FAREWELL GHOST

by Larry Caldwell

  Clay listened to the song over and over.

  At some point, the sun dropped low enough to shine in his eyes and he snapped from his trance, long enough to weigh his options: 1) Surrendering to the police; 2) Kissing Priest’s feet and pleading forgiveness; 3) Pointing eastward and gunning it until he ran out of gas. No, no, and no. Every course of action, and subsequent outcome, felt destructively hopeless.

  Throwing the Jeep in gear, he drove toward his own neighborhood, skirted Via Montana and took adjacent Harvard Road up into the foothills, past the public golf course.

  He parked in a hiker’s lot and his crunching boots gained elevation quickly in the failing light. The myriad dots of light appearing along the Valley floor reminded him of the time he’d buried Deidre’s ghost at the scout camp, the time he’d run into Savy up here, as if by cosmic coincidence—

  Isn’t it convenient that you found a talented band looking for a frontperson at the same time you met the ghost of your dead idol?

  —and she had told him he was “in” the band. It had meant everything to Clay. Like her approval had validated his existence. They had even named the band that night. Yes. They had done that, he and Savy. And she had been the one who’d seen something in him, who’d given him the opportunity. Not some devil working behind the scenes.

  We’ve signed your mother to a contract. She’s with me, Clay Harper. Suffering hoooorrribly.

  It took longer than he thought, but Clay finally arrived at a bend in the trail overlooking the crescent valley and the dense clutch of trees and rooftops that was his neighborhood. A moment later, he located the bluff that Savy had told him about and picked his way down to the edge. Tiny rocks raced over the sheer drop—and Clay understood that the slightest miscalculation of balance would send him tumbling after them. Savy hadn’t been the only Throne diehard to brave this vantage. Several devotees had chanced death to leave vinyl albums and framed pictures of Boyle, and maybe to catch a glimpse of the Generator among the trees.

  Except there was no Generator anymore, just an empty gap where the slanted roof had once been, the trees around it bare and black. Silence seemed to hang over the whole city. When Clay broke it, his voice sounded strained. “Rocco? If you’re still around… I could really use an assist right now.”

  The crows down in the canyon replied.

  Could a ghost exist if its anchor had been destroyed? Would it lose its access to the mortal world or could it be set free to wander in it? And if Boyle could wander, how far could he go?

  “Roc, please, man.”

  Crows and more crows. The sun was behind the Santa Monicas now. The golden hue of the rocks was losing its luster around him. Clay closed his eyes and slid a little further down the slope, dangling his legs over the drop. His body was cocked backward, assuring his balance, but if he shifted his weight ever so slightly over his hips….

  Why was he up here? Clay hadn’t thought it through. The idea of Boyle hearing him and rushing to his aid like the Fairy Rock-Mother was a farce. A sad shot in the dark. But he hadn’t really expected it to happen, had he? So then—why had he come?

  It’s a long way to find piece of mind, his mind told him.

  He sighed, exhaling until his lungs ached.

  Find me at the precipice, his mind told him.

  Clay opened his eyes and saw the bottom of the cliff staring back at him. More Boyle memorabilia blown over the edge, smashed on the rocks below.

  A strangled sound escaped him. He could see it—his body lying broken and anonymous across those rocks.

  “This is how. I. Emp-tee pain…” he sang.

  That is just. What. The-prick wants, Boyle sang back.

  The reply made Clay flinch, and for a moment, one ass cheek left the rocky outcropping—before he scrambled madly, pulling his weight back.

  Young tortured singer takes a header and the rest of his band soldiers on to fame.

  The voice was coming from the open space beneath him, drawing closer. If Savy had been here, Clay imagined her witnessing Boyle floating over the trees, rising to a height roughly parallel to the bluff, hovering there.

  “I wasn’t going to,” Clay told him.

  Of course not.

  “I thought maybe you were gone for good.”

  The Hailmaker’s goons did their best. None of them are very smart though. Beside Clay, rocks shuffled as Boyle lowered himself. They were like two iron workers, having lunch on a high-rise beam.

  “Let me guess, Karney set fire to the Generator?”

  Pyro fuck. First he breaks into my house and helps kill me and the woman I love. Then he tries to live my life. And when that doesn’t work, he lights his own house on fire and tries to kill my protégé. And when that doesn’t work, the son of a bitch comes back and lights up my sanctuary. Rooster. Fucking Rooster. I have a Monte Cristo-size score to settle with Rooster.

  Clay spent a minute giving Boyle a condensed version of the horror and heartbreak of the last twelve hours. To which Boyle replied, after some rumination, You survived.

  “But to what end? My band is gone. Everyone’s looking for me.”

  That’s true, unfortunately. I’ve spent the day dodgin’ Essie. She’s got these little boxes and hypnotic talismans. Says she can do Farewell Ghost and she’s gonna throw me in the ocean. Boyle paused. That’s only the start of what she wants to do to you.

  “Are you laughing?” Clay shook his head. “I thought you said if I resisted The Man, he wouldn’t come after me?”

  The Man isn’t comin’ after you. But these soulless creatures—in their minds we were the ones who got them killed. I guess they’re lookin’ to settle their own scores.

  “Is there anything you can do? Poltergeist their asses? Like Deidre did to me?”

  What little power I have is diminished without the Generator, Boyle admitted. It’s only because our connection is so developed that you can hear me at all.

  Clay folded his arms against the chill descending on him.

  Gimme time to figure out how to evict them. Then: It may not seem like it, man, but you’ve already beaten him.

  “No, call me crazy, it doesn’t feel like he’s been beaten at all. He’s not sitting up on the edge of a cliff. Forgive me if I don’t send him a Hallmark card.”

  You didn’t sign the Hailmaker’s contract. You didn’t give in. Your fate is your own—that’s all that matters now.

  “Meanwhile, the rest of my band is playing the Palladium tonight. With the songs you and I wrote. And what am I left with? A ghost friend and a low-end acoustic guitar.”

  Now Boyle’s laughter barked out over the rocks. Below, the crows broke from the treetops, having had enough. You know, sometimes a little ego does wonders, Clay. It’s certainly a closer relative to confidence than this woe-is-me funk you’re in. Think about it: The Hailmaker confronted you. Not Savy or Spider or that dickface Joe. You’re the talent behind Ghost. Without you, they’ll be a one-album wonder—at the mercy of whatever fate the Hailmaker deals.

  “But how does that help any of us? They’ll die and I’ll be the noblest songwriter this side of nobody. And you’ll be homeless on your own property. Forced to, what, haunt the orange grove for eternity?”

  It doesn’t have to be that way. How I see it, if my band ever dumped me, I’d show up at the Palladium and shift their reality a little. Here, Boyle’s voice sharpened: I’d stroll right out on that fucking stage and ask the crowd if they wanted to hear me play. The moment they roared back, the show’d be mine. Anyone who tried draggin’ me off would have to deal with them. Then the world would understand, without me, Rocket Throne would never be Rocket Throne. Ego, see?

  Clay ran a hand through his mop of hair. “That’s some shit you’re talking.” March into the lion’s den and steal the show? Goose bumps rose on his arms at the very thought. “How would I even get past the bouncers?”

  It’s been a few years since I played the Palladium, but if it’s the same security company, I never knew those guys no
t to have an extra pass for a generous groupie or a guy with green. Get some cash together and bribe your way in. Chances are, they’ll pat you for weapons and look the other way. If that doesn’t work, scalp a ticket, fight your way to the front, and jump the barricade. They’ll probably only have one or two hulks blockin’ the stage. Wait till they’re elbow-deep in crowd-surfers, then go.

  “Ego,” Clay repeated, his pulse going. Because recent events had made him crazy enough to want to try. If tonight was Ghost’s big coming-out party, then let everyone hear the band as it was meant to be heard. Let them realize who Ghost’s real frontman was. If it worked, it would take all of Priest’s leverage and turn it on its head. And maybe—an optimistic maybe—Savy would be freed from the damnation she’d signed on for.

  Their mistake had been to leave Clay with nothing to lose. And right now, crashing a stage seemed a much better endnote than falling off a cliff.

  This is rock-n-roll we’re talkin’ about, Boyle told him. Rebellion and power to the people. The Hailmaker should’ve fucked with the movie business.

  “Right,” Clay laughed.

  Afterward, haul ass out of there. Get back here.

  “Aren’t they chasing you? How would I know where to find you?”

  Don’t worry, none of them can see me like Savy can. And I play cat and mouse like a champ. Just live to tell the tale and get home. I’ll make sure it’s clear for you—

  Rocks came skittering down from the hiking trail. Clay spun. Saw no one.

  But there was someone.

  Speak of the devils, Boyle said.

  “Claaaaaay,” Essie called down. “Oh, my God. What are you doing at the edge of a cliff?”

  “Essie?” Clay called back.

  “I heard you begging for help. Oh, God! Please don’t hurt yourself. I’m coming down.”

  “And when she gets here,” Clay whispered, “she’ll shove me over.”

  Pretty much.

  “Es, it’s my fault. You were trying to save me from a bad fate. You didn’t deserve what happened to you. But you chose to serve the Queen Bitch, so if you take another step, I’m going to bash your brains in.”

  For a breathless moment, Essie quit moving. “Oh,” she said sadly. But when she next spoke, all amity was gone. “He’s dead, you know. Payton Alexander? They found him under his desk. Heart stopped cold. Like something had frightened him real bad.”

  Shit. Was that true? Was Payton dead? Please, no—

  She’s coming again, Boyle warned.

  “Do you want your father to go the same way?” Essie wanted to know.

  Don’t go in for that bait. Wait till I distract her, then break for the ravine.

  “Rocco, if I don’t succeed, I want you to know—”

  Don’t get sentimental, just rain on their fuckin’ parade for me!

  Then Boyle went clambering over the rocks, heading south along the bluff, kicking over his own framed photos, scattering rocks, plowing through every creosote bush in a twenty-yard radius. And Clay moved in the opposite direction, slipping away in the gathering dark.

  He moved, quiet as he could. Eventually the cliff’s drop-off gave way to grassy hillside that lowered itself steeply, but gradually toward the tree line below. There was a dirt path at the bottom, a fire road, and if Clay picked his way down to it he was certain he could make it back to his Jeep.

  Behind him, he heard Essie moving away, doing her best to assure him that running wasn’t the answer. “Happy hunting,” he whispered.

  Footfalls shuffled above him. Shit! Clay had been so focused on watching his ass, he hadn’t picked up the other tiger lying in wait. They’re both here. Determined to finish the job. Maybe his demise was the one thing that could release them from their rotting bodies. Or maybe they were doing it for fun. Clay hunkered down, listened.

  Karney appeared from behind a cluster of boulders, fifteen yards away.

  Clay started crawling backward, then caught himself. Even if the cliff had receded to a skier’s slope, going ass-over-head here was a recipe for disaster. In the fading dusk, Clay saw Karney’s milky-blind eye (compliments of the pool acid) oozing half out of the swollen pink dome of his head. And he saw the mini-amp, jutting from his guts where Savy had stuck it.

  The grass was high where Clay crouched, but not high enough. Karney’s other eye fell on him and his teeth clenched. “You’re all alone,” he barked.

  “That’s a song I’m used to singing,” Clay told him.

  “What the hell are you up to?”

  “I’m getting the band back together.”

  “Don’t count on it.” Karney sneered.

  Clay gave him the finger.

  Then Karney bolted for him and Clay dove on his side, landing hard on his hip and going into a baseball slide, down, down the grassy slope.

  It worked well at first, his progress smooth and swift. Halfway down, though, his heel caught and his body jumped up and pitched forward. Clay fought for control, but he was thrown into several big barrel-rolls that made the sky and ground trade places. And then he was just along for the ride, bouncing and spinning faster and faster until the grade evened out, delivering him across flat earth with stones that raked his back and shredded his shirt.

  He came to rest inches from the sharp point of a tree root sticking from the ground. The proximity to impaling his skull was so frighteningly close that Clay didn’t even react, just lay there, assessing the damage he’d done to himself. If the scratches across his back were the worst of it, he would live; his bones and joints and tendons, the whole complex network of him, seemed to survive injury.

  The woods around him were still, and he took his time getting his feet under him.

  At least until a series of hard, descending crashes broke the silence to his left, and Clay saw a shadow plummeting far faster down the slope than he had. The shadow did a spectacular somersault, arms and legs thrown out, before it struck the nearest elm trunk, head first, and spun end over end. The impact with the tree alone would have killed an average man. But a burned zombie without a soul?

  Clay struggled not to watch how the broken body unfolded itself. Run dammit! his mind screamed, and his numb feet staggered into the darkness between the trees. He ran with his hands held straight out, stiff-arming branches away before his face collided with them. His boots slipped over uneven ground; his ankle gave out more than once, but he maintained balance. Failing to do so was death now, no mistaking.

  He couldn’t find the road he’d seen from above. His only option was to scale the nearest hill and hope something good appeared at the top. Legs pumping, hands grabbing for support, ignoring the burn in his lungs, the blood begging to be oxygenated in a way it hadn’t since varsity track—his heart, that lifelong drummer, struggling to maintain the beat.

  Pushing himself, crawling the last ten feet to the summit, he spotted an open fairway on the other side. The golf course he’d passed earlier. Clay hurried down and hopped the chain-link onto manicured lawn. Lay down and die! his body screamed. Keep going, his mind begged, don’t look back, don’t look for—

  Something squealed shrilly behind him.

  Clay looked. Karney was cresting the hill he’d been standing on twenty seconds before. Apparently the mini-amp was on and picking up radio interference; its tea-kettle hiss sounded like like a battle cry as Karney gathered downward steam, spurred on by the sight of the winded prey idling below.

  The grass was easier to run on at least, the ground unnaturally level. It was too early to expect much help from the moonlight, but lampposts positioned around the course helped Clay navigate. The greens were completely deserted, not even a groundskeeper to be found. Which was for the best (what could a bystander do but point and get murdered on the spot?). The image of Annie Strafford plunging the knife into Essie’s chest rose in his mind. The last thing Clay wanted was to get someone else killed.

  Amid the open fairway, he risked another glance and realized Karney had crept closer, disconcertingly close
r. How that was even possible on such ragged feet, on thigh muscles shriveled like overcooked steaks? Clay had no idea. But it was possible. The more Clay tired, the closer the predator drew.

  The course’s front fence, and the street beyond, still lay a hundred yards off. Clay wasn’t going to get there before Karney got to him, and tackled him around the legs and— And what? Strangled him to death? Lit him on fire beside a water hazard? The myriad of horrors slowed his strides even more.

  The amp suddenly squealed right behind him.

  Clay veered just as a burnt hand swiped at him. He angled for a sand trap and as Karney redirected, Clay lifted a fistful of sand and hurled it into the leering face. Karney caught half in his mouth and didn’t bother spitting it out. He snared Clay by a heel and Clay kicked loose by dumb luck alone.

  Stumbling, Clay gained the putting green, the hole just ahead. He grabbed at the flag like a dying man at a buoy, gasping, staring up at the red triangle with the white number 8 on it. “Pointless to run,” Karney hissed. “Just quit, quit, quit, motherfucker!”

  Clay yanked the flag up and raised it in one motion. The bottom end speared itself straight through Karney’s charging midsection. The penetrating gurgle sounded like a hard stick driving into loose mud. Karney grunted, more in frustration than pain, and clacked his teeth together. And with seeming delight, he pushed himself forward, advancing along the length of the shaft. Clay used the pole as a lance, shoving him sideways, then backward. Karney fell, and Clay jammed the pole down through the green.

  Stuck to the ground, the creature writhed and kicked his appendages like a pinned bug. Clay watched him struggle. It took all his restraint not to drive his boot through the burnt man’s skull. “What’s it take to kill you?” he asked.