Melody Burning

  MELODY

  BURNING

  MELODY

  BURNING

  Whitley Strieber

  This edition first published in 2012

  Published by arrangement with Rights People, London

  First published in the USA in 2011 by Henry Holt and Company, LLC

  Copyright © 2011 by Walker & Collier, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia, www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 74237 913 5

  Original cover design by Rich Dees,

  Cover design by Bruno Herfst and Jade Raykovski

  Cover photo by Jonathan Barkat

  Printed in Australia by McPhersons Printing Group

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This book is dedicated to Anne Strieber,

  who conceived it.

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  The construction elevator clattered and rattled as it sped them up higher and higher. The child clung to his father. It bothered him that the elevator had no walls, and he liked even less that it was moving fast, rising through the windy, dripping-wet skeleton of the building. He could see the sky out one side and girders rushing past on the other. The wind made the elevator rock. Its cables snapped and sang, and its motor whined. His dad held his hand tightly. The boy clutched the blue rose in his pocket. He took it everywhere. His mom had given it to him before she died. He believed that there was a secret string that started at the blue rose and ended in her hand in heaven.

  “Will we be up in the clouds?”

  Daddy laughed. “Nearly.”

  With a last clank, the elevator stopped.

  Dad picked him up. “Now don’t go anywhere near the edge, do you understand me? You could blow right off in this wind. I’m gonna take some pictures, and if anybody comes up here, what did I tell you to say?”

  “My daddy brought me here to see how high it was.”

  “And did your daddy take any pictures?”

  He shook his head. “Just one of me.”

  Dad hugged him. “That’s right.”

  He pulled open the big plywood door with the number 50 and the word TOP spray-painted on it. “Top of the world,” he said, “highest point in Los Angeles.”

  They got out onto the wet roof. The storm had left puddles, and the sweeping wind rippled the surface of them. There were places where you could see through to the floors below and down for what seemed like miles. Gulls screamed in the dark, rushing clouds, white against surging gray. He had learned about gulls in school.

  Dad stood him beside a big plywood shack. “Don’t move unless I tell you.” He stepped back and took a picture of him.

  “Can I see it?”

  “Later.”

  “How high are we?”

  “High enough. Don’t move from that spot. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Daddy.” Since Mommy had gone to heaven, he had learned to follow Daddy and always obey him.

  It was cold here, and all of a sudden it was really lonely, because Daddy had gone into a room on the far side of the roof. Through the partially open door, he could see camera flashes.

  Then he saw a man in a dark coat, shining with rain. The man did not see him at first. He was looking intently toward the flashes.

  The flashes continued, and the man went closer.

  He was a small man, not huge like Daddy. His face was white and pinched, his eyes narrow slits.

  The man said, “Come outta there.”

  The flashes stopped.

  Then the boy saw that the man was carrying a gun. It was black and shiny and pointing straight into the room where Daddy was.

  Daddy had said not to move from this spot, but Daddy had not said that there would be somebody with a gun. So the boy looked around for a place to hide.

  “Luther,” Daddy said as he came out of the room, “you can’t do this. I can’t allow it.”

  “You don’t have any right to be up here. You’re trespassing.”

  “This structure is full of violations, Luther. It’s a death—” Daddy stopped talking. He looked down at the gun. “It’s a death trap, Luther!”

  The man Daddy was calling Luther gestured with the gun. “Give me the camera.”

  “You can’t be serious. Put that damn thing away!”

  Daddy sounded scared, and that made the boy’s heart start beating hard.

  “You gonna give me that camera?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Yeah, you are.”

  “What’re you gonna do, Luther, shoot me?”

  The man turned. His eyes were like knives. “C’mere, kid.”

  “Robbie, no!”

  The man came closer, and Robbie backed away, but suddenly the man was right there, his fist closed around Robbie’s shirt, and he picked him up. Robbie fought and kicked, but the man was strong, and all of a sudden, he was holding him out over the edge.

  “Oh, God. Oh, God. Luther, no!”

  “Give me the camera!”

  “Okay! Jesus, man, his shirt’s tearing!”

  Robbie could see the ground way, way down, and he could feel his shirt sliding up. He looked at the man, and the man’s face was funny, his eyes widening.

  “JESUS, LUTHER!”

  He slipped. Then Daddy was there. Daddy was looking down at him, his hands coming, and Robbie was slipping—and then Daddy yelled and grabbed him and Robbie flew up and over onto the roof—and somebody was screaming, and the scream faded away fast.

  Then Robbie was on the roof, and the man was on the roof, but Daddy was gone.

  The man stared at him, eyes flicking from side to side, and he grabbed for him, but Robbie ran as fast as he could. The man roared and followed, but Robbie went into the room where Daddy had been. It was dark, and there were wires and pipes, and he went behind them. When the man came in, Robbie went down between two of the pipes and then was in a dark space.

  Robbie crawled into the space. The man called to him, screamed that he would shoot Robbie, so Robbie kept going deeper into the dark, narrow space.

  After a while, the man stopped calling. Then Robbie heard the elevator going down.

  Still, he did not move.

  Gradually, the light faded. The gulls stopped screaming. Night scared him, and so he still did not move. How long he slept he d
id not know. But the next day, nobody came. It was getting late, and he came out onto the roof. Slowly, his heart hammering, he went to the edge and looked down. Daddy was down there, and he was dead, and that hurt Robbie’s soul and scared him more than anything, because now what did he do? Where did he go?

  He was hungry, and he wanted orange juice, but there was nothing here. He could not go down—he didn’t dare—and anyway he had no idea how to make the elevator come. There was no button, just a lever that he couldn’t reach.

  Night came again, and he found a place near the pipes that was a little warm. He sat close to the pipes and cried. He cried hard and long. Then he heard the elevator. He stopped crying. Maybe somebody was coming to help him. Maybe somebody would take him somewhere, and he would tell about the man, and they would find a place for him to live and give Daddy a beautiful funeral like Mommy had, with all the flowers.

  But that made his heart hurt.

  The elevator rattled and clattered, getting louder and louder.

  Then it stopped. The door scraped open . . . but nobody came out. Then someone did—and at first he didn’t understand what he was seeing: a black, hunched figure with a weird robot face.

  He choked back a scream, watching as the figure looked carefully around the roof. When it faced in his direction, he saw the gleaming glass eyes of a robot—but then the thing’s arms reached up and the robot face came off. It wasn’t a face at all; it was a mask and it glowed inside with green light, and the green light revealed the real face of the person who had been wearing it.

  The man was back again.

  Robbie stopped breathing. He was a small mass of pure fear . . . and hate. He had never known this emotion before, and he had no word for it, but he wished on his blue rose that the man would just die.

  Then the man put the mask back on and went stalking off across the roof. He was hunting for Robbie, and Robbie knew what would happen when he was found: he would be thrown off the roof, too. And that mask was not a mask—it was a thing that made you able to see in the dark. He’d seen those on TV.

  As the man came closer to the hiding place, Robbie wished that he could jump out and push him off the roof. But the man was too big.

  He stopped. He looked this way. Slowly, he began walking toward Robbie’s hiding place.

  Robbie was hypnotized by the oncoming figure. His mouth went dry. His heart fluttered. He wanted to cry, but his fear was so great that he grew stiff and silent, unable to make a sound.

  The man came right up to him . . . but he didn’t look down, not far enough, not to this dark corner.

  The man crept around for a long, long time, moving from one end of the roof to the other, looking in every nook and cranny. But he never found the small boy lodged in a corner of the equipment shed.

  Finally, the man went away. Sometime the next day, the boy heard distant sirens, and for a while he thought somebody would come save him, but nobody ever did. He watched the light of day rise and then fall, and he watched the sun slip into the Pacific Ocean.

  Only then did he come out onto the windy roof. He took out his silk rose and held it in both hands up to the starry sky. He asked his mom and his dad to come get him and take him up there, too.

  He jumped toward the stars, but he couldn’t make it more than a few inches. Again he jumped, and again.

  Then he cried. He went in the equipment shed, where it was warmer, and he cried until he fell asleep.

  The next morning the building filled up with workmen. Still, he hid in the back of the equipment room.

  When he could, he crept out and took food from the workers’ lunch boxes. He ate sandwiches and drank Cokes, and another day passed. When it was dark, he climbed to the highest point on the building and held up his rose and waited.

  He waited until he was too cold and then he went back to the equipment shed. It had changed. Now there were big motors in it. He could get behind the motors and hide really well.

  Another day passed, and many more, and he lost count of the days. He lived in the dark, in the recesses of the building, which he heard being called the Beresford.

  Sometimes he saw Luther. His hate was a nasty feeling, and he didn’t like it, but he couldn’t help it.

  All he had left of his old life was his blue rose. He would see his mom and his dad in its petals. Eventually, he gave up waiting for them to come down from heaven for him.

  The building got built, people moved in, and he went from eating workers’ lunches to sneaking into kitchens.

  As time passed, he forgot where he came from, how old he was, Mom’s name, Dad’s name, even his own name. So he gave himself a new one.

  He called himself Beresford.

  CHAPTER 1

  I hear you, I know I do.

  Who are you?

  Who are you?

  Don’t scare me,

  don’t hurt me, Don’t go, don’t go, don’ t go. ...

  This is a really beautiful building and all, but something is wrong here. I don’t know what it is yet, but it’s starting to kind of piss me off. Maybe it should scare me, I don’t know. Right now I’m in my bedroom on the fiftieth floor, and it sounds like somebody’s in the stairwell behind my wall.

  There are three doors to this apartment—the kitchen door, the front door, and the den door. The den is here at the end of the apartment, next to my room. Through its door is the back stairwell for movers and things.

  Could it be somebody working back there? No, not at this hour.

  A stalker?

  Oh, man, these guys, there are so many of them.

  Last night, I got Mom in here to listen. The verdict? The wind making the building sway. Tonight there is no wind, and I’m once again hearing this, so, hello? Except I know I can’t prove it to her, not unless I actually catch somebody. She’s going to come down on me again about a shrink, and I don’t want that because prescriptions will follow, and that is a road that only goes down.

  Mom thinks teens should be messy and chaotic, and I’m anything but, so her theory is that I’m too tense. She’s the one who’s too tense, and her part of our world is complete bedlam.

  Anyway, with this life I’m living, I’m totally tired all the time, so maybe it’s just my wild imagination. But how do you sleep with paranoia?

  My concert’s coming up, and half the songs aren’t even written. Plus, I’m behind memorizing my lines for Swingles. Plus, Sandy Green assigned me over a hundred pages of Middlemarch for our English class. Thank you so much. (You think it would be cool to be a showbiz kid with a tutor and no formal classes? Believe me, it’s not cool. You can cut classes, but try cutting your tutor. Ain’t gonna happen.)

  I’m at the point in my career where it’s either going up or going down, so I have to be awesome in every episode of Swingles, no matter how tired I am, and I absolutely must fill the Greek Theatre to capacity when my concert happens. I mean, that old outdoor theater in Griffith Park is part of LA music history. Tina Turner, David Bowie, and Elton John performed there, among many others. Getting a gig at the Greek really, really matters.

  So I don’t exactly need distractions. I pick up my guitar, start hunting for a melody. But what if this person is sitting out there listening? Can he hear me? I don’t want him to hear me.

  Mom moved us here because the Beresford is ultimate glitz, and right now I need high-profile everything. Paparazzi don’t do dinky condos in Calabasas.

  Anyway, it’s okay because downtown LA is good. There are clubs like M&M where I can just walk in despite being underage, and nobody cares. The line claps when I get out of my car. Mike and Mikey, who own the place, are jaw-to-the-floor over me. I think they’d pay me to chill there all the time.

  I don’t have a boyfriend because when you turn into a celebrity as fast as I have, dating gets complicated. I dance by myself, and usually when I stop, I’m alone in the middle of a sea of cell phone cameras. I don’t care. My own heart is my best dancing partner anyway.

  I have Julius, my bodygua
rd. Julius wears a suit to remind everybody that he is with me on a professional basis. If I want a guy to keep hitting on me, I have to give Julius a little three-fingered wave. Otherwise, the guy is swept away. Zoom. Gone. Then later you see him looking sheepish at the bar or whatever.

  Stuff like this is probably why I really enjoy being alone, like right now when I’m in my room with the city out there sparkling in the night.

  Except, am I alone?

  I haven’t heard the sound for a while, so maybe it is really nothing. The wind making the building sway.

  I fool around with my guitar. My guitar is my most private place. And yet, it’s also my link to my fans and to the world.

  I find a melody, it’s sweet, it has a catch in it. Nice. So I sing, “I hear you, I know I do. Who are you? Who are you?”

  I’m not gonna call Julius, and I’m not gonna wake up Mom, but I need to get past feeling there is someone watching me.

  I press my ear against the wall.

  Nothing. So am I alone or not?

  I put on the new billowy robe Mom gave me. I get the black and red can of Mace out of the drawer in my bedside table. Julius has taught me how to use it. I put my finger through the ring.

  If there is some guy out there, I’m going to spray him like the roach that he is. Then I’ll tell Mom. Then I will call Julius. Nobody is gonna tell me it’s the damn wind.

  Okay, I open my door. I step out into the hall. The apartment is really quiet—but not completely dark. As I look down the hall and across the living room, I see a faint line of light under Mom’s door on the far side. She’s awake. Also, I hear music. Frank Sinatra. So I know who’s in there with her: Dapper Dan. At least, that’s what I call him. She’s dating two guys, Dapper D, who wears sports jackets and takes her to hear cabaret, and the Wolverine. He looks like an Egyptian mummy trying to be an Elvis impersonator and likes to go clubbing. Faint music drifts through the apartment.

  Furious as she makes me, my heart hurts for my mom. Bottom line, my dad ditched her for a bimbo. We fight all the time, but I’ll never leave her or stop loving her. It breaks my heart to see how hard she tries to find her way out of the loneliness of her life. But she’s a pistol.