Full Tilt (Rock Star Chronicles)

by Creston Mapes

  “Give it time. I thought the same, but the cravings are going away a little more each day.”

  “I can’t function outside this sanctuary without meth, okay? No matter what the lecturers say.”

  “Well, with that attitude—”

  “Hey, I’m just bein’ honest. My issues…they’re gonna drive me to it.”

  “You gotta let all that go.” She chuckled. “I’ve been reading my Bible a little bit.”

  “Don’t even go there, Cass. I’ve got a mess on my hands. My family’s had it with me.”

  “They’re still going to love you.”

  “I’ve made enemies of some relatives…”

  “What’d you do?”

  “Pulled a gun on my aunt, among other things.”

  She rested a hand atop his shoulder. “You know, Wesley, people can be pretty understanding. Especially if you go to them and say you’re sorry.”

  “I got friends outside here.” He exhaled loudly. “One in particular. He’s gonna drag me down.”

  “Not if you say no. Not if you stop the relationship. That’s what I’m gonna do.”

  He smirked. “You don’t know this guy. He’s a psycho.”

  “You know what? I don’t buy it. I don’t think any of those things are what’s really worrying you.” She stood, crossed her arms, and looked out at the rain. “Do you want a Coke or something? Coffee? Candy?”

  “Whaddya mean by that?”

  “I mean, I think there’s something else bugging you.” She peered down at him. “Something you’re afraid of. And it haunts you so bad, you feel like you’re always gonna need meth to hide from it.”

  He gripped the wheels of his chair and rolled it back and forth slightly. “What gives you the right… How is it you think you know so much about me?”

  She turned back to the window and laughed. “Well, just think about what I said. Maybe you’ll face reality someday, after I’m gone.”

  “I didn’t know they hired you as one of the counselors.” He dropped his head to his chest and shook it, then looked back up at her. “Whaddya say we drop this and go find me a smoke?”

  She continued to scan Long Island Sound for what must have been a minute, then turned to him with a close-mouthed smile and stepped behind him to take the handles of his wheelchair. She exaggerated a grunt and backed him away from the window. As the chair swiveled and his view of the rainy night disappeared, he pondered what Cassidy had said, about the fear—about the haunting.

  The meth he’d sold to his brother, the fact that he’d played a part in David’s death, it ate at him. Was it real—the guilt? Was he at fault for ending his brother’s life? Wesley had lived in such a wasteland since the grim day the Camaro crashed, he really couldn’t decipher truth from falsehood. All he knew was, Vengeance continued to speak to him, assuring him that if he would end his Uncle Everett’s life, all his sins would be erased. And, perhaps, Wesley could be a human being again.

  But he didn’t want to kill, didn’t want to hurt anyone. Not really. The meth was in his system, part of him. Distorting things. Causing the voices. Messing up his family. And even as he glided down the peaceful hallway lined with Christmas cards, tiny lights, and tinsel in one of the finest treatment facilities in the country, Wesley knew deep down he would never kick the meth.

  Never.

  Once the Monte Carlo turned off Cross County Parkway, nothing was familiar to Everett. The blue car made a series of turns on main highways and back roads, and all Everett could do was follow and try to catch the name of a street here and there.

  On and off, the skies opened up, and he was forced to flick his wiper blades to high as he struggled to follow Badino’s car without being spotted. He sensed they were heading north, running parallel to the Hudson, and kept peering out the driver’s side window, certain he would see the river. They just passed a city college and a small park, and he saw the shimmering water beyond.

  The Monte Carlo reduced its speed and hit a series of dark backstreets. Everett’s chest tightened. He was the only car left behind them, which forced him to drop way back. As he did, he reached for the cell phone, opened it, and dialed 911.

  “911. What is your emergency?”

  “I need to report some suspicious activity.”

  “Go ahead, sir.”

  “An older-model Monte Carlo, blue, just got off Cross County Parkway, and it’s near the river, headed north on Warton Avenue, I believe.”

  “What’s going on, sir? What’s the car doing?”

  “The drivers are using methamphetamines. In the trunk is a duffel bag. It’s got bloody clothes in it. And I believe there’s a dead body in the trunk. I’m following. I’ve got to go now. I’ll call back.”

  “Sir, what is your—?”

  Everett turned off the phone, tossed it on the seat beside him, and slowed to a crawl. The Monte Carlo must have been moving at less than ten miles per hour. The rain plastered the leather top of the Audi, reminding Everett of the time he and Eddie had camped out as boys.

  A fierce thunderstorm had arisen, pelting the canvas tent with rain. Neither his mother nor his father even checked on them. Everett could almost taste that same fear and vulnerability as he squinted through the blurry windshield and kept driving.

  He couldn’t continue much longer like this, on these desolate roads, or Badino and company would realize they were being followed. Everett cut his headlights, and the second he did, the Monte Carlo stopped, dead in the middle of the street. And so did his heart.

  Opening his window slightly, Everett pushed his head against the splattering rain and listened. He could only keep his wipers on intermittent, because he didn’t want the creeps to hear him back here.

  Both doors of the Monte Carlo banged open at the same time. Everett was ready to bolt, but no, they hadn’t seen him. Tony raced around the driver’s door to the front of the car in the path of its headlights and fell to his knees, his long, hunched shadow extending eerily into the night.

  Meanwhile, the tall guy opened the trunk, ripped out the duffel bag, and ran it around to the front of the car where Tony was crouched over. The tall guy dropped the duffel and bent to help. Together, they pulled and jerked at the pavement.

  What the…

  A manhole cover. They lifted it and set it aside. In a split second, the duffel bag was gone—into the hole. Then both men dashed to the back of the car, one on each side. Leaning into the trunk, the tall guy muscled the limp body under the armpits out of the trunk. Tony locked his arms around the knees and lifted.

  Everett found it difficult to take a breath. He snatched the phone and hit redial.

  “911. What’s your emergency?”

  “I just called a minute ago,” he whispered frantically. “Blue Monte Carlo. Warton Avenue. They’re dumping a body in the sewer system. Hurry!”

  With the sagging corpse between them, Tony and the tall guy took small, fast steps around the passenger door into the dreamlike path of the headlights. It took but a few seconds, and the man was gone. Ploop. Headfirst into the hole.

  Within seconds, the lid was back on, the red brake lights flashed, and the car was moving.

  God help me.

  Everett zipped the Audi to within a few feet of the manhole cover and waited till the Monte Carlo was out of sight. Jerking the parking brake and finding the door handle, he raced into the rain.

  On soaking knees he fought the heavy lid from its hole. So heavy. Sliding it aside, he peered into the dark abyss. Nothing. But when he heard the raging current, he knew the body and the bag must be gone.

  The scene lit up. Everett whipped around. Bouncing headlights—wide and yellow—catapulted toward him from the direction of the Monte Carlo’s exit.

  He froze like a deer.

  The roaring car hit the last curve before the manhole cover. Sweeping light flooded the scene. The nightmare became reality.

  It’s them!

  No time to get in the Audi.

  Pop!

/>   The sound of the gun blast was muffled by the relentless rain. But Everett saw the flash from the passenger window of the approaching car.

  He dove and hit hard, rolling across the flooded pavement.

  Pop. Pop.

  To his feet he scrambled, running low, into the grass. Down a slope. Whoa! His feet slid out from under him. He landed hard but bounced up, taking an incline and heading into the open.

  Behind him, the Monte Carlo screeched. Then a loud crunch.

  Everett ran with all he had, dodging trees at the last second because of the darkness.

  Small, white lights were visible in the distance. A house?

  BAM. BAM.

  A different gun. Louder. Bigger.

  Badino.

  BAM. Pop, pop. BAM.

  Watch out for the trees!

  He darted through the black night. He could barely see. The open landscape jumped up and down with each soggy footprint. Trees and grass, trees and grass. His body was heavy and sopping. The house or barn or whatever it was remained frustratingly far off. He squinted for someplace to hide. Anyplace.

  Turning back, he saw a flash in the distance. Seconds later, a blast from the gun. Good.

  He was getting away. Farther and farther from the killers.

  Keep running!

  The tree clobbered him in midstride, and his whole world went from fifteen miles an hour to zero in less than a second.

  He was on his back. Could not breathe. The cold ground soaked into him. He fought to suck air into his lungs.

  Small, white stars whirled in the blackness. The opening in his throat had shrunk to the size of a straw.

  Pain. In the chest. Bad pain, deep inside.

  Breathe!

  Voices. Beyond the trees and grass and rain. Getting closer. He couldn’t suppress the strangled gasps that bellowed up from deep within his chest.

  He had to get air!

  But they were coming. And so were the sirens. He heard them now. Just before everything somersaulted to black.

  26

  WRAPPED IN A HEAVY, black wool blanket with the letters NYPD embroidered in yellow, Everett absorbed the warmth and sweet aroma of pipe tobacco in the backseat of the patrol car. Groaning from the splitting pain in his chest, he examined the laptop computer mounted to the dash, and then the fifty-something officer, Harry Barnett, who stood in the rain out in front of the squad car’s headlights.

  Barnett had found him sprawled out at the base of a sugar maple tree several hundred yards off of Warton Avenue. For the past ten minutes, the veteran officer had been shining his powerful flashlight into the sewer hole that Everett had left uncovered and was just returning to the car.

  “We’re gonna have to wait till this rain stops and get a crew on this.” He dropped into his seat and pulled the black NYPD poncho over his head. “Probably first thing in the morning.” He threw the raincoat to the floor beside him. “That water’s raging in there now. How you feeling, Mr. Lester?”

  “Considering the alternatives, like a million bucks.”

  “Paramedics should be here soon.”

  “I don’t know if there’s anything they can do. It feels like cracked ribs or something.”

  “Well, you need to get checked out either way. How’s the head?”

  Everett ran his fingers over the hard lump. “Feels fine.”

  “You’re gonna have a pretty good egg up there. Lucky the skin didn’t split open.”

  “How’s my car?” he asked.

  “Pretty bad. Maybe totaled. Good thing is, we’ll be able to get some decent paint samples of the Monte Carlo.”

  While Barnett warmed his tough hands, lit his cherry-colored wood pipe, and scribbled on a form attached to a clipboard, Everett explained everything that had happened that evening, starting with the brick through the living room window at Twin Streams. He repeated the facts about Millie’s death and the manger scene and his suspicion of Tony Badino. Through it all, Everett made no mention of Wesley or Dominic Badino.

  “What’ll happen next?” Everett asked, feeling a tinge of fret as he contemplated possible repercussions from the Badinos.

  “Like I said, we’ll start a full-fledged search for the body and the bag when it’s light.” Barnett stroked his thick salt-and-pepper mustache, which was the same color as his curly hair. “This rain’s supposed to stop sometime tonight. We’re gonna want to bring this Tony Badino in for questioning, search his place.”

  Everett stared at Barnett’s face in the rearview. He knew this was coming, and the reality of it made his stomach ache.

  Barnett said, “You don’t know the name of the other individual, the tall one?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll get it. Meantime, you just need to sit tight. We’ll let you know if we need anything else.”

  Everett heard sirens.

  “That’s our ambulance.”

  Everett sighed as he shifted position to see the approaching vehicle and finally caught a glimpse of the crumpled Audi. “Will Tony Badino know I’m the one who filed the report? I mean, can we keep it anonymous?”

  “Okay, your name’s on this report, has to be.” Barnett’s eyes met Everett’s. “You’re the only witness we have. You’re what’s makin’ us ramp up to do a manhunt. So, this is your baby.”

  Great.

  “Now, because it’s gonna be an open investigation, at least for a while, the public won’t be able to get their hands on this report.”

  Everett closed his eyes and slumped back in the seat.

  Thank You, Lord.

  “But I’ll tell ya, Mr. Lester.” Barnett tapped the spent tobacco into an ashtray. “If you’re right about the body and the bag of clothes, then you’re gonna be needed as a witness—the key witness—to bust these slimeballs. So, I guess my advice to you is, get ready for the ride.”

  A hot mass of bile swirled at the base of Everett’s throat as two paramedics in rain gear headed toward the patrol car.

  I guess I better get ready for the ride.

  Everett awoke early on Christmas Eve, even after the late-night X-rays in the emergency room at Yonkers General Hospital. Karen and Jacob had met him there and waited out the results and prognosis: a hairline fracture to the sternum that only time would heal.

  Certain movement sent riveting pain down the center of Everett’s chest. Wearing black flannel pajama pants and a torn gray sweatshirt, he stood at the bay window in the kitchen and scanned the dark backyard. At least there had been no more vandalism. He turned off the floodlights.

  Rosey was ready to go out, but first he rose to his tiptoes, letting out a painful groan as he reached for the kitchen cabinet and brought down his heavy Glock in one hand and its magazine in the other. Everett and Karen had filled out two police reports within twenty-four hours, naming the Badinos in each, and Everett was concerned for his family’s safety.

  He slid the magazine into the gun grip and locked it into place. Bracing the weapon in front of him at arm’s length, he pointed it at the microwave, the dishwasher, then outside. If I have to, I’ll use this thing. Thumbing the release button, he sent the magazine springing into his hand.

  After placing the gun back in the cupboard, he loaded the coffeemaker. Letting Rosey out, he gingerly made his way to the end of the slushy driveway, where he bent down to retrieve the newspaper.

  He read the headlines at the kitchen island while waiting for the Bunn to finish brewing, making sure there was no news of his adventure the night before. There wasn’t. The paper predicted clear skies and a high of forty-four degrees. Perfect weather for finding dead bodies.

  He filled a white thermal mug with coffee, grabbed his Bible from the kitchen desk, then went into the den with Rosey and closed the door. Turning on the standing lamp and easing into the recliner, he sat for a few moments, sipping the coffee.

  You’ve interrogated the wife of a mob captain—in his own home.

  He ran a hand through his hair and pictured Eddie’s trampled body lying
in the puddles at Mars Hill Racetrack, trying to deny the hollowness that ate at his insides.

  You’ve narked on the meth-smoking, cold-blooded-killing son of a mob captain.

  The heated meetings and sober threats of Dominic Badino and his henchmen overcame him.

  This is bad.

  For a moment, he was back on the cold, wet ledge outside Tony’s apartment, staring in at the blood and gore, at the red and black inverted cross emblazoned on the rebel’s bicep. Jacob had told him later at the hospital that the tattoo—with the hook at the end—was a “cross of confusion,” an insignia once used by the Romans to symbolize the questioning of Christianity and the deity of Christ.

  He cupped the top of his forehead with a weary hand, pulling it away to see the perspiration. And he’d forgotten about the grotesque-feeling lump.

  He was numb and distracted. He could taste the danger. The foreboding. Not only for him, but for Karen and her parents.

  Just one drink would make all this so much more bearable.

  With hands trembling slightly, he opened the leather Bible to the bookmark in Revelation, where he’d left off the morning before. But how did this pertain to him today?

  A fat, gold envelope on the desk caught his wandering eye. He set the Bible on the ottoman and went to the package. It was addressed to him with a return label from Jeff Hall, former president of the DeathStroke fan club.

  Taking it back to his chair, he tore the envelope open and pulled out a stack of letters and cards held together by a rubber band. On top was a yellow sticky note:

  Everett, as per your request, here’s a quarterly sampling of the letters, e-mails, and blogs we’ve been seeing of late. Hope all is well. Jeff.

  P.S. Best of luck on the LW tour!

  Unfolding the first note that fell into his hands, he read: “Ha ha! What a dumb, messed-up idiot you are, Lester. No matter what level of forgiveness you seek, you’ll be going to hell for murdering Endora Crystal, and for obliterating so many minds along the way. Nice job, jerk. I’ll save a seat for you in hell.”