The Rock 'n Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - A Spike Berenger Anthology

by Raymond Benson

  She looked over at Berenger. What could he have just experienced? With a head wound, perhaps a concussion, what would the salvia trip had done to him? Sweat poured from his head. He breathed unsteadily. His eyes were closed.

  Prescott tried to speak, but the facemask muffled her voice. She attempted to scream, but it was no use. Her eyes darted around, focusing on various objects in the room, and she realized that their captor was no longer there. The killer had left them alone with this… torture. Would it kill them? Or would it simply drive them mad? How long would it last? Prescott was unable to see how many bowls of salvia were on the dish. But several powerful doses of the stuff over an extended period of time could be disastrous.

  She had to do something… but what?

  By Friday at noon, Mike Case was worried. He had seen that Berenger had attempted to call him the night before but the PI hadn’t left a message. Case tried calling Berenger on his cell three times that morning but got only voice mail. He had also learned that the PI had placed a 9-1-1 call to report a break-in at Stuart Clayton’s house. The police officers who investigated the incident said nothing had happened. Case didn’t go on duty until three o’clock, so on his own initiative he drove by Clayton’s abode on Mango Avenue. He noted that there was nothing unusual. No cars were parked in front. The drapes were closed, which was typical of a shut-in like Clayton. As a last resort, he phoned Clayton’s home number. The man answered, sounding as if he’d been wakened by the call. At first he didn’t seem to know who Berenger and Prescott were, and then he recalled their visit. No, they had not been by since the other night, he told Case.

  Since Bushnell’s death, the Chicago Musician Murders Task Force was not as busy as before, but Doherty had arranged special details to work the benefit concert at the Park West that night. Case asked to be assigned to the detail, but the venue was in the Eighteenth District. Case worked for the Fourteenth. Even though the two districts were adjacent, Doherty said no. Rules were rules.

  But Case figured that since he was an undercover Tac officer, he could maybe get away with “accidentally” patrolling across the district line.

  The Park West was one of Chicago’s most desirable and attractive venues for rock concerts. Touted as a “multimedia facility,” the building had been around since the 1920s and housed various entertainment venues until it became the Park West in 1977. It was one of the few large spaces in Chicago that also had tables where patrons could sit, have beverages, and listen to live music.

  Bud Callahan arrived at the venue early afternoon to oversee the setup. Rick Tittle and Harrison Brill were already there.

  “It’s been a while since we’ve played a venue as big as the Park West,” Brill commented. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “How’s Joe doing?” Callahan asked.

  “Okay, I guess. He went on a five day binge after Charles’ wake. He’ll be here, though. We’re a little spooked, I must admit.”

  “The stagemanager said there will be plenty of police presence tonight. If that bitch comes anywhere near the venue, they’ll get her.”

  “You can’t catch a ghost, Bud.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  Brill shrugged. “I don’t know what I believe.” His cell phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket. “Yeah? Oh, hi Joe. Yeah. What? No shit? That’s fucking incredible. Okay, I’ll let everyone know. When are you coming? Okay. See you.” He hung up and said, “You’re not going to believe this.”

  “What?”

  “Stuart Clayton called Joe and said he wanted to play tonight.”

  “No shit?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “I haven’t seen Stuart perform in… what, thirty-five years?”

  “Something like that. He’ll be bringing his keyboards in a while. We’re to let everyone know. He might need some help unloading and setting up. He’s disabled, you know.”

  “Yeah.”

  Tittle jumped off the stage and joined them. “Do we have an idea what ticket sales are like?” he asked.

  “I’ve heard it’s selling out fast,” Callahan answered. “Two-thirds of the tickets sold within an hour after the concert was announced. The rest will be sold by showtime, I’ll bet.”

  “Did you hear what I just told Bud?” Brill asked.

  “No, what?”

  “Stuart Clayton’s playing with us tonight.”

  “No shit?”

  Callahan and Brill laughed.

  “Su… Su…”

  “Spike?”

  “Su… zanne?”

  “Can you hear me?” The facemasks muffled the words, but she hoped they could penetrate the miasma of the plastic and the chaotic mental cloudiness well enough to reach his ears.

  “What’s… what’s…?”

  “We’re in… trouble, Spike. We’re in trouble!”

  A fourth bowl aligned beneath the flame. Again smoke filled the facemasks… and their lungs.

  26

  Soul Sacrifice

  (performed by Santana)

  There was a lull in the intoxication, as the flame on the hookah was between bowls of salvia. Prescott was thankful that she knew something about the herb. Even though the effects came on quickly and intensely, they didn’t last very long. Once the drug ceased being ingested, a person returned to reality within a few minutes. Subtle lingering effects could remain for an hour or more, but at least there was a sense of normalcy after the initial five minute rush. A person could think.

  She had lost track of how many bowls of the stuff they had smoked. Apparently the entire contents of a bowl were not burned while it was beneath the flame. The dish could spin around several times before the bowls would be empty. She knew hours had gone by, but it was difficult to measure time under the influence of the drug.

  “Spike!” she called through the facemask. “Can you hear me?”

  Berenger was having a tough time. She noticed that at times he was alert between inhalations, but he was confused and frightened. Perhaps the head wound was exacerbating his bewilderment. He hadn’t completely comprehended what was happening to him.

  So it was up to her. Prescott decided that if she had to sacrifice her soul to do it, she would free them.

  If only she could get her arms out of the binds. The rope was tightly tied and the skin of her wrists was rubbed raw. But the headboard and footboard were made of wood. Surely the wood could be broken. Could she summon the strength to do it?

  Once again, Prescott struggled by pulling and pushing with all of her might. Both the headboard and footboard rattled and shook along with the mattress, but she was unable to break anything.

  She could smell the salvia again. Another dose was imminent. Prescott was determined not to let it mess her up, but she knew that was an impossible task.

  Or was it?

  Prescott would have kicked herself if she had been able. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

  She was a practitioner of Transcendental Meditation! And she was good at it. She’d been doing it for fifteen years!

  There was no need to concentrate. The steps were simple. She just needed to relax and repeat the mantra that her instructor had bestowed upon her during the seven-step course she had taken so long ago. The process would clear her mind, block out the external stimuli, and energize her.

  Whether or not TM would block the effects of salvia—she had no idea. But it was worth the try.

  She began. Slowly, quietly, she repeated the mantra and allowed herself to drift into the trance she knew so well.

  The next bowl of salvia aligned with the flame. She was aware of the smoke entering the facemask.

  Deeper… let the trance take you…deeper…

  The words of her instructor echoed in her brain. When she had first learned how to meditate, the teacher gave her a set of simple instructions that put her into a trance. With practice, she was able to follow these instructions in her mind and do it herself. Her twice-a-day, twenty-minute ritua
l was now so habitual that Prescott could meditate on cue.

  She began to feel the effects of the drug… but suddenly everything was different. Somehow she was now looking down on her the membrane that was her consciousness instead of being inside of it, trapped by the drug. This was a new experience for her. She was more aware of her surroundings than she had been before, even though the salvia was surging through her system.

  Deeper…

  Fully into the meditative trance, Prescott was now able to completely ignore her surroundings. There was no longer a facemask on her mouth and nose, she was not tied to a bed, she was not a captive… she was free… her mind and body existed above and beyond the trappings of the physical world and the organic hallucinogen that threatened to drive her insane.

  What she needed now was adrenaline. Strength.

  She found that because she was outside of her consciousness, she was able to look inside her body with a new sense that wasn’t one of the five customary ones. Examine the heart? No problem. It’s beating fine. The lungs? Full of smoke, but who cares? The nervous system? A bit rattled, but it was nothing she couldn’t overcome. The glandular system? Ah, that’s where she needed to be. Squeeze some of the juice from the adrenal gland and get her muscles working. That’s it. Feel the gush of energy flowing through her veins. Hear the roar of power filling those muscles. Her body was a machine, damn it, and she was going to make it work!

  Prescott pulled hard with her arms.

  Harder!

  Again. The rope bit into her wrists.

  Come on! Work those muscles! Feel that lovely chemical spurting from the glands!

  Again! The wood in the headboard splintered.

  Harder! Embrace the strength! Make it yours!

  Again! The headboard post to which she was tied split in two.

  Prescott pulled her arms down and immediately ripped off her facemask. She gasped a breath of pure, clean oxygen, and sat up. With her wrists still tied together, she reached over and removed Berenger’s mask and threw it on the floor.

  Using her teeth, she managed to loosen the knot around her wrists. It took another twenty seconds to free them, and then another forty seconds to untie her ankles.

  She really was free.

  Prescott set about untying Berenger and then sitting him up against the headboard.

  “Spike! Wake up, honey. Come on.” She slapped him lightly on the cheek. “Get that shit out of your system. Come on, it’s Suzanne talking. Do you hear me? Make a noise if you hear me!”

  The man moaned and his eyelids fluttered.

  “That’s it, come back to me, Spike. Come back to earth!”

  She knew it would be a few minutes before the salvia effects would diminish. Nevertheless, she continued to lightly pat his face and speak to him.

  “You’re okay, Spike. You’re coming back down. You’re back in reality. Do you hear me, Spike? Talk to me. What’s my name?”

  He said something unintelligible.

  “What? I didn’t catch that. What’s my name?”

  “Su… Su… Suzanne…”

  “Yes! Good boy, Spike! You’re coming out of it. That’s it! Breathe deeply. Come on, take some deep breaths.”

  He did as he was told. Berenger coughed but continued to inhale fresh air. His eyelids opened and he looked at her.

  “Spike? You see me?”

  Berenger nodded. “What… what the hell… happened to me?”

  “Don’t worry about it yet. You’re still under the influence of… well, of a drug. You’ll snap out of it soon.”

  “What… drug?”

  “Never mind. Just concentrate on breathing. I’m going to find some water. We’re both dehydrated. I’ll be right back. Don’t move!”

  Prescott climbed over him and stood by the bed. She started to move away but found that she was too unsteady. She reached out and grabbed the hookah for support, but she lost her balance and fell, bringing the contraption down with her.

  “Suzanne! Are you—?”

  “Don’t get up!” she commanded. “You’re too uncoordinated right now, just like me. That’s one of the effects of the drug.”

  “What drug, damn it!”

  “Salvia, Spike. The bitch made us smoke salvia!”

  Berenger put a hand to his head. “Ohhhhhh, no. Is that why my head hurts so bad?”

  “Well, you were hit on the forehead, too.” Prescott managed to pull herself up and sit on the bed next to him. “You probably have a concussion. Can you feel the bump?”

  “Yeah.” He winced. “Hurts like a mother—”

  “How did you get it? Do you remember?”

  “Uh, yeah. I came in here and found you on the bed. I was attacked from behind. Got hit with something.”

  He put his feet on the floor.

  “Want to try standing?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  They held hands and pushed their butts off the bed. At first Berenger was very wobbly, but she held onto him until his equilibrium stabilized.

  “Hey, success!” he said. He rubbed his eyes. “Man, I feel very strange. I’m still stoned, I think.”

  “You are. You’ll feel that way for an hour or two.”

  “How come you’re not?”

  “Oh, I am, but I found a way to combat it.”

  “How’s that?”

  “TM, Spike. I keep telling you—you should try it!”

  “Meditation? Are you serious?”

  “That’s how I got us out of this mess. Come on, can you walk? We need to get out of here.”

  “What time is it? What day is it? Oh, wait, I’m wearing my watch.” He looked at it. “Shit, Suzanne, it’s seven p.m., Friday. That benefit concert is going to start in an hour!” He reached for his handgun and experienced another shock. “Shit! My gun’s gone!”

  He began to move around the room, taking it all in for the first time. “Is it here somewhere?”

  “I doubt it. But look at that cabinet on the wall.”

  Berenger walked carefully to the gun case and whistled. “I’ll bet anything that’s the sniper rifle that killed Jim Axelrod.”

  “That’s what I thought, too.” She found her handbag on the desk. “Here’s my purse.”

  He looked around for a blunt object.

  What the hell—He picked up the guitar and swung it at the cabinet. The glass shattered, leaving a sizable hole in the door. Berenger dropped the guitar, reached into the cabinet, and removed a handgun—a Browning 9mm. He checked the magazine, saw that it was fully loaded, and shoved it into his holster. It wasn’t a perfect fit but it would do. He didn’t care if it might have been the weapon used to in some of the shootings.

  “Come on.” He headed for the staircase and started to climb, but he stopped suddenly and sat on one of the steps.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. Got dizzy for a second.” He breathed deeply a couple of times, paused for a moment, and then slapped his knees. “I’m all right now.” He stood and ascended to the ground floor. Prescott followed him. They emerged from the storage room and went straight toward the front door. When they were outside, Berenger raised his arms to the sky and shouted, “I love you, sky!”

  “Spike! Geez!”

  He looked up and down the street, and then he remembered—“Hey, where’s the car, Suzanne?”

  Her brow wrinkled. “I don’t know. I parked it right there in front of the house.”

  “Did the perp take it?”

  “Want to check the garage?”

  “Good idea.”

  They hurried to the side of the house and saw that the padlocked garage door.

  “Oh, why not…” Berenger said as he drew the Browning from the holster. One shot blasted the lock off the door. Together they pulled the door up and, sure enough, the rental car was inside.

  “Do you still have the keys?”

  She looked inside her handbag and nodded.

  “Can you drive?”

  “I think so.” />
  He felt his pocket and found his cell phone. “Lookie here.” He opened it and saw that Mike Case had tried to call him several times. “Let’s go. I’m going to call Mike.”

  They got inside the car; she started the ignition, and backed out. As he was dialing Case’s number, Prescott said, “I’m gonna kill that bitch if I get my hands on her.”

  Berenger looked at her in confusion. “That bitch?”

  “Yeah.”

  He slapped his head. “Holy shit! Didn’t I tell you what I found out?”

  “No. What did you find out?”

  “About the album cover?”

  “What album cover?”

  “The one Remix put on our server! I didn’t tell you?”

  “No, you didn’t tell me! What? What?”

  “Drive. I’ll tell you on the way. Let me call Mike first.”

  27

  In My Time of Dying

  (performed by Led Zeppelin)

  The Park West stagemanager, Gus Watkins, was not in a good mood.

  Five more minutes and he would make the call for places. The opening configuration of musicians consisted of Joe Nance, Harrison Brill, Bud Callahan, and Rick Tittle performing a Windy City Engine set. The plan was that Stuart Clayton would join the quartet after three songs and pleasantly surprise the hell out of the audience. Whether or not he would show had been the hot topic for days on prog rock fansites’ message boards. The trio would yield while the legendary recluse performed a short solo set of one or two pieces, and then the new quintet would present Red Skyez and more Clayton solo material. The second half of the show was to begin with the same five musicians on stage, joined by Sharon Callahan, Paul Trinidad, and Greg Cross for South Side and North Side tunes. Headliners Windy City Engine would close the show, but the encore would culminate in one big Chicagoprog jam session. It was supposed to be the wet dream of every progressive rock fan in the Mid-West.

  So far, though, things had not gone so well for Watkins. Stuart Clayton had arrived an hour-and-a-half before showtime, which was also at least a couple of hours late for set up and soundcheck. That put everything behind schedule and Watkins was not pleased. Additionally, some of the lighting equipment failed to work and a union electrician had to run out to pick up some replacement parts. Nevertheless, in the eleventh hour the professional stagehands, music techs, and the bands’ road crews, had everything ready to go—lights and all. Sound check went smoothly. Everything was cool.