by J. A. Huss
“Now?” She says it hesitantly, but then exhales and gives in. “Three of your friends died that night. You and your friend Kenner survived, although he was touch-and-go for a few weeks. You were the least injured. Whoever did this tried to smash your throat with some kind of blunt object. All the others were shot. I can only assume when Kenner McConnell didn’t die from the gunshot wound, they took the same blunt object to his arms as well. Or maybe that happened first? I’m just not sure.”
Welcome to RK’s insane delusions.
“Who?” I whisper, unable to recognize my voice anymore.
“No one knows. You know, Rowan Kyle. You know and then you made yourself forget.” She starts grabbing at the magazines and newspapers on the table closest to us. Not finding what she’s looking for, she searches the other tables until she comes up with a Metal Notes Magazine, thrusting it out at me. Son of a Jack is painted up to look like the American flag and the headline reads, Living the Nightmare.
“It’s all in here,” she says.
I take the magazine and stare at it. There’s a subheading that I didn’t see last night. It says, Who killed Ian, Elias, and Mo? Only one man knows, and he’s not talking.
“We have to go before anyone sees you. Unless…” She looks at me. “Unless you want them to come get you. I can call them—”
“No,” I say, rolling the magazine and the folder up and heading towards the door. “Don’t call them, Alice.” She follows me to the door and I hold it open for her. “I swear, I’m OK. I’m OK now. I just need to get home.”
We go out into the hall and enter the stairwell again, just as the elevator dings. I close the door and we both watch a weary ER doc make her way to the break room.
I have one last question for Alice the nurse. “Why did they move Kenner to Colorado? Do you know why?”
She swallows hard and nods. “Because the killers are still out there, Rowan Kyle. The FBI needed to get him somewhere safe to protect him.”
Which explains the sheriff keeping such a close eye on me up in Grand Lake. Why they sent me there to begin with. People are easy to spot in a town that small. Strangers stick out.
Unless there’s a music festival coming up. Unless it’s tourist season and people come from all over to boat and fish on the lake.
Am I bait?
I bet they didn’t expect me to take so long to tell them something useful and now that the town is filling up with people, they are desperate to get me talking.
“Thank you, Alice. Really, I’m OK.” We walk up a flight of stairs and then she points to an emergency exit, keys in a code in the alarm system, and then holds the door to the back parking lot open for me.
“Be careful,” she says as I walk through.
I nod. But I have no intention of being careful.
I’m gonna make myself remember and then I’m going to kill the motherfuckers who killed my friends.
Chapter Thirty-Three
I half expect them to be waiting for me when I get to my truck. Not the… killers. But TJ and Missy. The Grand County Sheriff. Someone. But the parking is full and busy and no one is there to confront me when I get in the truck and stare at the magazine in my hand.
I study at the cover again, reading the headline. Living the Nightmare? Yeah. I think that about sums it up.
I’m not sure I want to read this article, but I am sure that whatever the fuck made me forget what happened that night won’t go away unless I face reality. So I open it, flip through about a dozen pages of ads, until I see my photo.
Not a pretty one. Not one in a studio with great lighting, making me look the rock-star part.
No.
It’s a picture of me outside the ambulance that picked me up in Big Bear, lying in a stretcher, about a dozen people working on me. There’s another stretcher, which I can only assume is Kenner, because the person, while not really visible, must not be dead or he’d have a sheet over his head. I can just make out the Life Flight helicopter in the upper right corner.
I can’t tell if I’m awake or not in that picture. I can’t remember any of it, but I’m not sure that counts for much right now. There’s blood everywhere. I can see my hands, strapped down. And they are covered in it.
I involuntarily place my fingers over the tracheotomy scar at the base of my throat and find it difficult to breathe for a moment.
And then I start reading.
Son of a Jack never thought their first night in the resort town of Big Bear, California would end up being the last night they ever spent together as a band.
I have to stop for a moment and ask myself if this is really the best idea. But what choice do I have? Whoever did this is still out there. And if there’s a chance that facing the truth will help me remember, well, I have to take that chance. I probably saw the killers. If I could just remember their faces I might be able to identify them.
It was a night of partying and celebration as the band wrapped up their second album and got their gear ready for a private day of skiing on the slopes of Bear Mountain. Two hours after arrival Ian Malone, Elias Chestro, and Mo Darzi would be dead, lying in a pool of blood. All three were shot.
Fuck. I close my eyes and try to stop myself from throwing up.
Was someone waiting in the house? Did they come to the door? Were the killers known to the boys? No one knows. Kenner McConnell and Rock Saber both survived, but either they don’t remember—or they aren’t talking.
I spoke with Jayce Willington, the band’s manager, for a brief update and interview last week and while she didn’t give me a straight answer, she did hint that Kenner, who only recently woke up from a coma after he was shot twice—once in the side of the head, which Ms. Willington assures me was only a graze, and a more serious bullet wound to his left side, would recover.
“He was in bad shape. We think he fell over at some point and knocked himself unconscious. Possibly from the bullet wound. He didn’t wake up after they stabilized him after emergency surgery for the gunshot wound and dislocated elbows. Then his brain started to swell with blood and they needed to put him in a medically induced coma for surgery,” Willington said last week on the phone.
She also relayed information about the extent of his arm injuries and when asked if he’ll ever drum again, she hesitated for several seconds before finally admitting “his long-term prognosis remains to be seen.”
Rock Saber, the charismatic lead singer, came out of the attack better than the rest because he was not shot. But Willington did say, “We think someone hit him in the neck with a blunt object. A baton or a bat. It’s a miracle they didn’t break it. The doctors are assuming he fought back pretty hard, but the larynx was fractured. The soft-tissue trauma was extensive.”
At a press conference in early March, Rock’s doctors relayed the successful outcome of the surgery to repair his voice box and said he was breathing on his own. But that he had “suffered severe emotional stress and isn’t able to communicate at the moment.”
And that’s when the two surviving members of Son of a Jack disappeared. No new information came for almost eight weeks when Willington called us up and asked if we wanted an update.
The timing of the update is suspicious. Just one week after the FBI admitted they had no leads and were asking for help from the general public.
That was less than twenty-four hours after Rock was seen mountain-climbing up near Rocky Mountain National Park, just a stone’s throw from his home town of Grand Lake. He’s been spotted several times since then at a local bar owned by his brother.
People were both relieved that he looked well and outraged that he was off having fun while Kenner McConnell was still under heavy guard at some unnamed rehabilitation facility.
Well, I sigh. I don’t really blame them for that.
When I asked Willington about his sudden reappearance, looking happy and healthy, she only replied, “He’s suffering an enormous loss and hasn’t quite come to terms with what has really happened. He has family and
friends—and law enforcement—watching over him and guiding him back to the present.”
And when pressed for more information about that statement, Willington refused to offer any more explanation other than, “[He] needs time.”
Since then dozens of pictures of Rock have surfaced from the town of Grand Lake, a tiny resort community on the edge of civilization, deep in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado.
I study the picture on that page for a moment. It’s a collage of me trolling around Grand Lake. One of me that first night I was drinking at Float’s, tucked between Missy and Sean in TJ’s back booth. You can’t really see my face. But they got a good one of me walking out, takeout container in hand. The caption reads, Getting food at Float’s before disappearing back into the mountains, heavily guarded by the Grand County sheriff’s department and more plain-clothes security than people can count.
Well, I guess those ex-military guys were there all along. I turn to page seventy-nine, where the article continues with a picture of all five of us at the last photoshoot for the second album.
The FBI is interested in any information leading to the identification and capture of those responsible…
It goes on like that. Asking for help to identify the killers. But, if what they say is true about Kenner being knocked out after he was shot, I might be the only person who would recognize them.
Where the fuck is he? I pull out my phone, ready to text again. But it’s dead.
No. When I press the power button it starts up. And when my home screen comes on, there’s not a single message. Not Missy, not TJ, not Jayce, and not the sheriff.
Why haven’t they called?
Bait, my mind whispers. You’re bait, Rock. They’re here. There’s no way I got out of town again without people noticing. Even if I did climb down that cliff and walk down the trail to get my truck at Float’s, they had to have been watching it. Expecting it.
Unless they were waiting for Saturday night again. I haven’t taken off on a Wednesday night before.
I look around warily. I’m in the middle of Denver, obviously. And Grand Lake is hours away. I start the truck up and make my way out of the parking lot before heading west.
The whole drive up into the mountains I search and search for the memories I need. How did I let things get this fucked up in my head?
Melanie, I decide. It has to be Melanie. Watching someone jump off a cliff isn’t something you forget, but it’s not exactly something you want to think about either. And when you add in the fact that she was pretending to be Missy that night, well, that’s a whole mindfuck. But what does it have to do with the band?
Maybe I’m just crazy? I am delusional. Even if I do remember, how would a lawyer for the defense see it?
I shake my head. I’m not crazy. These things that happened to me are crazy and maybe my reaction wasn’t typical, but it’s not crazy.
My head is spinning with the implications of my mental state. So much so, I almost pull over at Margie’s office in Granby. But I don’t. Her warning last time was pretty clear. Do not walk in without an appointment.
So I continue on the winding road until I reach Grand Lake. I pull down the little road that leads to Float’s but the parking lot is empty and there’s a sign on the door that says, Closed.
I get a very sick feeling in my stomach and the approaching darkness does nothing to quell it.
But just when I think I have that under control, the flashing red and blue lights outside my house almost shut me down.
I pull over on the side of the road because two unmarked cars are in my driveway. TJ’s Jeep is there. Gretchen and Sean are standing outside, and as soon as they see my truck, they start running towards me.
A pair of vehicles pull up behind me and I realize I’ve had security on me the whole way home. Probably since the moment I left here last night.
Bait, Rock. You’re bait.
I get out of the car and Sean is on his phone talking as Gretchen throws her arms around me. “Oh, my God, RK. I’m so glad you’re back.”
“What the fuck is happening?”
“Missy’s gone,” TJ says, walking out of my front door, coming towards me like he means business. “She’s fucking gone.” And then he throws a punch, hitting me square in the face.
I throw back. Because fuck that. I get him around the middle and tackle him to the ground. Everyone starts screaming. Hands are pulling at us, people yelling. TJ is livid.
“What the fuck is your problem?” I yell, letting Sean and some cop drag me away from TJ as two more guys do the same to him.
“She’s gone and you fucking did it! Where the fuck have you been?”
“What do you mean? I was in Denver looking for Kenner! Your thugs were following me the whole time, right?”
TJ shoots a glance over at the guys who pulled in behind me.
“Hey,” one guy says. “He never left our sight, TJ. It’s not him.”
The other guy agrees. “We didn’t see him the whole time he was inside at the hospital, but Missy was gone by then.”
I look at TJ, seeing red. “You better fucking explain, asshole.”
TJ grabs me by my shirt and drags me down the driveway towards Missy’s house. And that’s when I notice there are even more cars parked in Missy’s driveway. “Look for yourself, RK.” He pushes me through the Vetti front door, making a deputy sidestep to get out of my way. “Do you see this shit? What the fuck is this?”
I look at the wall. Covered with pictures of Missy. Or Melanie. Or maybe both. The other wall says Lying Cunt, spray-painted in red letters. There’s pictures of Missy undressing at night. The printouts are digitally dated the night I got home.
More pictures of her line another wall. Sleeping in my bed. Taking a shower, her body clearly visible through the glass shower doors of the hallway bathroom. Dated the second time I disappeared one week later.
More. And more. And more. Damning evidence that I didn’t do much rock climbing on those days. Because I was secretly stalking Missy and taking pictures of her. Very busy writing threats on the wall.
“I didn’t do this,” I say. “No way. Someone is setting me up.” The curtains, I think. The curtains fluttering when I looked over at Missy’s house that first night I was home. And then again when I came home from the second blackout.
“Who?” TJ says, shaking me. “Who the fuck hates you so much they kidnapped your girlfriend, RK? We need answers, dammit. Now.”
I let him shake me for a second as I put the pieces together. “I saw the article in this month’s issue of Metal Notes. Whoever killed Ian, Elias and Mo. That’s who did this.”
“You killed Ian, Elias, and Mo, Rock.” My brother seethes my stage name at me. “You did it.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
I charge TJ like a bull this time. Straight in the chest. He goes flying backwards into the two security guys, setting them off balance and sending all of us to the floor. My arm is back, ready to crash a fist into his face when they pull me up.
I can’t even hear the screaming. My mind is nothing but rage. “Fuck you!” I yell at my brother. “Is that what you assholes think?” I look around at all the faces, familiar and unfamiliar alike. “You think I killed Ian, Elias, and Mo? Fuck you!”
“RK,” Gretchen says, one hand on my shoulder. “It’s not—”
But TJ interrupts her. “You’re fucked up, RK. In the head,” he says, shaking off the people who are still holding him so he can point to his own head. “What are we supposed to think?”
“Not,” I growl, “that I’m a killer.” I’m breathing heavy now, the air coming out in long exhales. Sucking it back in like I can’t get enough.
“We don’t think that, RK,” Gretchen tries again. My eyes are on TJ’s face. Locked. “We don’t think you did it. TJ is wrong. That’s not why you’re here and he knows that.”
TJ glances over to Gretchen and she must be glaring at him, because he looks down at his feet. “You need to talk then, RK.” His b
reathing matches mine, huffing and panting. “Now.”
“We just need answers,” Gretchen continues. “That’s all. And you and Kenner are the only ones who have them and he’s not talking until he sees you.”
“Where is he?” I stop looking at TJ and look down at Gretchen. “Where is he? Because I just came back from Denver and they said they took him up to Steamboat. Did you know he was there when I was?”
I look around and see nothing but guilt.
“And what the fuck happened to Missy? How long has she been gone?”
A man steps forward. Suit, tie, air of authority. “A few hours at least, RK. We just noticed she was missing. So if you know anything about who attacked the band—”
“But what”—I stop him with a hand—“does that have to do with Missy?”
“We think they came after her,” he replies. “So if you could just talk to Kenner and try to remember what the hell happened that night, it might go a long way to saving your girlfriend’s life.”
She’s gone. It hits me then. She’s gone and might be dead. And it might be my fault.
“RK?” Gretchen says, shaking my shoulder. “Are you listening?”
I drag my gaze over to her. “Where. Is. Kenner?”
“Across the fucking street,” TJ says, wiping some blood from his mouth. “He’s across the fucking street. And whatever the fuck you two are hiding about what happened that night in Big Bear, you better get over it. Because if Missy dies because of—” He stops short.
But I know what he was going to say. “If Missy dies because of what?” I ask him. “Because of me, just like Melanie?”
“RK,” Gretchen says. “Get out of here, TJ, you’re not helping!” I’ve never heard Gretchen yell, but she yells now. “Get out and leave him alone.”
TJ punches a wall on his way out of the house and then Gretchen is right up in my face again. “Go talk to Kenner, RK. He’s in your house. We need you two right now. You need to figure out what happened. You had to have seen something, RK. Anything might help.”