by Aiden James
Six years later, I’m listening to Chris’s soulful voice…his nimble fingers torturing his violin to where it literally sounds alive and yet also in the final throes of death. It was enough to send chills up and down my spine.
…I feel like a blind man with no one
All of my dreams have come and gone
Pulled the flower from my eye
Watched it disappear in the big gray sky…
Max arrived, a lit cigarette balanced dangerously between his lips as he stepped into the room. He grimaced for a moment, listening to the recorded session from earlier, when Ricky overdubbed Chris’s vocals and violin work over Ricky’s voice and much of Max’s guitar work on our demo for the song. We have a real nice mobile 24-track recorder to work with that’s damn near as nice as the big studios along Music Row.
Max is hard to read sometimes, and I thought he’d be pissed off now that his ingenious melodic efforts lay buried to where only a diehard audiophile could hear them. His green eyes flashed for a moment, but then he nodded his approval.
…I loved you more than anything
For your smile I’d always sing
It brings a teardrop to my eye
To know you never said goodbye
All you left me was alone…
“It sounds pretty sweet,” he said, after removing the cigarette from his mouth and transferring it to the neck of his guitar, positioned even more precarious between two machine heads. “I like it better this way, as now I can play the lead rift I originally had in mind…. It should fit perfectly.”
He moved over to the stage and hopped onto it, pausing briefly to greet Mongo. Adding a fifth member to the band has changed the dynamics a bit. Mongo and Max have grown noticeably closer since Chris joined, and it appears that Ricky is completely infatuated with our new star. But, hell, who can blame him?
I could be the guy left out in all of this, but at the moment I was in bliss…I could scarcely believe how amazing this song sounds. It was great before, but now there’s nothing like it anywhere. We may have our signature tune to grab the record execs’ attention at the party a week from Saturday.
Max plugged in his guitar, and without checking to make sure he was tuned to the digital recording, he jumped in where the chorus began. Two jangly guitars in stereo distortion…and thankfully a close match.
…Is this the way that you see me?
Broken heart that won’t lay down
Is this the way you would be free?
To take your life without a sound
Is this the way that it should be?
It’s not the same without you around…oh no-o-o….
It gave me frigging goose bumps. Seriously, I thought I might start crying, and pinched my arm hard enough to leave a bruise so I wouldn’t. No sissy shit for me, man. Not that night, anyway. Hearing two extremely talented people—world class musicians—perform my creation to such perfection…such inspired passion. Well, it frankly made me much more grateful to be alive. Not to mention it obliterated any remaining doubts I had as far as holding our own against the very best talent the non-country music industry has to offer.
I’d have to say our rehearsal was one of the best we’ve ever had. High energy and inspired play…we better have a frigging shower in our dressing quarters at our upcoming gig if we perform anywhere near this level. We were sweating like pigs, man…ah that ain’t right. Pigs don’t sweat…at least not like us. It’s more like the overzealous wrestlers on TV. Hair and leotards soaked, like the old rock n’ roll shows from the early nineties—back when I was cutting my musical teeth to the likes of Van Halen and Skid Row.
“You want to join us tomorrow night, Jimmy?” asked Mongo, as we loaded the last of his drum cases into his van. “Chris and RC are hitting the titty bars, and Max says he’s coming along too. We’re all planning to meet downtown at eight.”
“Sorry, man, but our ghost hunter group has a gig tomorrow evening,” I told him, not that I would’ve come anyway. It’s just not my thing. Fiona wouldn’t care one way or the other, since lookin’ ain’t the same as touchin’. But still, I can’t get enough of her, and the last time I came along on a titty-bar run, I could hardly wait to leave. It pissed Max off something fierce.
Ricky might be heading back to his wilder ways, though…. I prayed right then his coke habit wouldn’t be next. It got him a month in detox a year ago and two years probation. It’d be worse next time. Then kiss our music dreams goodbye.
“You’re so frigging whipped!”
Max stood behind me, snickering while lighting up another cancer stick. Ricky and Chris came out to the parking area behind him. Ricky locked the warehouse’s main entrance.
“Well, besides…I’ll be attending Dickey Rollins’ funeral service tomorrow afternoon,” I said. Direct hit there, since Max’s ex wife used to work for Dickey a few years back, and would likely be in attendance. “Later this week, we’ll have another one to attend for Mitch Dobbins.”
Another punch to the gut, and Max’s sneer vanished from his face. I couldn’t help but smile a little. Pussy whip that, asshole!
“Mitch is dead?” he asked, his tone incredulous.
“You didn’t know?”
This time it was Ricky chiming in, even more surprised at Max’s ignorance about a mutual friend’s demise than Max was about the death itself.
“No…I didn’t,” Max confessed. Stunned. It made me feel a tad guilty for digging at him a moment ago. “When did it happen?”
“I think it happened Friday,” said Mongo. “That’s when I first heard about it.”
“And it’s all related to Candi Starr and Dickey’s murders, too.”
They all turned toward me. Oh shit. I momentarily forgot this wasn’t public knowledge. Fiona would kill me if she knew I just blabbed protected info.
“Where’d you hear that from?” asked Ricky, eyeing me suspiciously.
Chris stood by, apparently lost. He must’ve been living under the same rock as Max these past few days. Then again, he might not have known who Mitch was. It’s not like one can easily identify the musicians who support the “Nashville Sound” walking down a street. Some of the finest studio players in the world live in relative obscurity here. Only their expensive cars and big houses give them away.
“I thought it was on the news,” I lied, trying to remember if looking to the left or right would support my ruse. Hopefully to the right. “But it could’ve been my own stupidity, since Dickey and Candi were mentioned. Maybe the only link is their Nashville music connection.”
I hoped this worked. I’d still be in trouble if any of them approached my wife about it. Hopefully they wouldn’t see or talk to her within the next week and a half. The case might be resolved by then, or better yet, my band mates would’ve forgotten all about it.
Ricky, Mongo, and Max nodded thoughtfully. The few security lights in the parking area are great for loading stuff up to leave…not so much for hanging around to chat after midnight, and it was going on one o’clock.
“We probably should get out of here,” Mongo advised, looking over his shoulder while locking up the back door to his van. He moved to the driver side. “If you change your mind, we’ll meet at the McDonald’s off Broadway near the highway downtown.”
“All right,” I told him, and then nodded to the others. Ricky and Chris rode together in Chris’s new Porsche and Max brought his vintage MG. “We sounded awesome tonight!”
That got a much better response, as Chris and Ricky paused to give me a high-five. Max offered an approving nod, his cigarette clinched between his teeth. I don’t think Mongo heard me, as he’d already climbed into the driver’s seat of his van and slammed the door shut. I heard the door locks latch…a sure sign he’s more creeped out than the rest of us. He should come on a ghost hunt sometime.
Max followed Mongo down the drive to the main road, and Chris nearly rammed Max’s ass. I guess Chris wanted the hell out of there, too…or maybe he’s still trying to figu
re out the shifting sensitivity of his new sports car.
In any case, that left me alone. I lingered for another moment…just to see if I heard or sensed anyone keeping an eye on me from some hidden vantage point.
There was nothing...only crickets and some unseen barn owl calling from a nearby train yard.
***
The temperature was in the low sixties by the time I hit the highway, and the wind hitting me seemed much chillier after the heated sweat generated from our rehearsal. Like the other night, traffic was sparse. Unlike the last time I drove home, there was no sign of the mysterious van.
Maybe it was just some kids messing with me after all. Or, if it was someone stalking Fiona and me, they only did it when we drove the Camaro. That idea especially alarmed me, since what would happen if the dark van showed up when Fiona drove alone?
I hardly noticed the exit signs while racing down I-65, thinking about this shit. There was hardly anyone around by the time I exited onto 840—just a convertible heading west, while I veered east.
I love my bike, man, and driving in the middle of the night alone is amazing. It’s the best way to relax and unwind, I think. Just me, the road, and the steady drone from the Harley’s powerful engine.
I’m not sure what happened first. Maybe the powerful halogens and the engine roaring up behind me from out of nowhere took place at the exact same moment. It scared the holy shit out of me.
Surprised, my fear escalated once I recognized the emblem on the grill.
The wicked Buick was back…back on my ass big time!
I sped up to over one hundred miles an hour, hoping to reach my exit at Arno Road before this psychopathic jerk could follow me. Like that’d matter after the sucker found my home last night. The van kept pace, moving up dangerously close to my rear wheel. A little push and I’d be a greased mess for the highway patrol to worry about, forced to call in a large forensic crew to pick my scattered remains off of the asphalt sometime after daybreak
What if the driver really did have something to do with the Mafia? I’d be an easy target for a gun with this dude running up my ass…the same weapon that killed Brenda, Johnny, and Mitch? Images of my broken body and chopped up bike lying a dozen feet under some construction site suddenly flashed before my tired eyes, and I grimaced at the thought of becoming added ingredients to some concrete basement floor. Like Jimmy Hoffa.
Then again, maybe this asshole waited for me to do something really stupid or careless, like spill the bike, and then run over what’s left of my road-pizza carcass.
I sped up even faster. Nearing one-twenty.
Taking no chances, I pushed on to the next exit. One-forty and really tensing up. The bugs hitting my neck underneath my helmet stung from the impact at this speed. But then the dude abruptly slowed down, and the bright halogens disappeared. There was nothing but pitch darkness behind me.
Was my assailant getting ready to pick me off using a high powered rifle with an infrared scope? Damn, it really sucks having a very vivid imagination! The mental picture of my head exploding like a watermelon with an M-80 in it was especially tough. But I kept moving…focused on getting home in one piece.
To be more covert and maximize my chances of eluding the crazed menace, I cut the beams on my bike to low. Thankfully, I know the back roads—even those beyond our neck of the woods.
When I reached the street next to the one we live on, I cut the lights completely, and by the time I reached our deserted road I shut the engine down and coasted home.
Just the noisy cicadas and me, and a lonesome dove sitting on the Tanner’s porch. I got off the bike and pushed it up the hill past their home. No one stirred, despite a light inside their draped living room. Even their German Shepherd named Spaggs was nowhere in sight. No growls, no doors creaking open, and best of all no engine sounds from anywhere around me. Only my labored breaths and racing heart.
I got back on my Harley and coasted the rest of the way home, parking quietly in back of my house. No lights were on inside, just the security lamps surrounding the cabin. I didn’t even turn a nightlight on once I was safely inside my home. I checked on Fiona and the boys, and then peered outside through a slight crease between our living room curtains.
No one. No van and no Mafia assassins out there. At least not any that I could detect. Wish I could tell you this made me feel relieved. Far from it.
After climbing into bed with my wife, who seemed lovelier than ever as she slept soundly, I ran everything since last Wednesday through my head.
There were too many deaths, too little sleep, and a string of coincidences that couldn’t be easily dismissed. Worse yet, I still hadn’t shared my previous experience involving the mysterious van with Fiona. I meant to do it, honestly I did. But with everything going on, I didn’t—couldn’t—find the right opportunity.
Now I had no choice. Everything that’d happened to me lately took care of that. There were no more excuses and no legitimate reasons to justify my procrastination.
I laid awake in bed for nearly an hour…just thinking. Debating on the best way to tell Fiona, and worse yet what to tell her.
The complete truth? Yeah, most likely...it sure as hell seemed like the best approach. I’d just pull her aside and tell it like it is…sometime tomorrow. It definitely needed to be done before anything else happened.
It suddenly sounded so easy. But, I knew in my heart that it wouldn’t be.
Chapter Fifteen
Call it a lesson learned.
A really big lesson, considering the verbal butt-kicking I got from Fiona once she learned the details of what’d happened to me after my band’s last two rehearsals.
“What?!” she shrieked, causing me to cower like a little boy caught peering inside his parents’ dresser at their sex toys. “You mean this crazy nut’s been stalking you—hell, ALL of US??? And you didn’t tell me about it??!”
Good thing I didn’t mention the ninja dude standing in our driveway the other night.
Maybe an even better thing is that I didn’t let her drive this night, although her close proximity in the passenger seat made my ears ring a little. Well, a lot, actually. Any louder and it would’ve done more damage than the combination of Max’s screaming guitars and Mongo’s cymbals.
What a way to start our Monday evening.
We were heading to the Gerst Haus Restaurant in Nashville. The place is Tom and Tony’s favorite restaurant, and they both look for any excuse to go there. Since the food’s real good, everyone agreed to meet there for dinner before our investigation at the Thompson house.
“I didn’t want to alarm you—“
“Now that’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard come out of your mouth in years!” she fumed, her interruption letting me know she’d scrutinize every word in its infancy. It’d be best to think hard before saying anything else. “I’m alarmed now-w-w!! If whoever this guy is goes after the boys…I’ll never forgive you!”
Fiona’s eyes misted while her lips quivered. A tear-filled deluge could be on its way in a moment.
“He won’t,” I said, confidently. “He and whoever is with him won’t touch em’. They’re after me for some reason.”
I really didn’t know if the boys would be untouched down the road, but for now I just knew they’d be okay. Despite not having Fiona’s sentient gifts, I do get some intense gut feelings every now and then. Like my strong intuition about more than one person out there, and if I’m right, I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re dealing with a guy and a girl. That’s the strongest impression I get.
“Don’t rely on your ‘feelings’ on this one, Jimmy!” she scolded, announcing the fact she was reading my thoughts verbatim, despite her claims it’s a hit or miss thing when it comes to deciphering my mental images. “And, I’m picking up just the guy…if there’s a girl involved, then it’s some struggle within him.”
Since I’d never mentioned a guy/girl impression before, I nodded in response, reluctant to expose myself to any more tele
pathic voyeurism. Luckily, we were within a block of the restaurant. Since Fiona doesn’t air her personal dirty laundry, and never has, she changed the subject to sort of ‘rinse’ our discussion. Talking about other subjects, like what she might order for dinner. Her intent was to be clear-eyed by the time we reached the parking lot. So for the moment, my indiscretion was as good as forgotten. At least until the next stupid thing I did.
It gave me a chance to reflect on how the day had gone up until our ride to the Gerst Haus. After another restless night’s sleep, I just had to suck it up, since most of my day at the call center would be spent in meetings hashing over old business we’d already discussed last week…and the week before that. We talk about pretty much the same things every meeting, month after month, year after year.
Not much ever changes in the art of delivering customer service over a telephone.
By the time I got back to my desk, I could only take care of a couple of call-backs from angry customers and confirm my team’s final payroll report. That left just a few minutes to touch base with Matilda, rebuffing her attempts to dredge out news on the killer still at large and my team’s recent slump—and what I planned to do about the latter. Then it was out the door and off to the historic Ryman Auditorium, where Dickey’s memorial was scheduled to begin at four o’clock.
Since Gerard, my brother-in-law, agreed to hang around Fiona and my boys for the day, he told me that he’d have Fiona there ten minutes early. With very little time to waste, I drove the Camaro like a bat out of hell to make sure she wasn’t standing around waiting on my ass. As fortune would have it, the only cop to notice my craziness headed the other direction on I-65, with no immediate opportunity to whirl around and chase after me. I’d already exited by the time I saw the flashing lights coming back my way, and I quickly maneuvered around the mid-afternoon traffic until I reached the parking lot next to the Ryman.
“I got here as quick as I could, babe,” I told my wife, right after I caught up with her near the main entrance.