Fiasco and Spider stumbled all over themselves to assure him they would be good little musicians, and Priest dropped the window dividing the driver. The limo swerved immediately to a stop, and the door was thrown open to somehow reveal the black wall of the Viper Room. As if they had never left. Several passersby stopped to watch Savy climb out, making sure Chris Martin or Lady Gaga didn’t emerge from the limo with her.
Clay was the last to disembark, and as he stuck his leg out Priest gave another deep pull of his nostrils, a cocaine sniff that brought Clay back to his days with Renee and that unoccupied building and that terrible thing chasing Barry Right down its halls. Then Priest said to him, very low, mumbling in a way that might have only been a general clearing of the throat: “Don’t cross us, motherfucker.” And he coughed—a hard, phlegmy bark from deep down that, to Clay, sounded like a chant: Don’t! Don’t! Don’t! Don’t!
It was well after one a.m., but The Strip was as alive as ever, buzzing with drunks and horns and pounding music the way it had for decades—and would decades from now when Farewell Ghost was dead and gone, whatever their fate may be. “How fast can we get someone to look at the contract?” Fiasco wanted to know. “We’ll need to be in a lawyer’s office first thing tomorrow. Does your dad know anyone, Clay?”
“We can’t sign those papers.”
These were the words they all needed to hear—but to Clay’s surprise, he wasn’t the one who had to say them.
All eyes fell on Savy, leaning against the Viper’s wall, doubled over, breathless.
“My ears must be ringing,” Spider replied. “Say what?”
Never did Clay love Savy more than in that moment, her face full of defiance, her eyes determined, staring down their offended bandmates. Clay went to her, threw an around her shoulders in solidarity. And she looked at him and asked, genuinely, “Where do we even start?”
“Come with us,” Clay told them.
23
ON THE TURNING AWAY
“We’ve heard this spook story before,” Fiasco Joe replied. His arms were spread and he was making a dramatic effort to be patient—which, of course, was just another way of broadcasting impatience. “Only, not so colorfully told,” Spider added.
Farewell Ghost sat around the Generator’s couches and chairs for the hundredth time in their tenure, failing to meet each other’s stares for the first time. There had been long pauses in the conversation, and in those pauses lay a deep divide. Restless, Clay waited for his ace card to come creaking down the loft steps, to lift the borrowed Schecter Banshee off its stand and rip through a midair “Stairway to Heaven,” shocking Fiasco Joe into a state of pants-wetting wonder. But they’d been here awhile and Boyle was as absent as he was from every practice.
“It’s true,” Savy told them. “It’s all true. Rocco was murdered—right over where you’re sitting. He broke his deal with the devil and the devil made Karney snap his neck in the noose.”
“And all this ‘truth’ has what to do with us?” Fiasco demanded. “Are you saying William Priest works for the Triple-6 mafia? We cross him and burn?”
“I would stow the smart-assery,” Clay shot back. “Because that appraisal is a lot more accurate than you know.”
“So the music industry is run by the devil? Shocker! If you were expecting Mickey Mouse and Gandhi, you should’ve never picked up a guitar or had a dream.”
“I still don’t see the harm in getting a lawyer to examine Priest’s contract,” Spider added. “If we know exactly what we’re getting into, we could discuss the drawbacks—”
“You said Karney lit himself on fire,” Fiasco cut in, on his own thought-flow.
“You didn’t see the fear on Karney’s face,” Clay said. “The Hailmaker wasn’t there physically, but he was there.”
“Karney was a paranoid fuck,” Fiasco agreed, “and from what I can see, he made one of you too.” The crease in his brow deepened; his shoulders were lifted almost to his neck—you would have thought he was listening to closing arguments to euthanize his mother. “Him, I get,” he told Savy. “Clay’s got a rich daddy and he already lives in a rock-star palace—six figures is probably his allowance for mowing the lawn. But you, of all people—”
“You’re right,” Savy said, “I want this worse than anyone. I need this. So doesn’t it tell you something that I’m not doing the Dance of Joy right now?”
Another pause. Savy’s eyes flicked around the room, also hoping, perhaps, that Boyle would show up and bail them out.
“Signing to Island or Reprise is a huge risk, however you slice it,” Fiasco allowed. “But do we have to get so fucking dramatic and, fuck, supernatural about it?”
“Priest knew things about us,” Spider said, on a thought-flow of his own. “Shit you can’t find out just by sleuthing on the internet. It didn’t seem weird in the backseat with him. But now…”
“Careful, Spidey,” Fiasco said. “Paranoia is contagious. Just look at Sav. She does our first singer—is still doing him apparently—now our second singer comes along and it’s her superstitious mind she’s letting him fuck. Shame, shame, leave it to a chick to jeopardize and ruin the game—”
Savy’s palm landed flush against Fiasco’s cheekbone. Spittle flew from his mouth and splattered Clay’s wrist. Fiasco stood there, head cocked, face flaring a darker shade of red. He was quiet, but not stunned.
“Maybe it is my fault,” Savy told him. “We should’ve told you guys before we got into that limo tonight. I’d be skeptical too. We sound psycho-damn-tropic.”
Fiasco swept the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “You hit like a girl, know that?”
“Well, let me try the other cheek. Maybe you’ll cry this time.”
Spider stepped between them. “Guys, please.”
“Rocco!” Clay yelled. Because their dialogue had become roundabout and pointless, and if ever he needed the ability to summon a spirit, it was here, now. “You could really help our cause by joining in!”
And Fiasco and Spider looked at each other, trying to comprehend, to lash their sanity together before it was lost in this lunatic sea. Savy’s gaze toured the room before she exhaled and shook her head.
Fiasco gave the room a diplomatic once-over, just to be sure. “I don’t know what the two of you are on, but I thought it was band policy to say no to drugs. I mean, listen to yourselves. Scared of devil-men, calling for ghosts. I’m getting worried you’re gonna tell us you stole Karney from the hospital.”
“I never believed in ghosts either,” Clay told him. “But Boyle is here, trapped in the place he died. Just—give him time to show.”
Fiasco waited all of ten seconds before snatching Spider around the back of the neck. “Let’s leave Mulder and Scully to it.” He took four steps to the door, dragging Spider alongside, before halting and glaring back. “You don’t get to decide this alone. I put everything into this band too. I’m the reason we all fucking know each other.”
“Let’s sleep on it,” Spider said, desperate to avoid undoing knots that had taken months—years, in some cases—to forge. “Does anyone work in the morning?”
Savy lifted her hand. “Nine a.m.”
“Alright, let’s meet at The Knickerbocker at noon for lunch. We’re in this together, right? Whatever’s happening, we need to make the best decision. That’s going to take calmer hearts—and less skeptical minds.”
Clay nodded. “The drummer makes the most sense.”
“Hell must have frozen over,” Fiasco agreed. Begrudgingly he and Savy pounded fists. Clay shook with Spider and thanked him for pacifying the room. But Clay could read too much in Spider’s face: Confusion, a subtle twitch of veiled anger, and the overt concern that, just as their ship reached paradise, his frontman had gone cannibal.
Clay stood in the Generator’s doorway with Savy, watching their rhythm section set off the motion sensors as they walked away. The next time he saw them, everything was different.
When Clay and Savy were alone again
, Boyle made his entrance stage left.
“We could’ve used your help there,” Clay said.
“He’s shaking his head,” Savy said.
Your boys have already been seduced. Your father’s girlfriend too.
“A lot happened tonight…” Clay sighed, feeling Savy at his elbow. When he spoke next, it was in the tone of a confession. “You might not want to hear this, Sav, but we can’t keep secrets. Nothing anymore.”
Over the next few minutes, Clay relayed the events that had taken place in the hours before they’d gotten into Priest’s backseat—his jealousy of Bass, his introduction to the girl in the masquerade mask, going back to her apartment, Essie intruding to save him, getting a knife in her chest, seeing her die, then seeing her turn up, unharmed, an hour later. He told them about the girl’s face, the flesh around her eyes cut off in the precise shape of the mask, and how her flesh had felt cold, but he didn’t go so far as to describe the sexual details—that was a private horror he’d relive in flesh-crawling detail on the inevitable sleepless nights ahead. Clay concluded with Roethke, his calling the girl a succubus, his warnings, and his reluctance to help, despite Boyle haunting his e-mails.
Now you see the Hailmaker’s influence. Rest assured, he’ll pull everything out to get you under contract.
“And what are we supposed to do?” Clay demanded. “Just say no?”
If the girl had strapped you down and forced you to have sex, she wouldn’t have had dominion over you. The power of seduction lies in your own willingness to surrender.
Clay relayed all of this to Savy, who nodded without expression (she’d been stone cold during Clay’s story). “What about Essie?” she asked. “How could she bleed to death one minute and not have a mark on her the next?”
While you were runnin’ from your groupie, it’s likely someone—maybe The Man himself—stood over her and offered a choice. Oncoming death or a life of servitude.
Clay shuddered. “What kind of choice is that?”
Death would’ve been better. But nothing’s worse than the act of dying, so it’s hard to fault her. She was in here tonight. Before you. And she wasn’t playing spiritualist no more. She stood right in the middle of this room, in full dark, and ordered me to appear. Of course I was already right there, tellin’ her to fuck off. But she had a message. From him. Told me if I wanted another crack at life, I could have yours. All I had to do was make you sign.
“But you’re not going to do that,” Clay said slowly. “Are you?”
I tried jumpin’ into you once before. I didn’t like it. Boyle laughed—then, just as quickly, grew resolute: I’ve been fightin’ bad authority figures my whole existence. What’s the Hailmaker but the ultimate bad authority? I don’t know about you two, but I didn’t pick up a guitar to bend to my fucking masters.
Clay started to relay this to Savy, but she waved him off with a grin. “I’m getting good at lip-reading.” Then: “Damn right.”
Outside a branch snapped, sharp against the nocturnal quiet. Everyone paused. The snap was followed by a harsh ripping sound—like canvas tearing or a brush fighting through a particularly thick clump of hair. The rose bushes, Clay realized. Someone had been sneaking through the rose bushes and gotten themselves tangled. “Is that Essie?” Savy whispered.
I don’t think so, Boyle said.
“The alarm should’ve caught any wall climbers. Unless… shit.” It was a terrible thought—and it suddenly made sense. “Unless Essie killed the alarms.”
In four bounds, Clay was at the door, yanking it open.
All was quiet and still. This far from the perimeter walls it was hard to tell if the alarm was on or not. Though the cluster of roses beyond the orange grove and the pair of motion sensors back there—sensors that tripped if you stepped within ten feet of them—were lit up.
Stay here, Clay, Boyle warned. Don’t go writin’ yourself into some murder ballad.
“My father,” was all Clay could reply, as he hurried back around the room, snatching up the Schecter guitar and charging for the door again. Savy moved to block his exit. “He’s the only family I’ve got,” Clay told her. “If he’s in danger, it’s on me.”
He knew this would strike a chord and regretted framing his bravado this way. Because in the next instant, Savy was gathering weapons, a pair of Spider’s drumsticks (the really thick ones he used for his tom outro on “Disaffected,”) and Clay’s old friend, the single-watt mini-amp. There wasn’t time to plot or argue. I see anything, I’ll flash the lights, Boyle shouted after them.
Hurrying out across the grass, Clay and Savy gained the stepping-stone path that wound through the back yard. They moved with only the barest of sound—but a shortcut through the pool court that gave them away.
At the squeal of the gate, there was a mad scramble among the potted ferns near the deep end and a watery slap. “Hear that?” Savy whispered.
Clay nodded. It had come from the pool itself. And to get to the back porch and into the house, they would need to pass right by the water’s edge.
The pool glowed faintly silver in the moonlight—except in the deep end, where it was interrupted by a dark patch.
Something submerged there.
Something moving, creeping, subtly along the bottom of the pool. Or was it only Clay’s imagination, a trick of shadows? He waited for bubbles, but none came. The intruder was remarkably skilled at holding their breath. Or they had no breath.
The guitar poised like a bat, Clay advanced. His padding feet were quiet, but slow. Too slow. And the shadow was drawing closer. Or does it only look that way because I’m getting closer? Clay turned to make sure Savy was still with him, and that was when he saw it—the strip of cloth hanging from one of the potted ferns. A discarded bandage.
No. That was impossible. Davis Karney wouldn’t have been able to stand, let alone walk out of a hospital on his own, let alone…
“Shit,” Savy hissed, “there’s something in the pool—”
Karney’s blistered hands burst through the skin of the water. Savy screamed as the scorched face emerged like some terrible reptile. Water spilled down the ruts and grooves of his burns. He lifted himself from the pool, lipless mouth going, saying something to Clay—though all that came out was a sopping-wet gargle. Impossible, Clay’s mind persisted. But if Essie had been yanked from death’s grip, why not Karney too?
“Clay!” Savy seemed to be shouting from far away. “Keep moving!”
Had he stopped? Well, he didn’t exactly realize that. But, yes, she was right. Like the slasher-film fool, Clay had frozen to witness his oncoming fate. For some reason, he thought of asking Karney if the water was nice. Maybe the two of them could have a nice laugh over that.
Then Clay was stumbling up the porch steps toward the back doors—and only later did he understand it was Savy who’d shoved him. He lost the guitar and it went banging away into the dark of the summer kitchen. His newly freed hands reached for and caught the French doors, wondering if they’d be locked.
But both handles gave under his pressure. After all, if Essie had been planning a midnight raid, it wouldn’t have done any good to lock Karney out.
Clay had nine toes in the house before Savy cried out behind him. Karney had leapt from the water to snag the back of her shirt. With a single motion, he yanked her clear off her feet. Savy thrashed. She swung the mini-amp across her body and slammed it like a rock into Karney’s bloated midsection. There was a moist thump as the amp embedded itself in his braised belly fat and stuck there. But the creature’s expression didn’t even change. He threw a swift knee, all bone, into Savy’s ribs and she groaned as the wind rushed out of her.
“Get away from her!” Clay screamed, diving at the bipedal thing, wrapping his hand around the few dripping tendrils of hair that remained and attempting to rip him off. Though, to Clay’s horror, the scalp was no longer terra firma; the hair slid off Karney’s skull like a cheap hairpiece, leaving Clay with a souvenir.
Karne
y’s eyes were gleeful. His crooked teeth, exposed after his lips had been burned away, clacked happily, and he slammed both hands into Clay’s chest, sending him careening into the dark, in the direction the guitar had gone.
“You ruined me,” the creature garble-gargled. It was Karney’s voice alright—and something else at the same time. A dank narrator of nightmares.
With Savy on all fours, Karney lurched toward Clay, shreds of hospital gown flapping over seared flesh. Clay scrambled back. Karney’s fingers were scarcely more than bone as they reached down to pluck something, a scrolled paper, tucked in a gap between his exposed femur and what remained of the leg muscle. “You earned the same contract I did. Now you sign it!”
Retreating, Clay barked his hip on something hard—in the dark he couldn’t tell what—and struggled to keep upright. He looked for the Schecter, but wouldn’t have seen it if it was right there next to him. All the while Karney was closing in. Clay could still smell the fire on him, the kerosene, the wretched meat, mixing with the fresher scent of pool chlorine. Chlorine! That was what Clay had struck his hip on. The bin that held his pool supplies. And in a moment’s inspiration, he tossed the lid up and had two seconds to snag a plastic gallon and a single second to pop the child-proof cap before Karney caught him around a shoulder with startling strength and swatted him in the nose with the contract. “Sign it, you fucking wannabe. Come live in my wor—”
Clay hurled the gallon at Karney’s face like a bucket at a fire. The liquid—it wasn’t chlorine after all, but the far nastier muriatic acid—caught the creature full in one eye, and Karney shrank back and opened his mouth, presumably to shriek, but Clay drenched his face again. And again. Then threw the gallon at him and raced for Savy, lifting her from the deck and dragging her into the house.
Together they fumbled with the locks, as what remained of Davis Karney renewed his attack, stumbling up and banging into the glass, leering at them from an eye that—they could hear it even through the door—was sizzling like an overcooked egg. “Go!” Savy gasped, and Clay sprinted down the hall and activated every last alarm zone.
FAREWELL GHOST Page 26