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Baker went and retrieved the instrument from the closet, same way he’d done so many times before.
Stared at it, touched the taut strings, the ebony bridge, the mother-of-pearl tuners with their gold-plated gears.
Not too many F-5s were gold-plated or triple-bound. This one was and everyone who’d seen it opined that even though it was dated 1924, not ’23, it was from the same batch as Bill Monroe’s. Monroe ’s had gotten damaged years ago; the story that circulated was some jealous husband had caught the bluegrass king in bed with his wife and taken out his anger on the instrument.
Stupid, thought Baker. It was people who deserved punishment, not things.
Staring at the F-5 and realizing what he’d just told himself.
Maybe he should smash this thing. What did music bring other than sin and misery?
That poor girl.
That rich boy, was he any better off?
Maybe he’d call that shrink, Delaware, ask if he had any ideas about helping Tristan.
Nah, the guy was long gone back to LA, by now. And what the hell was it his business if the boy had emotional issues, that mother of his…
He’d done his job.
So why was it gnawing at him?
Like the girl, like the boy, like everyone else in this goddamn world, they were just people. With their talents and their weaknesses and their heartbreaks and their egos.
People. If there was a God, he had one hell of a sense of humor.
Or maybe there was wisdom behind it.
People, able to change. Able to better themselves, even though so many failed.
The people he and Lamar met day after day…
Maybe there was more…
Hands- must’ve been his, but it felt like they were someone else’s- lifted the mandolin out of its case. The back all shiny, those silky, sculptural contours where some Michigan craftsman had carved and tapped and carved some more under the watchful eye of the chief acoustical engineer, a genius named Lloyd Loar.
Loar had signed the instrument on March 21, 1924. Anything with his name on it was worth a bundle to collectors.
Baker’s fingers grazed the strings. EADG. Perfect tune, after all these years.
He knew because he had perfect pitch.
His left hand formed a G chord. He told his right hand not to move but it did.
A resonant, sweet sound rang out, bounced against cold walls devoid of art or family mementos, ricocheted against discount-outlet furniture and linoleum floors. Ended its flight and burrowed into Baker’s skull.
His head hurt.
His hands moved some more and that helped a bit.
An hour later, he was still at it.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
JONATHAN KELLERMAN has brought his expertise as a clinical psychologist to numerous New York Times bestselling tales of suspense, including the Alex Delaware novels. His most recent novel, Gone, was a #1 New York Times bestseller. He has won the Goldwyn, Edgar, and Anthony Awards, and has been nominated for a Shamus Award.
FAYE KELLERMAN is the New Tork Times bestselling author of the Peter Decker/Rina Lazarus novels, as well as the historical thrillers The Quality of Mercy and Straight Into Darkness and the short story anthology The Garden of Eden. She has won the Macavity Award and has been nominated for a Shamus Award.