“Are you on anything, Billy? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“No.”
“No, you don’t mind the question, or no, you’re not on anything?”
“I’m not on drugs. Who are you?”
“I’m Rachel.” She said with a crooked smile.
“Yeah, you told me that, but who are you? What are you doing here?”
She really didn’t have a good, plausible excuse for being here, of course. She hadn’t expected to need one tonight because she’d only intended to watch from a safe distance when she saw him leave the studio with the flashlight. A lot had happened since her decision to leave her lookout post beside the farmhouse and follow him into the woods. She couldn’t predict how this would play out, but she felt sure there was nothing to gain by lying about what she was doing here. There were no excuses he wouldn’t see right through. Then again, he would be dead right now, if she hadn’t been following him. And that couldn’t just be a coincidence. A man of his sensibilities would see that.
“Actually, I’m a fan. I wanted to meet you.” She bit her lip.
His eyes shot to her purse and back. His face formed an expression that, as best she could read it, was made of equal parts disbelief and horror. He said, “At four in the morning, when I’m taking a piss in the woods, you wanted to meet me?”
“It’s not exactly like that. And you know, I doubt you crossed a creek and walked a quarter of a mile to relieve yourself, okay? At least I’m being honest with you. I was hoping to meet you at a better time, but I followed you out of concern.”
“Concern?”
“And curiosity.”
Staring at the ground, he said, “When exactly did curiosity become concern? When you found me face down in the water?”
“Actually, I was full-blown terrified by then.”
He took a step toward her now. She stepped back.
“So you were watching me the whole time,” he said with an edge. “What else did you see?”
“I don’t know.”
This was so weird. She already knew what his angry voice sounded like. Knew it like the feel of her favorite fingerless gloves. And now it was directed at her, not at some mythical ex-lover or authority. She felt a warm awakening between her legs and was surprised by it. Still, she gathered her wits, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and touched the almost heart-shaped glass pendant that hung from a black choker at her collarbone. Finding courage, she said, “I saved you.” Nothing more in her defense, just the plain fact.
It had the desired effect, for a few seconds his face mixed a dash of guilt into the simmering anger. He softened his tone and asked again, “What did you see, Rachel?”
She hesitated, couldn’t think of a polite way to put it, so said it in a quieter voice, as if a lower volume would cost him less, “You were talking to yourself. Talking to your reflection, I think.”
“Did I answer myself?”
“Maybe, I don’t know. I don’t know what you mean. And I didn’t hear everything you said, I swear. Look, could we go somewhere indoors to talk? It’s freezing out here.”
“Go somewhere? You mean like the police station, so you can explain about how you were stalking me?”
“You’d be dead now if I wasn’t.”
Billy took a pack of cigarettes from the inner breast pocket of his jacket, examined the limp cardboard, and gingerly withdrew one far enough to see how wet it was. Too wet. He pushed it back down. “Where do you live?”
“Minneapolis.”
“You came cross-country to stalk me? Are you staying with someone?”
“I’m renting a cabin.”
“Do you have a car?”
She shook her head.
“How long’s the walk to your cabin?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“Okay, let’s go there.”
Her heart jumped into her throat. She said, “You don’t want to go back to the church and get cleaned up?”
“No. I can’t go back there.”
“Why not?”
Billy only shook his head and said, “I just can’t go back there. I need to think first. I need to sleep and think before I go back there. Can I do that at your cabin?”
“Of course. You can take a shower too.”
Billy looked intently at the black pool. When he pulled his eyes away to look at her again, she thought he looked like the shocked survivor of a car accident. He shivered and ran his hand through his hair. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Fifteen
While Billy Moon was following wolf tracks into the woods, Jake was at home standing under the twenty-watt bulb that illuminated the stovetop in the kitchen of the apartment he shared with Allison, reading her last journal entry while she slept. He read the words a second time, a soft dread compressing the air in his lungs.
Jake,
It’s almost 1:30 and you’re still not home. I really miss you lately. I tried to stay up to talk to you. It makes me sad that even though we ‘live together,’ I’m stuck with writing to you if I want to tell you how I feel, or even if I want to bounce something off of you like how tonight I was thinking it might do me some good to go visit my parents for a while. I haven’t called them yet, so I don’t know if I’ll go, but I was thinking of maybe leaving next week.
Seeing as I haven’t found a job yet, there’s no reason not to and with you gone all the time, there isn’t much reason for me to hang around here. Would you care if I go? I’m lonely. Maybe going home would cheer me up. Talk to you soon, I hope.
Goodnight,
Ally
His eye kept retracing that one line, Would you care if I go? It revolved in his head like a skipping record. Then a charge of anger illuminated the oppressive atmosphere within him.
I’m working for us, and all she can think about is how bored she is.
Jake read the entry again, this time reminding himself that, if he didn’t read between the lines, it only said what it said. Nothing more. There was no reason to jump to the conclusion she was leaving him. Of course she was lonely. Would he prefer it if she didn’t miss him? Or missed him but didn’t tell him? He had to admit that he had been too busy and under too much pressure to dwell much on missing her.
But when the smoke cleared at the end of each session, and he longed to tell someone just how crazy these fuckers he was locked in a soundproofed box with really were, and how scared and thrilled he was to be pulling it off, it was Ally he wanted to talk to. Always. He took it for granted that living the dream he had worked for was ultimately pretty meaningless if he couldn’t share it with the one who had stood by him and watched as he reached for it, the one who had come this far with him and would love him whether the record went platinum or collapsed under the weight of the egomaniacs making it.
The one who will love you if you’re there for her, as more than a pen pal.
He took a pen from the drawer where they kept the books of matches and batteries and wrote a short entry.
Ally,
I’m sorry you’re sad. Just remember, please—this is a phase, and it will pass. You should go home if you want to. I would say I’ll miss you, but I guess I already do. Just be back by Christmas, okay? The project will be over soon and if you’re back, maybe I’ll even give you your Christmas gift early.
Love,
Jake
He staggered to the bedroom like a drunk and crawled under the blankets beside her. She stirred a little, but settled without waking.
Despite his fatigue, sleep eluded him until right up to the threshold of dawn. He slept through the alarm and woke up to Ally shaking his shoulder.
No time for a shower. Only a few hours had passed since he went to bed, but the light in the room looked like about nine o’clock. He tried to force his fatigued body into motion. It was stubborn and heavy. He stood up, wobbled, and pulled on some clean clothes, almost falling over in the act, leaving a pile of laundry on the floor and hanging out of the dresser.
In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face, glanced at his wild hair, and made a mental note that if he shaved his head, he could save time in the morning and get by with fewer showers. He ran deodorant across his pits, squeezed toothpaste onto his finger and rubbed it around in his mouth as he jogged down the stairs. He could rinse when he got to the studio.
Allison yelled his name as he yanked the front door open. He looked up just in time to see his car keys flying in an arc over the stairs and caught them, noting that they sounded like a hi-hat when they smacked into his palm. He blew her a kiss, trotted out to his Pontiac Shitbox and still managed to arrive at the studio twenty minutes before the session start time.
Half an hour later, Rail walked in, looking rested and rejuvenated. Billy had still not descended from the loft. Rail approached Jake and, in his most polite British tone, asked, “Jake, where the fuck is Billy Moon?”
“Still upstairs sleeping, I guess. I haven’t seen him yet.”
“I see.” He took the revolver from his jacket and fired it into the rafters. The gun barked fire and sounded a deafening blast. Jake and Ron cowered with their hands to their heads. “Billy!” Rail shouted over the fading sound of the gunshot. There was no reply, no sound at all from above.
Rail ascended the spiral stairs. Jake and Ron exchanged a wary glance but neither ventured a word. When Rail returned a moment later, his gait was lazy and resigned. He simply said, “Not here.”
Jake asked, “What do we do?”
“Wait. We wait for the artist.”
It was a long, tense wait.
Billy came in at one thirty in the afternoon with a scarlet-haired goth groupie clinging to his jacket.
Rail didn’t shift from his reclining position in the control room with his feet atop a road case when Billy arrived. “Decided to take the morning off, did we?” he called out.
Billy picked up his acoustic guitar and started tuning it. The goth girl cracked her gum and gazed wide-eyed at the guitars and microphones scattered everywhere. Rail swept his eyes over her like a scanning laser, reading her price and moving on. Then without warning, he stood up, shot through the double doors with feline grace and, within a second, was towering over Billy.
Rail said, “Gravitas is shelling out two grand a day for this room and you decide to spend half of that having your knob polished?”
Billy strummed a chord and adjusted the tuning.
“I’m talking to you.”
“You’re fired,” Billy said softly.
Rail laughed, turned toward the control room glass and called for Gribbens to put up the current reel.
Billy finally made eye contact. He said, “Didn’t you hear me? You’re fired.”
Rail sighed as if losing his patience with an insolent child. He said, “You can’t fire me, and you know it. You are centimeters away from landing in the bargain bin. Gravitas will drop you like a burning coal if you tell them you’re firing me, and you will be contractually prohibited from releasing new material on any other label for years. Put the guitar down. We’re doing vocals today. And get your pussy out of here. It’s time to work.”
The goth girl said, “Hey, who do you think you are? That’s Billy Moon you’re talking to, and I’m the one who talked him into showing up here at all today.”
“Really. So what are you, his number one fan?”
“My name is Rachel.”
“Rachel, then, let me ask you: which record did you like better, Eclipse or Lunatic?”
She shot a look at Billy. His eyes were riveted to a spot on the floor. She said, “Eclipse.”
“Then you have me to thank. I produced it. And if I can do my job today, you will have another brilliant Billy Moon album to cherish. So please sit down and shut your gob.”
Rachel cleared some clutter from the couch at the back of the control room and laid down on it. Gribbens took a not-so-inconspicuous mental snapshot of the shadow in her plaid miniskirt before she adjusted it. Reclining there, she looked like a piece of art the studio had selected to add ambiance to the room: stainless steel studs gleaming under the track lights, vampire chic makeup faded in perfect gradations of violet around her black eyeliner, a tattoo of the letters and numbers from a Ouija board exposed on her stomach when her short black shirt rode up.
Billy went into the makeshift vocal booth looking like he wished it had a proper door he could slam.
“From the top,” Rail ordered as he sat down beside Jake at the console. Jake rolled the tape. Everyone leaned forward into the sound field when Billy’s raspy whisper entered after the chugging guitar intro.
You wear those boring clothes and think that nobody knows
You try to conceal it, but girl I can feel it
I can’t see it, but I know it’s there
I can’t see it, but I know it’s there
“Stop tape,” Rail said. Toggling the talkback button on a wand in his hand, he told Billy, “Your rhythm is off again. Listen to the snare drum. It’s supposed to be pushing forward, not hanging back. It sounds uninspired.”
Releasing the switch, he told Jake to run it back to the top of the song, and to turn up the snare in Billy’s headphones.
Jake knew this take was worse before Rail even called, “Cut.” When Rail did stop it, he swiveled his chair to face Rachel on the couch. She raised her eyebrows theatrically. He said, “You fuck his brains out all morning? He’s clearly spent.”
“None of your business,” she replied, holding his stare until he swiveled back around. Then he laughed.
She couldn’t help herself, she said, “What? What’s so funny?”
“I guess you didn’t or you would have said so. Your kind usually wants everybody to know. Especially when you’re getting credit for wearing him out.”
“Fuck off.”
“Careful, now. Remember, I can show you the door.”
Rail clicked the button and asked, “What is it, Billy? You’re killing me here. Can you sing this like you mean it or not?”
“Trevor, I don’t want to do this song.”
“This is the song I need, Billy.”
“Well, I’m not into it. I don’t even think this one is right for the album. It’s an old song. It didn’t make the cut on the first record, so why are we reworking it now when I have new material?”
“Because, Billy, I’ll decide what belongs on the record, and frankly, I don’t think a lot of the new material is up to snuff. This one has radio written all over it now that we’ve added Flint’s guitars. Come, now. Do it again.”
Jake rolled the tape, but this time Billy skipped his cue entirely. He just stood out there and lit a cigarette as the music passed by. Rail’s hand swept past Jake and swatted the STOP button like he was killing a fly.
“Am I wasting my time here?” he said with a note of remorse to the little mic on the desk. “Are you throwing it all away, Billy? The houses, the cars, the freedom to make a living doing what you love?”
“I don’t love this.”
“What’s not to love? Do you know how many younger men would kill to be in this room with me?”
“It’s got nothing to do with love, what you’re making me do.”
“What am I making you do?”
“Singing this fucking song when I’m not feeling it. I thought we were done with this song. You know I wrote it with Jim.”
“So? You don’t have to pay a dead man royalties.”
“You’re a sick son-of-a-bitch.”
Rail laughed. “You take yourself too seriously. This is the same old game of egos and echoes it’s always been. You made the choice to play a long time ago. So sing, lad.”
Billy threw the headphones on the floor and stormed out of the booth, then out of the church. Rail reclined in his chair, put his feet up on the road case, took a penknife from his pocket, and set to work cleaning his fingernails. Rachel got up and went after Billy.
Jake waited long enough to determine that no orders were forthcoming
, then slipped out of the control room and up the stairs to the bathroom in the loft.
Ally had pointed out on a couple of occasions that social tension seemed to give him an over-active bladder. She said it was a physical response to confrontation that gave him an excuse to get out of the room. He had argued that it wasn’t psychological; when he had to go, he really had to go. She had countered that it was still a nervous reaction. He didn’t know if he believed her theory that this was the flight half of a fight-or-flight equation, but he definitely had to go pretty urgently right now. As he stood there pissing and pondering how much it had to do with his expectation that Rail would shortly be applying the little knife to more than his manicure, he was reminded of how much he missed talking to the woman who knew what made him tick.
The sound of the flushing toilet trailed away, and Jake heard voices floating up through the screened window. Peering out, he could make out the little shapes of Billy and Rachel below, standing under a pine tree, passing what was probably a flask between them.
“I think it’s a great song,” Rachel said.
“Really?”
“Yeah. You should at least record it, even if you don’t put it on the album.”
“I dunno. Things went bad between me and the guy I wrote it with. I don’t think he’d want me to make a dime off of it.”
“But it’s your song, too, isn’t it? I mean, don’t you have the right to record a song you co-wrote?”
“Well, sure I have the right. But that’s not really the point.”
“You’re upset because your friend died.”
Jake couldn’t hear what, if anything, Billy said next. The wind picked up and a tree branch scraped against the building. Rachel said, “I’ve lost friends, too. It sucks. But you can’t always fix things.”
They both let the statement hang there in the space between them. Maybe she was touching his hand. Jake started to feel creepy about eavesdropping but he wasn’t quite ready to go back down while Billy was still outside.
The Devil of Echo Lake Page 17