Full Tilt (Rock Star Chronicles)

by Creston Mapes

  “What makes them good? Tell me!” He thrust a finger at the Bible. “Is it ’cause she gave you a book?”

  “They care about people like us. People who don’t care about them or deserve to be loved.”

  “It wasn’t always that way and you know it.”

  “Well, it is now.”

  “Oh, and that means we automatically forget how he left David high and dry? Misled him? The poor kid was crazy! He thought he was going to another world! And you just want to let it go?”

  Wesley’s insides were churning like the pistons in a roaring engine.

  “Uncle Everett’s sorry. They both are.”

  “Sorry ain’t good enough.”

  “Oh, what a jerk. You’ve never made mistakes? What more do you want them to do?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  He could almost hear the voice, the one in the wall, calling itself Vengeance.

  Maybe that’s what he wanted. Maybe he wanted Everett Lester to pay.

  Back downstairs Wesley stalled, fearing the dreaded voice would come calling again when he returned to his apartment. He pulled the fridge door open, lighting up his parents’ kitchen. Nothing appealed. He meandered to the front door, staring out at what many would call “the perfect home.” Little did they know.

  He headed for the den to take one more peek in on his dad. Putting his face up to the light, he peered through the crack. But he got too close and the door opened about four inches, squeaking slightly. He turned and crept away.

  “Wes?” his dad called.

  Wesley froze, then turned around slowly.

  His dad stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the den.

  “What is it, son?” He turned sideways and raised his arm toward the inside of the room. “You want to come in?”

  Wesley walked toward him and hesitantly stepped into the room.

  “Buddy, what’d you do to your eye?”

  “Some kind of rash.” Wesley pulled his sleeve over his wrist. “It’s been itching. No biggie.”

  His dad examined him, up and down, slowly—but not too closely. “It looks really bad. Maybe you need to go see Dr. Wegryn. He may want to give you some steroids or something to knock that out, whatever it is.”

  Wesley shrugged, just to give him some kind of feedback. He eyed his dad’s face. “What happened? The cuts?”

  Dad sloughed it off. “Some pickpocket tried to lift my wallet on the subway.”

  “And.”

  “I tried to fight him off. Other people helped. He took off.”

  “Did you get the wallet?”

  “Yeah, luckily.”

  Wesley looked at the TV, which made his dad fix his gaze back to ESPN also.

  “Ohio State–Michigan.” Dad sat back down on the ottoman. “Sold out in Columbus. Nineteen thousand, two hundred people. It’s halftime.”

  “Who’s winning?”

  “Buckeyes, but not by enough.” He laughed.

  Wesley took a seat on the couch as the third quarter got under way.

  “Yeah, sit.” His dad shot him a glance, then was drawn back to the tube. “Come on now, Buckeyes, break this thing open.” He reached for his drink, but it was empty, so he set it back on the wet ring. “This kid Poorman is playing a heck of a game. He’s hit, like, four three-pointers.”

  Wesley couldn’t care less. His knees bounced. He examined the dried blood on the inside of his elbow.

  What are you doing here, anyway? “That’s enough for me.” He rose from the couch.

  Dad’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. “You just sat down.”

  “I know. I’m beat.”

  “Okay, my man.” His dad gave him a momentary look. “Sleep well.”

  Wesley stood there for a moment, saddened by the cold but familiar reality that he’d received the extent of his father’s attention. “’Night,” he said, as his dad cursed at an Ohio State turnover.

  Wesley headed toward his apartment.

  For once, I wish we could just sit and talk. No TV, no newspaper, no rushing out the door. Just talk. Is that so much to ask? Maybe I could even tell him how scared I am. Of the grip this drug has on me. Of the voices. Maybe he could even convince me I’m not losing my mind.

  17

  EVEN THOUGH THE SHADES were drawn, light had filtered its way into the master bedroom at Twin Streams by the time Karen finally awoke Sunday morning. Before she even opened her eyes, she was back out in the yard the night before, gawking at the baby Jesus figure and the haunting words in red, pouring out her soul to the police, and watching them take pictures and drive away with the evidence in tow.

  A blanket of desperation covered her body. Oh, how she wished her infertility were only a bad dream. But she was awake enough to realize that was not the case. Perhaps God would change His mind and knit Everett’s baby together in her womb.

  Oh, Lord, please, let me get pregnant, someday, some way…

  She lay still, listening to the furnace chugging along—as it had all night—trying its best to keep the somewhat drafty old house warm during the New York cold snap. With a harsh cough, Karen swallowed back the pain in her throat and noticed how dry the insides of her nose and mouth had become overnight. She opened her eyes, and Everett wasn’t on his side of the bed.

  I hope he’s making coffee.

  But he was supposed to be at church. She shot up and looked at the time. “Ev?”

  A white piece of paper was folded up next to her clock. “Karen” was written on the outside. She unfolded it.

  Good morning, babe!

  I couldn’t wake you. You needed the rest. Be strong in the Lord. Everything’s going to be okay. We’ll find out more soon.

  The coffee’s on, and I’m headed for the first service. I’m nervous but excited. Say a prayer for me, if you’re up in time. I’ll see you at the second service. We can sit together after my song. Stay warm. Be careful; the roads might be icy.

  Love ya,

  Ev

  Karen was glad she’d slept in. She stretched and yawned, relishing the light and the hope of a new day. “Father in heaven,” she prayed, eyes closed and hands lifted, “let Your Spirit flow through Ev this morning. Give him peace. Let him feel Your love. And, dear God, let the words and music penetrate people’s souls. Also, protect us from evil…”

  Putting on her robe and slippers, Karen greeted Rosey in the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee. Everett made it strong, and she had come to like it that way. Rosey remained sitting at attention by the refrigerator, looking deprived. Karen went over to her bowl, bent down, and felt it—still slimy.

  “You rascal.” Karen snickered at the dog. “You really are the Pretender. Daddy already fed you, and you know it.” The Pretender was a nickname Rosey’s breeders had given the collie, because she pulled the same “deprived” trick on them when she was a pup. Karen sidestepped the memories of Millie that sought to fill her mind.

  The red needle on the thermometer outside the bay window pointed to seven degrees. “Brrrr.” She let Rosey out, feeling her stomach turn slightly when she saw the spot where the baby Jesus figure had been returned, and beyond that, out to the ridge and Millie’s fresh grave.

  Even Rosey appeared somewhat shocked by the quiet cold as she walked gingerly on the icy grass, did her business quickly, and made a beeline for the back door.

  The Bedford Post was on the island in the kitchen, still in its clear, wet plastic bag. Karen got it out and took it to the kitchen table. Although she didn’t need to clip coupons anymore, it was a habit and something she enjoyed doing as she went through the Sunday paper. Fifteen minutes and a second mug of coffee into her review of the paper, she zeroed in on a story in the local section under the heading “Police Reports.”

  In-Store Detective Attacked at Wal-Mart

  WHITE PLAINS—An in-store detective for the local Wal-Mart is in stable condition after being assaulted in the parking lot of the store Friday evening when he confronted two would-be shop
lifters as they left the store.

  One of the two suspects kicked the detective in the throat while the other ran for a white GMC Yukon, in which the two escaped. During the fray, the attacker dropped several boxes of cold medicine, the ingredients of which are commonly used to “cook” the fastest-growing social drug in America: methamphetamine.

  The men were described as Caucasian, in their early twenties, and both about five feet ten inches tall and of average weight. The attacker wore a black trench coat and gray stocking cap while the driver was wearing a baggy green army jacket.

  She pulled back and stared in disbelief at the headline again.

  Wesley.

  All she could think about was the day before. Him scaring her from behind in the basement, then plopping down on the couch in his apartment—wearing a wet green army jacket.

  Karen checked the wall clock. She couldn’t disturb Everett now. Adding some coffee to her mug, she went to the desk in the den, got on the Internet, and searched for methamphetamines. Within seconds, she was scanning feature stories, drug prevention sites, and law enforcement pages—and with each item she read, an alarm rang louder in her ears.

  Meth could be smoked, swallowed, injected, or snorted. The powerful stimulant actually overwhelmed the brain, spinal cord, and central nervous system. The intense high users got could last days and usher with it chilling side effects, such as extreme paranoia, frantic physical activity, a false sense of power, unpredictable rage, heart failure, and even suicide.

  Karen was glued to the computer as time flew. With each website she visited, she uncovered more explanation about Wesley’s eerie behavior and more confirmation about what she’d seen in his basement.

  Meth labs didn’t take up much room and could easily be set up in apartments, sheds, motel rooms, barns, garages, vacant buildings, vehicles, and yes, in basements. The drug could be cooked in as little as three hours using everyday household products.

  Karen wanted more coffee but couldn’t pull herself away from the wellspring of information being illuminated before her eyes. After some almost frantic searching, she finally drilled down to a page that offered police photographs and—BAM—the images hit her like a locomotive. Meth supplies, meth pipes, and meth labs. The pictures may as well have been taken in Wesley’s apartment.

  Karen glanced at the grandfather clock. Time to get ready for church soon. She began down another rabbit trail. Searching specifically under “meth explosion,” she was blown away by the results.

  The websites of TV stations and newspapers all over the country popped up—reporting up-to-the-minute instances of meth lab explosions. In many stories, the people involved were badly burned, maimed, and even killed, while the lucky ones were in shock or slightly injured.

  The deadline Karen had set for herself to get offline was just three minutes away. The last story she found explored some of the utterly sick things people had been known to do while flying high on meth. One user outside Chicago parked his car on train tracks to commit suicide but fled the scene on foot at the last minute, causing the commuter train to ram his car, killing eight people on board. Another small party of users in Oregon got lost in the woods during a snowstorm; they were so discombobulated that they couldn’t describe to 911 operators where they were, and all perished.

  Other “tweekers” committed dastardly acts that hurt others, like throwing babies from moving vehicles and locking children in attics. One of the strangest accounts was of a group of young users in California who actually pierced their shoulders with meat hooks and dangled their tattooed bodies from bamboo tripods off a local sandbar, all in the name of “fun.”

  When Karen arose from the computer, she was light-headed. Her coffee was cold and so was her heart. She set her cup in the sink, stopped, and stared out at the cold white landscape. The pages of David’s journal came back to her, as did his desperate cries for help. She wanted desperately to speak with Everett, but she couldn’t. So Karen headed for the bedroom to get ready for church.

  Although Everett had grown accustomed to having all eyes on him as the lead singer of DeathStroke, it didn’t help when he was about to jam before six hundred onlookers at his church. In fact, he wanted to crawl within himself and hide.

  The place was decked out for Christmas with poinsettias and greenery, candles, and a large manger scene. Karen had come in several minutes ago and sat about fifteen rows back.

  Everett’s stomach gurgled as he made himself smile at the blur of faces, took a seat on the wooden stool, and adjusted the microphone in front of him. Yes, people were watching, but they weren’t just any people—they were Christians.

  He’d checked himself in the mirror just before going on, making sure the baggy long-sleeve top he wore covered his remaining tattoos, and that his hair was just right.

  But they still knew his story.

  As their eyes bored into him, were they judging him for his seedy past? Did they really believe a sinner like him could be one of them? Were they waiting for him to slip up, to say or play something “ungodly”?

  Everett forced a smile, nodded a hello, and adjusted his acoustic guitar. As a hushed sense of anticipation blanketed the sanctuary, another jolt of anxiety rocked him. He folded inward, frightened, as if he were perched on a ledge atop an eighty-story building. He couldn’t seem to look beyond three feet from his face. He wanted to be anyplace but here.

  He searched for his sister’s words like a heart patient grasping for nitroglycerin.

  “God made you precisely the person you are.”

  His eyes found a boy sitting with the youth group, near the front.

  “For His purpose.”

  Arms crossed. Head down. Black T-shirt.

  “Don’t worry about what anyone else thinks.”

  Curly, bleached-blond hair on top, shaved sides.

  “Be yourself, Everett Lester.”

  Earrings.

  “Meet them right where they are.”

  Chains.

  “Share with them.”

  Tattoos.

  “They’ll listen to you.”

  “Whoever you are,” Everett moved the mike slightly, and his deep voice echoed, “we’re glad you’re here.”

  “Be transparent.”

  “Before I became a Christian, I was the leader of a band called DeathStroke.” Mention of the band brought a smattering of laughter. “Ah, some of you have heard of it.” A sense of relief came with the laughter.

  “During my years with the band, I thought I was something special, someone very powerful. The world made me feel extremely important.” He took an anxious breath. “Since then, though, I’ve learned something I believe God wants each one of us to understand. And that is, we’re nothing without Him.”

  The truth of Mary’s words was seeping in, taking hold.

  “Life is fragile, guys. Think about it. Our bodies are nothing but flesh and blood, bones and water. We breathe and walk and run and laugh—we are sustained minute by minute because He says so.”

  A hum of verbal agreement arose throughout the auditorium. He looked around, low and high, in silence; even shading his eyes to see the faces surrounding him, looking back at him with love and care and a sense of anticipation.

  “I wrote this song in prison when I was on trial for murder. It’s all about this realization that He is everything and I am in awe of Him.”

  He closed his eyes and began strumming. “Many of the words and ideas for this song come from the book of Job. Job says, if God determined to do so, if He should gather up His spirit and His breath, all flesh would perish and man would return to dust. Imagine that. God’s indescribable. Close your eyes and listen. This song is called ‘Now I See You.’”

  Working the strings hard and fast, the song came alive—sharper, richer, louder. Everett’s head and shoulders bobbed with the music. The vibration of the acoustic strings filled the room like a melodious fountain, bringing a smile to his face. At that moment, Everett knew it wasn’t him playing,
and it wasn’t his voice that thundered so deep and strong.

  Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundations?

  When I said to the sea,

  “Come this far and stop right there”?

  Have you ever in your life

  said, “Let it be morning”?

  Or caused the sun to set in its place?

  What about the rain—who’s its father?

  Hey, who put wisdom deep inside?

  Can you bind the chains of the constellations?

  Can you loose the cords on all the stars?

  I lay my hand on my mouth.

  I am insignificant.

  Insignificant.

  I had heard of you with my ears,

  But now I see You,

  Now I see You,

  For who You are,

  For who You are…

  You are marvelous and mighty,

  You are the King of kings,

  You are far beyond description,

  You alone can do all things.

  You are the Maker and the Ruler,

  The God of heaven and earth.

  You are Father of all creation,

  You gave me second birth.

  Now I see You,

  Now I see You,

  Coming in the clouds,

  A whirlwind in the night.

  Now I see You,

  Now I see You,

  Father of all nations,

  The One who gives me life.

  It wasn’t until the song was finished that Everett opened his eyes and looked around. Every person was standing. Many of the faces glistened with tears. He found Karen in the audience on her tiptoes, waving like a schoolgirl, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. Then he turned to the boy in the black T-shirt. He wasn’t clapping, but he was standing, and his eyes were fixed on Everett.

  Touch that boy, Lord. Draw him close.

  Setting his guitar on a stand, he joined Karen amid the congregation. They hugged. “It was awesome.” She squeezed his hand as the worship team took the stage.

  “Thanks,” he whispered. “You okay?”