Meg Gardiner - The Liar’s Lullaby

“Did you know she had the gun?”

“It always worried me.”

Jo surmised how Vienna felt: In a perverse way, the fait accompli was a relief. The dread she had lived with for years, the fear that her sister would suffer harm, had come to pass, and brought with it release from the awful pressure and anxiety. None of that lessened Vienna’s grief. But the grinding worry that never went away…had now gone away.

“Did she ever threaten to shoot herself?” Jo said.

“Not in so many words. ‘What’s the point?’ she’d say. ‘Who’d miss me? Would people treat me like Kurt Cobain if I played his final verse?’”

“That must have been awful for you. Did she ever attempt suicide?”

Vienna’s lips parted, words seemingly on the tip of her tongue. Tart words. Then she checked herself. “Maybe he can tell you. Or at least supply her medical records from the army hospital.”

Superb. Intra-family feuds, with a guy who had round-the-clock Secret Service protection.

“Any attempts you personally can tell me about?” Jo said.

“Half-hearted, twelve years ago. Southern Comfort and a dozen ibuprofen.”

Vienna glanced at the bay. A windsurfer scudded along atop the whitecaps, his lime-green sail a shark’s fin.

“She also said she pictured herself going out like fireworks on the Fourth of July,” Vienna said. “Did you know she was writing an autobiography?”

“No. Did she leave notes? A draft?”

“Notes, photos, lots of recorded ramblings. She wasn’t writing it herself.”

“Ghostwriter?”

“Man named Ace Chennault.”

Jo took out a notebook and wrote it down. “Know how I can reach him?”

“He’s around. He’s a music journalist, was on the road with her for the last few months, gathering material.” She smiled briefly, a flash of teeth. “There’s family, and then there’s entourage.”

“When was the last time you spoke to your sister?”

“Yesterday morning. She called to make sure I’d gotten the tickets she sent.”

Jo stopped writing. “I’m sorry, I should have known you were at the concert.”

“Yeah.”

The clipped syllable sounded like pain itself.

“How did she sound?” Jo said.

“Soaring, but agitated. Sort of…” She tilted her hand side to side. Comme ci, comme ça. “Disconcerted. Fizzing like peroxide.”

“How long had she sounded that way?”

“A few weeks. But she could swing from mania to depression within days.”

Rapid cycling indicated a deteriorating psychological condition. It meant the bipolar disorder wasn’t under control. Rapid cycling could result from the disorder’s progression over many years, or from poor medicating, self-medicating, or a patient going off her meds.

“Did she ever have mixed episodes?” Jo said.

Vienna frowned. “Not as far as I know.”

“What was she like when she was hypomanic?”

“Like a Saturn rocket. Full throttle, roaring straight for the sky. Incredibly creative. She’d write songs and record all night. Funny and outgoing.”

“And when she experienced full-blown mania?” Jo said.

“ Challenger . Blast off, screaming for outer space, ka-blooey. ”

“Did she engage in dangerous behavior?”

“She’d hit the sack with every man in arm’s reach. Snort cocaine, even out the coke with vodka-and-OxyContin smoothies, cool off by driving the Pacific Coast Highway, headlights off, hundred miles an hour. Surely you’ve seen her mug shot online,” she said. “I posted her bail.”

She stared at the whitecaps on the bay. “Listen, I’m venting here. But the last few years, Tasia worked at managing her life. She quit the drugs and the booze binges. Stopped being promiscuous. She didn’t crash into the dark, dark holes like in the old days. She didn’t have weeklong sleepless jags where she rewrote the Ring Cycle as an epic about stock car racing. She was stable.”

“Did you see her often?”

“No. She has a house near Twin Peaks, but she’s been touring.”

“Did she talk to you recently about ending her life?” Jo said.

“No.”

“Did she seem to be making any preparations—had she given away any of her possessions? Made a will?”

“Wrote a will ten years ago. Otherwise, no.”

“Did she have any enemies?”

Vienna turned her head slowly, and gave Jo the remorseless grizzly bear gaze. “The police played her ‘I’m going to be assassinated’ recording for me. It was…shocking. But I have seen no evidence that anybody killed her. If you have any, tell me. I mean now, Doctor.” The gaze didn’t relent. “I want the truth.”

Jo knew that Vienna didn’t simply want the truth; she needed it. Without it she would live like a wounded animal, bleeding and pain-stricken, burdened with doubts and guilt her entire life.

Jo hoped she could help provide her with it. That’s why she did the job.

“I don’t yet know what happened, but I’m trying my best to find out. Could anybody have wished your sister harm?”

Vienna fought her emotions. “Real harm, not conspiracy theory bullshit? People are saying she took a bullet meant for Searle Lecroix, or that the stuntman shot her—he has a Muslim name, Shirazi, so it’s a jihadist plot to destroy country music. Or she was given hallucinogenic drugs that made her shoot herself.”

That, Jo thought, was actually an interesting possibility.

“She made enemies right and left. She was a diva. Ninety percent were showbiz rivals or family members she antagonized. But did people hate her enough to what, secretly load bullets in a gun she thought was unloaded? How preposterous is that? How many people had access to that gun? Not many.”

Vienna looked at the windsurfers on the bay, their sails iridescent in the salt spray and sunshine. “The medical examiner’s expediting the autopsy. They’ll be releasing her body, and I have to plan the memorial service. I need to bury my sister. You understand that, Dr. Beckett?”

“Perfectly.”

She looked at Jo. “Did somebody kill her? I have no idea.”

These are the times that try men’s souls.

—Thomas Paine

THE CURSOR BLINKED ON THE SCREEN. HIS FINGERTIPS TINGLED. HE typed the words that transformed him.

Call me Paine.

His thoughts pulsed. When he spoke aloud, people found him clumsy. An awkward white guy, soft around the middle—human mayonnaise. But when he sat before the glowing computer screen and reached into the minds beyond it, he became fluent and convincing. Power surged through his fingers.

The jackal in the Oval Office is playing games with us. Legion is plying us with lies. He thinks we can’t see his ass hanging out.

Beyond the rooftops, downtown San Francisco gleamed in the morning sun. The Transamerica pyramid was a lustrous white edifice, the waters of the bay deceptively smooth. The postcard view disguised the degenerate reality. Whores, addicts, gays. And everywhere, coming out of drainpipes and cracks in the sidewalk, illegals. The ROW—the Rest of the World—a seething mass infecting the nation with their leprosy and laziness.

The city was a magnificent arena. What exquisite irony that the end game should play out here.

Watch the video footage from last night’s concert. Not the film shot by the official camera crew—that footage has already been altered to depict the story the gubmint wants sheeple to believe. Watch videos shot by concertgoers. Raw footage of Tasia’s death. It reveals the shocking truth.

He wiped his palms on his jeans. He was logged on through an anonymizer, a tool that stripped out identifying information about his computer and made his activities on the Net untraceable. Supposedly.