A Haunting of Horrors: A Twenty-Novel eBook Bundle of Horror and the Occult

by Chet Williamson

  She was prepared for the accusation as well as she could be. “How professional are you, Burt, when it comes to love? To your marriage to Diana? People talk about not falling in love because they’ve gotten burned at it. They get fanatic about it. They vow never to fall in love again as though they had some kind of control over it! And the people who succeed in turning off their emotions turn to ashes inside. If you try to impose rules and logic on a process like that, you make yourself a little bit dead. How logical is anyone, for christsake, when it comes to getting married or having kids? I’m not a machine. I knew what I was doing, and I felt justified. Maybe I’m a little screwed up myself. Yeah, even doctors have problems—so sue me. But I’m not crazy. So just who the flick do you want me to apologize to?” It was gushing out of her in a torrent now, all her own poisonous recriminations about her shattered past. Lucas had helped to heal some of that… and now Lucas was rotting away right before her shocked eyes, leaving her alone again. “A bunch of little disasters got together and made a great big disaster. We’re all to blame, Burt. Even you. If you and Lucas were such tight asshole buddies, how come you never whiffed a thing?

  You’re to blame, and I’m to blame, and Kristen’s to blame for dying, and Cory’s to blame for being such a cunt. For all I know, it was her unending cruelty that was the initial catalyst. Lucas didn’t fall, Burt—he was pushed. And even the poor fuckers in that has-been rock group are culpable. Assigning blame isn’t going to solve the problem by a millimeter. That’s rule number one in even the most elementary analysis. You have to fix what’s broken and figure out who broke it later!” She trembled now with a kind of righteous anger. “All that matters now is finding out the truth. And if any of what I’ve told you is correct, then just maybe you and I can prevent a murder or two!”

  She smacked the chair arm, and the Salem butt somersaulted from the ashtray and bounced, scattering orange sparks across the rug. Burt jumped to help Sara kill the smoldering particles chewing their way into the nap. It was comically mundane. The tension between them was vented in an instant.

  “Okay. Okay.” He was consciously controlling his tone. “I apologize. No vituperation.” He seemed contrite, and she watched his large, muscular hands knead each other. “I always thought it was uncanny, the way Lucas in particular could turn it on and off. Seemed like a lot more control than was ever necessary.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Uh—the carpet, either.” Her own voice had become timid and apologetic.

  “My mind—assuming I’m not crazy, too—cannot accept on any rational level how someone as radically changed as you suggest Lucas might be could appear so goddamned normal. And now you tell me it is normal. But if you’re right, if even a degree of what you say is true, then we’ve got to find him. And quick. We may not think exactly alike, Sara, but I think we’re after the same thing. I want him to be saved, and you want him to be helped.”

  “Close enough,” she said. “If I’m wrong, then I’ll be embarrassed as hell. That I can live with. I might be crippled professionally.” She flashed on the thought that one more emotional handicap, in her current state, wouldn’t increase her load an ounce. “However, if I’m right and we do nothing, the authorities will just scream ‘coincidence!’ until everyone in that band is dead meat. Worth the risk, I say. Put Lucas in your own place, Burt. Would you have you tilt at a friendship that way?”

  “I’d insist he kick my butt, if that was what I needed.” He drained his second mugful of spiked coffee. It had gone tepid. “Lucas has always been straight with me. I’d get mad if he didn’t consider our friendship worth the risk of pissing me off.”

  “That’s all I need to hear.” Burt didn’t need the history of her own emotional pecadillos right now.

  “Good,” said Burt. “Let’s get going, then.”

  “Going?”

  He smoothed his trousers. “Up to Point Pitt. That’s what you wanted me for, right? To find Lucas’ hiding place? Well, we can find out where his cabin is from the rangers. Let’s find out now. I hate waiting for anything. I mean it. You and I can drive up there tonight. One sleeps while the other drives. Go on—put together an overnight bag. If you’re really serious about this.” His mind was locking into a chosen groove of action. Preparations he could handle automatically, and better than almost anything. It was mechanical, and less painful than further poking and prodding.

  Sara felt a reactionary urge to protest, but that was overshadowed by a rush of relief. She had an ally. Her body impelled her toward the stairs while her mind raced through a catalog of the things she would need. She was smiling, though grimly.

  Burt’s voice stopped her on the threshold of the kitchen. “Sara?”

  “Yes?”

  “I hope we get up there and find him roasting marshmallows or something over a campfire. And I hope he laughs in our faces.”

  16

  Lucas looked down and saw at least a hundred Smokey Bear hats. He could not see where he was placing his feet, nor could he hear the sound of his careful steps on the flat black metal of the catwalk.

  His feet were invisible because he was dressed in black down to the neoprene soles on his boots. He was deaf because even with earplugs, the sound flooding toward him from below was more than loud. It was internecine, fatal both to those putting it out and those receiving it.

  ‘Gasm’s concert opener was “Barbed Wire Babes,” a tune from their forthcoming album, as yet untitled. The pulsating onslaught of the music vibrated the metal of the webwork of girders and support cables and access walks. This maintenance maze was designed to be invisible from below and hugged the black ceiling of the Arena at the Tucson Community Center. It was lit up only when the amphitheater floor was devoid of patrons, lit for lighting setups, or special effects, or the adjustments attendant to the conversion of the arena floor from concrete pit to a million-dollar plastic basketball court. Only technicians and some janitors ever ventured onto the precarious complex of singing wires and lurching catwalks. None were foolhardy enough to try it during a full-scale atomic-holocaust rockshow. When it was required—like the time Pink Floyd had insisted that artificial snow be dumped on the heads of the audience during an encore of “Echoes,” the techs wore climbing harnesses and snap-ringed safety leads. It was easier than it looked, to be shaken off that catwalk while a rock and roll P.A. system was bombarding the arena with noise that threatened the structural integrity of the building.

  Below Lucas, far below, the sold-out crowd was SRO—more than standing. Squashed together. A still life of a stampede. The bodies and faces formed an aggregate, like plankton in a rolling ocean, totally indistinct as people, a swaying, amorphous mass. There were at least a hundred Pima County sheriffs on duty; Lucas could pick out the tan circlets of their hats, and he suspected most of them were watching very carefully, hoping to spot a crazed assassin of rockstars. They milled around the central crush of bodies filling the open-floor, festival-seating area like languid antibodies around an enormous white blood cell. Some covered their ears against the music and grinned at each other.

  How ’bout these stupid kids, huh?

  Lucas looked ahead and down, to where the members of ’Gasm leapt and rampaged and posed on the curving stage, the body-building physiques and the spread-legged stances of Marvel Comics super-heros made flesh and granted motion. Their output rattled not only the auditorium, but the city block on which the auditorium stood.

  From his high vantage on the stage-right catwalk, Lucas could only perceive jumping shapes. He already knew who they were by position.

  Hogging center stage, trussed up in bondage harnesses to flaunt his chest fur, was Pepper “Mad Max” Hartz, in spandex tights, buccaneer boots, studs, and wristbands. His spring-loaded chromium dildo waited inside its special codpiece slot, an Alien ready to burst from its egg and do its bit. For this concert, Hartz’s hair had been punked out into oily spikes with a blood-red streak. When he shrieked, the mike stand seemed to recoil.

  Stage rig
ht, parallel with Lucas but at an extreme forty-five-degree angle to his position, was Rick Hicks —”rhythm guitar, temple blocks, and white noise,” according to the sleeve of Pain Threshold. That was a lie, too. Hicks chorded the bass line in an altered, static key. He was not playing rhythm or contributing texture; he was adding volume. His job, along with that of the bassist and drummer, was the AC/DC bottom line—a tidal wave of four-four sound, period. Hicks’ part was boring enough to give him plenty of latitude for onstage antics and elaborate flourishes intended to hide the fact that he knew maybe three keys in toto. He capered in and out of his spotlight, wearing black leather dunnage jazzed up with chains and a doggie collar.

  Stationed far stage left was Texas McClanahan, tucked behind his bastille of keyboard equipment. Miles of wires webbed synthesizer to mellotron to electric piano. Texas had been a big fan of Rick Wakeman and resisted the technology that could combine most of his variations into a single keyboard. All Lucas could see of him was his wildly bopping head, which enthusiastically jogged up and down to the beat, though not the song itself.

  After a sustain that held and held and held, like a chainsaw ripping through a log, the band leapfrogged directly into “Rock Rocket” from Primal Scream.

  Between Texas and Hartz were the targets.

  Tracking to the left of Texas, Lucas picked out bass player Tim Fozzetto. His area of movement extended from the keyboards, behind Hartz, past the drum set, and halfway to where Rick Hicks was jumping around.

  Fozzetto was sheathed in an ebony jumpsuit with a weightlifter cut in the front. Bands of holographic foil twined around his thighs and wound down to the tops of his silver space boots. He teetered on at least six inches of platform heel; maybe Kiss had had a garage sale. He was stroking a long, mean-looking Fender fretless bass, pumping forth a growling low-frequency mimic of the riff Rick Hicks was diligently copying. Fozzetto’s hair was a rag-cut rat’s nest of bleached white, making him an easy pick-off.

  Fozzetto strutted past the drum riser, planted in its traditional upstage center post. Behind a dental staircase of octave drums, Jackal Reichmann tortured his monster kit with the sadistic glee of a demented nine-year-old setting fire to an anthill. He was completely surrounded by drums. There was a double bass, three different floor toms, and a flat set of yellow Syn-drums wired in as well. It was like the vast control panel of an alien spaceship. Behind him on a trellis depended five bronze gongs in ascending sizes, plus a sheet of tin to bang on for good measure. Another rack, at a right angle to the first, held squeeze-bulb horns, cowbells, brass chimes, a xylodrum, other percussives. Hovering above, struts extended to the ridiculous popstar height espoused by good old Keith Moon, were the cymbals, at least a dozen golden UFOs. Reichmann loved them to death. He was clad in tight white leather bikini panties, white leather jackboots that reached to his knees, and an assortment of armbands from shoulders to wrists. He had given up the mohawk Lucas had seen on the back cover of Pain Threshold in favor of a weird loose crop that flowed around his head like seaweed underwater. To achieve the kind of hard beat ’Gasm needed to back up Hartz’s guitar madman act, Reichmann could have done as well pounding on a trash-can lid.

  The song ground to a finish, and Reichmann stood up, banging his sticks together one-two-three-four, inciting the crowd to put its hands together for the segue into “Love Torpedo,” ’Gasm’s first FM hit. The first of three, as Chic Garris, manager of On the Brink, might have put it. Same beat, same pace. The audience went bananas. Lucas supposed that rock fans in Tucson would clap for any damned thing. Some self-proclaimed music critic would write the whole genocidal mess up for tomorrow morning’s edition of the Arizona Daily Star, and if anything was more excruciating than the dreck reeled out by ’Gasm, it was the bilge that always sprouted by the column inch in the papers, courtesy of some talentless refugee of the University of Arizona’s journalism department.

  A working-class metal act, ’Gasm was not entitled to a gig inside the Community Center’s “acoustically perfect” Music Hall. That was too prestige. ’Gasm’s promoters wanted a venue that could be hosed down after the show, like the tiled interior of an Australian pub. ’Gasm was also, in the promoter’s words, “too category,” which meant they lacked the muscle to sell out a reserved-seating concert. Half the seats would be empty at showtime, and that was embarrassing. Better to lower the price than raise it and bank on ticket turnover instead of high-priced status. The result of this thinking milled below, jostling cattle awaiting not a slaughter, but perhaps a sacrifice.

  It was a mock war. The band had to get the audience off. If they succeeded, the prize was acceptance. If they lost, if the fans refused to be impressed, then retaliation could assume a thousand ugly shapes.

  “Love Torpedo” ended. Lucas mouthed Pepper Hartz’s words soundlessly as he asked if the audience felt all right. In the roar that surged forth in response, they ran through the intro to a longish tune called “Agent Orange Blues.” Fozzetto, as it turned out, could stroke a pretty fair blues foundation when liberated from ’Gasm’s smash-your-head persona.

  Penetrating the Arena was an operation that had required Lucas to leave his room at the Holiday Inn (formerly the Marriott and, before that, Braniff Place) in the predawn and spend part of the day camped out on the roof of the Tucson Community Center building itself. He’d had to duck an idly probing helicopter searchlight or two after the sun fell and showtime rolled near. Security at the arena’s entrances was unreal. The sheriffs patted down all ticketholders, removing dope and liquor, a scut duty usually relegated to the ushers. But they were also searching for grenades, or switchblades, or Saturday Night Specials. A lot of people had raised hell, and the anti-authority mood was suitably ugly. Some raised hell because they didn’t like giving up their weapons. Almost everyone had seen the news, and many were here in the hope of witnessing a tragedy. The band sensed this, and it had not provided for a spontaneous, warm rapport. At first the audience was howling because it had filled the arena, and it was hungry. Once the music started, they seemed to forget about the death factor, and it became more like a run-of-the-mill heavy metal show. The response ’Gasm had gotten to the intro to “Agent Orange Blues” demonstrated that.

  Lucas had cut a hatchway in one of the rooftop industrial air-conditioning ducts, using a pair of duckbilled tin snips. He dropped in his nylon bundle, followed, and bent the metal shut behind him. The vents were three-by-three tunnels of aluminum. Lucas clambered about the system until his penlight and architectural sketches told him he was where he needed to be, and then he snipped himself another hole. He had spent the duration of the opening act, a band modestly dubbed the Nuclear War Babies, stretched out in the rush of cool air within the vent, eating a tuna-salad sandwich and sucking on a collapsible carton of grape juice. Then he eased through and landed silently on the catwalk. Being up top amplified the sense of distance to the concrete floor, which looked as if it were a hundred feet straight down. Actually, he was nearly level with the uppermost row of balcony seating, which was so far behind him it was not a consideration. His invisibility was guaranteed. His black clothing made him a ghost on the far side of the bright lights. He felt queerly like the Red Death sneaking into the Bal Masque.

  Each ’Gasm album was a solid carload of five minute long cuts, which meant their live versions of the same songs ran seven to eight minutes. Rock bands aware of their own limitations tend to milk each tune for all the solo spots and fooling around they could squeeze in. As the obligatory blues tune “Agent Orange” droned on for nearly thirteen minutes, during which Hartz’s true skill as a guitarist became wincingly evident. He posed, picking a single note forty-two times—playing not his guitar, but his audience, which grew more frenzied with each simple pluck. Jackal Reichmann, dusting his kit in a time signature way too lethargic to hold his attention, nearly dozed off while playing.

  Lucas never took his eyes off the band except to spot-check the empty catwalk behind him. He unzipped the nylon satchel and drew ou
t the Dragunov sniper’s rifle. A small cardboard box sealed with gaffer’s tape was affixed to the right side above the trigger guard. It would contain the expended shell casings as they were spit out by the Kalishnikov rotating-bolt breech, the efficient system that was the heart of the Soviet Union’s number-one field weapon, the AK-47 automatic. The magazine and scope were already in place. The box had occurred to Lucas during his session of spin/sight/shoot in the forest. It would not do to have his brass raining down on the heads of the crowd as he gave them what they were really waiting for. This way was better. Less evidence.

  The sound pounding out of the massive Marshall amps was beyond description. It made Lucas’ face buzz, made him squint and grit his teeth. It was like being sandblasted. The bass line thudded inside his chest, compressing his lungs; the catwalk shook like a palsied dinosaur beneath him. He thought of the muscles needed to hold down a madly pistoning jackhammer. The physical challenge here was the same. Rock ‘n’ roll had come a long way from Chuck Berry… technologically speaking.

  In his mind, he previewed the panic below.

  He had allotted himself a generous fifteen seconds to take out both targets following his first shot. It would require another thirty seconds or so to backtrack to the hole in the ductwork and climb through. Once in the duct he would resheath the Dragunov. The Arena bowl was seated in a man-made crater that put the bottom floor underground, but the roof of the building was still several stories up. The fire ladder Lucas had climbed up was not a viable escape route. It was not on the building’s dark side. Lucas assumed there would be people watching it—later—so he had packed a light claw-hook-and-nylon grappling line. What was the joke the paratroops used in jump school? It’s not the fall that kills you, it’s the sudden stop. His physique was reliable enough to risk a fast downward rappel. Better to sprain his leg in a fall than get nailed on the fire ladder or gunned down while sprinting across one of the Community Center’s football-field-sized parking lots. After that it was back to the hotel, and his room. The airplane sequence was virtually the same as it had been in Denver. This time, he had flown first class as Dexter Hayworth, a salesman of photographic supplies. His heavy suitcase was full of X-ray-sensitive film and plates. This precaution had been unneeded; American Airlines had checked the case through without nosing into its contents. Lucas had guessed correctly that there was no danger of anyone hijacking a flight from Oakland to Tucson International, anyway. That would take a real nut.