Voice. Part 12

Drew was maybe a couple of years older than John, but apparently not enough older. He blinked. "Who?"

There was something to be said for remembering your audience, John thought wryly. He tried again. "Daughtry," he said. "Can you imagine him pumping gas somewhere for six bucks an hour?"

Drew nodded. "Yeah. Totally. That's probably where they should have left him."

John couldn't help but laugh. "Bad example. How about Fred Durst?"

Drew narrowed his eyes and tipped his head toward the ceiling, thinking hard. "No," he said finally. "I can only imagine him in prison."

"Fair enough," John said, laughing some more. This might have been the only non-coffee conversation he'd ever had with Drew, and the guy was funnier than John had expected. "Come on, work with me here. One more time. What about Madonna?"

"I can imagine her doing lots of things," Drew said. "And she probably has."

More laughter. "You're not making this easy on me."

"Sorry, man," Drew said. His grin said he was anything but. "Where are you going with this?"

"Haven't you ever seen somebody, a musician or an actor or someone like that, and thought Yeah, that's what this person is supposed to be doing. Like it's impossible to imagine them doing anything but what they're doing. Like they were made for it."

Drew shrugged. "Not really, man. But I know some people who feel that way."

"Yeah?"

"h.e.l.l yeah. Everybody who walks in the door here takes one look at me and thinks, d.a.m.n. That man is made for brewin' up a bada.s.s Cinnamon Dolce Latte."

"You have no culture."

"Not a shred." Drew turned to the woman who had just walked up to the register. "Welcome to Starbucks," he said. "Would you care for a Cinnamon Dolce Latte?"

"Uh, no thanks."

Drew glanced at John and shrugged.

John shook his head and went in back to make sure they had enough cups. A faint muttering sifted up from the back of his mind, dark, incomprehensible murmurings, but he paid it no attention.

Quentin bit back a curse, closed his eyes, and grimaced, covering his thumb with his fingers. With his other hand, he held on to both the top rung of the ladder and the heavy framing hammer he'd mashed his thumb with. Warm blood trickled from his fist.

Better a thumb than a finger, he thought, though really any abuse of his fretting hand was a drag.

"Hey! Pay attention up there, for Chrissakes! You all right?"

Quentin opened his eyes. Cesar, the foreman, was looking up at him with concern.

"I'm gonna come down for a minute, okay?"

"Yeah, fine."

Quentin slid his hammer into the loop on his belt and clambered down the ladder, leaving spots of blood on every other rung.

"Let's have a look," Cesar said. Quentin showed him the thumb-the nail was torn half off, and the wound under it welled with dark blood.

"Nice one. Come on. There's a first-aid kit in my truck." They walked over, and Cesar dug the white and red box out from behind the seat. He handed Quentin a bottle of peroxide and a roll of gauze.

"Thanks," Quentin said.

"Where's your head today, man? Jimmy said he about had to throw a two-by-six at you to get your attention a little while ago, and now this." Cesar gave him a fatherly frown. "If you're out of it today, you should go home."

Quentin shrugged and opened the peroxide. This was going to hurt like a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. "No, it's cool," he said.

"Stay out too late last night?"

"Yeah. That's it." Quentin gritted his teeth together, screwed up his face, and poured the peroxide on his thumb. It hissed and spat and burned like h.e.l.l. Pink foam spilled onto the earth. "Yeah," Quentin said again. "Just didn't get a lot of sleep."

That was part of it, sure, but it wasn't the whole story. He'd seen the old rocker, the one that hung around John like a fly buzzing around roadkill, at the show, and hadn't been able to get him out of his mind since.

About halfway through the set, Quentin had seen him from the stage. The guy hadn't been looking at the band or watching John at all-instead, he'd been turned half away from the stage and watching the faces of the crowd, his glance moving from one to another every few seconds. Whatever he was looking for, he didn't find it, and he left at the very end of the set, slipping out the door as the band tore down. Quentin didn't think John had even seen him.

The guy bugged Quentin. He had the sleazy manner of the kind of guy who'd sidle up to you in a crowded club and ask if you needed a gram, maybe half a gram, but his eyes were too slow, too attentive, and he wasn't as jumpy as the dealers Quentin knew. The drug dealer vibe wasn't quite right, but that's all that Quentin could figure him for. That would explain John's odd behavior lately, too.

And the voice? How do you explain that?

"s.h.i.+t, I'm just tired," Quentin said.

Cesar nodded. "Go home, kid. It ain't worth getting hurt out here for fifteen bucks an hour."

Quentin wound the gauze around his thumb. "Yeah. I guess you're right."

Chapter 10.

The stage was huge, almost the width of the whole building. It was just the kind of stage John would have loved to play on, he thought wistfully. One day. The place was packed, maybe a thousand people and standing room only, just like it would be for him one day. For now, though, he was only a spectator, jammed in next to a bunch of sweaty bodies and jostled this way and that by hard elbows and rude shoulders. Still, excitement crackled through his body. He was in the very front, pressed against the rail in front of the stage. Best seat in the house, so to speak. He couldn't wait for the band to get started, even though he couldn't precisely remember who he'd come to see. A heavy rock band, he was sure-the drum kit, Ampeg ba.s.s amp, and Marshall JCM800 guitar amp attested to that. The guitar amp was a little weird, though; he would have expected a big speaker cabinet in a venue this size, one big 4x12 at least if not two, but there was only a small cabinet on the floor.

It looked familiar. So did the drum kit, now that he was looking, and his excitement soured with a sense of low dread, like a low ba.s.s note that was felt more than heard. He stared at the kick drum, stupidly trying to figure out where he'd seen it before.

He was still staring at it when the crowd around him cheered and surged forward, smas.h.i.+ng him against the metal rail. He pushed back, and the s.p.a.ce around him, maybe three feet on every side, cleared instantly. None of the cheering, screaming fans touched him now; they avoided him, they wouldn't look at him, even though they kept cheering and waving and pressing against each other. He dimly thought he'd have to hang on to that trick for future shows.

The beat kicked in, and the first chords of the song started.

That's funny, he thought. That sounds like "Burn." That humming sense of dread doubled, acquiring some evil harmonics, and he felt his head turning back to the stage.

No, he thought, all excitement gone. I need to leave here. I don't want to see this. I have to go! He couldn't stop himself looking, though, his head turning and his eyes opening wide to take in the whole stage.

His brother was sitting behind the drum kit. He looked good, too-happy, thrilled to be playing as he pummeled the floor tom and snare. Case was there, too, playing a Les Paul the color of blood (and why did that seem familiar? he was sure he'd never seen it before)-and f.u.c.k! Even Quentin was there, way on the right side of the stage, nodding his head and teasing deep, rumbling notes from his ba.s.s.

This was bad, this felt wrong. This was the thirteenth floor, aces and eights, the black spot, every omen of dread and cursed luck he could think of. Where was the singer? He, John, should have been on that stage-but there was nothing he wanted less at that very moment. He wanted to run, to turn and plow through the crowd behind him, leave a trail of spilled beer and irate people all the way to the door, and his f.u.c.king legs wouldn't move.

The song moved to the chorus figure, and still n.o.body was singing. n.o.body onstage, anyway-the crowd around John shouted the words (those s.h.i.+tty G.o.dd.a.m.n lyrics) at top volume, breaking into even louder cheering as Case turned and locked eyes with Danny across the stage. There was a kind of feral, b.e.s.t.i.a.l hunger in her eyes-and in Danny's, too. She walked toward him without breaking eye contact, swaying her hips slightly as she went. The crowd went nuts.

Do it! a woman just behind and to the left of Danny shrieked, her voice many times louder than the thousands of watts of amplification in front of him. Doooo iiiiiit!

Case walked behind the drum set and reached out with her right hand, seizing the front of Danny's s.h.i.+rt. She hauled him out of his seat and pressed her lips to his, mas.h.i.+ng his lips against his teeth so hard that blood trickled down his chin. Her guitar was gone-John had no idea where it had gone-and her entire body was crushed against Danny's. Danny kicked the drum set apart without breaking from her embrace, and then it, too, was gone.

Only Quentin was still playing, grooving along to his ba.s.s line with a s.a.d.i.s.tic grin on his face. The crowd roared, shouted, and screamed, and John suddenly knew that this was a part of the act they all expected. This was what they'd come to see.

Case backed up, pulling Danny with her to the front of the stage. Then she turned, spun, and threw him to the ground, tearing frenetically at his clothes. His T-s.h.i.+rt shredded away, his pants tore into strips that she ripped away and threw into the audience.

G.o.d, please no, please I don't want to see this, I don't want to watch this.

Then Danny was naked and Case was straddling him, still fully clothed. From John's vantage point, so close to the stage, he could see everything-the blood on Case's lip, her hard nipples, Danny's erect p.e.n.i.s crushed against his body and outraged.

Come on, girl! somebody shouted behind John. John turned (I turned! I can turn! Maybe I won't have to see any more!) to tell her to shut up, that was his brother for G.o.d's sake, but he couldn't tell who'd said it.

His head turned back to the stage of its own accord (No! No no no!) and his face contorted into a cry of horror. Case's skin had gone pale, all maggot-white and pulpy, and jagged, ragged teeth filled her mouth. She threw her head back and howled, and the crowd howled with her. Then she leaned down as though she was going to whisper something in Danny's ear, but instead she took the ear in her mouth and pulled, tearing it slowly off Danny's head. She teased it, worked it as John stared and the crowd yelled, pulling the ear away along with a ragged strip of flesh that went all the way down Danny's neck to his collarbone before it tore free.

Yes! Danny screamed as blood spurted from his wound. John could hear him as clearly as if they were the only two people in the room. Oh, G.o.d yes!

Case tore the strip of flesh away and threw it into the crowd. John could see the ear, whole and intact, still hanging on the end of the strip as it sailed into the audience. Droplets of blood fell on John's face, in his hair.

Then Case bent down again and stopped with her mouth hanging open inches from Danny's face. Saliva dripped onto Danny's skin. Case looked up from below her eyebrows at the crowd, a wordless query.

NO! John screamed, but the crowd screamed louder.

Case sank her teeth into Danny's cheek just below his eye-his eye, for G.o.d's sake, his f.u.c.king eye-and pulled.

John woke with a scream still dying on his lips. Darkness surrounded him, wrapped around him, thick and heavy like wet black felt. Stinking wet black felt. The smell had come like a fog in the night, caressing him, seeping into his pores-that awful smell, the smell of fish guts rotting in a Dumpster, of rotting logs half submerged in stagnant water, the murky, musky smell of s.e.m.e.n and spoiled milk and mold-and now it was everywhere.

There was a sound, a faint tap on the wall by the door, and then he knew: Something was in here with him. That was where the stench had come from-a man, or something like a man, clad in a black silk s.h.i.+rt and a cowboy hat, a patient, ironic grin on his face, mad eyes shrouded in darkness. He was standing there, maybe close enough that one step would bring him to Johnny's very bedside.

You can't take me now, John thought. You can't! It's too soon! No sound escaped his lips, though-he didn't dare make a noise. His chest burned from holding his breath, his shoulders shook from terror. He'd screamed just seconds ago, he knew he'd screamed, the sound had scoured his throat and was still ringing in the air, and yet now he was terrified to make the smallest sound, not even daring to breathe. There was that thing there, that thing that was not a man, and though it must have heard him, John felt sure that it was waiting, silently laughing, for John to make one more sound. To call it to him. Then it would take that single long step, and it would reach out and touch John with one clammy hand, and John would die.

Or worse.

John's chest burned and burned, and swatches of dark color, purple and noxious green, flashed in his vision. He had read that you couldn't kill yourself by holding your breath-your body would force you to breathe eventually, and what would happen to him then, when he sucked in that unwanted, involuntary gasp of air?

He would have to move before then. Run, though the room was small, and the laughing thing was standing in the hall. Where would he run? Where could he run? Where? It didn't matter-he had to get up, had to run, had to do something now, before- There came a faint scratching sound from near the hall.

Terror gripped him again, and he froze. His heart pounded like a maul in his chest, in his ears, in his head.

John sprang up from the mattress, scratching and scrabbling at the wall for the light switch, suddenly convinced that light was the answer, light would dispel the thing, or light would reveal it and he would be stricken insane at the sight, but either way he'd no longer have to sit scared in the dark, waiting.

He hit the light switch with his hand just as he hit the wall with his body. He felt the switch click, but the room stayed dark.

Oh G.o.d, it got the lights! John thought, semi-coherently. He bounced off the wall, skidded back on the damp carpet, and huddled on the floor with his arms over his head, waiting for the inevitable touch, that cold clammy slick slimy touch that would kill him or drag his soul screaming from his body.

A minute pa.s.sed, then two. Nothing moved. Nothing could be heard above John's own ragged breathing.

There was a sudden sound, a mad fluttering that traversed the room, followed by a faint click. A tapping sound on the wall near the window.

He knew that sound. It was a water bug, Texas's answer to the c.o.c.kroach. Bigger, of course, because this was Texas, and if that wasn't bad enough, the d.a.m.n things flew. Particularly at night-and they made a tap when they landed on a wall. His house was infested with them.

He remembered, then, why the lights hadn't come on. He hadn't paid the electricity bill yet, and they'd cut him off yesterday. That's why there was no tiny glow from his charging phone, no faint green light from his digital alarm clock.

It was only then that he understood that he was alone in his house and had been all along. It was the smell, that awful f.u.c.king smell, that had fired up his overheated imagination.

And the dream.

Yeah, the dream had been a doozy, too. No wonder he'd woken up screaming.

f.u.c.king Danny. f.u.c.king Case, too. It wasn't hard to figure out where that G.o.dd.a.m.n dream had come from. The band had played another show last night, really kicked a.s.s, and John had really gotten into it. He'd never performed so well in his life. Even Case had slapped him on the back afterward and told him he'd played a "great f.u.c.king set." That had been so unantic.i.p.ated he'd actually stood there for a few seconds trying to figure out if he'd heard her correctly.

"Uh, you, too," he'd said. And she had played well, but he'd been half afraid she was going to leap over the drum kit in the middle of the set and f.u.c.k Danny's brains out right onstage. He wasn't alone, either-the entire universe could see the two of them making googly-eyes at each other all night.

It made for another layer of intensity in the show, but there was nothing good down that road. It wouldn't be like Danny to get it on with Case, but greater men than Danny slipped up all the time. John worried constantly, to the point where he was afraid to leave the two of them alone. If Danny does f.u.c.k this up-no pun intended-he'll feel so guilty I'll be lucky to see him again, let alone Case.

And then Ragman would go spiraling down the drain.

John had reminded Danny of Rule Number One about five times, but all Danny ever said was "I got it under control." John sure as h.e.l.l hoped so.

All of that aside, it had been a great show. Quentin's buddies had come out again and brought a few friends, but what really did it was Case's friend, Erin. She'd brought the same girls that she'd brought the time before, and they all brought a friend, and some of the friends brought friends, and it was just like a chain letter. The guy at the door counted thirty-one warm bodies that came to check out the band, and that was enough to nail down one of the vaunted weekend spots. John knew it wasn't much, but it was something he'd been working at for almost a year, and there was a sense of triumph.

At the end of the night, they'd all gotten good and drunk and hired Erin to manage the band's publicity. John thought that might have been the only good decision ever made by a bunch of drunk people-he suspected that Erin could single-handedly pack Shea Stadium if given enough lead time.

As long as Danny didn't f.u.c.k up Rule Number One, it looked like they were on their way.

At the next practice, the four of them were still stoked from the show. Danny and John got there first, as usual. Danny didn't know how he looked himself, but John hadn't been able to clear the grin off his face since Danny picked him up, and Danny felt much the same. Quentin came in, also fully equipped with a dumb smile, and hummed while he plugged in. Case was actually bopping her head to music only she could hear, but from the few bits of lyrics Danny could hear coming out of her mouth, he had a strong suspicion that she was jamming along with "Changing Gears," the one song left in the set that she professed a mild dislike for. (To be specific, she had said, "This song draaaags. It moves like old people f.u.c.k." Danny was afraid that he would never cleanse his mind of the image that had conjured.) "All right guys," John said when they were all ready. "We rocked that last show. The one next month is more than twice as long, though, so we have to figure out what we want to add to the set."

"Shouldn't be a problem," Case said. "We've got, what? Fifteen songs?"

"Yeah, but we've really only worked on five of them. We've got seven weeks to get another half a dozen or so in shape. Which ones do you want to start with?"

"'Fused' and 'Everybody's Fault' for sure," Case said.

"Yeah," said Danny. "And 'Circular Firing Squad.'"

"f.u.c.kin' A," Quentin said, surprising everyone. There was laughter all around, and then they got down to business.