Reverb

  Another portentous sigh escapes his lips. “When you were born, your mother agreed you’d be added to the House of Windsor registry as my direct descendant—a cautionary measure to discourage legal challenges to the disbursement of my assets you’re due as my son upon my death—”

  “All I want from you, Edward, is to leave me the fuck alone. In fact, I’d like my name stripped from every association with yours. Barring that as not possible, I don’t want to be named in your will, or on any documentation involving the family Trust. We’re done. You get that, right?”

  Hint of a frown and he shakes his head again. “James, you are my son, my only remaining direct heir, and now the 22nd Earl of Carham. With the title comes responsibilities—”

  I rise abruptly, put my hands on his desk again, glare at him. “I don’t want the goddamn title. Why are you not hearing me? Why is it we’re still here, right back where we left off two years ago? Damn it!” I turn away, sweep my hair out of my eyes and pace a few steps, then turn back on him. “I told you then, I’ll tell you again. But this is the last time, Edward. I will not sacrifice my life to serve your needs. I don’t care what they are, now more than ever.”

  “James, I do not have the authority, nor the desire to leave our family estate to anyone but descendants. It will be passed to you, as a matter of course, as it has been for over five centuries. While your net worth will substantially increase with the transition, and there will be serious tax implications, of course, your involvement may remain as minimal as you choose, modeling our current structure of operations. When we sat here discussing this two years ago, I did not infer you abandon your music career. In fact, I thought I made it quite clear that overseeing the Trust would take only an initial investment of your time to familiarize yourself with our holdings, and get acquainted with the people managing them. As I recall, however, you couldn’t hear me as you were on drugs at the time.”

  “I wasn’t on drugs, Edward.” I was crashing from them. Sudden pulsing in my temples emerging into a massive migraine. I glare at my father. “And even if I was, you had no right to set me up, to rob me of my freedom, to control my life. There is no justification for what you did to me.”

  “I am not here to justify myself to you, or to defend my position. I had you arrested because I believed you were abusing drugs and in need of professional intervention. You are an adult, an American citizen, James. I had no authority to help you once you were back in the States. I was forced to act quickly. Caple Ne Ferne is a world-renowned, private treatment facility. You were slated to complete their highly touted twenty-eight day program and then be released, your records sealed, case closed. I could not foresee the events that took place after you were incarcerated. Nor could I prevent what followed after you killed Judge Ferrell’s son.”

  “Gross miscalculation on your part, father?”

  “Yes, I believe it was.”

  I can’t believe the words actually come out of his mouth. Never before has the man admitted culpability, to me, or anyone else I can recall. I’d anticipated this moment my entire life. But no lightning bolts come shooting through the window. No brass band begin playing. The only thing in that room is a defeated old man, and there is no victory. I turn away from his debasement, move to the bar to put distance between us. “Are you finished playing God, Edward? If I’m truly a free man, will you let me walk out of here and control my own life?”

  “It was never my intention to control your life, James. If I had taken any course of action to help your brother when I first became aware of his addiction, it is quite possible he would be alive today. Had I taken no action with you, it is equally possible that you would not be.”

  “You’re wrong, Edward. I was never that strung out.”

  “You were addicted to your own mastery, chose to let it consume your life, denying those in it their due. Drugs were a dangerous means to a distorted end, son. Somehow, I failed to impress upon you the importance of a balanced life.” He sighs, shakes his head. “While much of your experience over the course of the last two years has been unfortunate, and without condoning nor minimizing your suffering, you are fortunate to have broken the bonds of your obsession. You’ve achieved a greater understanding of your place in the world around you, and your effect on the lives you touch, forging the foundation to extend yourself in love.” He pauses, lets his words resonate. “I assume you and Elisabeth are to marry, you'll adopt her son, Cameron, move back to the States?”

  My shoulders tighten. My fists clench and I look away, at the full shot of gin on the bar. Pick it up and throw it at his head. I need him to bleed. “Don’t speak their names again. It doesn’t matter how you know. You can watch me, but I’ll never let you in.”

  Edward nods. “I understand.”

  Again, I’m dumbfounded. His stance has always been domination, never conciliation. Where’s the lightning? I can’t get a fix on my father’s expression in the reflection of the smoked mirror behind the bar. He just looks old. Turn back to face him. “You expect me to stand here and have a civil conversation, a casual dialog between father and son?”

  I have to get out of here.

  “Well I’m just not ready to do that, Edward.” I shake my head, turn away. My eyes fall back on the shot glass. I go to the bar, pick up the glass, down the gin in one gulp and swallowed back the burn, then set the glass back on the bar and walk out of the room.

  The sonofabitch knows everything about my life. He’s been tracking me, who knows how long, and I’ve been blissfully unaware. I stand in the hall. No one’s in sight. Can walk out the front door, except I have no I.D., no money, no shoes, no jacket. It’s pouring rain and maybe forty-five degrees out there. I’ll probably freeze to death before I ever make it off the property.

  Oddly, I feel very calm, the gin having encased my brain in a fuzzy haze. To leave, I’ll have to get my wallet back, or at least ask for help, and I’m not about to ask him for anything. The limousine kid, Steven, I think it was, something like that, might help me with the right numerical incentive, and a good alibi to deny any culpability in my departure.

  I manage to find his bedroom with the aid of one of the household staff, but he’s not there, nor the suggested library or media room. Find two housemaids in the kitchen, but they only speak German, which I know about five lines of, though they make it clear 'Stefan' has been summoned to drive Edward and Howard somewhere. The blond, blue-eyed matronly woman and her younger version don’t seem to know when they’re coming back.

  Fuck.

  Neither has seen my wallet or passport, but tells me to check my bedroom again for my shoes. I request a phone. The older woman indicates my father’s study, and I go back to where I left Edward, but he’s gone. I enter slowly, fighting the anxiety that’s overwhelming me as the gin wears off.

  I want out of here.

  There’s a sleek black portable phone on a small antique table near my father’s desk and I pick it up, considering how to reach Elisabeth. I need to talk to her, hear her tell me she and Cam are fine, and let her know what’s happened, what’s going on. Find out if she still wants to be with me, even with my twisted history shackling me to this family. But I don’t know her cell, or their number on the island. I’d never had to call her. We were always together. Regardless, it isn’t likely she’s gone back there. A day, maybe two have passed since I was taken. Hopefully, she went back to L.A. as I’d told her to.

  Spend twenty minutes on the phone trying to find someone at Villa Vacation Rentals in Corfu City, and leave two message for my property manager to call me back as soon as possible with Elisabeth’s contact information. Could try her at her parents, if I can get their number, but it’s six o’clock in the morning there, and probably not the best introduction to possible future in-laws.

  Can’t call a cab without money. Can’t get a plane ticket without I.D. Can’t leave this fucking house without shoes. I fight the urge to throw the phone across the room, but set it down on my father’s desk instead.
Someone has picked the lamp and the laptop up off the floor and put them back on the desk. The brandy and crystal snifter are gone. The papers I’d scattered now sit in a neat pile next to the laptop.

  I’m about to turn away, but the top paper catches my attention. A metallic British Crown Court identity is at the top of the page. There’s a raised government seal at the bottom. It’s a court order, issued to my father to appear before a grand jury inquiry in regards to my arrest two years ago. It’s dated from December of last year and is scheduled for—tomorrow. The warrant gives few details. It simply states the date and time Edward is required to appear. One of the few things it does specify is that my father must submit his “signed statement” on or before the inquiry date.

  Search the small stack of papers for any other pertinent information but don’t find anything. Desk drawers are all locked. The laptop, well, it doesn’t work anymore. Why were the drug charges rescinded? Was the ‘recent evidence’ to which Edward referred supplied by my father? Edward had me locked up, but is he the one to set me free as well? He knew about my suicide attempt, knew I was sent to an outside hospital. The idea burrows into my brain and my head starts pounding again. Press my palms into my eyes, holding them closed, blacking out all light. Edward’s aged face and diminished stature come to the fore.

  What has my incarceration cost my father?

  What has it really cost me? Hear myself screaming in my head from searing, tearing pain, feel the restraints around my wrists and ankles, pinning me spread, ripping my limbs apart. Stop it. Don’t go there. Drop my hands and open my eyes and I’m alone in the silent study.

  Elisabeth, save me. I need you. And I see her laughing, her lightness brighter than the fire we had blazing that rainy afternoon. We’re on the floor, I’m fingering the chords to Itsy Bitsy Spider, Cameron’s in my lap learning to strum, my hand guiding his. We’re on the fiftieth rendition, though he’s finally getting it, and doesn’t want to quit until he can make the ‘tar’ sound like me. Liz is laughing with me, at me, my beleaguered expression of fatigue, but we don’t want to discourage his enthusiasm. We’re both awestruck by his unwavering tenacity. It was then, I believe, the moment I fully understood love without reservation.

  What has my incarceration cost me? My freedom, most of my fortune, my dignity, my seed. My obsession with music. What has it given me? Elisabeth and Cameron. Maybe she’s right. Things happen for a reason. Round about though it may have been, my father has actually presented me an opportunity.

  No! That’s bullshit. I could have died. Nearly did. Wanted to countless times.

  But I didn’t. I’m still here. And life is richer, more intense than ever. Play it as it lays, James. And move on.

  My head still pounds. Inhale deeply and release it slowly, but it doesn’t stop the pulsing behind my eyes. To hell with this. I grab the bottle of Nolet’s off the bar and go looking for someone, anyone, who knows where my wallet and passport are, but the invariable rejoinder from the staff is to wait and speak with my father when he returns to the estate, whenever that is. No one seems to know, or willing to tell me. Go back up to my old room, stop in the doorway. My head spins, buzzing from swigs of gin while on my quest. I stand in the threshold not sure what I’m looking for then spy the guitar. Retrieve the Fender and pull the strap over my shoulder, then plug it into the custom Hiwatt 100watt amp and turn it up, blast the stone walls with its resonance and proceed to finish the bottle of gin.

  Loud noise wakes me during the night. I’m on the floor where I passed out, the guitar still in my hand. Leave the Fender where it lay, get up, and after using the toilet, crawl into bed and fall back asleep.

  My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth when I wake in the morning, and I have a fantastic headache, the kind that reminds me why not to drink anymore. Venture downstairs to find my father or Howard, and encounter a lot of people I don’t recognize rushing about with purpose. Everyone looks at me, stares really, except not in the usual way. When I look back, most look away and avoid eye contact. Creep factor becomes gnawing. At the bottom of the stairs someone grips my arm. I recoil, almost lay Howard out.

  Howard jerks back and releases me. “Come with me, James.”

  Follow him into the library. “What’s going on, Howard?”

  He doesn’t answer. He turns and shuts the double doors then turns back to face me, fixing his gray eyes on me. “Your father is dead.”

  “What?”

  “Your father shot himself last night. He’s dead.” He stares up at me with contempt—like I’m the one who shot him. Howard waits for my response, but I can’t think. Your father is dead.

  Nausea overwhelms me and I run to the bathroom and throw up into the toilet. Don’t think. Wipe your mouth. Get up. Fill the sink with cold water, dunk my face in. Don’t think. Hold your breath for as long as you can. ‘Your father is dead. Your father is—dead.’ Pressure builds in my chest until it feels as if my lungs are bursting. Finally straighten, gasp in the cool air, hold a plush towel against my face, pressed it deep into my eye sockets until I see sparkles, then go back into the library. Howard is gone.

  Chapter Four

  Howard Engel met Edward Whren in his first year at Harvard. He’d been pursuing a graduate degree in philosophy, of all things, with the intention of becoming a professor. Edward saved him from a beating by some neo-Nazis one night, back when Jew hating was all the rage. They walked to evening classes together a few times a week after that, and enjoyed animated discussions debating Nietzsche to Marx.

  Edward was completing his graduate degree in Business. He was brilliant, well read, versed in history, and had a great sense of social conscience. ‘Prince Edward’ was his nickname on campus, and though he knew many people, he had few, if any friends. He kept his distance with everyone. Edward was the first Royal that Howard had ever met, with a family lineage that could be traced back over five hundred years. Howard Engel was nobody, from generations of poor Manchester steelworkers who died young of lung cancer, and left wives obsessed with their children's potential while drowning their own with gin.

  Sharing a celebratory drink for graduation at the Oueen’s Head pub, Edward offered him the position as his Secretary Director, with an extremely generous compensation package, citing Howard’s moral character, and jokingly, his British antecedence over choosing an American. He knew even then that Edward Whren was a man of honor, and he’d be privileged to work for him, with him.

  Howard managed Edward’s affairs, and through the years learned the finer points of business. Edward sought his opinion often, respected his choices, and walked his bride down the aisle at his wedding. Edward was Amelia’s other love, second only to Howard, and Edward mourned her loss almost as deeply as Howard did. He’d seen Edward through his marriage, the birth of his sons, the death of his wife, the rise and a few falls of many companies, his father’s death, the death of his first born. And the last two years he’d watched Edward wither under the weight of his mistake having James incarcerated. He’d aged ten years in one when he was made privy to the torture, and subsequent suicide attempt by his son.

  James bursts into the study as Howard sits in Edward’s chair at the massive Partners desk, silently weeping. He doesn’t bother to stand. The boy doesn’t deserve that level of respect.

  “What is going on, Howard? Why would Edward kill himself? What the hell happened here last night?”

  “Your father put a bullet in his head in the chapel at four-thirty this morning, while you were passed out upstairs. Of course, I cannot speak for Edward, but my best assessment as to why he did it would be related to you.”

  James stands in a halo of halogen light glaring at him. “What is your problem, Howard? What did I do to you? You knew what was going on. You could have stopped him in the beginning. But you didn’t. Why?”

  His ire rises and it takes great effort to stay seated and calm. “I was not Edward’s keeper. His decision was made without my knowledge and did not require my consent. Your fat
her is dead, yet you still mourn your own loss. What is it you want here, James?”

  “My passport and wallet. And I want to know what the hell is going on.”

  “You are in no position to demand anything.”

  “What’s my crime, Howard? How do you justify what you let him do to me? What was my crime to warrant it?

  “Indifference.” The impertinent child still glares at him. How is he to get through to this man? “Edward took you into his home, his life, provided you with a stable environment and supported and funded your talent without limits. And you walked away, disavowed his name, and severed all connections, lacking even a modicum of consideration for anyone but yourself. You shame me as a man and a mentor. I thought you knew better than that.”

  “That’s right, Howard. You thought you knew me. You, and the endless parade of tutors and teachers. A valiant effort. Really. More than my father ever bothered.”

  “From the day you came to Castlewood, you had your music, James. Perhaps it was you who never bothered. Regardless, that Edward was not able to coddle you because of his job requirements, should have long since been resolved by the son who has spent the majority of his adulthood emulating his father quite exactly.”

  His eyes narrow with indignation. “You fault me my obsession, yet sit there asking me to have reverence for a man who devoted himself to his career and nothing else.”

  “Edward’s devotion was to the business of people, James. Until Elisabeth and her son, Cameron, you have lived for yourself alone. It is criminal that you will never have the opportunity to thank your father for his contributions, and to forgive him for his error in judgment, with the understanding that the actions he took were motivated by concern for your welfare.”

  “And for his. Let’s not forget that his precious Trust is without a willing heir to adopt it. My father is, was, a master manipulator. You’re not going to sit there and convince me that he was a Saint, and that his sole intention was for my own good.”