Songs From the Void

By J.D. Robinson

Deveron Rossy may be able to glimpse moments of his own future, but he never could have guessed he had a twin brother.

 

In his search for the elusive Dremond Branch, Deveron is mistaken for his twin by everyone who knew the man—and much to his own surprise, Deveron goes along with it. His harmless ruse does have certain benefits after all: being Dremond opens doors that an outsider could never access. As for the risk, his ability to glimpse ahead will alert him to any trouble before it finds him.

 

But as he continues to follow his brother's trail, Deveron finds it strewn with mysterious voids—mind-altering shadows that only he can see, and they call to him as if they know him. Could these spectral anomalies have anything to do with his brother's disappearance?

 

Worse, someone isn't happy that "Dremond" is back on the scene, and as he gets ever closer to the truth, Deveron finds himself dodging bullets with his brother's name on them.

 

Now Deveron must decide just how far he's willing to go to maintain his search—and his lie. Because the more he learns about Dremond, the more he'll find out just how different identical twins can be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.D. Robinson
• Release date: Nov 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9798223643906

Book preview

PART ONE

1

WEDNESDAY

October 28, 2009

John Rossy wiped the fog from the window with his sleeve and peered up at the gated entryway of the apartment complex. Had he somehow missed Zach? He hadn’t heard the gate’s familiar metallic whine in nearly an hour, though his former roommate had told him he’d be back by nine a.m.

Oh shit.

John glanced at his watch to make sure he had the right day. He did. It was Wednesday. The days had begun to blend together without the imposed rhythm of the bed-to-work-to-bar-to-bed cycle to keep time moving right along.

Two weeks ago his baggage-handling days at San Francisco International Airport had been cut short, on account of routine lateness. His boss, Ms. Blunden, had summoned him to that undignified closet of an office—which somehow always smelled of cigarettes—and ran through an oddly scripted conversation that made him feel like he had a front-row seat at a one-woman show. All he had to do was nod and try not to smile, because even as the reality of his sudden loss of income set in, the only thing he felt was relief.

Afterward, in the hall, John wrote a note to himself in his lyrics notepad: routine lateness.

His boss had been right. He was often late to work, and had missed a handful of days altogether when he never made it out of bed. The tedium that had initially attracted him to the role—that had promised to free his mind for his music—had worn his mind dull.

That had taken only five months, and now John was officially living out of his 1988 Dodge Dynasty.

None of that was Zach Chapman’s fault, of course.

John checked his watch again.

9:12.

Sitting idle made the city feel more exclusive, as if everyone was heading to some gig he hadn’t been invited to. Even the homeless lady making her way up the walk seemed to be going somewhere with purpose. How long until he was following in her footsteps?

Fuck that.

John reached behind the seat and pulled his guitar into his lap. He slid to the center of the bench seat to give the neck room. It was a vintage Guild his mother had given him when he was seven, and he’d taken to it instantly as if he’d made a new friend. The first thing he did that day was carve his initials into its spruce soundboard, painstakingly etching them through the varnish.

Now he ran a finger over the worn wound. He’d always figured his music would be the ace up his sleeve if times got tight. He still did. Not that his music career had caught fire. Not yet.

He found the G minor chord with his left hand and, clearing his throat, pulled his right thumb across the strings.

Then I found myself…

He stopped.

As the fading G minor resonated around the stuffy cabin, John heard something he’d missed earlier. He had always liked starting the song in the middle—the middles were the most interesting parts. But this one needed… more immediacy.

He slid his fingers back to the start and tried again.

Now I find myself…

Such a small change, but already it was stronger.

"Now I find myself

Watching from the border

Blink my eyes but there’s

No sign⁠—

A staccato rap nearly made him leap out of his skin. A ring on glass. Tap, tap-tap, tap.

"Jesus."

Zach leaned his face down to the glass, shielding his eyes against the morning sun. Hey, John.

The driver-side window didn’t roll down—or rather, it did, but if you rolled it down, down it would stay—so John put the guitar aside and opened the door. The air outside felt about fifteen degrees cooler.

Hey, man, I was just… He gestured. What did one do in a car but wait till the next thing happened?

Concert for one?

Sure. That was a better spin on it.

Sorry I’m late, Zach said, straightening and hiking up his backpack. Want to head up?

John used a shoulder to hold the cell phone to his ear while he dropped the last of his possessions into a cardboard box. Thanks again for thinking of me, Ernie.

He looked down at the two boxes stacked on the foldout couch he’d been sleeping on for nearly a year. Moving out of Zach’s apartment was going to take a grand total of five minutes. And really, except for his toothbrush, John could leave all this stuff behind without missing it. What did that say about him? He was like a ghost haunting his own life.

Have you been to Skinny Betty before? Ernie asked.

Ernie’s band, the Rueful Plutocrats, was always gigging around the Bay Area, and the bassist had taken a liking to John out on the circuit—possibly out of solidarity after learning they’d both been adopted. But though the man was a zero-bullshit guy, the more work he threw John’s way, the more indebted to him John felt. No way would he let Ernie know that all his income for the past two weeks had come from those gigs.

I know the place, John said. He’d done an open mic night there not long after his arrival in the Bay Area three years back. Thinking on it, he felt a bit of the rush he’d felt back then. What had that been? Promise, maybe. The promise of promise.

Cool. Well like I said, you’d be doing us a huge favor. Family stuff, Ernie explained, by which he probably meant it had something to do with his ongoing divorce. When I told Cy we couldn’t do it, he told me he’d just open the mic. That’s when I thought of you. I told him he should get you up there first.

Zach appeared in the doorway and mimed taking a drink. John put up a hand and shook his head. With the gig tonight, the only thing he needed was water.

John? said Ernie.

Yeah, that’s really cool of you.

I mean, you mentioned that things were a little tight, right?

Shit, had he? John thought back to their last meeting. They’d had some drinks the day after he was canned. Oh. Well, that would explain it.

Every little bit helps, John said. Plus the exposure, you know. And the connections.

Well, Cy Clyburne is cantankerous as shit, as you probably remember, but he’s reliable once you’re on his radar.

Seriously, I owe you. You’re more effective than my publicity package, that’s for damn sure.

You can thank me by sitting in with us again sometime.

Sure, yeah, that’d be cool, John said, and he meant it. Soloing had always felt more natural, but there was nothing like sitting in with a band to keep him sharp.

Anyway, let me know how it goes, okay?

John laughed. Unless you read about me in the news tomorrow morning, just assume it was uneventful. Shit, why had he said that? Uh, in the positive sense.

Yeah, great save.

John emerged from his former room hefting the two boxes in his arms and being mindful not to trip over Darby O’Gill.

Sounds like you got a lead? Zach looked up from the foil-covered ceramic baking tray he had set on the kitchen table.

What?

A place to stay?

John set his boxes on a chair. Oh. No, I was just coordinating a gig with Ernie. Last-minute thing.

Oh! Well that’s good news too. He plucked the foil from the tray, revealing a bed of half-eaten lasagna. Leftovers for breakfast?

Darby jumped up on the table and approached the pasta as if he’d been waiting for just this moment. Zach shooed him away, and the cat scrambled from the table, slipping on the wood and hitting the ground less than gracefully.

When John had been a paying tenant he would have accepted a free breakfast without a second thought. But now what was he? Just some guy who lived in his car. He didn’t like to entertain the other word that came to mind, but it pushed itself through anyway: mooch.

But Zach had already pulled out two plates and was cutting a block from the lasagna that remained. Sit, he ordered. Oscar cut the edge uneven again, so we have to straighten it out anyway.

John took a seat next to his belongings.

The two of them discussed Zach’s three-hour interview that morning—it was probably a good sign that it had run long—and the parking zone violations that the church up the street was flagrantly ignoring. But the contours of their small talk soon formed a void around another topic, and John felt himself growing quieter. He couldn’t just forget about the price of rent in the city, and the prospect of cold nights in his car.

Are you thinking about the gig tonight, or is it something else? Zach had read John’s mood. Maybe that was what this impromptu offering was about.

It’s nothing.

Zach put down his fork. Hey, John. I promise this whole arrangement is just for like two months. Maybe less.

So he had assured John after learning that his landlord would be moving—albeit temporarily—back into the building. Subtenants were a violation of Zach’s lease terms, and the increased level of scrutiny was about to become a more looming risk.

No, no, John said, waving it away. I’m fine, don’t worry about me.

After Dixon leaves it won’t be an issue. And I happen to know he’s not planning to stay in the building for long, partially because he’s got that grow house out in Healdsburg to attend to.

No, that’s not even… John really didn’t want to get into it now. It would only make Zach feel weird about their morning, which would eventually, somehow, fester into resentment. He wouldn’t even be conscious of it. It would be like the first hint of mold in the corner: little more than a smudge, too easy to mistake for a trick of the light.

What, then?

John mimed using his fork as a drumstick. Just thinking about how all of this will be fodder for a song someday.

Zach wasn’t buying it. I know it sucks. But I promise you it doesn’t have anything to do with you or your job situation at the moment.

I wasn’t even thinking that. That was a turn—now he was the one doing the reassuring.

Okay, good.

It’s just… Maybe he was going to get into it here, whatever it was. What does it say about me that moving into my car—temporarily—is the most significant thing I’ve done since… basically since I moved out here?

Zach shook his head, rejecting the notion on its face. But this was going somewhere, and now John meant to see it through.

For the longest time I’ve felt like I’m going through the motions, he continued, like I’m just following some routine. And it’s not even mine. I could be anyone.

There’s only one guitar-playing, two-colored-eyes-having John Rossy.

Thanks, John said, a bit too abruptly. Zach was only trying to keep him from sinking into his narrative any further. I hear what you’re saying. I appreciate it.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you’re thinking about it too hard. You’re taking it personally, like it’s a reflection of you as a person rather than just being, you know, circumstances.

Maybe. But in another way it kinda feels like I’m watching it happen to someone else.

Watching what?

"Everything. This. Like I’m watching through glass. Which is maybe why I can never be present enough to get my shit together."

I’m telling you, don’t blame yourself. Zach got up and pulled the foil back over what remained of the lasagna, then returned it to the fridge. You didn’t bring any of this on. If you know yourself, that’s all you need. This is going to blow over.

Yeah, well, I don’t think anyone can be sure of that. Especially me. John took their plates to the sink before retrieving his boxes. Anyway, I should get going. Thanks for the leftovers. Now I can concentrate on getting ready for my solo gig tonight.

See? Right there. How many people can say that? Not many.

Maybe not, but most people got paid more than a tip jar plus two comped drinks. It’ll just be two or three songs. But yeah, it’s something.

Zach followed him to the door. Something can lead to something.

He pulled the door open, and there John stood for a moment, unsure what to say. Thank you? Goodbye? The silence had already grown awkward.

Zach spoke first. Like I said, Dixon should be moving back out of the building as soon as they finish adding a third story to his house in the Oakland Hills… or maybe it’s the fourth story. I forget. Anyway, in no way is this situation permanent.

Yup, got it.

As soon as the coast is clear, you’re back in.

I appreciate that. I don’t want to be a leech, but⁠—

Stop it.

But I mean, as far as the cash flow situation, I’ll find something better than tearing apart baggage. Something steady.

That got a nod. Oh, before I forget: when you get a forwarding address, let me know.

For sure. John felt a chill, as if the outside air had already found a way in.

Meantime, just swing by whenever to pick up your mail.

I will.

John had thought that getting out of the press of the city would lessen the chore of reading the classifieds, so he drove out to Ocean Beach. Instead it made him drowsy, and he took a nap in his car. By the time he woke up, night had fallen. He straightened himself up and, guitar in hand, took a bus to the north end of the Financial District.

Skinny Betty almost felt like a secret. The place was nestled between an advertising agency and an architecture firm, and was barely wider than a trailer. It was as if someone had slapped a roof over an alleyway, strung up some lights, and called it a bar. But under-promising and over-delivering generally made for happier patrons, and happy patrons were generous patrons.

It was almost nine by the time John arrived. Since he wouldn’t need much time for load-in or sound check, that left him a half hour to acclimate to the scene. Xiang Jian, the on-shift manager-slash-sound-manager, was Ernie Nunde’s old buddy from school. The emcee was Quinn Wittig, who might be cute if her off-the-charts energy levels didn’t set off so many alarms.

A few minutes before nine thirty John went to the front and did a short sound check to make sure everything still registered above the background noise. He scanned the audience, doing a quick headcount. Wednesdays weren’t busy. The place was about a third full, which meant about thirty people. Who were they? That was always the question. By the looks of it, there was a good age spread, with mostly couples, some dressed up, some dressed down, mostly not paying attention to the stage.

Still, hardly a bad gig for someone who’d been asleep in his car an hour ago.

Up at the mic, Quinn gave him a brief intro, reading the card from his publicity package, but flubbing the name, calling him Johnny Ross.

John Rossy, John corrected him, stepping in front of the mic to a smattering of applause. Not that it mattered. He got his lines wrong all the time, and it usually wound up improving the song.

He found his fingering on the fretboard.

First one’s called ‘Now.’

Present tense.

He cleared his mind.

"Now I find myself

Watching from the border

Blink my eyes but there’s

No sign of a far shore…"

The house had grown a bit quieter. A good sign.

"Now I’m up against the lie

With my back to the past

To the dock, to the bay

Where my shadow won’t cast…

"Now I ask myself⁠—

A fire alarm goes off.

John’s fingers paused where they were, the strings still buzzing against his callouses. He opened his eyes, the blare of the alarm as clear to him as the fading chord of his guitar.

Only there was no alarm.

Not quite yet.

He’d gotten a glimpse of things to come.

Fucking timing!

He’d barely started, and he was already getting one of his glimpses. In ten seconds, more or less, the fire alarm would go off, as surely as he was sitting here now.

He should have played through it, but the glimpse had thrown him off. Now he was looking out at an audience who had grown still, as if sensing the talent was having a public episode of some kind. Which, in a way, was true. A quiet episode of the anticipatory variety.

A goateed man who resembled an ugly knockoff of Jeremy Renner shouted, D’you forget your line?

John leaned into the mic. Uh, no⁠—

The fire alarm went off.

There it is, he said, feeling somewhat vindicated.

John was well into his second decade before it dawned on him that other people didn’t experience glimpses—at least not in the way he did. He couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t catching the odd snippet of the future. Without warning or fanfare, a scene would simply be upon him, playing out in the theater of his mind, as clear as any recent memory, and always accurate.

He still remembered the look on Holly Doherty’s face when he asked her, on a reasonably pleasant night after a reasonably pleasant date, if a glimpse had ever saved her ass. They’d shared three classes, but this was the most time they’d ever spent alone, and their easy conversation throughout the evening had put John in a chatty, expansive mood. When Holly asked him what he meant, John relayed the story of the lightning bolt that had felled a massive tree through their living room the previous summer. Having a periscope to peek around the corner had saved John from having his head caved in, as it had to some degree or another on several dozen other occasions. Holly scoffed at the idea, and John—not having learned to play this particular card close to his vest—pressed her. By the end of the night she was looking at him as if he’d lost his mind. Things were never the same between them after that.

At least that’s how he remembered it.

So what were glimpses? The question ate at him in the loneliest hours of the night, when he felt the distance between him and everyone else growing widest. Was a glimpse the result of a particular knot of wiring in his head? Or was it more like a spectrum disorder, like autism? People spoke of intuition, of course, but that was something more vague, akin to having a strong feeling. And then there was the idea of precognition, but that was more conceptual: a received knowledge about something. Glimpsing, on the other hand, was experiencing. Simple as that. To glimpse was to be immersed in a moment ahead of the present moment. And whatever the reason—whatever the cause—it was something John had learned to keep to himself.

Skinny Betty’s house lights popped on, dashing the chill atmosphere in an instant. The audience issued a collective groan, as if to say, not on a Wednesday. But within moments smoke billowed in from the kitchen, and that got the crowd motivated.

Cy Clyburne appeared as if from thin air, and took the mic without giving John a second thought. Ladies and gentlemen…

But the rest was lost in the drone of chairs scraping on wood and the din of annoyed conversation as the patrons piled out.

No tips, that’s what this meant.

Cy Clyburne cussed and turned back toward the kitchen. He nearly slipped away before John could tap his shoulder. John knew his timing sucked, but he had nothing to lose.

Hey, Cy?

The proprietor spun around. Not now, okay?

Real quick: you think I could get those drink tickets for later?

Cy was aghast. "Are you joking me? You were up there for like a minute."

The alarm went off.

Well asking for a handout isn’t cool after your pal vouched for you.

I wasn’t… But there’s no way this conversation ended well. Okay, no worries.

You go deal with your kitchen fire, buddy.

John expected to find a crowd out front, but only stragglers remained. At the prospect of no food, the audience—including ugly Jeremy Renner—wasn’t interested in waiting around. They were already drifting off to other venues.

What a waste of time this had been.

John hiked the soft guitar case over his shoulder and braced himself against the mild night breeze. Staring down the street, he reviewed his options.

Hey, aren’t you going back on?

Quinn Wittig, the emcee. She was hugging herself like it was twenty below. Shouldn’t she have been inside, helping to put out whatever was burning?

John chuckled and pointed out the empty sidewalk. I mean, everyone bounced. I doubt Cy’s going to keep the doors open. If she didn’t have anything else going on, maybe they could hang out. Then again, he was living out of his car.

No, it’s just that old stove again, she said, but didn’t elaborate. Well it’s still your spot if you want it.

He doubted that was her call, but it hardly mattered now. Thanks, I think I’m just going to head out.

Up to you, she said with a final shiver, and darted back inside.

He could sing for free anywhere. Busking at the Montgomery Street BART station would be more lucrative. Even on a Wednesday.

2

FRIDAY

October 30, 2009

John stared at the figure on the ATM display like he was watching a bad TV show now in its last few episodes. His expenses were few, but how long could anyone stretch $309.43, let alone in San Francisco?

He touched the black Get Cash box on the display and withdrew forty dollars. As the machine was dispensing two crisp bills, his phone chirped in his jacket pocket. He failed to avert his glance from the new total on the ATM display as he fished out his phone and pressed Talk.

$269.43.

Hey, John.

Zach. How’s it going?

All good here. Happy Friday.

That remained to be seen.

What’s up?

Just got some mail here for you here. Oh, plus… From the background came a hiss, like something being slid across a surface. Did you order something?

Uh… John thought about it as he walked back to his car. No, not recently. He was in no position to be ordering anything. The driver-side door of the Dynasty refused to budge until he first lifted upward. Up, then out, that was the way in.

"Well there’s a package here, plain-wrapped, addressed to a Deveron Rossy. Do you know a Deveron?"

John sat hard in the seat as an adrenaline surge coursed its way through his system. Hearing that name through the phone felt like time travel—like someone from his past was outing him.

Zach spelled the name out, as if that might help. D-E-V-E⁠—

Yeah, John said. Actually, that’s kind of a long story, but it means… The package had to be from his family. Which meant his mother. Dammit, how had she found him? Who’s the sender?

Uh, it says Ulrich Lechner. I don’t know if I’m pronouncing that right.

John squinted, but nothing came to him. I’ve never heard that name.

Okay, weird. Well, come by today if you want to grab it. And if it’s not too personal, I’d love to hear that long story.

No, yeah. No reason to keep that part of himself from anyone. It just wasn’t something he’d planned on dredging up now.

Knocking on the door of the apartment he’d been living in for almost a year felt oddly formal. John still had a key—Zach would never twist the knife by asking for it—but he dared not use it. He’d leave it discreetly on the counter before he left.

Oscar answered the door, and immediately gave him a look. "Knocking, he said in mock disapproval as he leaned in for a hug. Come in, why don’t you? Darby O’Gill, shoo, you! The cat tore into the other room as they moved through to the dining nook by the kitchen. Zee, it’s John!" he called, then he and John sat at the table, where a travel magazine was open to an article about Cinque Terre in Italy.

Travel plans? John asked.

More like wishful thinking. Oscar closed the magazine. Hey, so I heard about your gig. How’d that go?

Oh. Well, it was short. John couldn’t help but smile, but didn’t bother to elaborate. You know, it’s good to tune into that channel for a while. He pointed at the magazine. Like an escape, only without going anywhere.

It sounds like things are really picking up. Oscar was still talking about the gig. I know you had a dry spell for a while.

Was Oscar trying to make him feel better?

John shrugged. "Word of mouth is big. It can take a while to get your name out there, but once it is out there it can start working for you."

I’ve been telling Zach we should come out to see you one night. Will you let us know next time, ahead of time?

Sure, yeah. This was kind of a last-second thing, so.

"Speaking of last-second, would you want to come out with us to dinner? We have a six thirty reservation at Cafe Jacqueline, and our plus-one just minused. Soufflés! Come on."

John was pretty sure he hadn’t thought of soufflés since South Carolina. Were they making a comeback? I appreciate it, but tonight won’t work. Playing third wheel was a tempting offer, but at the moment he was more interested in proving to himself that he could have a non-transactional interaction. Maybe he would cross the Bay Bridge to check out some live soul or funk at that new spot in Oakland, the ERA Art Bar and Lounge. Something to change it up, in a city slightly less pricey.

Okay. But if you change your mind…

Here’s your mail, Zach said, emerging from the back. John caught a whiff of soap and aftershave as Zach handed over several envelopes. Plus the package.

The box was just slightly smaller than a football, and was wrapped in brown paper. John accepted it and examined the two printed labels on its top face. The mailing address was the one he’d had his mail sent to for the past year, but sure enough, it was addressed to Deveron Rossy.

The return address was equally mysterious:

Ulrich Lechner

P.O. Box 577

Port Royal, SC 29935-0241

John set the two envelopes aside—the first was for some charity walk, the other was from the DMV—and gave the box a gentle shake. It felt empty. As Zach and Oscar watched, he picked at the edge of the tape along one of the seams, to no avail.

Oscar retrieved a knife from the knife block and set it on the table. Here.

John took the blade and ran it along the top edge, then pulled off the outer paper revealing the cardboard box inside, also taped. He cut along the seams.

You have to tell us, Zach said. What’s up with ‘Deveron’?

Yeah, that’s… John put down the knife and worked his fingers into the fresh slit, pulling up the top flap. Deveron was actually my birth name.

"What? You mean like John Deveron, or Deveron John?"

No, no John in there at all, he said, looking up from the mystery box. Just Deveron. My mother made me change it.

Oscar looked offended. "Made you?"

"Well, she changed it. I was like one or something, so I don’t remember. But years later, when I was old enough, she made a point of telling me."

Oscar gave Zach a look. "When are you old enough for that?"

I must have been around eight, John said.

I meant… Oscar shook his head. Not to judge, but…

No, I get it. She told me like… like she’d found me wearing dirty clothes, and this was her getting me new ones.

Wow, Zach said, no longer looking at the box.

Not just wow, Oscar said. "Ew! That’s like, some kind of whitewashing, isn’t it?"

John shrugged. That’s Theodora Rossy for you. But I mean, all due credit to her for adopting a black kid though.

"I really like Deveron!" Oscar said, clearly scandalized.

John did too, even if it wasn’t an identity he felt any particular ownership of. But then again, who was John? His mother could have chosen any name, but she’d rebranded him with the most generic name possible. Had he grown too fond of that anonymity?

He turned his attention back to the box and lifted the flaps. Zach motioned for Oscar to follow him over to the couch, maybe to give John some space. The box was filled with