Deadly Loyalty Collection

by Bill Myers

  “It’s not exactly telling the truth, Scotty. I can’t believe you’d lie to your best friend like that. That’s not cool with God.”

  Scott looked defensive. “It’s not exactly lying, Becka.”

  “Mom might have other ideas . . . and I know Dad would.” Bringing up God and their deceased father didn’t seem fair.

  Becka regretted what she said as soon as she saw the look on Scott’s face. She touched his arm. “Forget it. I don’t care what your friends think anyway.”

  Scott nodded. That obviously was fine with him.

  Becka changed the subject. “I think we should at least email Z. We should find out why it’s so important to him that we see the Scream.”

  “Why?” Scott asked as Mom entered the room with laundry.

  “We need more information,” Becka answered. “Right now all we know is that we’re supposed to meet their drummer.”

  “All you knew in Transylvania was that you were supposed to meet Jaimie Baylor,” Scott replied. “The rest just happens . . .

  kinda like falling off a log.”

  “I hope those phony vampire attacks in Transylvania are not your idea of falling off a log.” Becka scowled as she headed into the kitchen.

  A moment later Mom followed her. “What’s the matter, honey?” Mom asked. “You don’t want to go to L.A.?”

  “It’s not really that,” Becka answered. “It’s just . . . the Scream . . . I mean, they’re popular and all, but they’re really into the black-magic stuff — skulls, pentagrams, and stuff like that. I know most of it’s just an act . . . but it’s not an act I really want to see.”

  Mom nodded. “That’s not the kind of group I’d want you listening to, much less associating with.”

  “Me either,” Becka agreed.

  “But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Maybe Z figures that by sending us, we’ll help them somehow.”

  Becka knew Mom was right. That’s how it had always been with Z. He always sent them someplace to help out in some way. And Becka knew something else too. She knew her reluctance to go wasn’t about whether or not she liked the music. It was about whether or not she wanted to help the people making that music.

  And the truth was, part of her didn’t. As far as she could tell, they were too into satanic stuff. Maybe they were nice guys under all that goop and three-foot hair. But they were definitely not her idea of good company.

  And yet, if they needed help . . .

  “I guess we should probably pray about it,” Becka said with a sigh.

  Mom smiled. “I’m proud of you for suggesting that. One of the reasons Z selected you is because you’re cautious. But when it comes to making decisions, you always let God have his way.”

  Mike Parsek sat in the back of the limo as it came to a halt. It was one of three stretch limos that pulled up in front of the Regent Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Mike was in no hurry to get out as he watched the Scream’s entourage pour out of the cars. The other three members of the band got out of the first limo. Out of the second came two publicists, one road manager, a sound engineer, a light guy, and four roadies. Mike shared the third limo with clothes and guitars.

  He was the last to enter the hotel lobby, where the scene was taking on epic proportions. It never ceased to amaze him. Wherever the band went, they were like modern-day kings. Wherever one of the band members turned, there was someone to wait on him. Then, of course, there were the fans — screaming and begging for autographs.

  Mike and the others signed a few autographs and exchanged small talk with a segment of their adoring legion. Then Doland nodded slightly to the three burly security men waiting nearby. Instantly the hulks moved into action and smoothly separated the crowd from the band.

  The security guys were pros. Their sheer massiveness eased the crowd away as they escorted the band to the elevator. Mike gave a sigh of relief. By now the road manager had secured their rooms, and the publicists and tech guys scrambled for what accommodations were left. The roadies would go on to the auditorium and set up for most of the night. Then they’d sleep in the van.

  Twenty minutes later, Mike and the other band members were in one of their rooms eating steak sandwiches and drinking exotic-looking bottles of beer made in the African country of Chad. It was bottled especially for them by a guy in Trenton, New Jersey, whom they paid a thousand dollars a week for the ser vice. Actually, they didn’t pay it. Their record label did — just like it paid for a hundred other little extras that came under the heading of “touring expenses.” Mike couldn’t help but smile. Yessir, the rock music industry wasn’t a conservative business.

  “I think we should start with ‘Army of the Night’ tomorrow,” Tommy Doland said between sips of beer. “It’s what they want to hear.”

  Jackie Vee polished his guitar. It was a 1956 Gibson Les Paul — worth thousands of dollars. It seldom left his side. “We can if you want.” He shrugged. “Only don’t we usually save it for a grand finale at the end of the night?”

  Doland swigged his beer. “I just want to get it over with. Get all the blasted shouting over with up front so we can enjoy the rest of the gig.”

  Mike knew that it was best for him to stay out of Doland’s way during such discussions, but he couldn’t resist. “You don’t want them to cheer?”

  “Of course I want them to cheer!” Doland snapped. “I want them to pass out from screaming their heads off. But I don’t want them calling out for ‘Army of the Night’ all night long and not paying attention to our other songs — especially the new ones, the ones not on the CD.”

  Mike nodded. “But that new stuff hasn’t been going over with the audience like some of our older — ”

  “That’s ’cause they don’t listen!” Doland interrupted. There was no missing the edge to his voice. “We’ve got to help them get into these new songs.”

  “Some say the new songs are way too dark,” Mike said so softly that he almost wasn’t heard.

  But Doland heard. “They’re too dark because the idiots don’t understand what we’re trying to say!” he growled, then paused as a smile crossed his face again. “Like some of you,” he went on, his mocking eyes riveted on Mike, “they just don’t get it.” With that, he patted Mike on the head, then headed to his room.

  Mike watched him go, then turned to watch Grant Simone while he sanded the frets on his bass guitar with a worn piece of sandpaper. “See what I mean?” Mike said. “That’s how he is all the time now.”

  Grant shrugged. “Whatever . . . Say, I’m thinking about redoing these frets again.”

  Mike shook his head. “If you’d stop sanding them all the time, they’d last longer. Listen, don’t you guys think Doland is acting weird?”

  “So what?” Jackie piped up. “So the pressure is getting to him a little. I didn’t hear you asking to be left out of the limo, Mikey.”

  Grant nodded. “Or these fancy rooms or the fame or the chicks — ”

  “Or all that beautiful, cold, hard cash.” Jackie grinned.

  Mike looked at them both, wanting to respond, to tell them they were wrong . . . but he couldn’t. They were right.

  He looked away and let out a sad, lonely sigh.

  Becka still felt unsure about the trip, even on Sunday morning as she packed. The whole family had come to look forward to these “little getaways.” The time spent traveling reminded Becka of their missionary days in South America.

  But this time something bugged her about the trip. It was way down deep in her stomach. She couldn’t seem to ignore it. Earlier, they’d all prayed and felt that the trip was something God wanted them to do. But still . . .

  She had tried to contact Z earlier on the Internet, but he didn’t respond. He hadn’t sent them any messages either. For the time being at least, it looked like they were on their own.

  “Hurry up, Becka! It’s almost nine-thirty!” Mom called from the kitchen. It was nearly time to leave for church. Becka had been dawdling, thi
nking about what it would be like to be in L.A. with Mom, her goofy brother, and four guys who wore capes, painted symbols on their faces, and had hair longer than hers.

  “Hey, Beck, where’s my leather jacket?” Scott called from his room.

  “You don’t have a leather jacket!” Becka answered. “It’s mine!”

  “Well, where’s yours, then?”

  “In my closet, where it belongs . . . And no, you can’t borrow it again!”

  “Why not?”

  Becka sighed. “Because last time you left it outside in the sun with a candy bar in the pocket, remember?”

  “Oh yeah. C’mon, Beck! I promise I won’t do that. It’s too early for candy. Mom doesn’t let me eat it in church anyway.”

  Sometimes Becka couldn’t believe her brother. “That’s not the point. I told you, you couldn’t wear it again if you didn’t take care of it.”

  “I took care of it. I just forgot about the candy bar, that’s all.”

  “You also left it wadded up on the floor.”

  “So?” Scott clearly did not have a clue what the problem was here.

  “So, you were supposed to hang it up.”

  “I leave all my clothes on the floor.”

  “I’ll vouch for that,” Mom said, joining in. “You guys better hurry and get dressed. We have to go if we’re going to make church and still catch that plane.”

  Scott tapped on Becka’s door. “Beck . . . c’mon. I need that jacket.”

  Becka combed her hair in front of the dresser mirror. “No.”

  Scott was persistent. “Can I come in?”

  With another sigh, she opened the door. “Why? You can’t borrow my jacket. And where did you get that shirt? Mom’s not going to let you wear that to church.”

  It was the official Scream T-shirt. Four hairy guys scowling and holding skulls in their hands. “It’s Darryl’s,” Scott answered. “And I’m not wearing it to church. Just let me borrow the jacket. You can borrow something of mine.”

  Becka closed her eyes for a moment. It just wasn’t worth the fight. With a shake of her head, she opened up her closet and pulled out the jacket. “Here. I’m surprised you can still fit in it since you’re taller than me now.” At seventeen, Becka was about five feet six. “Just be nice to me on the plane.”

  “I always am,” Scott said, grabbing the jacket from her. “I can do anything for an hour and twenty-minute trip! . . . Thanks, Beck! This trip is gonna be awesome!”

  Once again Becka felt a woozy sensation deep in her stomach.

  Half an hour later, Becka felt calmer, now that they were in church. The ser vice helped a little. The worship team led the singing of one of Becka’s favorite songs, and the drama team put on a funny skit. Finally, she felt herself relax . . . until the pastor began his sermon.

  “I want to ask you this morning, why do you suppose that Jesus dined with tax collectors and prostitutes?” he began. “Do you think there was better food in that part of town?”

  Several people chuckled as the pastor continued, “Do you think he enjoyed the company of those individuals more than he did the company of priests and scribes? Well, maybe he did, even though many people despised tax collectors, because they collected taxes for Rome. We know that Jesus was not a big fan of hypocrisy. The Pharisees were loaded with it! But I think the real reason why Jesus dined with what was considered a bunch of lowlifes was that he wanted to reach them. He wanted to share the good news of God’s kingdom with them. He didn’t come just for the priests and scribes. He came for all people. How could he expect these people to accept what he was saying if he didn’t accept them? They were sinners, to be sure. But aren’t we all? Fortunately, Jesus sees beyond that. He sees all of us — social outcasts or not — as people he dearly loves.”

  Becka’s stomach churned like a cement mixer, but her mind remained focused on the pastor’s words. She knew that she had heard from God.

  “Yes,” the pastor continued, “Jesus is also the great Judge. But he didn’t come to judge — not then. He came to love those who were trapped in darkness. And love begins with acceptance . . . not of the sin, but of the sinner. As those who seek to follow Christ, can we do any less? We’re called not only to accept those who are different from us but also to go the extra mile to bond with them, just as the apostle Paul did on his missionary journeys. We need to understand those who are lost so we can speak to their hearts. That doesn’t mean that we agree with all of the choices the people we reach have made. It just means that we’re willing to share God’s love with them. Jesus reached out to prostitutes and tax collectors. Who are the lost we are to reach?”

  Becka slowly nodded. Okay, Lord, I get it. And she did. She was going to L.A. She was going to meet the band. She would talk with them, hang out with them . . . even accept them. And when the time came, she would have the courage to speak God’s truth to them.

  At least, she hoped she would.

  3

  The main airport in Los Angeles was LAX. That’s what the people called it. No long fancy name after some former city politician. No warm-fuzzy sounding name with hills or briar or crest in it. Just the basic deal.

  It was very L.A.

  From the plane, Becka and Scott could see mountains, but they’d seen mountains before — bigger ones than these — back in South America. They could also see the ocean, but they’d seen that before too. It really wasn’t until they were on the ground in the airport that they began to see the real sights of L.A.

  “Hey, isn’t that Suzanne Winters?” Scott piped up as soon as they reached the baggage-claim area. “You know — the TV star. Right over there.”

  “Scott, don’t point,” Becka whispered in embarrassment. “People don’t like that.”

  “How would you know?” he retorted. “How many stars have you seen?”

  “C’mon, kids! Let’s get our bags!” Mom called.

  Out in the parking lot, they caught a shuttle to their hotel. “Why do they call it a shuttle?” Scott wanted to know. “It’s a bus.”

  “They call it a shuttle because it goes back and forth between the hotel and the airport,” Becka explained.

  “Yeah, I know,” Scott replied. “A bus.”

  Becka blew her thin, brown hair out of her eyes and heaved her suitcase up into the luggage area. As they headed up the freeway on-ramp, they could see heavy smoke off in the distance.

  “What’s that?” Becka asked. “Looks like a big fire.”

  A man sitting across from them said, “There’s a brush fire burning out of control in the mountains. It’s headed toward Malibu.”

  “Wow!” Scott replied, in awe of the great pillars of smoke.

  Becka’s stomach churned. She winced slightly and shifted in her seat.

  Mom turned to her. “What’s the matter, honey?”

  “Oh, it’s just my stomach. That sure looks like a huge fire.”

  “No biggie,” Scott said, suddenly sounding very authoritative. “There’s some kind of natural disaster going on almost every day in Los Angeles. My geography teacher said the place is like a natural-disaster theme park.”

  Somehow that didn’t help Becka’s stomach.

  Eventually the shuttle cruised into Beverly Hills.

  “Cool!” Scott exclaimed, his face glued to the window. “This is where a lot of the movie stars live. Check out the size of that house.” He pointed to a home roughly the size of a museum.

  “And look at those shops,” Becka added, pointing in a different direction. “Could we do some shopping while we’re here, Mom?”

  Mom nodded. “A little. But not at those places, honey. That’s Rodeo Drive.”

  She pronounced it Ro-day-o Drive, but Scott hadn’t heard.

  He also read the sign. “It says Rodeo Drive,” he mused. “You don’t want to shop there, Beck. Probably all cowboy clothes and stuff like that.”

  “Scotty,” Becka snickered, “people all over the world know that stores on Rodeo Drive have the coolest cl
othes. I thought even you would know that.”

  “And they’re very expensive,” Mom added.

  “That’s so L.A.,” Scott quipped. “They expect you to pay a fortune for cowboy clothes.”

  Before Becka could respond, the shuttle pulled into the hotel parking lot. Just as it did, her breath caught. She quickly exchanged glances with Scott and Mom. The place was huge, as well as beautiful. Bellhops were everywhere, loading baggage onto little golden carts. Rich people in expensive clothes strolled back and forth. And just outside Scott’s window was the longest car he’d ever seen.

  “Look at that!” he exclaimed. “It’s like a double limo!”

  “They call that a stretch,” the man across the aisle said.

  “No wonder,” Scott replied. “Must be a stretch to afford it.”

  They watched as a man with expensive-looking sunglasses and hair a mixture of coal black and bright blue climbed out of the stretch limo and walked toward the hotel. But just before he headed up the steps, he stopped suddenly, then slowly turned and stared at the shuttle bus.

  “Hey, isn’t that Tommy Doland?” Scott asked as they headed for the door of the bus.

  Becka nodded. “Why do you suppose he’s looking at us?” she asked, feeling her stomach tighten again.

  No one had an answer.

  Doland stood there, watching the people get off the shuttle. Becka was the first to reach the exit. As she stepped down the stairs, she glanced up to see the singer still staring. He had taken off his dark sunglasses and looked like he was trying to glare a hole right through her.

  She felt a cold shiver run through her body. She clutched her throat, unable to breathe suddenly.

  Tommy Doland suddenly snapped his sunglasses back on and hurried up the steps to the hotel.

  It took a moment for Becka to start breathing again.

  “He was looking right at you!” Scott exclaimed in excitement.

  She nodded, feeling numb.

  “You should have said something! At least waved. I bet he could have taken us right to Mike Parsek.”

  “Those are not our instructions,” Becka said, finally finding her voice. “We’re supposed to see him after the show. Besides . . .”