Murder in Band Camp X
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Chapter Nine: A Heated Chase
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Three days had done nothing to alleviate the band directors' tension. Fortunately, the woods had been quiet during the nighttime and nothing had happened – but the band had taken to adding 'yet' to the ends of all their sentences.
Routine had been kept, regardless of rampaging strangers and instrument theft. The temporary lull – for everyone knew it could only be temporary – set the students a little bit more relaxed. Of course, they were all teenagers, and band members no less – they dealt with the drama by becoming more hyper, more insane, and more dedicated.
"I can't stand my section," Charlie muttered as she settled down in the student lounge. Much to her surprise, the camp was furnished with something very like a recreation room, equipped with coke and snack machines, couches, and one very big beanbag chair. She took a quick glance around the room to make sure none of her clarinets were there, and let out a big, dramatic sigh.
"What's the deal?" Miguel 'Chico' Cisneros asked. He was a big guy, just a little short, which made the nickname slightly inaccurate. It seemed to fit the snare drummer perfectly, however, and anybody who knew him knew him as Chico.
"Umm, lets see – the clarinets can't form arcs, can't form diags, can't mark time, can't space properly, and oh yes – let's not forget they can't play." Charlie shook her head and threw up her hands in exasperation. "I'm the only one that can play at 31, and none of them can hold phrases."
Chico let out a laugh. "Don't sweat it, Char. The clarinets never represent. You're an anomaly to the Knightsville band – a clarinetist who can play and march at the same time, and do it well!"
"That's why you're getting the solo," Second-chair saxophone Christine DuQuesne interjected from her spot on the couch. Her boyfriend, a trombone player named Zach Mueller in Symphonic One, nodded empathetically beside her.
"I'm getting a solo?" Charlie squawked. "When did this happen?"
Christine looked immediately abashed. "Uh oh," she said. "I guess I wasn't supposed to say that." Christine was the band librarian and provided music for every single member of the band, and as an officer often overheard information she might not have been supposed to hear.
"Good job, babe." Zach said affectionately. "Leaking confidential information all over the place."
Charlie threw a pillow at him. "What solo?" she demanded. "I don't do solos. Not during marching season, not during concert season – Solo and Ensemble competition, maybe, but other than that – nada."
"Well, the directors are planning to ask you to do one," Christine said, running slim fingers through her short, curly red hair. Her pale skin, a profusion of freckles, and bright green eyes were a contrast to Zach's dark hair, brooding gaze, and deep-toned skin – but they seemed to fit each other perfectly. "Apparently, they're all excited to have a talented clarinetist such as yourself gracing the presence of our lowly Maroon Band." She wrinkled her nose playfully. "Personally, I'm getting tired of it."
Charlie searched around for another pillow, but didn't find one close enough to her beanbag chair to throw, so she settled for making a face at the sax player instead.
"Here," Zach said helpfully, smushing a pillow in Christine's face and winking at Charlie. "I think she deserved it."
"Ack!" Christine said from behind the pillow, her arms flailing.
"This doesn't seem like acceptable conduct!" a booming voice said in the doorway. The little group paused and Christine peeked out from behind the pillow to find Lee standing in the room, hands on his hips and doing his best 'I'm-Mr.-Defton-and-I'm-MAD!' impression.
"The resemblance is uncanny," Chico said, shaking his head. As Lee found a spot on one of the other couches, the room began to fill up with an assortment of loud band nerds. The noise level quickly escalated to that of a dull roar and Charlie grinned happily as Blaze wandered in.
"Mind if I join you?" he asked, settling down into the big chair and making himself comfortable.
"Do I have much of a choice?" she asked. Blaze grinned and shook his head.
"Of course not," he said, placing a kiss on her forehead and wrapping one arm around her waist.
"PDA!" somebody yelled – Delilah again – and the room burst into clapping and good-natured jeering. Charlie was continually amazed by the atmosphere she found in this place. From the moment she had arrived she had been welcomed with open arms and cheerful jokes. The attitude was astonishing, and the things they accomplished – !
She snuggled a little further into Blaze's embrace and contemplated how perfectly she fit in here. Even her missing clarinet and the mysterious silence of the band directors couldn't shake the warm feeling she had in the pit of her stomach.
Things were straightening out.
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The entire band knew there was an upstairs to the rehearsal hall, but the band directors told everyone it was empty and unused – and off-limits. True, it was empty, and off-limits, but it was far from unused.
Years ago, the fire exit had worked, and the alarm hadn't been old and broken. Now, though, the door was forgotten and the upstairs filled with nothing but old drums and harnesses, broken flagpoles, and discarded sousaphone cases. A thin layer of dust coated everything in sight. Except, of course, a small alcove nestled in between a pile of discarded flag material and the remnants of a broken xylophone: it was there that a large pile of sheets, accompanied by several pillows, formed a small bed that was obviously in frequent use.
A shadow crossed the dusty sunlit floor and fell on two instruments, casting the relatively small clarinet and flute cases into temporary shade. A short, rotund middle-aged man made his way carefully across the floor to where another pile of instrument cases stood.
The one he picked had a very distinct shape, and could only belong to one instrument.
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"GOOD NIGHT!" Defton bellowed across the campgrounds, his shout echoing past the trees and into cabins. "TURN YOUR LIGHTS OUT AND GET TO SLEEP!"
"Yes, Herr Defton!" somebody from the tuba cabin called, and Merry's voice could easily be heard afterwards with a resounding "Shut up and get to sleep, asshat!"
Lights dimmed and the glow of the cabins soon fell into darkness, and except for an occasional blink of a flashlight under a sleeping bag, the forest was dark. Muffled giggles emanated from the flute cabin but soon those, too died out.
The trombone cabin door usually creaked, but during evening rehearsal had been sprinkled with just a little valve oil so that the screen opened soundlessly and a dark shadow stole inside. One case in particular he sought, and with absolute silence he lifted it from its position on the floor and tread noiselessly outside. The case he deposited by the door to the second floor of the band hall, and he returned to the forest and raised the brass instrument slowly to his lips.
Mellie nearly fell out of bed as the deep tone of a trombone – perfectly familiar after all these years – traveled through the trees and vibrated with incredible volume to leave her ears ringing and nearly senseless. And even more, the sound was perfect – no trombone in Knightsbridge could make that loud and big a sound and still stay perfectly in tune.
"Trombone thief!" she yelled, swinging her legs out of bed and slipping them hastily into her sneakers. Beside her, Scary was trying to get the sleep out of his eyes.
"Where do you thing you're going?" he asked, looking askance as she quickly laced her shoes. The trombone dropped lower in pitch and vibrato filled her ears. One bunk over, Mike sat up groggily and cursed under his breath as he took in Mellie and Scary and the music drifting through the cabin.
"I'm gonna find the guy who's doing this crap," she muttered. "Nothing's gonna happen if everyone just sits around and acts scared."
I knew she was fiery, but damn! Scary thought in amazement. Then it sunk in. "You can't go out looking for him!" he objected, grabbing he wrist. "Are you crazy?"
"Just slightly!" she said, twisting out of Scary's hold. The burly bass trombonist tried to grab her shoulders, but he could never get physical with a woman – even if it was to keep her from chasing after a lunatic. About the only thing he could do was shove his own feet into a pair of Nikes. He glanced at Mike, both of them exchanging "what the hell are we supposed to do?" looks, and followed closely behind her as she bolted out the cabin door.
"Oh, hell," Mike groaned, slipped a pair of sandals on, and dashed out the screen door. The rest of the cabin looked at each other in amazement.
"What the hell are we doing just sitting here?" Chris said. "The 'bones don't just sit when the shit hits the fan." He got up and ran for the door, and the entire trombone section followed behind him, yelling and screaming.
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"What the?" Mr. Defton was woken by the sounds of a trombone, intermingled with the cries of what had to be an entire brass section. "Oh, great Scott, not again…" he moaned to himself as he jumped out of bed, slipping on a pair of shoes and donning his glasses. As he slipped out of his one-man cabin and into the warm Texas night he could definitely pick out the words "GET ROWDY!" rising above the general din. "Damn trombones!" he yelled to the trees, and took off at a dead run towards the noise.
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Mellie was running full tilt through the forest towards where she had heard the trombone play last. True to his former practice, the instrument thief had cut off abruptly and let loose a wild, chilling scream – but it had only allowed the freshman trombonist to get a better lock on where he was.
"We're getting' rowdy!" somebody behind her yelled enthusiastically, and she shook her head with a rueful grin. Then she broke into a wide smile as it was followed by "GET IT, MELODY! GET ROWDY!"
"Crazy psychos," she muttered. She leapt over a fallen branch and skirted the edges of a burly mesquite tree, then suddenly remember exactly what kind of forest she was running through. "Watch the cactus!" she bellowed, only just in time to hear a high-pitched shriek cut through the night.
"Holy shit!" somebody else yelled. "Fuckin' cactus!"
Mellie gritted her teeth and kept on running.
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"What happened here?" Mr. Defton yelled as he approached the huddle of band students. They were circled around one person in particular, who sat on the ground and was clutching his left leg.
"Shit, shit, shit!" The trombone in the middle complained. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT!"
"What's going on?" Mr. Defton demanded, skidding to a halt. The section leader, Chris, looked up from his position beside the injured trombone and shook his head.
"Troy ran smack into a cactus," he said with a grimace. "He's got some big thorns in pretty deep."
"Let me see him," Defton said brusquely, shouldering his way through the trombones and kneeling beside Troy Washburn. He pushed the sophomore's hands away form the injured leg and surveyed the damage. A large number of cactus needles protruded from his right leg, and there were numerous red dots on his legs and holes in his boxers where he had already pulled some out.
"He's going to have to go to the hospital, isn't he?" Chris asked quietly. Defton nodded.
"We're not equipped to handle this sort of thing," The band director sighed. "Minor abrasions we can deal with, but when braindead brass run full-speed into Texas cactus, there's very little we can do." He glared at Troy, who made a pain-filled scowl right back at him. "Keep him still until we get a stretcher. Is there anybody else?" he questioned.
Chris shifted his weight nervously. "Melody is chasing after the instrument thief. Scary is chasing her, and Mike is chasing after both of them."
"Damn trombones!" Defton said again. "Chris, go get the camp doctor and a director to call the hospital. Don't move him and he'll be fine." With those words of wisdom, he straightened up and looked at the dark forest in front of him. One hand grabbed a flashlight from the clutches of a sophomore trombone and he took off into the woods, grim-faced and scowling.
"Whoa." Troy remarked amid the moans of pain. "Intense."
"I can't believe you ran into a cactus," somebody else remarked.
"I couldn't see it in the dark!" Troy retorted, and the trombone section lapsed into a heated argument.
Far ahead in the woods, the chase was only getting interesting.