Adams did another line of coke. He scrubbed at his nose and fixed her with a very serious stare. “The music lures them to him,” said Adams. “And he kills them.”
“Him? You mean a twisted fan? Like a psycho killer or something? Someone who’s trying to make your song come true? You do other drugs besides coke? Anything that might make you paranoid?”
Adams took a moment before answering. “For someone who claims to be a big fan of mine, you sure are rude.”
It was Whitney’s turn to pause. “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I suppose you could be right. But I don’t think that two people disappearing means anything at all.”
“I do. I just want it in print.”
Whitney held up her hands in surrender. “I’m not here to give you career advice. I’ll print it.”
“And don’t make me look like an idiot. I picked you, because you never make rock stars look like idiots.”
Don’t act like one, thought Whitney, but didn’t say it out loud. “Incidentally,” she said, “what’s ‘Hamelin’ about anyway? Why’d you write it?”
Adams didn’t say anything for a long time. He stared over Whitney’s shoulder into space. He looked back at her. Started to say something, then hesitated. Finally, he shrugged. Dazzled her with a lopsided grin that lit up his face and made her heart stop. “It’s just a folk reference,” he said. “The Pied Piper of Hamelin. Inside joke, I guess.”
* * *
The night breeze blew in through the window of the old van. It fluttered the black velvet curtains that Lark Thomas had made to decorate the windows. She was curled up on a seat, her head resting on a pillow smashed up against the side of the van. It wasn’t comfortable. It never was. But it was the only way that all six of them could sleep in the van. And they couldn’t take less than six, or no one could afford the gas. As members of the Entourage, they were fans that followed Shane Adams’ band The Wrenching on tour. Shane had cancelled a few show dates, so they weren’t on the move that night. Just lying low, waiting to move on to the next city.
Lark shifted, trying not to kick Rainey with her big-soled boot. Rainey was occupying the other half of the seat and was snoring softly, her dark hair tangled over her face. Her slight movement caused Lark to feel a stab of pain in her neck. She sat up, rolling her head on its shoulders. It really wasn’t comfortable sleeping in this van. It was early spring—not quite warm enough to break out the tents. Even the window that she’d left open in the van was starting to bring in a breeze that chilled her and pulled goose bumps out of her forearms. She wrapped her blanket around her shoulders, trying to keep from shivering.
Surveying the shadows of her sleeping friends in the van, she realized that Matt wasn’t there. Matt Dimsky was the brainchild behind this whole expedition. It was his van, and he usually slept up front, in the driver’s seat. But the driver’s seat was empty.
Lark pulled the curtains aside and peered out into the darkness surrounding the van. Sure enough, Matt was outside, drinking a beer and sucking on a cigarette. Well. Maybe it was a cigarette. Maybe it was a joint. If she went out there, maybe he’d share. Carefully, Lark maneuvered around the sleeping bodies to the van’s door. She slid it open, trying not to make too much noise. Rainey stirred in her sleep but didn’t wake. Releasing the breath she’d been holding, Lark stepped out of the van.
Matt had heard her movement.
“Who’s that?” he whispered.
“It’s me,” said Lark, coming around the van so that he could see her. “That a joint, or a cigarette?”
Matt chuckled softly. “Joint,” he said. “Want a hit?”
Lark nodded and came closer. Matt handed the joint to her, and she took a deep drag, letting the smoke swell in her lungs.
“Careful,” said Matt. “If you start coughing, you’ll wake everyone up.” He took the joint back and took another hit. When he handed it back to her, his arm snaked around her waist. Lark thought about trying to wriggle out of his grasp, but decided she didn’t care. It wasn’t as if she’d never slept with him, after all. If Matt wanted to grope her, she’d keep her mouth shut. One of the girls that had been on the tour with them—Kyla or Kerry or something—had made a big deal about Matt’s touchiness. Matt had gotten drunk and pissed and kicked her out of the van. No one had seen Kyla after that. Lark guessed she’d had her fill of life on tour and gone home. People just disappeared like that sometimes.
Lark didn’t think Matt would kick Lark off the van. She and Matt had been together since the beginning. Since D.C., where the tour started. No one else in the van had been with Matt as long. But you could never tell with Matt. Especially when he was fucked up. Sometimes he did shit that he regretted later.
In the regular world, Lark guessed people would call Matt her boyfriend. But Matt was anti-labels and anti-monogamy, so they never used those words. Sometimes, if he was in a really good mood, he might call her his girl. He slept with all the other girls on the bus too, though, so Lark didn’t feel as if they had much of a real relationship. Matt said it was cool if she wanted to sleep with other guys, but Lark didn’t. She only slept with Matt because she thought it meant it was more likely he’d keep her on the van.
Matt was safe. He let her stay on his van and follow the tour, and he didn’t bug her all the time. He had other girls to be interested in. He didn’t need to know about Lark’s every move, either. She was free. But he’d never leave her behind. He’d always wait for her. She liked it this way. There were worse ways. Lark knew that. This way was definitely better.
“So how come you’re awake?” Matt asked.
Lark shrugged. “Can’t get comfortable.”
Matt removed his arm from her waist, reached in his pocket, and dug out a white pill. “This will help you sleep,” he said.
Lark looked at it. Lint from his pocket clung to its surface. “What is it?” she asked.
“It’s a sleeping pill. What does it look like?”
“It looks gross,” said Lark, reaching for the joint in his other hand.
Matt jerked the joint out of her reach. “I’m trying to do you a favor here. You like some of my drugs, but not all of them?”
Lark rolled her eyes and let her arm drop. “It’s X, isn’t it? You just want me to want to fuck you.”
Matt handed her the joint. “Don’t get any crazy, cocky ideas. I can get laid whenever I want. I don’t have to drug girls to get laid.”
“Of course not,” Lark said and took a hit from the joint.
Matt put the pill back in his pocket. “Why don’t you ever want to fuck me, anyway?” he muttered. “What’s wrong with me?”
Lark shook her head, taking another hit from the joint. “Don’t,” she said. She didn’t want to talk about this right now. Didn’t want to deal with Matt’s fragile ego.
“I love you, Lark,” said Matt. He sounded pitiful.
Lark gave the joint back to him. “You don’t love me.” He didn’t, anyway. She knew what was up. It was sickening when he got emotional like this. You’d think a guy who had his own van and coordinated groups of people following The Wrenching wouldn’t be so goddamned needy.
“Sure I do. That’s what all of this is about. The tour. Everything. Love makes the world go around.”
“Whatever,” said Lark.
“God! You’re so...cold. Every time I think I’m getting close to getting through to you, you just close up like that. It’s not healthy, you know.”
Lark didn’t want to be cold. “I’m not closed up. I’m just annoyed because I can’t sleep. That’s all.”
Matt took the pill out of his pocket again.
Lark snatched it out of his palm. “Fine, I’ll take it.” She shoved it between her lips and dry swallowed it.
It did make her sleepy. Soon, she was so sleepy that she was falling asleep in Matt’s arms outside the van. Once, she thought she woke up. She was cold, and there was something in her mouth. But she’d been dreaming. Dreaming of him. Him in her mouth. Because Ma
tt knew. Matt knew that she didn’t let anyone do that to her anymore. Matt knew, and he kept her safe. Matt wouldn’t let anyone hurt her.
* * *
Chris Dearborn pounded on the door of Shane’s dressing room. Their roadies were almost finished prepping the stage for The Wrenching to go on, and no one had seen or talked to Shane in an hour. Chris, as usual, had been nominated to try to get Shane on stage. The rest of the band always nominated Chris because he was the one guy who’d been with Shane from the beginning. He and Shane had been playing together since they were kids. The other guys in the band—Randy Wallace and Kirk Regal—had been later additions, after The Wrenching’s first album had been released. They were solid guys. Sure, they liked to party, but they were there when the band needed them. They were reliable.
Shane, on the other hand, was pulling an Axl. Chris didn’t know what was up with Shane. It was as if the fame had gone to his head. He was canceling shows, refusing to go on stage, picking fights with the backstage help... Chris wanted to strangle him. Chris was probably going to strangle him, the minute Shane opened up his door.
“Shane,” he yelled. “We’re on in five.”
No response.
For the third time, Chris jiggled the door handle. It was locked, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Jesus Christ, Shane. Get your ass out here.”
Maybe it wasn’t the fame. Maybe it was the drugs. Chris knew that he wasn’t one to talk. He liked to get high just as much as the next guy. Still, sometimes Chris got another impression from Shane. It wasn’t that Shane liked to get high. It was that Shane needed to get high. It freaked Chris out.
“Look,” he said, his voice low, his face pressed against the door. “If you don’t open this door right now, I am going to break it down.”
“I’m not going on tonight, Chris.”
Finally, a response. It was better than nothing. He was getting somewhere.
“Please open the door. I can’t talk to you through the wall. Please,” said Chris.
Nothing.
Then a shuffling sound from inside the room. The click of a lock being undone. And the door opened. Shane was naked except for a pair of black silk boxer shorts. He was holding one of his pet rats. Shane had about twenty rats, and he insisted on taking them on tour with him, even though they were a pain to feed, and they made an enormous mess. Another rat crawled out from behind Shane’s neck and perched on his shoulder.
Chris hated those fucking rats. They were creepy. Mangy, furry fucks. And they were big, too. One of them—Shane’s favorite—was the size of a cat.
“Come in,” Shane mumbled, stepping away from the doorway.
Chris stepped inside. Shane’s dressing room was like a cave. He’d covered all the lamps with black sheets, so the light was eerily muted. An open bottle of Jack Daniels sat in the middle of the floor, next to a hand-held mirror with a few lines cut up on it. Chris shut the door behind him.
“All right, man,” Chris said. “We’ll do a line, and we’ll go do the show, okay? You just need to wake up a little bit.”
Shane shook his head, stroking one of his rats. “I’m not going on tonight.”
“You gotta go on,” said Chris. “There are hundreds of kids out there screaming for you. You gonna let them down?” This tactic sometimes worked. Shane was a sucker for the fans.
“No,” said Shane. “They’re in danger. If I play, I put them in danger.”
Not this again. Chris was sick of dealing with Shane’s delusions. Sometimes, Chris was convinced Shane had gone cuckoo-puffs. “Hey,” said Chris. “What’d you take, man? You take anything hallucinogenic?”
Shane put down the rat. It crawled underneath one of the couches in the room. That was great. Who knew how many of those mangy things were under those couches? Shane rubbed his eyes. “I drank some whiskey,” he said. “I felt tired, so I laid out some lines, but I can’t go on.”
“Come on, it’s me. You can come clean with me. What’d you take? It’s cool. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”
“I didn’t take anything.” Shane’s voice was a little stronger now, but it had a whiny edge, like a four-year-old’s.
“I’m your best friend. You can tell me.”
“I am telling you.”
“Okay, then, so what’s this danger stuff?”
“They’ll die. They’ll all die.”
Hearing Shane talk like this really freaked Chris out. “Dude, you’re not making any sense,” said Chris. Hell, maybe Shane shouldn’t go on.
Shane just shrugged. “I’m sorry. You wouldn’t understand. It’s true, though. I had that interview. Remember? That interview? But she won’t publish the goddamned article. They need to be warned.”
Okay. Okay. So the lead singer in his band had gone loony-tunes. That was okay. Most lead singers were loony-tunes. In fact, most fans expected lead singers to be loony-tunes. It would all be fine, if Chris could just get Shane on stage.
So what should he do? Should he appeal to Shane’s sense of reason? Shane didn’t seem to have reason on his side right now. Should he play along with Shane?
“Chris?” said Shane.
“Yeah?”
“Do you remember that night when we took mushrooms?”
Did he what? They’d taken mushrooms on a lot of nights. “Which one?”
“Back in town. A long time ago. The night that I...”
Oh yeah. Chris did remember that night. “The night you got freaked out because you were being chased by fireballs?”
Shane nodded.
“What about it?”
“I wasn’t hallucinating.”
Okay, definitely not play along. Definitely not appeal to reason. Maybe... “You’ve got to go on, Shane,” said Chris. “You can’t let the band down. I don’t know what’s going on in your head. I don’t know why you’re freaked out, but if you keep acting like this—”
“Acting like what?” Shane demanded.
“Like a crazy person,” said Chris evenly.
Shane didn’t answer. He swallowed, bobbed his head, and crouched over the lines of cocaine that were laid out in the center of the room. Chris heard him snort a line and sniff hard afterwards. Shane rolled his head on his shoulders and turned to Chris.
“You want a line?” said Shane.
“You going on?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Chris.
Chapter Three
Whitney slammed her laptop closed and strode into the kitchen of her apartment, flinging open the door of the refrigerator. She was incensed because of the email she’d just received. Too incensed to think. Her boyfriend Ryan looked up from the kitchen table, where he was eating a turkey sandwich. “Whit?” he asked.
She didn’t answer him. Instead, she shoved Tupperware containers and yogurt out of her way. She was looking for a beer, but there weren’t any behind the yogurt.
“You okay?” Ryan said.
Whitney stood up. Faced him. “Do we have any more Dos Equis?”
Ryan took a bite of his sandwich. “Check the crisper drawer,” he said while chewing.
Whitney threw it open. Nothing was in it but a head of lettuce and some moldy green peppers. “Fuck,” said Whitney, kicking the drawer closed.
“Hey,” said Ryan. “That’s our security deposit you’re kicking away.”
Whitney closed the refrigerator door. “Security deposits are a joke,” she said. She headed into the den and opened the liquor cabinet. Taking out a bottle of rum, she returned to the kitchen. “You should just think of them as something you pay to get an apartment and then forget about them. You never get them back.” She banged the liquor bottle down on the table and went to the cabinet to search for a rocks glass.
“Whitney,” said Ryan. “It’s a little early to be drinking, don’t you think?”
Whitney deposited the rocks glass next to the liquor bottle. “What time is it?”
“One fifteen,” he said.
“You wanna tell me what’s wrong?”
She put the coke on the table and went back to the fridge, this time to the freezer. “Nothing’s wrong,” she said, returning with a handful of ice cubes.
They clinked as she dropped them in the glass.
“So what’s with the cocktail?” he asked.
Whitney filled three fourths of the glass with rum. She topped it off with a splash of coke. After taking a drink, she sat down and looked at Ryan. She smiled. “See? Everything’s fine now.”
Ryan smiled tightly. “I wish you wouldn’t drink, Whit. Especially liquor. Just talk to me. You don’t need to drink.”
Whitney glared at him. Lately, Ryan seemed convinced that she had a drinking problem. He was insane. When she was young, she’d had a substance problem. She’d kicked weed. She’d kicked ecstasy. She’d kicked coke. By herself. So she drank a little now and again. Ryan had no idea what she’d been through. Ryan had no idea what a problem with a substance was really like.
“I’m not doing it because I need to,” she said.
“Yeah? You seemed pretty desperate.”
Because she was angry with him, because he was hurting her, because she wanted to hurt him back, she just told him. “I got another rejection on the Shane Adams piece.”
Ryan stood up. He put the remains of his sandwich in the trashcan and placed his plate in the sink. Looking at the sink and not at her, he said, “I thought you were gonna give up on that article.”
Ryan hated Shane Adams. Well, maybe it would be more accurate to say that he hated Whitney’s liking Shane Adams. As far as Ryan was concerned, she didn’t like Shane Adams, she was unhealthily obsessed with him. Ever since she’d begun to pursue his publicist in the hopes of getting an interview, Ryan had been against the entire project. When Shane (she was thinking of him on a first name basis now) had declined the article numerous times, Ryan had told her that it was a sign, and she should give up. He hadn’t wanted her to interview Shane in the first place.
Ryan was big on signs. He hadn’t always been. He was probably Whitney’s favorite boyfriend ever in terms of being sweet, stable, and good in bed. But he’d always been a little, well, quirky, because he made his living as a psychic. He talked to people on the phone and gave them advice. Really. At the beginning of their relationship, it hadn’t been much of an issue. It was a job for Ryan. Sometimes, she got little hints that Ryan really believed in that shit—like tarot cards and Ouija boards and horoscopes—but Whitney hadn’t paid it much mind. People liked to believe things. Some people needed a supernatural outlet. Big deal.
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