Master of the Opera, Act 4: Dark Interlude (4 page)

T
he week dragged on, each day feeling like a river of mud to slog through. Carla came out of the coma but remembered nothing of what had occurred, or so said the scuttlebutt around the theater. Rehearsals continued and Charlie came back to work for short periods. He didn’t speak to Christy. She tried not to mind.

She’d been relocated to Tara’s office, since hers was now sealed and the police finally agreed that nothing more could be gleaned about the former intern. Though it was a bigger, more pleasant space, she felt eerily as if she’d shuffled into Tara’s shoes in a final way. As if she’d come some sort of circle and the story was beginning again.

A foolish idea, but her head was in a strange place.

She still hadn’t talked to her father, deliberately ducking his calls and leaving return messages that went directly to his voice mail. She couldn’t bear to hear what he might have to say.

She went out to dinner with Roman in the evenings, wearing the ring and the clothes he bought her, pretending to be the cheerful companion he liked best, while she felt around the edges of what he knew. She wanted to know what his stake was in marrying her, why Sanchez suspected him so. It felt like more theater.
Wear the costume, be the character. Don’t make him angry. Don’t tip your hand.
All the while she heard the Master’s mocking voice, so accurately noting that she didn’t know who she was.

She was a hypocrite—which should be her father’s role. Not hers.

When he took her home after their dates, Roman kissed her at the door and she faked enjoying it, sliding away as fast as she could without insulting him. He despised her apartment—calling it dingy and beneath her—and refused to step inside. She knew he said it mainly to convince her to move to the Sanclaro compound. But she liked her cozy place, so she was just as happy not to have him calling attention to its faults. It also meant she didn’t have to hide Star, and it steadied her to come home and see the bedraggled stuffed cat waiting on her pillow.

Most importantly, since she managed to find excuses not to go to his house, it kept things from progressing between them sexually. She’d looked it up, and first cousins could marry in New Mexico—and in a surprising number of other states—and she and Roman were only half cousins, or however that worked. Still, she couldn’t bear for him to touch her. Her skin crawled and her thoughts went to the Master and how he’d turned away, certain of her eventual betrayal.

By Friday night she knew nothing more. Roman dodged all her probing conversational sallies with a smoothness that made her question everything. Maybe he truly did care for her and want to marry her. He acted like he did. And, all week long, there had been no sign of the cold-eyed and demanding monster she believed could have killed Tara.

Surely if Sanchez suspected Roman, he’d have been questioned. But nothing had happened. She felt as if she’d been holding her breath all week and was finally running out of oxygen.

Maybe she had imagined all of it.

So, unable to think of a reason not to, she let Roman take her back to his house—just for a nightcap, he said.

She stood in the bay window again, overlooking the jeweled valley, while Roman poured drinks for them. They’d met with some of his friends—all handsome and full of business talk—along with their girlfriends, lovely and polished. The girls didn’t talk about their professions and nobody asked what she did. Instead they kept to social topics and local politics. They were friendly and articulate, but not particularly interesting. Christy wondered what they might have to say, away from the guys.

But Roman was pleased with her for fitting in, for the way the guys had complimented him on his “catch.” She liked it when he was happy with her—something that bothered her on a deep, unspoken level. It sometimes reminded her of her growing-up dance, of keeping Carlton Davis in a place where he approved of her. Still, it made her feel a little more sane, more like the person she’d always been.

She tried to ignore the taunting idea that she was somehow only as half alive as the Master, waiting to be redeemed. She missed him profoundly. Thought about him constantly, with a physical ache.

Roman handed her a glass of champagne, his brown eyes warm and admiring, and she drank that in, letting it block the disappointed echoes of the Master’s golden voice in her head. “To my beautiful fiancée,” he said, clinking his glass against hers, and she started a little, having forgotten who she was with. Roman kissed her, and she tried to like it as she once had . . . but ended up turning her face away. A cold anger stilled his face. Just as it had the previous Sunday. “Sometimes I feel as if I don’t know who you are anymore, Christy.”

Part of her froze. A rabbit facing down the wolf. She didn’t want to meet Tara’s fate.
Keep it light and get out
, she told herself.

Run,
whispered her internal voice.

She stepped away. “How could you? We’ve only known each other for a few weeks.”

He shook his head, a dog shedding water. “That shouldn’t matter. My parents barely knew each other. You and I have belonged together since we were children.”

“Why do you think that?” She warned herself to tread lightly, but this could be her chance. “Nobody has arranged marriages anymore. Those were just jokes. No one expected us to end up together for real.”

“My father did.” Roman’s reply came with a dark anger and he tossed back his wine. Went to pour more.

“We don’t have to do what our fathers want.”

“Easy for you to say. I live in my father’s pocket.”

“Then don’t! We’re adults. Free to choose.”

“I choose you,” he insisted.

“Why? It makes no sense.”

“Are you saying you’ve changed your mind?” He shifted into the dangerous self again, brown eyes congealing to an alien darkness. Drawing closer, he backed her against the white leather couch while her heart hammered. He wrapped a lean hand around her throat. “You know I can’t allow that.”

“I—” she stammered, out of breath. “No. Please don’t hurt me.”

“Why should I hurt you? As long as you behave, we’ll be fine. Have you forgotten already?”

“No. I mean, I’m wearing the ring.”

“But what is in your heart, Christy?” He leaned closer, flexing his hand. “God sees what’s in your heart. Maybe you need to talk to the priest.”

“I’m not Catholic.”

“You’ll need to be, before the wedding. That would be a good show of what’s truly in your heart, my sweet girl. Start your catechism classes so you can convert and have your confirmation. That will help you find your true self and put these doubts to rest.”

“You think I need to find out who I am?” The words cut through the haze in her mind, the fog of self-pity and sorrow that had clouded her thoughts since the Master had walked away. Another message.

“If you’re going to be my wife, you need to cleave unto me. Do you understand?”

“You’re right, Roman.” She employed the humble tone she used with her father, and Roman straightened, releasing her throat and patting her cheek. Relieved at her escape, she scrambled for the right thing to say, to appease the beast who prowled in his cold gaze. “I’ll take the weekend to meditate and purify my thoughts.”

“I’m so proud of you.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I think it’s the right thing to do. I’ll have Gloria prepare the guest room.”

“I think I should go home. I don’t feel right staying here. How would it look?”

He didn’t like that. “You stayed here before. It would be fine.”

“But that was before we were engaged—and before we agreed to purify ourselves for the wedding. Shouldn’t we be beyond reproach, especially in the eyes of God?”

He softened at that and smiled, the sweet Roman again. “So serious about everything. We’ll do this your way—though, if you moved into the Compound, this wouldn’t be an issue. My parents would approve, too.”

She managed to smile back, exhilarated that he seemed to be letting her go. “I know. I’ll think about it.”

Roman drove her home and kissed her at the threshold. As soon as she shut the door, she wrenched the ring off her finger and called Hally.

“B
ut
why
Bandelier?” Christy complained. “Everyone at the opera said it would be crawling with tourists on a Saturday. How can I possibly find myself with ten thousand brats crawling up my ass, screaming that they want candy?”

Hally threw her an amused look, then turned her attention back to the highway. “This is how the future Sanclaro matriarch talks?”

“Ha ha. I never said I was going to actually marry him.”

“What exactly
are
you doing?”

“Today? Finding myself, as weird as that sounds.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” She hadn’t told Hally about how much Roman frightened her. Or about the strange mystery of their families, which sounded crazy, even to herself. “It’s hard to explain.”

“That much is clear.” Hally glanced at her again. “I mean, I’m no great fan of Roman Sanclaro, but I don’t really get what game you’re playing here. Is it just about the lawyers?”

Christy shifted uncomfortably in her seat, easing the seat belt away from its tight grip across her shoulder, and looked out the car window.

“Hokay . . .” Hally blew out a breath. “Let’s try this. Why
are
the cops so interested in you? They can’t possibly think you’re a suspect.”

“Because I lied to them.”

“You did?” Hally honked the horn. “My good girlfriend lied to the pigs? Color me shocked and delighted.”

“You make no sense. One minute you’re scolding me for my fake engagement and the next you’re happy I lied—
outright lied
—to the police.”

“Yeah, well. They’re different things. Different kinds of truths.”

“Truth is truth—how can there be a difference?”

“Here.” Hally tapped her breastbone. “In your heart. If I know you, you had an excellent reason for lying to the
poh
-leece.”

“And you don’t think I have a good reason for what I’m doing with Roman.”

“I dunno. Do you?”

Christy plucked at her seat belt again, wishing it had one of those lock mechanisms that kept it from strangling you. “I need to tell you a secret.”

“Yay—finally!” Hally did a little seated dance behind the steering wheel. “It’s been killing me not to ask.”

“You can’t tell anyone.”

“Yeah, yeah—Cone of Silence. I get it.”

“I mean it.”

“Right. Spill.”

“Not anyone. Not even . . . your cats.” Christy seized on that, unable to think of who else Hally might be tempted to tell.

Her friend looked somber and shook her head. “That might be a deal breaker. I tell my cats everything.”

Christy punched her on the biceps. “Be serious. You can’t speak the words out loud, ever.”

“Jeez, okay.” Hally rubbed her arm, pouting, even though Christy had barely tapped her. “Don’t be psycho girl about it.”

“That’s just it.” Christy ran her hands through her spiky hair. Since she wasn’t seeing Roman that day, she’d added extra gel to make it stand up. If she was going through some ceremony in the sacred something to discover her true self, she needed every boost of spunkiness she could get. “I might
be
psycho girl.”

“I doubt that.”

“Remember that thing you told me the other night—about how people who get all involved in the unseen get nutty because they lose their grip on reality?”

“Sure.”

“And remember how I asked you a long time ago if you’d heard stories about the opera house being haunted?”

“I knew it!” Hally thumped the steering wheel but didn’t set off the horn this time.

“You did?”

“Well, yeah. I’m not an idiot. Tell me what happened.”

So she did. It felt strange, under the blazingly sunny sky, amid the red cliffs and deep evergreen valleys, to talk about the phantom’s shadowy world. Hally listened without her usual commentary—which said something, right there—and her silence created a kind of vacuum that drew more of the story out of Christy than she’d planned to tell. She left out the more erotic details but told her pretty much everything else.

By the time she’d finished, Hally had parked her VW Bug in the lot at Bandelier National Park—after interrupting only once, to make Christy pay the entry fee at the gate. The redhead, her hair down for her day off, sat with her eyes closed for a few minutes.

“Wow,” she finally said.

“That’s all you have to say?” Christy popped the buckle on the annoying seat belt.

Hally cracked one eye at her. “It’s a lot to assimilate.”

“You’re telling me.”

“No wonder you want to look inside your heart. I think I brought all the right stuff.”

“So—you believe me?”

“You believe you, right? That’s all that matters.”

“I don’t know that I do.”

“That’s why you’re here, then.”

“You never did tell me why
here
.” Though the lot was full, it didn’t seem to be the three-ring circus most national parks usually were. Of course, that was mostly back east.

“You’ll see. I was more right than I knew.” Hally got out and began cheerfully rummaging through the bags piled in the backseat. “That’s a good sign.”

“I don’t have any Native American blood—I won’t have a connection to this place, even if it
is
all sacred and spiritual.” Even as she said it, she realized it wasn’t true. If what she suspected was true, she could be descended from that long-ago kidnapped Indian girl. She hadn’t told Hally that part, however.

Hally shouldered a bright patchwork bag and flipped her hair out of her face with a huff. “Are you a human being?”

“Maybe not. My dad sure isn’t.”

“Ha ha. My point is that human is human. It’s not necessary for you to match up recent ancestry to harmonize with something. Besides, we don’t have the time to head off to find whatever stone circle your ancestors used to commune with the spirit world. We’ll stand on someone else’s ladder. They won’t mind.”

“How do you know?” Skipping a little to keep up with Hally’s long stride up the path, Christy took in the imposing cliffs, shifting tones of red, yellow, and orange sending striations of rock to challenge the deep blue sky. The sheltered valley felt quite warm already and she was glad she’d worn shorts. Even though some families were running around, a kind of cushioned silence fell over the area. A special feel.

“I know because I’ll make sure of it.” Hally tucked a blowing strand of hair behind her ear. “This is why you need me. I’ll provide the protection and make sure we show the proper respect. The rest is up to you.”

“I still have no idea what I’m doing,” Christy muttered.

“Yes you do. Trust yourself.”

“Easy for you to say—you didn’t get yourself accidentally engaged to a guy you don’t even like all that much. Or indulge in a secret affair with another guy who may or may not be some kind of ghost. Either of whom might be a serial killer.”

Hally slanted her a foxy grin. “There is that.”

“See?”

“Sorry. No out for you. You still have to do this yourself.”

By this time they’d made it up to the cliffs, bypassing all the excavated ruins and informational signs. Sometime she’d come back and read them all. The cliff itself was pockmarked with cave holes, some with ladders leading to them. Hally surveyed several, then picked one and dropped the soft bag on the gritty soil. She pulled out a rope and a laminated sign.

She slung the rope around the ladder and hung the sign at eye level.

“Clever,” Christy commented.

“Not my first time to the circus. Climb up. Mind your head, the ceilings are low.”

Intrigued, Christy ascended the ladder into the ancient cliff dwelling. She’d never actually been inside one and it felt . . . different. As if she’d crawled inside someone else’s skin. Inside the domed room, a glimpse of blue came through the perfectly centered smoke hole, and she knew with visceral truth what it had been like to live here. The children running outside belonged to the tribe. This room sheltered them during the colder winters and from the summer monsoon rains. It was as if the walls themselves had absorbed the energy of all those lives lived here.

Hally crawled through the low doorway, the natural hush of the place absorbing the sound of her movement. She pointed to the floor directly under the smoke hole and Christy sat, the smooth stone surprisingly warm and comfortable beneath her.

“Give me the opal ring.” Hally held out her hand.

“You can’t lose it.”

“I’m not going to lose it, but you can’t have it inside the circle with you.”

“What circle?”

“The one I’m about to draw to protect you. Now hand it over.”

Christy dug it out of her pocket and placed the glimmering ring in Hally’s hand. It looked odd in this simple place. Gaudy and wrong. “What about my necklace, or this stone?”

“Do you associate those things with
him
?” There was no mistaking which
him
she meant.

“Yes.”

“Then keep them—they’ll help. He’s tied to this place, and they’re related to it, too.”

“How do you know he’s tied here?”

Hally rolled her eyes. “He told you, remember?”

I am king of all I survey here, yet I am a prisoner of it also.
She didn’t remember telling Hally that part, but she must have.

“I think he meant the opera house.”

“Geologically speaking, we’re not that far from there.”

“Says the nonscientist.”

“Yes, I know. Now let me concentrate.”

Starting on Christy’s left, Hally began drawing a circle around her, scratching a line in the stone, muttering under her breath. When she connected the circle, nothing changed. Christy hadn’t known what to expect, but not nothing. Then Hally set four stones around her, one of them directly in front of her, between her and the mouth of the cave.

Hally took the bag and backed out, her feet on the ladder. “Now, keep your back straight—imagine your tailbone growing roots into the rock beneath you. Energy runs through you, through your skull, out the smoke hole, and into the sky.”

“Then what?”

The redhead smiled, but with a certain intensity. “Ask your question and wait for what comes to you. Be respectful and grateful. I’ll be out here, doing my part. Call me when you’re done.”

“Wait—how do I know what question to ask?”

Hally didn’t laugh at her. “Be honest with yourself. Ask what you really want to know. This isn’t a test. You’re not here to impress anyone. Ask what’s in your heart.”

At one time Christy might have felt silly, but that same feel about the place settled like a mantle over her shoulders, warm and full of an ancient serenity.

She sat with hands on knees, gazing out of the dwelling opening. Looking straight out across the valley, only trees, basking in the sunshine, met her eye. If nothing else, it was peaceful. Not unlike the peace the cathedral had offered, but of a different flavor. In this place, absolution felt possible.

Relaxing into it, she let the world fall away. It reminded her of how she felt when she was with the Master—transported to another place, suspended in time. The familiar warmth flooded her, sexual and spiritual. Alert while asleep.

In her mind, she asked the question:
Why me?

She’d been afraid it would sound whiny, too “poor me.” But, in the silence of her skull, the sincerity came through. How had she become the pivot of so much?

In the valley below, ancient people worked the fields, their brown skin baking under the sun, singing a song she’d heard before. Dogs ran past, a group of kids shouting gleefully after them. Then the sun went behind a cloud and a shadow fell over the people. Men in armor spilled into the valley, silver swords cutting through wooden spears, splintering them.

The people fell to the earth, like so much harvested wheat.

She walked through the aftermath, her bare feet sinking into the blood-soaked soil, bits of crushed plants spattered on her calves. Not far away, a creature bellowed in pain. She found the bear, shining white and pinned to the ground. An enormous silver cross pierced him through the stomach, as if he was no more than a hapless butterfly, stuck to a collector’s board.

The bear’s icy blue eyes were glazed with pain as it writhed, unable to free itself from the silver spike. The cross at the top, encircled with a golden halo, shone in the sun like a beacon.

Sorrow welled through her—for the crippled bear, the murdered people, the ravaged crop. All that life, senselessly destroyed, all for wealth. The rage rose in her heart, anger against her father, always so determined to have his way, no matter what it cost. An image came to her of her thirteen-year-old self, pinned under her father’s weight and determination, while he pulled up her shirt to reveal the slices across her tender belly.

“Cutting is a sign of mental weakness and emotional pain.” He spoke in even tones, not caring if she heard him over her tears and cries. “You shouldn’t have done this to yourself. I had no idea the divorce had affected you so deeply. But we’ll get you the help you need. If you can’t be happy living a normal life here with me, then we’ll find you a nice group home, where they can help you recover your sanity.”

That had been the real her. She’d never been insane. Just injured.

Like a wounded creature, she’d tucked away her pain and never told anyone what she’d done. But the truth shone through, didn’t it?

She wrapped her hands around the silver spine of the cross and it shifted under her grip, writhing like a serpent. Drawing on her deep stubbornness, her own determination, inherited from him but inverted, used for life, not power, she pulled. It tried to squirm away, but she held on, using all her sorrow and fury to pull it to her.