just done.”

  “What did he tell you? Let’s skip past the part about your feelings for now.”

  “You don’t have to be aggressive.”

  “Fine. Please continue with the part about Darin’s story. Please.”

  “He was reminiscing about a memory, this one time when was at home and heard his father’s car come home. He went to the window to make sure it was him, and out climbed not only his father, but also an unfamiliar woman, and he watched his father hug this woman before she got in another car and drove off. He never saw her again. His father watched her go, and then came inside. He never mentioned it, never acknowledged that he’d just arrived with another woman. I suspect Darin was too young to understand, but old enough to know that only mother and father embrace like that. He wanted there to be only one person his father cared about, but then there were two, and the second was kept a secret from him. Darin’s not like everyone else, relationships don’t mean the same to him. He doesn’t know how to make peace with that.”

  “It could’ve been anybody.”

  “I’ve told him. But he was sure of something for so long, he can’t let it go. Or imagine it another way. He refused to attend his father’s funeral. To hear that he’s being silly only shuts him down. It’s easier to keep going with it.”

  “He didn’t tell anyone?”

  “He told his brother, asked what he thought they should do. Should they tell their mum or not? I can’t imagine keeping that secret, but the brother’s advice was to say nothing. He thought they needed to protect their mum. And they stayed silent, but I don’t believe Darin ever grew comfortable with it. The way he talks, he felt they’d played a part in humiliating her by holding back the truth. He wanted his brother in it with him, but his brother was too young to understand that shame, so Darin suffered through it alone. He’s never told me he felt that way, but when he talked about it I knew. It changed the way he sees relationships. And people.”

  “What made him confide in you?”

  “Everyone needs someone. After Charlotte died, he found me. And I never let him push me away.”

  “So you know what drove him and his sister apart?”

  “You should ask him yourself. He’ll tell you now. I think in a way he might be happy he can.”

  “He’s a terrible person, you know.”

  “He’s damaged.”

  “Aren’t we all?” I reached past her, opened the door and motioned for her to leave. After the door swung shut, I turned the bolt and went straight for the shower.

  Track 14

  I raced out of London, pushing the accelerator as I hit the highway. Cars faded in my rearview mirror, and I pulled out my cell phone, clicked through and found the number for Cliff, a young fact checker I’d worked with in the past. He was diligent, with an uncanny ability to track down information no one else could. I’d interviewed one of the Rolling Stones a few years back when they’d passed through the States on one of their increasingly rare tours, and I’d asked Cliff, at that time an intern at Spin, to find me something not well known about the musician. Eighteen hours later he’d phoned with a great story from a roadie who’d toured with the Stones thirty years prior. The anecdote became the centerpiece of the article, used to parallel the Then-And-Now of my subject’s life. Cliff appreciated the recognition I gave him, and soon after he was hired full time. We’d been tight ever since.

  “Chris, good to hear from you. It’s been a while. What’s up?”

  “Hi Cliff. I hate to do this to you but I’m knee deep in something and I don’t have time to chat. I need a favor. I promise we’ll catch up soon.”

  “No worries, man, no worries.”

  “Can you dig into something for me?”

  “Of course. When do you need it by?”

  “Good question. Don’t drop everything, but within the next week would be ideal. It might be nothing, but if anyone can get it I think you can.”

  “High praise. I’m sitting at the computer already, fire when ready.”

  “Darin Caldwell, grew up in Grand Rapids, find out what you can about his parents, focus on the father.”

  “What should I be looking for?”

  “I don’t know yet. Maybe a rental property in his name during the years Darin was in elementary school. Look into his estate, his will if you can get those records, find out who got what after he passed. You’re looking for a woman that was in his life when Darin was young.”

  “Signs of an affair?”

  “Start with that assumption, but know that I’m not convinced. You’re the facts man, you tell me.”

  “I will. And when I do, you’ll owe me a drink.”

  I told Cliff I’d gladly get him drunk no matter the outcome and hung up, ticking past the highway exits. It wasn’t until the red lights flashed in my mirrors that I realized I let my speed jump thirty over the limit.

  I pulled the car to the side of the road and turned off the motor, tried to calm my breathing and refocus on the current predicament.

  In my rearview mirror I followed the police officer emerging from his car, thin and with a young, clean-shaven face. His uniform was freshly pressed. He approached the driver’s side cautiously, his hand on his weapon, eyes alert. I rolled down the window and placed my hands on the wheel as he slowly came up beside me.

  In a confident, controlled voice deep for his age he gave instructions. “I need you to keep both your hands where I can see them. Don’t move unless instructed. You were making a mockery of the speed limit, what’s the hurry this morning?” His expression was deadly serious, and I looked up at him with a small show of embarrassment.

  “I’m sorry, officer. I don’t have a lot of time, and I was rushing. I shouldn’t have been. I apologize.”

  “Where are you from?” he asked, easing his hand off his weapon.

  “The United States. I’m here for work, I’m a journalist. I’m on my way to an interview, and I don’t have much time.”

  “I heard you the first time. Your identification, please.”

  I slowly took my hands off the wheel and, deliberately keeping them within his view, retrieved my bag from the back seat. I held it up and asked, “Mind if I?”

  “Slowly. As you wer
e.”

  I nodded, and with exaggerated motions opened the bag, pulled out my passport and press pass and handed them out the window.

  “What are you here for?”

  Coming out of the hotel I’d been dazed, unaware of the interactions with the elderly man behind the front desk for checkout and the young kid at valet. There was no recollection of shifting into gear and pulling away from the hotel. Had I looked both ways before entering traffic? I’d switched to autopilot, my mind working on other angles, putting pieces together, pulling them apart when they didn’t fit, then trying another combination to assign motivations to people I didn’t understand. I wasn’t sure how I’d confront Darin; there was no plan. All I knew, as soon as I’d gotten Heather out of the room, was I needed to get to him.

  “As I said, I’m interviewing someone.” I considered dropping Darin’s name, thinking it might help my situation, but I carried a special kind of detestation for people who felt their own significance inflate solely because they spent time near those voted by the masses to be important. I did not want special treatment.

  “Someone famous?” he asked. He seemed curious, interested in possibly having a story to tell.

  “Yes sir.”

  The officer nodded, unimpressed. “I don’t care much for those that think they can do what they want because people know who they are.” He handed me my documents.

  “I understand, sir. In fact I agree. I’m in the wrong here, I know you’re doing your job. I’m flying home later today and just needed more time with him before I leave, that’s all. After I see him I’m headed straight for Heathrow. Just tying up loose ends.”

  “No reason to endanger anyone else, mister Price. You know, you’re only saving yourself perhaps five minutes by breaking the law. Have you thought of it that way?” He waited for an answer, and I, thinking it a rhetorical question, took too long to respond. He scowled and began to shake his head.

  “No sir,” I piped up. “But that’s absolutely correct, and when you put it like that…”

  “Do you think it’s worth it?” He pulled out his ticket book and flipped through the first few pages.

  “Not at all. You’re completely right. It’s not worth it. It’s just, well, he’s a complicated person and I’m trying to make the most of my time here. It’s not an excuse, of course, but that’s what I can offer by way of an explanation.”

  “Is that so?” He looked skeptically at me, as if trying to determine whether I was feeding him a spoonful of shit.

  “Yes, sir. Not a reason to put anyone else in danger, I know that. I suppose I was lost in thought for a moment and trying to get there as quickly as possible.”

  “Yes, I heard you the first few times. Where exactly are you headed?”

  “Exit 27, out to the Mainshead Manner.”

  “Mainshead Manner. Right,” he repeated, thoughtfully. “Who’s there?”

  “Darin Caldwell.” There was no use being difficult, he could look up the information if he wanted.

  “Is that so?” His posture relaxed, and his face opened up. “I know him. Not personally, of course, but I’ve listened to him. Own every album, as a matter of fact. I stood in line for four hours to buy Muscle Memory when it came out. Didn’t disappoint, either. Critics were full of shit about that one.”

  “Well you should get excited for the new songs, they’re excellent. I’ve only heard a couple tracks, but they don’t disappoint.”

  I’d found the key to this man’s heart: the inside scoop. His feet began to fidget, rocking him back and forth. He shook his head, looked down at his ticket book and suddenly became serious. As he placed pen to pad I took the opportunity to put back my passport and press pass.

  “Look, mister Price, this is quite out of the ordinary but,” he began, ripping the ticket from his book and handing it to me, “I’m making you an offer. This is my home address. I’m taking down your license plate number, and filling out a ticket for your speeding violation. However, I won’t file that ticket given that you mail to me, postmarked no later than two days from today, Darin’s autograph. Can you read that?”

  I stared down at the piece of paper where his thin, pale finger pointed. In clean penmanship he’d written: “To Edgar. Thanks for being a fan. Darin.” Below that was an address.

  “I can do that. Not a problem. I appreciate the offer.”

  He acted as if I hadn’t spoken. “Haven’t heard much from him lately. We going to get your article over here?”

  “I was hoping for a book, but whatever it is, I’ll mail you a copy as soon as it’s printed.”

  At this he smiled brightly, taken aback by the amazing luck this dreary Saturday morning had brought.

  Realizing his expression, he abruptly composed himself. “Just drive within the safety of the limit for the rest of the way. Understood?”

  “Certainly. I don’t mock second chances.”

  “That’s what I want to hear. Now get on your way. And tell Darin we’re waiting on him.”

  “I definitely will. I’ll let him know what you did.”

  He seemed to like that idea and again smiled, brought his hand up to his hat and tipped his head forward, as if he’d just performed some grand civic duty. He turned and made his way back to his car.

  “Fucking unbelievable,” I muttered, after rolling up the window. I shifted into first and brought the car back onto the road.

  Track 15

  Click.

  I knocked so hard on the front door I thought my hand might bruise. Oscar appeared and I glimpsed surprise on his face, replaced quickly by a warm smile. He opened the door wide so I could enter.

  Welcome back.

  I’m sure Darin is expecting me. Can you get him?

  He’s in his studio at the moment, if you don’t mind waiting in the living room. He indicated down the hall. He’s been down there quite awhile, he could be done at any time now. I believe he was expecting you at ten.

  That’s not going to work, I need you to get him. My flight leaves in four hours.

  He gave specific instructions this morning not to disturb him. He told me he had something brewing, his words, and went downstairs.

  That’s just, that’s not possible. He knew I was coming.

  And he will see you at ten, I am sure. He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s working, especially when he has made it clear not to interrupt.

  Then I’ll get him.

  As I said before, he…

  Oscar, I understand what you’re saying. It will not stop me from speaking to him now, so go back to whatever you were doing, I’ll say you left me in the living room and I snuck down, and everyone can be happy.

  I’m not sure that will make Darin happy.

  His happiness doesn’t matter to me at this moment.

  I strode past Oscar, his head swiveling to follow me as I went. He didn’t try to block my way to the door of the basement studio, and as I shut it behind me I looked back but he’d gone.

  In my hurry I nearly tripped down the winding staircase, grabbing the railing to brace myself before slowly descending the last few steps with confidence. Darin was hunched over a drum pad, using his index fingers to beat out a pattern on the six touch-sensors. The room was silent. What he played could only be heard through the large headphones covering his ears. His hands moved fluidly, pounding out the rhythm while his head and right leg moved in lockstep with the backbeat. From those appendages I saw it was an up-tempo piece.

  I stopped at the foot of the stairs, surprised to find him working rather than sitting on the black couch with a devious grin and a tumbler of fake liquor, waiting for my arrival. In all my time interviewing people I’d spent hundreds of hours listening to artists speak about crafting their music, losing themselves in the moment, but until then I’d never witnessed it. After thousands of intimate hours with the finished product of such work, to see the process gave me pause. I’d never truly understood the state of mind of a person in that moment of creation; somehow the de
scriptions given to me by musicians seemed always to paint the picture of the fringes of the process, the way the individual thought leading up to the writing of the song, or how tired he was when he finally recorded it in the studio and how that added to the morose feel of the track; somehow the phrases, “I just picked up my guitar and it came out” and “that one came quickly” hadn’t ever included the person laboring on their equipment. My portrait of the artist had never shown him in motion, instead it was a flash of inspiration and then done. The song didn’t exist, and then it did. Seeing Darin, the mystery began to fade. No light from on high came down to inspire, it was just a man, freshly shaven, in jeans and a t-shirt and barefoot, tapping a rhythm onto a pad that, depending on where he hit, translated those movements into various drum sounds. I was watching a man work. Like anyone who’s especially gifted at what they do, it left me impressed, but the sense of awe was gone.

  I let him continue for a minute more before placing a hand on his shoulder. He yanked off the headphones and spun around.

  What the fuck, Chris, I’m working.

  Are you kidding?

  Didn’t Oscar tell you I was busy?

  He did, and I didn’t care. We need to talk.

  I’m in the middle of something.

  Obviously. So am I. We need to talk.

  Darin set down the headphones and moved to the couch, roughly brushing past me as if to intimidate. I was too angry to be affected by the small show of bravado.

  Did you kill her?

  You think this was because of Charly?

  You set me up so you’d have a way to keep me in check. In case the truth came out. It was you, wasn’t it? You took her life. This is just a fucked up way to confess to someone you’re forcing to listen but hope won’t act.

  I knew before I invited you here we’d understand each other, but I did want insurance.

  Is that a confession? You want to get it off your chest now? Can’t tell Murhpy, or Oscar, so you bring me over to let it out? That’s not going to keep me from going to the authorities.