The Devil of Echo Lake

by Douglas Wynne

  Jake removed the noose from Bill’s neck and checked them both for breathing. They were sprawled on the floor in a semiconscious state that might soon become sleep, but they were both alive. He draped a pair of packing blankets over their partially naked bodies before collapsing onto the couch. He looked at the ceiling, where the rope still dangled from the boom stand on the catwalk, pressed his palms to his eyes, and sighed with relief.

  “Oh, man, she’s right,” he said to himself. “I do not get paid enough.”

  In a little while, he checked on them again. Feeling more confident that he didn’t need to call an ambulance, he pulled the rope down, coiled it around his elbow like a microphone cable, and brought it out to his car, where he tossed it in the trunk just for the comfort of knowing it wouldn’t be instrumental in any more mischief. Then he drove home in the snow, hoping it would continue to accumulate through the night and cover his tracks.

  * * *

  Billy woke up on the floor in the ashen light of dawn. Rachel was sleeping on the couch, wearing his clothes. He slipped the platinum ring off her finger and put it in his pocket. She didn’t wake.

  He ran his fingers through his stiff hair, then felt his throat. Touching the bruised skin caused enough pain to tell him everything he needed to know without a mirror. It wasn’t a dream. He felt like he had a bad case of the flu. His head was cloudy, his tongue, cotton. He drew a glass of water from the kitchen sink and drank. It hurt to swallow. Then he fished in the pocket of the leather jacket Rachel was wearing and found his cigarettes. He lit one and pulled a drag. The result was twofold and entirely predictable: he had a coughing fit and his head cleared.

  He pulled on his boots and an inadequate hooded sweatshirt. Outside, the virgin snow glowed golden in the creeping morning light. Individual crystals sparkled with rainbow colors as he turned his head, taking in the silent landscape. The powder crunched under his combat boots as he waded through a knee-high drift between the church and the woods. Under the cover of the trees, the accumulation was much less, just a few inches. It would be an easy walk to the pool. Not that it mattered. He would have trudged through chest-high drifts to meet his daemon on this Christmas morning.

  Although their exchanges had been wordless, hours spent in a dialog of flute and guitar, he brought no instrument with him today. Today there would be no music. Today they had something to talk about. Billy Moon wanted to make a deal. By the time he was on the path he knew so well, his extremities felt colder than he thought they should in such a short time. Maybe it was fear contracting the blood from his limbs. He couldn’t predict how the creature would react to his request.

  As he approached the clearing, he was stopped in his tracks by an impossible sound—the voices of birds. Not crows, December’s lingering scavengers, but the sweet, varied chirps and trills of the migrators who would not return until April. Billy couldn’t tell one kind of bird from another but he knew enough to be unsettled by their chatter. He knew these birds had no business here on a winter’s day. He kept walking, and a few paces on, a dragonfly crossed his path, soaring in a wide arc around a gnarled oak. It hovered at Billy’s elbow for a brief inspection before continuing over the white ground, weaving between the dripping black branches of the trees.

  A warm breeze that should have smelled only of wood smoke or nothing in this time and place lifted his hair, bearing the clean fragrances of peat and honeysuckle. Soon, a green mirage shimmered between the sparse trees.

  The stand of naked birches through which he glimpsed the clearing soon revealed one or two among their number bearing clusters of leaves. Stepping between them, Billy found that trees closer to the glade were even more profusely aroused from hibernation. Oak, sycamore, even flowering dogwood were not merely budding, they were cloaked in rich garments of green, swaying in the balmy breeze. All Billy could think of to make sense of it was that it looked like the opposite of a bomb site. Every step closer to ground zero—which he knew to be the pool—brought him out of the dead winter terrain of skeletal black and gray, and deeper into the epicenter of a green explosion.

  He pulled a limber branch aside and stepped into the clearing, eyes widening, breath quickening.

  The creature sat on the mossy tree stump where Billy himself had so often perched these past two weeks. In that time, he had only caught fleeting glimpses of the enigmatic piper in the wood, fragments like those even Jake had seen. Now here the creature was, revealed at last: shaggy legs stemming from cracked cloven hooves, olive-toned muscles bronzed by the sun, ancient dirt detailing every line of the powerful hands, noble face draped with a curly black beard wherein ruby beads of wine or blood glinted like dying stars in the fraying fabric of uttermost night, eyes veiled by drooping lashes, hair a mane of frozen fire swept back between ridged horns, serpentine cock undulating in the shadow of the reed syrinx flute laid across his lap.

  The pool, which on Billy’s previous visits had always been black, now cast a limpid sheen on the trees, radiating shafts of green and gold light from its heart. The creature looked up from the hypnotic dance of light in the water, and as those lazy lidded eyes passed over him, Billy saw in them the same luminous hues of green and gold that danced in the pool.

  His right knee started shaking. He knew performers, some of them very successful, who got weak in the knees with stage fright. Something about coming face to face with such a primordial creature in the flesh was triggering a similar response in him. As was his usual practice with fear, he bypassed it by stepping through it without giving himself time to think.

  Billy said, “Are you Pan?”

  The sound that arose from the creature’s throat only resembled speech in the consonants that broke the drone into familiar shapes. The vowels were modulations of a waterfall after a heavy rain, October wind through the hollows of a lightning blasted tree, the sigh of a millstone dropped down an endless well. The creature smiled and said, “I am Pangenetor, the bornless one. Some call me Silenus or Faunus.”

  Billy said, “The melodies you’ve given me. Why did you play them for me?”

  “To play is bliss.”

  “Is there another reason?”

  “No!” The leaves on the trees trembled, casting off golden morning light like spinning coins. “How could there be more than the bliss of creation?”

  “But I thought…” Billy felt his knee shaking again and forged onward, “I thought you wanted me to record them, so that the whole world could hear our music. I’ve been making false music all this time, for a cruel master.”

  “The Liar.”

  “Yes. And I thought…” Billy sighed and said, “I wanted to ask you… if I did what you wanted, would you help me be rid of him? But now I don’t think I know what you want.”

  Pan laughed. The sound would have tickled a needle on a Richter scale. “I want nothing,” he said. “I am.”

  Billy thought about that for a moment, and said, “But you want to play, right?”

  “I play, I slay, I lay, as the urge arises. There is no want.”

  “I need you to help me kill the Liar. Will you help me?”

  “Begetting and devouring are equal pleasures.”

  “Why haven’t you killed me?”

  “To play is bliss.”

  “I was going to tell you that I would destroy the false music and record your music, if you would help me.”

  “Do what you will. I have no use for frozen music.”

  “Will you help me kill him for the joy of it?”

  Pan smiled. “For the joy of it, yes. He has masqueraded as a cheap perversion of what I am. Bring your master to your monster and we shall play.”

  Pan gazed into the pool for a moment with a look of faint amusement on his craggy face. He said, “There is something else you must bring.”

  Twenty-two

  When Billy arrived back at the church and climbed the stairs to the loft, he found Rachel watching TV and biting her nails.

  “Rock-and-roll camp is over,” he said t
o her and climbed into bed, still wearing his hoodie. He pulled the comforter over his head, curled into fetal position, and was soon engulfed in sleep.

  When he woke, it was dark and Rachel was sleeping beside him. He sat up and blinked. Had he really burned up the whole day? How long had he slept? It was dark by four in the afternoon now, so it might not be that late. But he knew it was. He wouldn’t find Rail and Jake downstairs still working, and that was good because he had awoken with absolute clarity about what he had to do.

  Sleeping in the hoodie had glazed him with sweat. He tugged it off in a tangle with his T-shirt and threw the clothes on the floor. Wearing only his jeans, bruises and tattoos, he walked barefoot across the catwalk and saw the studio was dark and empty below. He went down the spiral staircase, opened the control room doors and stepped into what felt like a gem-flecked cave of red, green and amber lights.

  The multi-track tape machine in the corner was more brightly lit than the rest of the room, emitting the yellow parchment glow of the VU meters, their needles all lying dormant. Billy went to it. He took one of the boxed master tapes from the shelf above the machine—he didn’t care which, didn’t even read the song titles listed on the spine. He removed the reel from its box and threaded it through the rollers and capstans as he had so often seen Jake or Ron do. Then with both hands, he punched in all of the RECORD READY buttons, four at a time until 24 red lights were lit. All tracks armed. He pressed PLAY and RECORD and watched the big wheels roll.

  There were five master tapes. Billy had erased two and was starting on the third when he heard the doors open behind him.

  “What are you doing?” It was Rachel. “Are you recording something?”

  “I’m recording nothing.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m recording twenty-four tracks of nothing.”

  Rachel picked up the tape box and read the song titles in Gribbens’ neat hand. “You’re erasing it? What’s wrong with you? Stop. Stop it!”

  Billy held a hand out to keep her away. She shot out her arm under his, too quick for him to stop her. She slapped blindly at the surface of the machine. Billy pushed her back and tried blocking her like a basketball player, hoping she wouldn’t remember there was another STOP button on the remote control tier near Jake’s chair. Finally, he stopped her flailing by seizing her shoulders, pressing her arms close to her body, and looking into her eyes.

  “What do you care?” he said.

  Still struggling, she said, “How can you even ask me that? That’s your best work. You think I’ll just stand by and let you destroy it?”

  “It’s not my best. You just want to be able to tell everyone you were here when I did it.”

  “Is that what you think I am? My performances are on there, too, you know. I got you off, so you could get into it. I’m your fucking muse, and I have as much right to stop you as Rail.”

  Billy released her at the sound of Rail’s name. He uttered a sardonic laugh. “Oh, you don’t want to be in league with him. He’s a sick fuck. Don’t you know that? This album isn’t mine; it’s his. It’s his baby, and we’re just his pets. I’m his trained canary.” Billy’s voice had risen, spittle flying as he ranted. He no longer needed to physically restrain Rachel; his intensity was enough to hold her at bay for the moment.

  “He’s been sucking me dry for years, sucking my soul out, and leaving a husk. Mutilating my music and feeding his fortune with my fame. How can you be on his side after what he did to us last night?”

  “What we did, Billy. What we did last night.”

  Billy felt a growing revulsion for her. “He put something in that wine. He tried to kill me and make it look like an accident.”

  “Don’t overreact. We’re taking your creative process to extremes. Don’t back down now.”

  He took his hands off her and stepped back in horror. She lunged for the buttons, and he sloppily threw his weight against her, knocking her to the floor with him. A chair rolled across the room and crashed into the wall. The tape reels continued their slow revolution. Rachel found her feet again. She launched herself from the floor, threw the double doors open, and ran to the wooden support beam where the fire alarm was mounted.

  Billy couldn’t figure out what she was doing until she had already done it. As he watched her pull the alarm, he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. A siren rose from the vented metal box high in the steeple. It wailed across the silent woods.

  * * *

  Jake woke to the ringing of his phone. He plodded into the kitchen in the dark, and answered.

  “Jake, it’s Eddie.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The fire alarm went off at the church.”

  “Kay.”

  “Your client’s not answering the phone up there.”

  “Um… I’m going. Okay, I’m going. I’ll check it out.”

  “Thanks. I’d go myself, but you’re a lot closer. If it’s a false alarm, call the fire department right away and then call me.”

  “Got it.”

  “Go!”

  There was no fire Jake could see when his car jumped out of the snow-laden trees at the top of the hill. The church was dark. He exhaled hard; he'd expected to see the place ablaze, considering how things had been going. He left the engine running, headlights focused on the front door, and ran through the misty beams and into the church.

  The big room was empty. The siren blared overhead. In the murky light of the control room, Jake saw Billy standing at the tape machine. Several disturbing aspects of the scene struck him simultaneously. Red lights on the machine. Lots of them. All of them. Rachel strapped to his chair with what looked like an entire roll of duct tape. Racks of effects-processing gear overturned on the floor amid a litter of ashes and cigarette butts.

  Billy said, “I know what I’m doing, Jake. Go home.”

  “Stop him,” Rachel said. “You have to stop him! He already erased some of the tapes.”

  “Jesus, Billy, is that true?”

  “Two down, three to go.”

  Jake stabbed the STOP button on the remote tier. Nothing happened. The reels behind Billy kept rolling.

  “I unplugged it,” Billy said.

  “You can’t do this,” Jake said.

  “Sure I can. It’s my dime, right? It all comes out of my advance.”

  “Billy, I know you’re under a lot of stress. I know Rail’s a psycho, I truly do. But you’re right, you’re burning money, man. A lot of it. You’ve been here for two months filling those reels. You owe them a record. Don’t screw yourself.”

  “I’m done with my contract, whether anyone likes it or not, and it’s none of your business anyway.”

  “None of my business? Then what is my business? I’ve spent every waking hour on those songs. If you do this, I may never work again. For fuck’s sake, Billy. Please. Think about someone besides yourself for once.”

  Jake took a step forward.

  Billy swept up a razor blade from the surface of the tape machine and waved it back and forth in the space between them. “Get back!” he barked.

  Jake shifted his weight to the right and looked past Billy’s right arm, then lunged to the left. The feint wasn’t good enough. Billy brought the blade around, ripping Jake’s right forearm open with a ragged gash that traveled from four inches above the wrist all the way to the elbow before the half-dull blade fell from his grip.

  Blood sprayed the stainless steel face of the machine and splattered the meters. Jake fell to his knees and Rachel screamed. Billy stood back, eyes wide.

  Jake held the bleeding arm against his stomach, soaking his T-shirt through with blood. With his good arm, he reached up over his head and clawed at the big square buttons. There was a loud mechanical clack, and the tape stopped rolling.

  Billy’s eyes blinked rapidly and ticked from side to side. He looked like a trapped animal. Then he touched his smooth bare chest where droplets of Jake’s blood were running in little ribbons. It brought him back t
o his senses, and he ran to the bathroom to grab a heavy towel. He knelt beside Jake and stanched the wound.

  Rachel said, “Jesus, Billy, is that thing even clean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cut me out of this chair, so I can help.”

  Billy ignored her and kept pressure on the wound with both hands. Red roses bloomed on the plush white towel. Jake unclenched his teeth and spoke through white lips, “Call the fire department.”

  “What?”

  “Tell them not to come, there’s no fire. Button’s labeled on the speed dial.”

  When Billy was sure Jake could keep the pressure on by himself, he got up and made the call. Then he knelt beside Jake again and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to go down like this. I just lost it.”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  “Does it hurt a lot?”

  “Like a motherfucker. But I don’t think it’s deep. There’s a first-aid kit under the sink in the bathroom.”

  Billy ran for it.

  Rachel said to Jake, “You probably need stitches, you know. You shouldn’t have told him to call off the fire truck.”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  Jake got to his feet and staggered into the big room, holding his arm in what had become a bright red bundle, dripping blood on the floor every three steps. He typed a code into the keypad on the support beam. The siren stopped abruptly, its echo circulating in the rafters a second longer. He sat down at the picnic table in the kitchenette. Billy came in and laid the first-aid kit on the table, sat astride the bench, and popped the latches on the little metal box.

  Jake winced as he pulled the towel away from the wound. It was a good gash; there was no denying that. If the blade had been sharper, he might have been better off, but it was one that he had used a few times to splice tape. Billy got busy cleaning and dressing the cut with trembling hands and fierce concentration. Jake pondered the fact that magnetic tape was made mostly of rust particles. Would that mean he might need a tetanus shot? He guessed not.