Armageddon Rag

by George R. R. Martin

  Sandy was flabbergasted. “I’ve got nothing to say.”

  Parker chewed on his lower lip. “I want to give you something off the record. Can you keep this out of your story?”

  “I don’t know,” Sandy said. “I’m not sure I want to take any off-the-record information. Why is this so secret?”

  “Since the news of Lynch’s death appeared in the papers, we’ve already had three clowns call up to confess. We’ll have more. We know the confessions are fake because none of them can answer a few key questions we ask them. I want to give you one of those questions, and the answer.”

  “All right,” Sandy said, curious.

  “We ask them what was playing on the stereo. The answer—”

  “My God,” Sandy said, interrupting. “The Nazgûl, right?” He blurted it out without thinking. Suddenly, somehow, he knew that it had to be.

  Deputy Davie Parker was staring at him, a very strange look on his long horseface. His eyes seemed to harden just the smallest bit. “That’s real interesting,” he said. “Suppose you tell me how you happened to know that, Blair.”

  “I just…I just knew it, the minute you started to say it. It had to be. Lynch was their manager. The album… I’ll bet anything it was Music to Wake the Dead, right?”

  Parker nodded.

  “Listen to the first track on that. There’s a lyric about cutting someone’s heart out. It seemed so…I dunno, so…”

  “Appropriate,” Parker said. He wore a small, suspicious frown. “I listened to the record, and I noticed that lyric too. It got me thinking. Manson and his bunch, they were involved with some album too, weren’t they?”

  “The Beatles’ White Album. Manson thought the music was talking to him, telling him what to do.”

  “Yeah. I knew a bit about that. Went and got a few books down at the local library. But you know a lot more, Blair. That’s why I thought maybe you could be of help. What about it? Could this be another Manson thing?”

  Sandy shrugged. “Manson’s in prison. Some of the family are still out there, but mostly in California. Why come to Maine to off Jamie Lynch?”

  “What about other nut cults? Like Manson, only different?”

  “I don’t know,” Sandy admitted. “I’ve been out of touch with that lunatic fringe for a long time, so I can’t really say what might be going down. But the Nazgûl…it would have to be someone our age, I’d guess, to get their obsessions from the Nazgûl. They’re a Sixties group, broken up for more’n a decade now. Music to Wake the Dead was their last album. They haven’t played or cut a track since West Mesa.”

  Parker’s eyes narrowed. “That’s another real interesting thing you just said, friend. Keep going. What’s West Mesa?”

  “You’re kidding,” Sandy said. Parker shook his head. “Hell,” said Sandy, “West Mesa is famous. Or infamous. You never saw the TV coverage? They even made a documentary.”

  “The reception was real bad in the DMZ,” Parker said.

  “You ain’t no rock fan, I know that much. West Mesa was a rock concert, one of three everybody’s heard of. Woodstock was dawn and Altamont was dusk and West Mesa was pure, black, nightmarish midnight. Sixty thousand people outside of Albuquerque, September 1971. Small as these things go. The Nazgûl were the headliners. In the middle of their set, somebody with a high-powered rifle blew the skull off their lead singer, Patrick Henry Hobbins. Eight more people died in the panic that followed, but there was no more shooting, just that one bullet. They never caught the killer. He vanished in the night. And the Nazgûl never played again. Music to Wake the Dead was already recorded, and they released the album about three weeks after West Mesa. Needless to say, it made a whole shitpot of money. Lynch and the record company put a lot of pressure on the three surviving Nazgûl to follow up with a memorial album for Hobbins, or replace him and keep the group together, but it never happened. Without Hobbins, there was no Nazgûl. West Mesa ended them, and it was the beginning of the end for Jamie Lynch, too. He’d promoted that concert, after all.”

  “Interesting,” Parker said. “So we have two unsolved murders.”

  “What, thirteen years apart?” Sandy objected. “It can’t be connected.”

  “No? Let me tell you about the poster, Blair.”

  Sandy stared blankly.

  “Our fastidious killer pulled a poster from the wall, remember, and used it to cover the desk. Lynch was killed on top of it. It was pretty messed up, but after we cleaned it some we could make out what it was. It was kind of a moody lithograph of a desert landscape at sunset. Above the sun were four dark figures riding some kind of flying lizard things, like dragons or something, only uglier. At the bottom it said—”

  “I know what it said,” Sandy interrupted. “Jesus H. Christ. It said Nazgûl and West Mesa, right? The concert poster. But you can’t…it has to be a coincidence…” But as he said it, Sandy turned, and realized what had been bothering him before, when Parker had pointed out the blank space on the office wall. He whirled back. “It’s not a coincidence,” he blurted. “Whoever killed Lynch could have used any of the dozen posters that were right behind the desk, in arm’s reach. Instead they walked all the way down there and climbed up on something to pull down the West Mesa poster.”

  “For an old hippie, you’re not so dumb,” Parker observed.

  “But why? What does it mean?”

  The deputy got up from the edge of the desk and sighed. “I was sort of hoping you’d tell me that, Blair. I had this fond idea that when I told you about the poster and the album you’d suddenly light up and clue me in on some secret cult that worships these guys and goes around murdering people in time to their music. It would have made my life one hell of a lot simpler, believe me. No such thing, huh?”

  “Not that I know of,” Sandy said.

  “Well, I guess we go to the horse’s mouth, then. We’ll bring in these three musicians and have them questioned.”

  “No,” Sandy said. “I’ve got a better idea. Let me do it.”

  Parker frowned.

  “I’m serious,” Sandy said. “It’s part of my story, anyway. I have to interview people who knew Lynch, work up a sort of retrospective on him and his times. It would be logical to start with the Nazgûl. If any kind of cult has sprung up around them or their music, they ought to know about it, right? I could let you know.”

  “Are you trained in techniques of interrogation?” Parker said.

  “Interrogation my ass,” Sandy said. “I’m me and you’re you, and I’ll get more out of the Nazgûl than you could. We used to have a saying in the old days. Da Hog knows things the pigs don’t.”

  The deputy grinned. “You may have a point there. I don’t know. I’ll have to talk to Notch about it. Maybe. This Nazgûl connection is kind of a long shot anyway, and we’ve got a hell of a lot of other leads to follow up, people to question. We’re going through all his correspondence and files. A lot of people didn’t like him much. Notch will probably go along if I say he should. Can I trust you to keep in touch?”

  Sandy raised his hand, palm open. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Somehow you don’t look much like a scout,” Parker observed.

  Smiling, Sandy kept his hand up but lowered three fingers and split the two remaining into the familiar V. “Peace, then?”

  Parker nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. You sure you can take care of yourself? I have a bad feeling about this. One of your musicians could very well be the killer. Or all three of them. Lynch had five inches and forty pounds on you, and they cut his heart out with a knife.”

  “I’m not going to do anything dumb,” Sandy said. “Besides, I’ve interviewed these guys before. Once in 1969, again in 1971. They aren’t killers. If anything, they seem to be the victims in this little scene, don’t they? First Hobbins, now Lynch.”

  “Maybe somebody doesn’t like their music.”

  Sandy gave a derisive snort. “Their music was just fine, deputy. You ought to listen to that album for som
ething besides clues. It’s powerful stuff. Listen to Maggio’s guitar riffs in ‘Ash Man,’ and to Gopher John’s drumming. And the lyrics. Hell. The second side especially; it’s all one long piece, and it’s a classic, even if it is too damned long for most radio stations to play intact. There was nobody quite like the Nazgûl, before or after. They were so good they scared people. Sometimes I think that was the motive behind West Mesa, that it was Hoover or the fucking CIA or someone like that, scared shitless because Hobbins’ singing and his goddamned charisma were turning people on to the message in the music. More than a band died when that shot was fired. It killed an idea, crippled a movement.”

  “Myself, I like Johnny Cash,” Parker said laconically. “Come on, I’ll take you back to town, and we’ll talk to Notch before I have second thoughts about letting you loose on this thing.”

  Sandy smiled. “You realize, Davie, that your second thoughts don’t matter much? We do have a first amendment still, and I can go ask questions of the Nazgûl whether Notch likes it or not.”

  “Don’t tell Notch,” Parker replied.

  They turned out the lights behind them as they went back to the car. Sandy paused for a moment in the darkened living room. Night had fallen, and he could see the dim circle of the moon through the skylights, its pale light cut into a half-dozen different colors by the stained glass. Seeing the room in that strange light, Sandy felt a pang of nervous fear. For a brief second the slow liquid gurgle of the creek sounded like blood might sound gurgling from a dying man’s mouth, and the sound of leaves scratching across the skylight became the sound of fingernails scrabbling at a wooden desktop in agony. But it lasted only an instant; then the noises were mere noises again, the ordinary night sounds of leaf and stream, and Sandy told himself he was being foolish.

  Outside, Parker had started the car, and the headlights glared at him as he stumbled down the stairs. If he tried, it would be all too easy to hear the sound of music coming faintly from the dark, empty house behind him; to hear the distant thunder of drums, and the forlorn wail of guitars and voice, and snatches of song from the lips of a man long dead.

  Sandy did not try.

  THREE

  It’s not often easy, and not often kind/

  Did you ever have to make up your mind?

  Sandy found a room for the night in a motel on the outskirts of Bangor. It was cheaper and dingier than he would have liked—with Jared Patterson footing the bills, he was determined to go first class—but the conversation with Notch had been longer and more acrimonious than anticipated, once he’d made it clear that the help he was offering did not include betraying any journalistic ethics or violating any confidences. When he got to Bangor he was tired, and glad for a bed, any bed, so he pulled his Mazda over at the first VACANCY sign.

  Luckily, Jared Patterson hadn’t changed his unlisted phone number in the past four years. Sandy took a faint satisfaction in waking his erstwhile employer out of a sound sleep. “You’re in trouble, Patterson,” he said cheerily. “That’s my daughter there in bed beside you, and I’ll have you know she’s only fifteen. We’re going to send you to jail and throw away the key.”

  “Who the hell is this?” Patterson demanded in a confused, wary voice. Sandy could picture him sitting bolt upright in his jockey shorts, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

  “Tsk. I’m wounded. This is Clark Kent up in Maine, chief. Your star reporter. Don’t you recognize the voice?”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Patterson muttered. “Seven years, and I’d almost forgotten your asshole stunts, Blair. What the hell do you want? Do you know what time it is?”

  “Three-seventeen,” Sandy said. “Exactly. I have a digital watch now, you know. I got mugged three years ago and the bastard took Spiro, would you believe it? I need some information from the Hog morgue. Here, write down this number.”

  There was a brief muffled conversation on the other end as Jared said something and someone else answered. It did sound like a fifteen-year-old girl, Sandy thought. “All right,” Patterson said. “I’ve got a pencil. Give it to me.”

  Sandy gave it to him. “What I need are the present whereabouts of the three surviving Nazgûl. In case the disco queens you’ve got working for you now don’t know who the hell they are, the names are Peter Faxon, Rick Maggio, and John Slozewski. If you clowns have kept the files up to date, the information ought to be there. Get back to me as soon as you can tomorrow. I’ve done everything I can up here, and I want to get rolling.”

  “Sure, sure,” Patterson said. “Hey, as long as we’re at it, you want to look up some of the guys in Lynch’s other groups too?”

  “No,” Sandy said curtly.

  “Todd Oliver used to be with American Taco, didn’t he? He’s lead singer for Glisten now. You ought to interview him, at least, so we’ll have one current name in with all these has-beens.”

  “Fuck Todd Oliver,” Sandy said. “Man’s got no pride. If he’d play for Glisten, he’d do anything. I refuse to interview any man who wears a silver lamé jumpsuit on stage. Just the Nazgûl, please. The reasons need not concern you, but let me tell you, this story is going to be more interesting than we thought. Give your friend a kiss for me. Bye.” He hung up, smiling.

  The smile faded quickly in the dinginess and silence of the motel room, however. Bone-weary as he was, somehow Sandy did not think sleep would come easily, and he was strangely reluctant to turn out the lights. Briefly, he considered phoning Sharon back in Brooklyn, but he discarded the idea without even reaching for the phone. She’d be furious with him if he called at this hour, especially since he really had nothing to tell her. Sandy sighed. For the first time in a good number of years, he found himself wishing for a joint. It would relax him nicely, but it was a futile thought. He had smoked so little in recent years that all of his connections had long ago dried up and blown away.

  Thinking of connections led to other thoughts, however. He took out his notebook and glanced through the names and numbers he’d jotted down at home. Old friends, old contacts, old sources. Most of the numbers probably weren’t even good these days. People move around a lot. Still, if he needed them—and you could never tell on a story like this—the numbers would give him a place to start tracking them down.

  He lingered over one number, considering. Finally he smiled. Maggie wouldn’t mind, he thought. Not unless she had changed beyond recognition. Sandy reached for the phone and dialed.

  The number, as he’d expected, was disconnected, but Cleveland information still had a listing for a Margaret Sloane. Sandy wrote down the number and hoped it was the same Margaret Sloane. He placed the call anyway, and listened to it ring.

  On the tenth ring, someone picked it up and a familiar sleepy voice groused, “Yeah?” into the receiver.

  “Hi, Maggie,” he said quietly. “It’s Sandy.”

  “My God,” she said. “Sandy? Sandy Blair!” With every word she seemed to be coming a bit more awake, and Sandy was pleased as hell by the sheer delight in her voice. “My God, is it really you? Are you in town? Tell me you’re in town!”

  “Afraid not. I’m in Maine, of all places. Believe it or not, I’m working for Jared again.”

  “That cretin.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s only a one-time thing. Jamie Lynch got himself killed and I’m doing the story on it. Everyone on the Hog staff these days sprang full blown from Jared’s forehead in 1976, so I’m the only one that’s qualified. I’m about to go interview the Nazgûl, wherever they may be, and I thought maybe I might pass through Cleveland.”

  “And you damn well better stop and see me, you hear? What has it been, three years? I’ve read your books. Sarah was me, wasn’t she? In Kasey’s Quest?”

  “Hell, no,” Sandy said. “All my characters are fictional, and any similarity to real persons living or dead is strictly coincidental. It says so right under the copyright.”

  “You asshole,” Maggie said affectionately. “At least you said she was good in bed.”

&
nbsp; “She was.”

  “But you killed her!” Maggie wailed.

  “Don’t you think it was more poignant that way?”

  “I’ll give you poignant. Are you really coming out?”

  “Maybe,” Sandy cautioned. “Don’t count on it. I have no idea where the Nazgûl have gotten themselves to. If they all live on Guam now, I’ll have to fly out and take a pass. But if it’s humanly possible, I’d like to drive, and stop and see you on the way.”

  “Driving, huh? You coming in the Hogmobile?”

  Sandy laughed. The Hogmobile had been a green 1966 Mustang, covered with leftover flower decals from the ’68 McCarthy campaign. He’d put nearly 180,000 miles on her before she finally gave up the ghost and went to wherever dead Mustangs go to pasture. “She passed away some time ago,” he told Maggie. “I’ve got a new car now.”

  “Sigh,” said Maggie. “I liked the old lady. Ah, well. What do you call the new one?”

  “Call?” Sandy said. “I… well, I guess it doesn’t have a name.” It seemed a strange admission even as he said it. He’d bought the Mazda almost two years ago. When had he stopped naming his cars? he wondered. He’d always named his cars, ever since the very first one, a rusted-out black VW Beetle he’d gotten when he was seventeen and immediately christened Roach.

  “Nothing’s wrong, is there?” Maggie asked. “You sound odd all of a sudden.”

  “No,” Sandy said, a bit ruefully. “Nothing wrong. I was just sitting here talking and all of a sudden I realized that I was maybe getting older than I like to admit. But never mind about that. What are you up to these days?”

  Maggie told him, and they talked about mutual friends who’d gone this way or that, and then about the old days, and somehow it got to be five in the morning with Sandy hardly noticing. “This is going to cost a not-so-small fortune,” he said finally, as they were hanging up. “Good thing Jared is paying for it. I’ll be seeing you as soon as I can.”

  “You damn well better,” Maggie replied, and when he put the phone back into its cradle, Sandy felt quite good indeed, and very tired, and he had no trouble whatsoever falling at once into a deep, dreamless sleep.