Haunting Melody (30 page)

I felt edgy. I wanted Briley with me, making
me laugh, scoffing at my stories and theories, and kissing me, then
maybe going a tiny step or two or further with the physical
activity. I wondered if we’d ever get a chance to be really
alone.

Alone.

I hadn’t seen another living soul in my mad
dash up the stairs to my room. No one had been at the desk
downstairs and I couldn’t hear any giggling or chattering from any
of the other rooms on this floor. The only sound I did hear was the
rain beating against the window. It was coming inside. It was also
aimed directly at the bed I’d pulled up against the wall under the
window for stargazing during nights when I hadn’t been able to
sleep.

“Not good.” I shut the window and felt the
coverlet to see if it was soaked. It was. I wrung out the quilt
into the base of the ficus tree in the corner of the room.

The phone down the hall rang. I hadn’t seen
Edith, so I ran to answer.

“Mel?”

“Briley! Hey! How’s it goin’ at the
theatre?”

He snorted over the wire. “Oh, famously. It’s
ridiculous. There were two - count ‘em -two frayed electrical
wires. Anyone with half a brain would know to throw them away and
replace them tomorrow. It was not an emergency. I’m furious that I
was called away from you to handle something this basic and silly.
I still need to check one or two things to make sure no one gets
electrocuted, then I’m coming over.”

“Good. I miss you and it’s only been an hour
since you left. This is crazy!”

He laughed. “It is but it’s also very logical
and real! I’ll be there as soon as I can. Rumor has it that with
this downpour every taxi is busy tonight so it won’t be in the next
thirty minutes but I’ll try my best. Subways are flooded but still
supposed to be running.”

“I love you, Briley. See you soon.”

“I love you too. Bye, Mel.”

I hung up then wandered back into my room in
a romantic haze. Briley should be by in about twenty minutes. I
passed the time by rearranging the clothes in Bettina’s closet.

The phone rang again. I ran to answer but
received no response to my, “Hello? Who are you calling?”

Someone whispered, “Melody,” then what
sounded like “my sock mate” then the line went dead. I jiggled the
receiver a time or two but there was no response. No dial tone, no
operator. Nothing.

I ran back to my room, slammed the door and
locked it. The words “sock mate” kept going through my head. I
could see that page in the book we’d read down in Memphis. Ptah’s
mate, the woman who adorned herself in lion skins, the creator
goddess was called Sekhmet. I had no idea if the name hit an “ah”
instead of an “eh” on the first syllable.

It didn’t matter how it was pronounced. Ptah
Junior wanted her and apparently had decided not to wait another
moment to find his woman. His consort. His “sock-mate.” Me.

I was now in trouble. I was up on the fourth
floor in a building where the fire escape was in the back. As far
as I knew no one else was even around, or if they were, they were
zonked out dreaming pleasant dreams.

The phone lines must have been cut. That
meant my caller was near enough to snip them. If I ran down the
hall, and my attacker waited, there was no way for me to escape. If
got nabbed this time, I wouldn’t be left free to roam around a
warehouse, chow down breakfast and dive into the East River singing
“Shake, Rattle and Roll.”

I checked the door again, clicking the lock
several times to be sure no one could come busting through. I stood
for a moment and leaned against the doorframe. I heard
footsteps.

A male voice called “Melody, my Sekhmet.
Soon, my love, soon.” Then silence. Then more footsteps and the
refrain repeated. Briley had to be on his way here but with no cabs
and flooded subways, he could be too late.

“Melody. Sekhmet.” The voice came again but I
still couldn’t identify the speaker. Not that it mattered. None of
the candidates were small men. I felt certain Ptah Junior was armed
and ready with chloroform, or perhaps a big stick with which to
whap me over the head before dragging me off to the latest
lair.

I was scared, but I was also royally pissed
at the nerve of this creep coming to my own apartment to grab me
like an actor in a bad slasher flick. I moved away from the door
and began to look for a possible weapon. I found the watering can
but even though it was made of metal I doubted it was strong enough
to knock out a prospective abductor. I filled it anyway then
started watering the plants in the room out of sheer anxiety.

The footsteps had stopped. I couldn’t hear
anyone talking, muttering, hissing, or anything else outside my
door. I hurried back to the window and opened it. Rain spat through
and doused me. I braved the pelting water and leaned out.

Briley came into view at the end of the
street, running, his dark hair glistening under the streetlamps. I
screamed, “Briley! I’m here! Come quickly!” but between the rain,
thunder, and the horns tooting I doubted he could hear the cries of
a girl a block away.

I shut the window again then brought the
nightstand lamp as close to the window as I could. I clicked the
lamp off and on and off and on trying to signal S.O.S. although I
really hadn’t a clue how dots and dashes worked for lighting
equipment.

I crossed to the piano and began pounding out
show tunes as loudly as I could –again out of a sense of bravado. I
sang "Hearbreak Hotel" and "Brick House" and finally "A Pretty Girl
is Like a Melody." Maybe my stalker would hear me. He’d decide I
was too crazy to be part of his warped plans. Perhaps one of the
other girls really was trying to sleep and she’d hear and come
running in to tell me to be quiet since it was now two o’clock in
the morning.

My hands froze on the keys. Two in the
morning. Locks clicking and clicking again. Lights turned on and
off. Windows opening and shutting and opening again. Plants getting
watered. And a voice singing "A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody."

Not any voice. My voice. Damn. I’d known it
all along. Just hadn’t wanted to believe it. I really was the ghost
from Apartment 413. I remembered Fiona Belle’s brusque words the
night I’d run to her apartment looking for answers.

“Follies girl. Exotic looking. Some slimy
sonovabitch stalked her. 1919 – vanished. Loved to dance. Loved to
sing. Loved kids. Loved animals. Loved Briley.”

Melody had indeed been haunting Melody.

I was going to die tonight. The realization
left me numb for at least a minute. I picked up my Elvis bag from
the floor by the piano and picked up the musical doll as well. For
a second I tested the weight of the doll, wondering if it was heavy
enough to bonk Ptah Junior over the head and stun him long enough
for me to haul my butt down the stairs to the safety of the street.
To Briley.

The door crashed open. Fiona Belle’s “slimy
sonovabitch” had strength; I’ll give him that. He’d been kicking on
that sucker the whole time I’d been playing tunes.

I stared at him. “Peter.”

With unaccented, perfect English, the fake
Russian Prince replied. “No, my lovely Sekhmet. I am Ptah.”

“I’d prefer to call you a sick bastard and do
a little more yelling to summon large gents with guns from the
closest police precinct to come arrest your sorry ass.”

Peter calmly entered the room. I stood as far
away as I was able, near the window, and wished that cell phones
had roaming power to go back a century.

“It’s no use struggling, Melody. This is
fate. I thought Francesca was the one, but she wasn’t strong enough
to be the mate for a god with total power. Denise seemed perfect
since she already had the boy, my Nefertem, but destiny stepped in
and took her away. Then, I saw it was for the best.”

“Destiny? That’s crap! You stupid creep. What
stepped in was Briley McShan, his brother Frank, and Miss Melody
Irina Flynn. All of whom whipped the butts of you and your merry
band of bumblers, including your sorry excuse for a sister.”

He brushed away my words. “I believed you
were the one when I met you at the Ellingfords. You spoke of
Memphis. You have ancestry from Lebanon, a close land to Egypt. You
have the fire, strength and the artistry of Sekhmet, the woman I
have loved for centuries.”

Okay. He’d been rational up to the last
statement. Now he was veering toward the deep end. Not that I scoff
at the idea of reincarnation. Is it real? Perhaps. Hey, up until
three weeks ago, I’d poo-pooed the idea of time travel. Now I was a
firm believer. But it seemed to me that if one is looking for one’s
soul mate from ancient Egypt, that soul mate would be interested in
being found too and doin’ the whole reunion thing. But honestly,
the whole reincarnation question was one I wanted to leave to
philosophers and theosophists or bored socialites who sat around
eating caviar and sipping champagne while channeling ancient royals
off of Ouija boards.

At least Peter was talking and not waving
drug-soaked rags under my nose. I kept my hand on my bag and the
doll, ready to wap him with one or both if the opportunity
arose.

“Peter? Oh, wait, my bad - Ptah. Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why all this obsession with the Egyptian
ritual and past lives and all that jazz?”

He shrugged “Power. I grew up poor on the
Lower East Side. During the war, I was relegated to patrolling
deserts in Egypt. There is very little advancement to be found that
way in terms of making a top rank in the Army. But I felt I’d found
my spiritual home in the ruins of Memphis. Then I discovered that
large profits can be made in wars. I liked being rich, but rich
does not always equal power. While in Egypt I learned about another
power. Rebirth. Given by the great god Ptah. The god who can create
-or destroy. I have felt my power grow these last years, but I
still need the woman who will complete me in my journey to bring
Ptah back to life again in me. That woman is you. My beautiful
designer.”

I quickly responded, "Hey, not really that
good. Probably will never win a Tony award. No red carpet paparzzi
hounding us."

“I don't underestand your strange words, but
I do not care. You are perfect. The living embodiment of
Sekhmet."

Mister Black-Marketeering Creep was one sock
short of a mate. Looking into his handsome face, into those intense
eyes, I saw madness.

He must have seen that realization reflected
in my own face and eyes. He took two steps toward me. I threw a
pretty punch with the Elvis bag right in his solar plexus. He
coughed and clutched his middle, then immediately recovered,
grabbed me by my hair, and flung me to the floor. He had twice the
strength I did but I fought back, kicking and clawing and biting
and trying to reach any delicate area I could.

The gun ended all thoughts of maiming any
reproductive organs. The thought that someone in 1919 could be
hauling around town carrying a small weapon in a coat pocket had
not entered my mind until Peter drew it out and pointed it at
me.

“Melody. It’s time to embrace your
destiny.”

I rose, quite calmly, still clutching the
doll in my right hand. I slung the carryall over my shoulder and
began to walk toward the busted door of Room 413 with Peter
following a few steps behind. When I got to the piano, I
stopped.

“Do you mind if I at least take a few of my
belongings?”

“That is acceptable”

I grabbed several pieces of sheet music and
opened my bag. I sat on the piano bench, carefully setting the doll
beside me. I smiled at Peter. “Just a second, okay? Uh, are you
aware that your leg is bleeding?”

He looked down. I was telling the truth. I’d
scratched and clawed him clear through his elegant trousers and he
did have a few spots of blood on his shin. I hid the only reason to
smile I'd seen in the last hour. It was true. He was hurt. But
I’d’ve made up any lie I could to just to distract him for the few
seconds I needed. Because the instant he leaned over to inspect
that leg, I turned the key on the bottom side of the doll, held on
to the music and prayed that I’d end up backstage of the New
Amsterdam Theater.

Tinkly sounds filled the room. Darkness
closed in around. Just before I passed out I heard a dog bark. A
voice screamed, “Melody!”

Briley’s voice.

Then I was gone.

“Hey! Wake up! Wake up.”

“Ouch. Don’t yell in my ear. I’m awake.”

I smiled and opened my eyes. Cheesy backstage
dressing room. Pots of foundation and spilled bottles of powder on
tables. It had worked! I was backstage in the New Amsterdam Theatre
again.

I felt woozy, but managed to open my eyes
wider as I looked for Saree or any of the other Follies girls.

I screamed. The person standing over me had a
lion’s head. I must have fainted and been transported by Prince
Peter to another theatre in the city. I was staring at very short
Geb who was wearing that lion’s head and a robe.

A hand touched my forehead. “Do you have a
fever? Are you okay? Who are you?”

I struggled to a sitting position, blinked
then took another look at my surroundings. I was backstage in a
dressing room all right but cell phones lay next to those pots of
foundation. The was a small sofa in the corner and on that sofa lay
a bouquet of roses and a shopping bag with Old Navy written on
it.

“Where am I?”

“My dressing room.”

“Who are you? Wait, uh, dressing room in what
theatre?”

“New Amsterdam.”

“Oh my God. What show?”

“Jeez, you are whacked. Lion King. We’re back
in here for a limited run. You must really have taken a bad trip
somewhere! Gone clubbing? Did some serious Ecstasy?”

“No, no! I’m not on drugs. I, uh, was mugged
and I kind of crawled here.” I got to my feet but I was shaking
with the effort. “Sorry, but what day is it? That cosh on the head
may have banished some brain cells.”