CHAPTER 7

 

Anna Mae Gunn was not one to stay lost for long. As an activist, she knew the value of connections. As an organizer of several now-defunct folk festivals, she knew at least a few people in most parts of the world, including an American woman, Terry Pruitt, one of the friendlier members of a British folk-rock group, who lived in Carlisle and made a point of singing about it and who had invited Anna Mae to visit her if she had the chance. Anna Mae found the number in the phone book easily.

"Terry?"

"No, this is Dan," said a warm male voice. "Terry's in the shower. You're not another lady from America, are you?"

"Another?"

"Yeah, two of Terry's other—" and in the background Anna Mae heard a voice that sounded like Ellie's say urgently, "Shh, Dan. Careful."

"Oops, sorry. I mean, who may I say is calling?"

"Tell Terry and Ellie—that is who I hear, isn't it?—that this is Anna Mae Gunn."

"Anna Mae? Didn't you help Sam Hawkins organize—"

But at that moment, Ellie Randolph came on the line. "Where are you?"

"In a phone booth outside what appears to be a bar. Have you seen any of the others?"

"We saw Brose Fairchild being hauled away by the cops. We never saw where Willie or the others went."

"Can you meet me here? And ask Terry if she knows of any good lawyers."

"Terry and Dan are getting ready to take a train to Heathrow to fly to Norway for an African Music Conference."

"Oh, great."

"But they say if we'll drive the van back from the train station we can borrow their van."

A sudden chill ran down Anna Mae's back, as if someone was watching her, which, of course, someone could be. "Look, I'd better get off the street. I'll meet you inside this bar. Here's the name and address."

Anna Mae entered the pub, whose walls winked with neon beer signs glowing through a whirl of smoke. Above the bar was a particularly prominent specimen, one which appeared to have once hung outside. The illustration that had once graced it was now quite faded and a rock had been thrown through the neon legend so that the first letter was illegible. The rest of the sign said hellOIL.

Anna Mae scooted in next to a blonde who looked like the Princess of Wales and started to order a drink from a cadaverous-looking bartender.

"Hello, ducky," the Princess said. "We've been wondering where you were, 'aven't we, Brose luv?"

One seat down from her at the bar, Brose Fairchild grunted a greeting. The Princess lifted her blond wig and stuck it in her briefcase, shaking out her long red hair. Anna Mae suppressed an expression of disgust. Here she'd been worrying how they were going to get Brose out of jail, thinking about staging a protest or some kind of media event, and he was sitting in this bar with this—this bimbo, Anna Mae thought, then promptly felt ashamed of herself. Torchy had been nothing but helpful so far and there was something very charming about her—she was as charismatic as the best performer Anna Mae had ever seen, with her elfish grin and those fascinating eyes that were at times mischievous and at times deep and unfathomable, changing like some weird hologram from bright green to dark brown. And in the dim light of the bar, with the neon flashing off them they glittered with red. You couldn't help liking Torchy, and she had been friendly enough—very friendly with Willie, which made Anna Mae wonder how they came to be separated and where Willie was anyway. Nevertheless, Torchy was clearly trouble if Anna Mae had ever seen it.

The music was too loud for conversation and Brose looked as relieved as Anna Mae when Ellie and Faron arrived with a tall gray-haired man and a slender dark-haired woman Anna Mae remembered as Terry Pruitt. Both of them looked a little like elves too, come to think of it. Maybe it was just the influence of being in Celt country. But everything about Terry Pruitt was slightly elongated—long-boned legs and arms, long face framed by long brown hair, and hands whose fingers were twice the length of Anna Mae's. The man had a floppy, beseeching expression that made Anna Mae think he could be a were-puppy. Elkhound maybe.

The seating in the van was limited and Torchy ended up on Brose's lap. Surprise surprise.

"Where do you suggest we look for the ballads around here, Terry?" Faron asked.

"I'm not at all sure," she answered. "The folk scare is over. The folk-rock scare is over. The pubs that used to do that sort of thing are into rock and country, sometimes jazz nowadays. There are several archival collections scattered about—one on Iona that I've heard about, and then, of course, I'm sure there's something or other in Edinburgh at the university library."

"Seems logical," Faron said, "With both Burns and Scott being from around there. And the Borders were a great source of ballads."

"I'd think the Highlands were more interesting," Torchy said.

"Only if you speak Gaelic," the were-elkhound, Dan, told her. "And that trip got kind of overdone around here. That's one reason we're doing African music now. Besides getting to learn about people from other places there's always little gatherings going on and people do like something different now and then."

"Good luck," Terry said, and she and Dan dragged a hammered dulcimer, a fiddle, guitar, octave mandolin, several drums of various shapes, and a mountain dulcimer from the back of the van.

"We'll give you a hand," Faron offered, but as he reached for Terry's guitar, he stumbled and fell. He felt the neck of the guitar in the lightly padded traveling case smash as it caught between his knee and the side of the van, and when he stepped back he put his other foot through a drum. As Brose reached out to help him on one side and Ellie on the other, the fiddle became caught between them.

"Cor," Torchy simpered with sugary sympathy. "What rotten luck!"

Terry opened her guitar case gently and pulled out the instrument, its neck hanging by its strings. "I see what you mean about that curse on music," she said tightly, referring to the story they had told her earlier of their misadventures back in the States, "but are you quite sure you weren't the cause of the curse?"

Faron just gulped, his Adam's apple taking a long plunge into the neck of his T-shirt and back up again. "Sorry," he said miserably.

Ellie dug in her purse and pulled out an American Express card. "Here. Buy new ones. We'll worry about the bill later. Don't worry about the signatures. They never check."

"Can we get a new van too if you wreck Terry's?" Dan asked eagerly.

If they hadn't been late for their train, Terry would undoubtedly have changed her mind about letting them use the van. But the fact was, she too had become aware of strange things happening regarding the music she used to play, and she did believe Faron. The only thing that made her mad was the way Torchy Burns kept smiling a little half smile when she thought nobody was looking, as if the whole thing was funny. They loaded the broken instruments back into the van. Terry was glad the van was very old and her insurance recently paid up.

"What an understanding sort of gel," Torchy cooed as they watched the train depart with Terry and Dan. "'Scuse me. Back in a mo. Have to use the facility." Ellie Randolph, who also had to use the facility, was surprised at how quick Torchy was to beat her into a stall. Actually, Torchy had just dipped around the corner, pulled a cellular phone from her lawyer's briefcase, and dialed the number that would refuse any charge made on Randolph's American Express card. Since she wasn't sure of the number, she had the computer refuse the charges on the card of anybody named Randolph. She sighed happily thinking of all the purely gratuitous disruption that would cause, a sort of a bonus. Ah, yes, bombs and such were all very well but, she reflected, little things do mean a lot.