Dissonance (8 page)

Cam tapped his phone again. “Riley?”

“Cam, is that you?”

Cam bit back a snappy response. How many men with English accents did Riley know? “Yes, it’s me.”

“I’ve been worried sick about you, Cam.” Cam doubted that was the case, although the fact that Riley seemed to know something was up was a surprise. “I spoke to Duncan a few days ago. This is terrible. Truly. Why didn’t you tell me the other day when you—”

“You spoke to Duncan?” Something about this struck him as odd, since Riley only knew Duncan from the parties at the estate. But he could barely think straight, he hadn’t eaten anything since the night before, and he was desperate.

“Oh, I called him, you know, just to see where you were,” Riley said quickly. “He told me about the investigation. Said you might need a friend right now.”

Cam shifted from one foot to the other and looked out over the park. The bench felt cold and the wind bit at his neck in spite of his cashmere scarf. No matter. He’d stay with Riley, or he’d borrow some money from her and stay at a hotel for a few days.

“Yes. I guess you could say that.” Maybe Riley was a better friend than he’d realized. He’d never really given it much thought.

“What can I do to help?” she asked.

H
E
RODE
the subway down to Riley’s apartment. Underground, he felt safe. If the FBI was looking for him—and he guessed they were—they’d have a hard time finding him there. Even today, on a Thursday afternoon before rush hour, there were enough people that he could blend in. His MetroCard still had three rides on it, so if he needed to move around, he could.

Every once in a while, his mind would shout things like “What the fuck are you thinking about?” or “How long can you run?” He alternately ignored these thoughts and skipped ahead to “I need to think this through before I end up in a jail cell,” before panicking once again.

Time. I need time to figure out what’s going on. Figure out who to talk to.
He knew he should probably get out of the city and find someplace better to hide, but he only knew Manhattan and the area near Raice’s New Jersey offices. Maybe if he had time to think, he could figure out how to make his way to LA or Miami, the only other two American cities he knew well. But he’d need money first, or he wouldn’t get anywhere.

He climbed the steps from the subway up to Third Avenue and pulled his scarf over his mouth. Fortunately, Riley’s building was only a few blocks away. He turned the corner onto 82nd Street and stopped dead in his tracks. A dark sedan and a police cruiser were parked in front of the building. He headed back to the subway at a brisk pace—nothing that would be too obvious, but fast enough that if the authorities had spotted him, he’d have time to find a place underground to hide. He turned on his mobile and pressed Riley’s number as he descended the same steps he’d walked up a minute before.

“Cam?” Riley sounded nervous, tentative.

“You said you would help me.” He struggled not to shout at her. “You called them. You told them I was coming.”

“Cam, listen. They say you’ve done things…. And I…. I just wanted to help you…. I mean, you can make it right. You don’t have to—”

“You believe them?” This question was met with silence. “Fuck. You do believe them, don’t you?” Cam spoke the words through clenched teeth. The signal began to break up as he walked farther into the station.

“Cam,” she said, “I’m sure whatever you did, you couldn’t help it. Duncan told me about the board cutting back on your allowance and—”

He ended the call and shoved the phone into his pocket, then swiped his MetroCard. Five minutes later he was seated on a Downtown No. 2 express train.

The grinding sound of the train as it hurtled toward lower Manhattan was a perfect complement to his scattered thoughts. He ran a hand through his hair again, ignoring the curls that fell onto his forehead. For a change, he didn’t give a shit what he looked like.
Fucking bollocks.
He couldn’t go home. The only person in town he thought was a friend had set him up. He only had enough money for some food and maybe a single night at a crappy hotel. Duncan wouldn’t return his calls. The only person who’d speak to him was the company’s lawyer, but Jim would just tell him to turn himself in. What the bloody hell was he supposed to do?

Turn yourself in. You can explain. Show them that you’ve done nothing wrong.

He ignored the voice again. From somewhere nearby, he heard an annoying tapping sound. He looked around the subway car, ready to give whoever was making the noise a fucking piece of his mind, then realized it was his own foot to blame. He shot up from his seat, grabbing a hold of one of the slippery stainless steel poles to keep his balance as the car rumbled and rocked on the tracks. He gazed out the window at one of the local stations, the regular patterns of the old metal supports breaking up his view in regular intervals, like bars on a cage.

Bars. He imagined someplace dark with bars on the door. He couldn’t get out. He began to sweat as he imagined tugging on the metal and calling out for help. He gasped for air as he drowned in his fear, and a low voice seemed to echo through his mind, familiar.
“My pretty boy.”

“You okay, man?” someone said from behind him, causing him to jump.

Cam blinked and realized the train had stopped and that he was clutching the pole as if his life depended on it. “I’m fine.” He waved the kid—long-haired, with a furry beard—away, then stumbled off the train. A few minutes later, he sat on a bench in a small park, then turned on his phone again and tapped one of the presets.

“Mother?” he said after she’d answered.

“Cameron! Where are you?” she demanded.

“That’s not important. I really need your hel—”

“Duncan told me,” she said as if she hadn’t even heard him speak. “I can’t believe what you’ve done. Truly. Duncan says he’ll make sure you get the best representation. Surely since you’ve never been in trouble before—”

He shut the phone off and shoved it into his pocket, then rubbed his eyes. Had he really believed she’d support him? Why had he even bothered? She’d always thought the worst of him.
Probably because you deserved it!
But he wasn’t a thief.

He fingered his mobile but didn’t pull it out. If he called Jim and told them he’d turn himself in…. If everyone thought he’d done this, what then? Money laundering? That was the stuff of Mafiosi. Movies. And if Duncan had set him up, what chance did he have of convincing the authorities of his innocence? Duncan controlled everything. Duncan controlled
him
.

What will you do?

He was pathetic. He thought of Aiden. Good for Aiden that he’d found someone to take care of him. Love him.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself.

He needed to clear his head. Think. Figure out what the bloody hell he would do now. He stood and waited for the next Downtown train. He’d heard of a place near Times Square where he might be able to get some money. He needed to rest. Eat something. He’d decide what to do after that.

C
AM
LOOKED
up at the flashing neon sign in the window. Blue and red, the light burned letters onto his retinas so that even when he blinked, he could still read the words:
Buy. Sell. Pawn.
The windows were lined in white neon and cast an eerie glow on the sidewalk outside. He shivered. When had the temperature dropped? On his birthday, only a week before, it had been pleasantly warm. Now he could almost smell snow in the air.

He reached into the inside breast pocket of his leather jacket and felt the pen there. The pen David and Alex had given him for his birthday. The pen he was just about to pawn.

Better than calling David and asking him for a handout.
He wouldn’t do that. This wasn’t David’s problem, it was his own. Maybe if David and Alex were still in New York, he’d ask for advice, but he wouldn’t hit David up for cash….

No. I’ll fix this.
But first he needed money to pay for a place to stay. Then he could think.

He opened the door to the pawnshop and walked over to the counter. A short, balding man who’d been polishing a piece of silver that looked as though it had seen better days put down his cloth and walked over to him.

“I need money,” Cam said. He felt like a petty criminal. The place reeked of cigarettes and fake fruit-scented air freshener. Cam’s already queasy stomach protested the odors.

The man’s smile faded. No doubt he’d hoped Cam, dressed as he was in his expensive clothes, had come to buy something. “Yeah. Okay. What is it?”

“What?” Cam frowned, uncomprehending.

“Whatcha got to pawn?” the man asked, his eyebrows slightly raised and the edges of his mouth curving upward.

He thought this was funny? Cam fought the urge to turn around and storm out of the pathetic little shop. If he hadn’t been so fucking desperate, he’d have done just that. Instead, he clenched his jaw and reached into his pocket.

The little bald man looked down at the pen, then up at Cam. “This is it?”

“This is it.” Cam met the man’s eyes as he said this. The man didn’t blink. “How much can you give me for it?”

The man picked up the pen, pulled open the top, then held it under a magnifying glass. The entire process took far longer than it should, at least in Cam’s judgment.
Sharp little bugger. He knows a sucker when he has one.

“Two hundred,” the man said after a moment.

“Two hundred
dollars
?” Cam said, stunned.

“Yeah. Two hundred.”

“It’s worth thousands.”

Little Bald Man narrowed his eyes. “Two hundred. Take it or leave it.”

The nausea Cam had been fighting returned with a vengeance. He needed to get out of this place. What if someone had followed him? He glanced over his shoulder where the neon flickered. Was that someone standing outside?

“Take it.” Cam shifted from one foot to the other and tapped his finger on the glass case.

Five minutes later—what the fuck took the man so long to do things?—Little Bald Man counted out ten twenty-dollar bills onto the glass. Cam pocketed the money, then turned to leave. He stopped a moment later, looked back at the man, and said, “I’ll be back for it.”

“Sure you will,” Little Bald Man said.

B
Y
THE
time Galen made it into Manhattan on Friday evening, 8:00 p.m. had come and gone. He’d taught late that afternoon, making up several lessons students had missed the week before when half the high school had come down with the flu. By then, tourists and locals heading out for an evening on the town had replaced the crowds of commuters.

He set up in his favorite alcove, just out of the line of foot traffic but where the sound from his trumpet could dance off dingy concrete walls, floor, and ceiling. He didn’t want to be the center of activity; he felt good knowing his music provided a backdrop for it.

He started with a simple piece, something that tickled his lips, to warm up his embouchure—his lips and cheek muscles. Simple, like stretching before exercising, the Brandt étude sounded bright and energetic. He started with the second étude, a piece that reminded him of marching bands and football games in late fall. He’d envied the kids who marched when he was in high school.

As he played, he thought of the man who’d stopped to listen two weeks before, headed home from a party, a bit drunk. He hadn’t noticed him the weekend before. Not surprising, since weekends could get hectic and Galen could easily miss spotting someone in the crowds.

By midnight, the crowds of people were gone, although enough still walked the tunnels in a steady trickle and would all night long. The trains never stopped running here, something that always amazed Galen, since he hadn’t grown up near the city.

He played some Bach—Partita No. 2—originally for solo violin. He’d adapted it for trumpet himself a few years before. He enjoyed its simple lines and how it pushed him to the limits of his breath control. He loved how the sound echoed through the tunnel, giving him the sense that he wasn’t the only one playing.

He almost didn’t notice the Brit when he walked down the tunnel toward the No. 4 train platform. Before, the man had seemed a bit down, as though he’d received some bad news but was trying to throw it off. He’d been defiant in his sadness. Now, his entire demeanor had changed. He walked, shoulders hunched, with the collar of his leather jacket pulled up around his face. Unlike before, when his pants had been crisply creased, his clothing appeared rumpled. His hair looked more messy than stylishly mussed, and stubble covered his jaw and upper lip. From where Galen stood playing, he caught only a glimpse of the man’s eyes, but they too had changed markedly. Dark circles ringed what had been brilliant blue but was now duller, near gray.

However bad things had been the night they’d spoken, things now appeared far worse. Galen finished the Bach and waited a split second for the echoes of the music to fade. A woman walked by, smiled, then dropped some change into the trumpet case. Galen smiled and nodded. After she disappeared down the tunnel, Galen packed up his trumpet, latched the case, and descended the stairs to the No. 4 platform.