A Voice So Soft

by Patrick Lacey

  He tried to sit up and stopped halfway, realizing for the first time that he was not in his apartment. His stomach threatened him. Bile rose in the back of his throat and he managed a single, sour burp.

  What the hell happened last night?

  He didn’t remember much. One moment he was going over the shop’s finances at McMurphy’s, then, after the conversation with Dan (and a heavy dose of the creeps), he’d fled and . . .

  “What time is it?”

  He nearly screamed at the voice. Feminine yet edgy, nothing like Melissa’s and thank god because that would mean she’d left her hospital bed.

  He turned his head, fought a fresh wave of nausea, and thought maybe he was in heaven after all.

  Trish lay across an unfamiliar bed. Her hair was tussled and her eyeliner had run, leaving behind jagged streaks. She sat up and her blanket sagged, revealing breasts he had imagined on more than one occasion. He stared. She did not cover them back up.

  “Did we . . .?”

  “Fuck? Yes. Twice in fact. Gotta give it to you, you’re better than I would’ve thought. Great with your tongue too.” She lit a cigarette.

  He tried to hide his smile. He failed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “It’s just . . . I didn’t think this would ever happen.”

  “Neither did I. I mean I knew you wanted it to happen.”

  “You did?”

  “There’s a mirror behind the front counter. I caught you staring at my ass more than the inventory.”

  His cheeks reddened and he looked away. “Was I that obvious?”

  “Afraid so. And controversial too.”

  “How do you mean?” He managed to balance on his elbows. The room spun almost as fast as his thoughts and he implored himself not to puke.

  “You’re my boss, Josh. In case you didn’t remember.”

  He waved her away. “Oh, that. Well, not for long.”

  “How do you mean?” She set her cigarette down in a skull-shaped ashtray.

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. When’s the last time we had an actual sale? When’s the last time we had a customer? Even the regulars have vanished.” His legs swam with pins and needles. The sheet slid down as he readjusted. His hairy, pale chest was the antithesis of Trish’s.

  “Maybe it’s just the economy, you know? Maybe we’re in a recession.”

  “We’re in a recession. There’s no doubt about that. But that isn’t killing the shop.”

  “Then what is it?” Her eyes lost focus. She looked everywhere but at Josh.

  “What do you think? It’s that pop bullshit and whoever’s sending her albums by the dozen through our doors.”

  Trish nodded. “Her management team.”

  “Yeah, them. Something tells me that if I flushed every last disc down the toilet, they’d just be replaced the next day. We’re dealing with something bigger than we can handle. It’s time we cut our losses.”

  “Maybe we should embrace it, then.”

  “Embrace it?”

  “Yeah, like, try and sell the stuff they gave us. Hell, we could make a fortune.”

  “Everybody already owns her album, remember? You said so yourself.”

  Finally she looked at him. And slid closer. “Sure, but her fans are rabid. They have to own everything. Maybe if we advertised more, let everybody know we have posters and cardboard cutouts and t-shirts . . .”

  “T-shirts? When the hell did those come in?”

  “Look, all I’m saying is maybe we ought to think it over. We fought the good fight and we lost. Now we can . . . I don’t know . . . form an alliance or something.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Listen to yourself. Aren’t you the boss? The captain never abandons his ship. We can do like Esmeralda did. She’s still selling her magic stuff but it’s all in one corner now. The rest is books about Angie and tickets to her concerts. It’s like a fan club in store form.”

  “No, okay? I don’t want any part of that.”

  “Sure, you say that but I don’t think you mean it. I think that deep down in that metal head heart of yours, you want to give in to her. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  His argument died in his throat when she slid closer. Mouth to mouth. She pushed him back and tossed aside the sheet. He was already erect at the mention of Angie’s name. He hated her and everything she stood for but his body was on the other side of the argument. Trish took him into her mouth. All protest vanished. He stared at the ceiling and let her work her magic. It was over quickly. Not that he was complaining.

  Afterward, she wiped her mouth and smiled. “Just think about what I said, will you?”

  “Sure,” he said, not because he actually planned on it but because his body still buzzed from her lips.

  “I’m going to take a shower. Feel free to join me.”

  He watched her walk toward the bathroom. She left the door open. Soon he heard the shower running. Steam drifted into the bedroom.

  He stood, looked at his clothes on the floor, a haphazard tower of fabric. Part of him wanted to take her up on the offer but he wasn’t sure he could get hard again.

  Until he did.

  He was shocked to feel himself stiffen and rise.

  But it made sense when he realized why his body reacted.

  Across the way, next to a warped card table that was also the dining table, were several stacks of boxes. The closest one lay open, revealing the contents.

  Angie Everstein CDs.

  Hundreds upon hundreds of Angie Everstein CDs.

  There were cardboard tubes of posters and a pile of the t-shirts Trish had mentioned moments before.

  His cock pulsed, begged for release. The sight of Angie’s face on the album covers excited him yet his stomach recoiled.

  Trish was working with them. Angie’s team. Part of him was certain that if he searched the apartment thoroughly, he’d find a tattered, black robe. She was one of them. Had been all along.

  From inside the bathroom, Trish called for him. “You coming or what? Water’s nice and hot.”

  He dressed and left without answering.

  Dan Peterson looked at his watch and thought: you can do this.

  Days at the construction site ended around five or six, weather depending, but the crew would be working well into the night to finish the stage.

  He had to wait until the sun was gone. Under the cover of darkness, he would tell the boys and their superiors he had to take a leak. By the time they noticed his absence, he’d be halfway out of the state.

  He’d called his mother that morning while fighting a headache that was more of a migraine. She’d agreed to let him stay for a few days, though she’d bombarded him with questions. He dodged each of them while holding the crown of his nose and praying for the Aleve to kick in. But the pain still lingered. As did the fear.

  He looked around as he sipped his coffee, which was one-third whiskey. Hair of the dog. The crew paid him no notice. The longer the project went on, their conversations turned benign. How their wives never wanted to have sex. How they wished they’d gone to college. Gone were the conspiracy theories and speculations regarding the stage.

  That’s because we’re all being watched.

  Dan knew that more than anyone. He’d been scolded before for running his mouth, after all. But at least he hadn’t spilled any more beans since.

  He froze mid-sip, the coffee-and-booze concoction stinging his tongue.

  Something felt off. He thought back to the previous night but most of it was a drunken blur. He’d started this job as a heavy drinker but he was one step away from full-blown alcoholism. At least he had a good reason.

  Had he said something he shouldn’t have? He didn’t recall any conversations but his gut told him otherwise.

  He waved the thought away, pretending he was just being paranoid, set the coffee down and went about his business, trying his best to act casual.

  Not for the first time, he noted the lack of
noise. Bart Edelstein had not told any of his signature dirty jokes for weeks now. No profanity, no speaking aside from the occasional small talk. And he still hadn’t seen a single damn animal. He wasn’t talking just birds or squirrels. Even bugs seemed to stay clear. No flies or bees or beetles. It didn’t sit well with him.

  A shadow appeared on the ground before him. He was certain something had decided to visit the site after all. Something that was unlike any animal he’d ever witnessed. It was crawling up from the ground this very moment, ready to pull him under. Down and down until they reached whatever dark place in which it dwelled.

  Except when the voice spoke, he realized the shadow was just a shadow and that someone stood behind him. Someone, no doubt, wearing a robe. “Mr. Peterson.”

  He flinched, closed his eyes, took a deep breath.

  You can do this.

  He turned slowly, offered his best yes-sir-of-course-sir smile.

  Per usual, the face within the hood was obscured. The voice was male but that was the only detail he could ascertain. For all he knew, he’d spoken to this man a hundred times before. It could’ve been the same guy who’d given him that first warning.

  First and last warning, he reminded himself.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re not wearing your hard hat.”

  His headache still threatened him with every breath and the idea of thick plastic pushing against his scalp was sickening. “Sorry about that. Must have forgotten it.”

  “You’ll need a replacement.”

  He noticed several of the boys not wearing theirs. “Is that necessary? The job’s almost done, ain’t it? And besides, what’s going to fall on me?” He looked into the birdless sky. Nothing up there but dark clouds that refused to let the sun through.

  “It’s protocol,” the robe reminded him. “Follow me.”

  The man walked toward the trailer they’d set up on the first day of work.

  He followed. The guys watched as he passed, eyes wide with something like fear. The same stare he’d received on the way to the principal’s office before he’d dropped out.

  The trailer windows were tinted. He hadn’t seen anyone aside from the Robes enter or exit. He’d assumed it was an office or a bathroom, but the Robes were not architects. And there were plenty of porta potties on the site.

  The man reached the door, opened it slowly. It shrieked into the afternoon, loud enough to scare away birds, had there been any. Dan ought to make his escape now instead of nightfall. The Robes now outnumbered the workers. They could easily surround him.

  His hands shook. He’d forgotten his coffee-whiskey on the ground. The headache crept along his skull.

  “Mr. Peterson?” the man beneath the fabric said. “We must hurry. Time is running out.”

  Dan followed him into the darkness. He was prepared for a torture chamber on wheels, sharp objects lining every surface. Instead: black foam hanging along the walls of the trailer. Speakers as tall as Dan. No desk or blue prints. No sinks or toilets. Nothing but soundproofing and subwoofers, an audiophile’s wet dream.

  “What the hell is this?” he said, noting a distinct lack of hard hats.

  “This, Mr. Peterson, is the corrections chamber.”

  “The what?”

  Dan spun around and saw the door closing. Then came the undeniable sound of a lock clicking into place. He tried the knob and nearly screamed when it didn’t budge.

  The speakers crackled to life and a voice spoke. The same voice he’d just heard, though he wasn’t certain how that was possible. Perhaps he stood outside and spoke into a microphone. “Mr. Peterson, I’m afraid you’ve gone against our policy. We did tell you to keep all onsite activity confidential, did we not?”

  “Let me out.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Not until we’ve administered your punishment.”

  He pounded the walls but his fists were soundless. “What the hell are you talking about? I kept my promise. I only slipped up once.”

  “Then how do you explain this?”

  The speakers crackled again and he heard another voice, so familiar he had to touch his throat to make sure he wasn’t speaking.

  “It’s the concert. Something’s going to happen at the concert.”

  It came to him in a drunken haze. He’d been at McMurphy’s, talking to his old pal Josh Meyers. Cuckold extraordinaire. Dan had told him everything.

  It was a longstanding problem, running his mouth. His ex-wife and mother had never gotten along. They took every opportunity to make it known to Dan. He and Cherie had moved into his mother’s house when Cherie had gotten knocked up. The plan was to stay there a year or two, pay off some debt and save for a house. They’d lasted three months. Animosity aside, the two women had agreed on one important point.

  Dan Peterson had a terminal case of verbal diarrhea, would tell one what the other had said behind their back without thought. He could not keep a secret to save his life.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m stressed, is all. This job is taking a toll. I haven’t had a day off in, what, two months?”

  “You knew the hours would be long,” the man said through the speakers.

  “Please, just let me out and I won’t say another word. I promise. Or hell, fire me. You can keep my last paycheck.”

  “Ms. Everstein does not believe in firing people, Mr. Peterson. She much prefers bringing people together.”

  He opened his mouth to ask what the hell that meant but managed only a squeal before the music started.

  He preferred hard rock and heavy metal to radio pop. Nobody could sing anymore. It was all auto tune and robotic melodies. And when he did come across a vocalist with talent, they spewed lyrics about parties and cash-money-bills. But this song—it was different. Familiar.

  Catchy.

  “Forever with You.”

  His skin tingled and he forgot about his hangover, about running his mouth. He even forgot about the job from hell and the stage that was more than a stage.

  There was only the song.

  The lyrics were simple yet he was certain they held some hidden meaning. There was something beneath the music, some instrument or melody he couldn’t put his finger on.

  His finger.

  The thought did not make sense yet it made the most sense in the world.

  He raised his right index finger, studied it, though he wasn’t sure why. He simply knew it was the right thing to do. As if it was what Angie wanted of him. And you did not disobey Queen Angie.

  Queen?

  Something wasn’t right. Nothing was right. Everything was right.

  The sane part of his mind, the part that was still able to reason, fought this new development but the battle was a short one. All reason receded until there was only the song again. “Forever with You” blared into his ears and into his soul and his right index finger seemed important again.

  He opened his mouth, placed his finger on the center of his tongue, and, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, he bit down. He heard a crunch, as if he’d bitten through a carrot. His mouth filled with copper. He drank and ate. He repeated the process with the rest of his fingers but his hunger could not be filled. He moved on to his toes.

  The pain was distant, belonged to someone else.

  His stomach widened, pieces of Dan Peterson on the inside instead of out.

  Angie sang to him, told him every secret that ever existed.

  And outside, the crew worked like madmen, trying to finish the stage that was much more than a stage.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHANGING FOR THE BETTER

  STILL NO SIGN OF MIKE Mallory.

  No vehicles aside from the K-9 rescue vehicle pulling over to pick up a dead raccoon. The woman, dressed in a uniform ten times too tight, looked around and, not spotting Shawna watching her, licked the carcass. Several times. Her chin grew stained with black blood. She tossed the mess into the back of the vehicle and sped off. Music blared within the van. He
r sister's music.

  It’s getting worse, she thought. That secret track or signal or whatever it is—it’s getting stronger. Affecting everyone now. Tomorrow, half the town will be bopping their heads to “Forever with You.” And by then it’ll be too late.

  She walked through Essex Street, past tourist shops and thrift stores and overpriced restaurants. Nearly every window was adorned with flyers, many of them advertising Haunted Happenings and the Halloween parade, though posters for her sister’s homecoming show gave them a run for their money. Angie’s team may have been creepy but they had a knack for PR.

  It was nearly noon. She hadn’t bothered going to school. The thought of being trapped in classrooms, not unlike prison cells, was enough to make her want to scream.

  Where the hell was Mike? He’d assured her he’d be watching at all times, but she was beginning to think that wasn’t the case.

  She went into her favorite comic shop to kill some time, crossed the street and bought an iced coffee, nearly about to give up when a vehicle pulled up to the curb fast enough to draw sparks.

  It was not an RV.

  It was a school bus.

  The door opened and Miles Fuller stepped outside. This was not the same Mr. Fuller she’d once known. Not even the lunatic she’d seen through the window the day before. This Miles wore a sequined tank top instead of a button-down and a bow tie. This Miles wore leather boots instead of penny loafers. This Miles snarled instead of smiling.

  “There you are, Ms. Everstein.” She noted the transition from her first to last name. Less friendly and more formal.

  “What’s this about?” She nodded toward the bus. The driver, a spindly man that reminded her of a spider, watched the road without blinking, uninterested in Shawna or anything happening around him.

  “You know damn well what it’s about.”

  “I’m not skipping if that’s what you mean.” She took a step back, thought about screaming for help but the street seemed suddenly deserted. Where were tourists when you needed them?

  “You could’ve fooled me. Let me guess. You’re running a fever or you’ve been throwing up all night. Or better yet: you just needed a mental health day. Well, guess what? You don’t get a day off. Not when your sister is working so hard for us.”