Yeah, the piece was a bit heavy on his right hip, but he was big enough to hide it under a jacket or windbreaker. Milo was right, it was too much gun for anything he was going to run into, but he carried it, and the real reason?
Because he could. And someday, he expected he would get a chance to cook with it when it counted.
He expected that would be pretty soon, too.
4
Abe Kent sat in his new apartment in the city and stared at the guitar in the chair. He had taken it out of its case and set it there and, no doubt about it, it was beautiful. He had done enough research when he’d been chasing the Georgian, Natadze, so that he knew what a good guitar looked like, and he liked listening to people who were adept with them, but he had no musical talent himself.
And yet here he was, with a ten-thousand-dollar guitar.
He sighed. He had taken the instrument out and looked at it a dozen times since he’d gotten it. He didn’t know why, but he felt as if he somehow owed it to the man he’d killed to . . . make use of the thing. He could sell it, or give it to charity, but neither of those felt right. And if he was going to keep an instrument worth that much? It ought not to be sitting in the corner in its case gathering dust.
He sighed again. It didn’t make any sense, but he knew what he had to do. He stood, picked up the guitar, and put it back into the case.
The store was small, in a sleepy neighborhood on the outskirts of D.C., in a little commercial strip mall backed by a residential neighborhood. It was called the Fretboard. It had wrought-iron grates on the windows, curvy patterns made to look like a design element rather than bars to keep thieves out. There were several neon signs in the windows advertising products whose names Kent mostly didn’t recognize.
A bell chimed as he entered. The place smelled like fresh-cut fir, and there were a couple of customers at the counter talking to a long-haired clerk of eighteen or nineteen. The clerk had a soul-patch that had been dyed green, and maybe nine piercings in his ears and nose.
A third man stood nearby, picking out tunes on an electric guitar—he was pretty good. The guitarist was playing a collage, a medley of old rock numbers Kent mostly recognized, and the clerk was laughing.
He looked up and saw Kent with his guitar case. “You lookin’ for Jennifer?” he asked, still smiling.
Kent nodded.
“In the back, down the hall, door on the right.”
“Thanks.”
Kent moved down the hall. He opened the door and stepped into a small practice room with thick egg-carton soundproofing on the walls and ceiling. The sound of the electric guitar went silent as he closed the door behind him.
A woman sat on a stool with one foot propped on a little metal stand, and she would be Jennifer Hart. He had found her through the local classical guitar society. She was at least fifty, and even though that was a decade younger than he was, she was the closest teacher he could find locally anywhere near his own age. Somehow, the idea of it being somebody younger than some of the boots he owned just didn’t seem right. Certainly not some kid with lip hair dyed green and enough hardware in his face to build a waffle iron.
The woman was trim, dressed in tennis shoes, jeans, and a button-up long-sleeved white shirt. Her hair was to her shoulders, brown, with a fair amount of gray in it. She had a lot of smile lines on her face. A classical guitar rested on her left leg.
“Mr. Kent?”
“Yes.” He was in civilian clothes and he hadn’t mentioned that he was in the military, much less a general.
She put the guitar onto a stand, stood, and stuck out her hand.
She was short, maybe five-two or -three. “Hi. I’m Jennifer Hart.”
“Pleased to meet you.” He transferred his guitar case to his left hand and shook hands with her. She had a strong grip.
There was a second stool and she pointed at it. “Have a seat.”
He set his case down and then perched on the stool.
“That’s an expensive case,” she said. “Is the guitar handmade?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Please, call me Jen. Could I see it?”
He popped the six latches open and opened the lid, lifted the guitar free, and offered it to her.
She took it. “What a beautiful instrument! What kind of wood is that?”
“Port Orford cedar on top, Oregon myrtlewood on the sides and back. Made by a man named Les Stansell, out in the Pacific Northwest.”
“May I?” She put it on her leg, preparing to play.
“Sure.”
She did a little run on the fretboard, adjusted the tuning a hair, then played some kind of Spanish-y thing, short but impressive.
“Good tones. Nice basses and trebles, clean mid-range, great resonance. Sounds more like spruce than red cedar, though.” She handed it back to him. “The top hasn’t opened up yet. You haven’t had it very long, have you?”
“No, ma’am—Jen.”
She smiled. He liked the way her face crinkled.
She picked up her own instrument. It had the same color top, but the sides and back were much darker than his guitar, all brown and patterned. “This is also a cedar top, different than yours, but I’ve had it a while. See if you can hear the difference.”
She played the same piece. It was warmer this time, darker, not as bright. Both sounded great, but there was a definite difference. The bass notes seemed deeper, fuller, and the high tones somehow richer.
Done, she said, “My instrument was made by Jason Pickard, it’s got claro walnut sides and back—makes it a little mellower.”
“What did you mean about the top opening up?”
“Well, that usually applies more to spruce than cedar, but basically, up to a point, classical guitars sound better with age. A brand-new one that sounds pretty good will, after a few years of playing it, usually sound better.”
“Ah.”>
“How far along are you in your studies?”
He smiled. “What I know about playing it you could carve on the head of pin with a battle-ax.”
A slight frown flitted across her face. “You’re joking.”
“No, ma’am. I don’t even know how to tune it.”
He had a pretty good idea of what bothered her. This guitar he had was expensive. Why would a man who didn’t know how to play the thing put out big bucks for it until he was able to do it justice?
“The guitar was . . . a gift.”
Now she frowned. “Somebody gave you a handmade guitar that runs what?—eight, ten thousand dollars?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
She raised an eyebrow. “They must really like you.”
“Not so you’d notice in this case, I don’t think.”
She just stared, not speaking.
“It’s a weird story.”
“I’m not on the clock, Mr. Kent.”
