AMA Chapter 17 | 7:50 PM, December 1, 2006 | Tarson, Georgia

JONATHON HAD RAMBLED ABOUT HIS mother for what felt like an hour: her demand for perfection, her gift of music, and her utter disappointment that it didn’t pass to him. The more he mentioned her, the quieter he became and the faster he paced. He forgot where he was going with a story in the middle of a sentence and slammed the heel of his hand against the side of his head.

“So you have mommy issues? That’s it?” Ama attacked, trying to push him over the brink while his mind teetered, hopefully far enough to get sloppy, to make a mistake. From what she could tell, a loud, aggressive woman was one thing he’d bow to. “Do I look like your mom? Did I insult your shit piano playing and so now you’re taking out the years of rage on me that you never had the stones to do to Mother Dearest? I have to agree with her. You should never touch a piano again. Do you have any idea how many clients I’ve defended whose childhoods make yours sound like a fairy tale?”

He tore his shirt over his head and turned as he stepped into the lantern light. “Is this a fairy tale?” What Ama had thought were acne scars before looked different up close, more organized. Almost as if they were in lines. In stanzas, she realized, and sucked in a breath. His back read like a sheet of music.

“She wanted me to feel the rhythm. She thought this might work,” Jonathon said quietly. He knelt in front of her. “But now I know it wasn’t my ear that was wrong, nor my hands. I was just trying to play the wrong instrument. Now I’ve found it.” He slowly ran the end of his thumb down the front of her throat, pausing at the base. “I can hear the music now. I can feel it, each and every note. I’ve started writing my own songs, and you’re going to help.” From his backpack, he withdrew a small black voice recorder, a frayed metal cord, and a lighter. He set the recorder to the side and flicked on the lighter, holding the end of the cord over the flame.

“It’s something you have to feel to understand.” Jonathon clicked on the recorder and then pushed the record button. “Ama, introduction,” he said. He studied her in silence for a moment, his steady gaze probing her flickering eyes. Then he pulled the burning end of the cord out of the flame and pressed it against the inside of Ama’s bare thigh. She grunted with shock and then shrieked with pain as her skin died where the cord burned it away.

“A-sharp! Did you hear it?” Jonathon asked, a note of excitement in his voice.

“Hear it?” She spat the words out between gasps. “You just branded me like a steer!”

“Emotion is music, Ama. It’s human music. Here, I’ll play it for you so you can hear it.” He rewound the recorder and then pressed play. Ama’s scream, razor-sharp and high, played between them. Ama stared at the device, heaving breaths.

Jonathon picked up the recorder and clicked it off. “The note didn’t translate well, honestly. The acoustics are very poor out here, especially with the mist and the trees. There’s a lot of noise interfering with your voice.”

“You’re insane. You are fucking insane!” She flung herself against the rope, but her bindings held fast.

“It’s okay to feel angry or disappointed with yourself. That’s natural. You can take it out on me. You may just feel the notes at first until you learn to interpret them. But you will. I’ll help you, and we’ll make music together. I’ve learned how to teach people—how to play them, I guess you could say. I will show you what magic you’re capable of.”

“That’s what you’re doing?” Ama cried, panting. “You’re torturing people for sounds?”

“It’s not torture, Ama. It’s production. The three of us are going to produce music together.”

Ama’s entire body went still, except her heart, which galloped in her chest. “Three?”

“I’m working with another instrument. Are you prepared to be outshined by a nineteen-year-old girl? Her name is Hazel. She’s brilliant, the most talented instrument I’ve ever held in my hands. Stubborn, though. Talent gets in the way of work ethic sometimes. I’ve been tuning on her for a year and still haven’t been able to produce what I know she’s capable of. She needs to be motivated, to be challenged. This is so perfect, you coming here, crossing paths again now. Hazel needs a mother figure. She’s an old soul, but she’s young, and she lost her mother several years ago. You can help her; you can be that for her. I’ve never played two instruments at once. The layering we could do.” He blinked rapidly, his eyes staring at something far away.

“Where is Hazel now?” Ama asked quickly.

“I have to keep her where she can’t hurt herself. She can stand, sit, and lie down. I’m trying to make her happy. I really am. But she won’t sing for me anymore. Not a single note and not even a word—not a sound—going on six months, and trust me, I’ve tried.” His expression darkened, and Ama felt sicker. “You know my path crossed with Hazel’s for the third time in these woods, just like you. You’d think I’d be better prepared when I go on hikes here. Although twice is just luck, I guess. If it happens again…” Jonathon trailed off, a disbelieving smile on his face.

“If what happens again?”

“Three times is Fate, Ama,” Jonathon said. “That’s how I know who Fate is choosing for my instruments: three random meetings. I should thank you for that. You gave me the idea.”

“So what, this is fate? That’s why you chose me? Because by my count, we’ve only crossed paths twice,” Ama argued, wishing she didn’t sound so desperate.

“Don’t you remember what you said? I never want to have to cross paths again. You are why this started. You are the genesis—my muse—my freedom. That moment, that day, is when this dream of mine truly began. This is when I say thank you. Not then. Now.”

Then? Ama said to herself. Thoughts collided in her aching head. He’d said something similar before right before he hit her: This is when you say, “Thank you, Michael.” Her heart skipped over a beat.

Long-forgotten pictures of an old crime scene bloomed rapid-fire in her mind, images she saw in her sleep for months after the trial, until she slowly, methodically convinced herself it hadn’t been him, couldn’t have been the work of a fifteen-year-old boy.

“Michael Jeffery Walton,” she whispered. “But you’re dead. You’re supposed to be dead.”

“They say these woods are haunted, you know. But I am not a ghost,” he whispered back.

The hair on the back of her neck stood up as the memory of walking out of the courtroom seventeen years before, knowing he was free, washed over her. Responsibility struck her hard in the stomach: How many people had he killed since then? This girl he’d had for a year, doing God knew what to her… she wouldn’t be his prisoner if not for Ama.

No This is on the prosecution. The case should’ve been a slam dunk for them. All the evidence was there. This is on them, not me. I will not be punished for being good at my job. This is their fault. I will live through this, if only to sue their asses for every penny they’re worth.

She closed her eyes, channeling resolve, then opened them to glower at Michael.

“Ama Shoemaker,” he responded, his entire body settling. “So good to see you again. You know, it’s absolutely critical that an instrument remembers each of the three meetings, or the sounds just aren’t the same value. Worthless, really. I tried once with an instrument that didn’t remember the second time we’d met. The inspiration fell flat, and I could hear it in the music. I had to throw out every note. It happened one other time—a man, a large man, big mouth, deep chest. I just knew he was going to have this great lower range that’s so hard to find. But he didn’t remember crossing paths, and I had to let him go. So knowing that you remember our meeting in Atlanta is a relief. Letting you go would’ve been the devastation of my career.” He smiled, his expression practically boyish with delight. “Let’s have another note, shall we?”