Voice

by Joseph Garraty

  Coming for to carry me home

  Waiting for me somewhere

  Out among the ashes and bone

  Standing in the ashes and bone”

  Shadowy shapes seemed to flicker in the audience, shifting and writhing. They were never in Quentin’s direct view, always at the edges no matter where he looked.

  It occurred to him that the last time things had felt this bad during a show, Douglas had been circulating through the audience, whispering in ears. If that prick was here tonight, Quentin was going to be furious.

  What if he follows us on the tour?

  Oh, hell no. Things had been going reasonably well lately, and Quentin was not about to allow that creepy old bastard to screw them up. If he was here, Quentin was going to have a word with him.

  The song came to an end. The crowd seemed to return to itself, applauding wildly, and Johnny held up his hands as though blessing them.

  The lights came up, and sure enough, there was Douglas, slouching by the door, looking up at Johnny with shrouded eyes.

  Quentin played through the rest of the set with a troubled mind.

  ***

  “Fifteen hundred bucks!” Danny said jubilantly. They were the last band of the night, so the tally had been ready for them when they finished. Already, the place was starting to clear out.

  “You’re kidding,” Case said. “There’s no way they could have fit three hundred people in here.”

  “That’s gotta violate fire code,” Quentin mumbled. He looked from face to face at the thinning crowd. Douglas had been here, maybe still was, and that worried him. He’d lost track of the guy some time during the last song. Maybe that meant Douglas had gone—and maybe not.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Johnny said, “we have finally fucking arrived.”

  Quentin didn’t know about that—he was finally fucking leaving. For once, he didn’t have to work in the morning, and he wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of here and get some sleep. Maybe that’s it, he thought. I’m just overtired.

  No, wait—there was Douglas. The older man was slipping out the door right now.

  Quentin watched as half a dozen kids in the crowd coalesced into a group and exited behind Douglas. Maybe they were just leaving, like everyone, but there had been something in their faces as they’d watched Douglas leave that he didn’t like.

  “Guys, I’m exhausted,” Quentin said. “I’m gonna head out.”

  “Good show,” Case said.

  “See you Tuesday?” Johnny added.

  “Yeah. See you Tuesday.” He slung the gig bag holding his bass over his shoulder and moved toward the door.

  Outside, the small clot of kids had been joined by another two or three, and a handful of others trickled in, swelling their numbers. Quentin could barely see Douglas, a block or so beyond them.

  He thought of the group that had killed somebody outside one of their shows before, and he made a decision. He walked quickly to the lot next to the club where his car was parked, popped the trunk, and slid his bass in. He checked the charge on his cell phone. Full. He could dial 911 before those kids even looked at someone cross-eyed.

  He started to close the trunk, then paused. Pushing his bass aside, he groped for his tool belt and pulled the heavy framing hammer from its loop.

  Just in case.

  He ran back to the sidewalk. The little mob hadn’t gotten far. He started walking behind them, ignoring the strange looks from the handful of people who bothered to notice him.

  ***

  That’s it, Douglas thought. Almost done. The disciples were learning, growing in strength, and he’d managed to keep them away from Johnny for the last few months, managed to keep their more unpleasant activities quiet, or at least quiet enough. Now they were ready. He had seen them at the club. They had watched Johnny raptly, but other than that, they seemed normal enough. They moved like normal people, and they spoke like normal people, and they didn’t do anything to attract attention to themselves. Only Douglas noticed the strain they were under as they fought to keep from either throwing themselves at Johnny’s feet or sating their other hungers on whoever was convenient.

  There was precious little left for him to do now but watch and wait.

  He heard the footsteps behind him as he neared the end of Commerce Street, where the streets snarled together and the streetlights faded, and he smiled.

  Douglas turned to meet the disciples. There were ten or so, walking toward him, murmuring in quiet voices. They walked smoothly, and their voices were low and controlled.

  “Evening,” Douglas said.

  “Your work is done, old man,” a hard-faced kid in an old bomber jacket said. “Johnny told us.” The others echoed him. “Johnny,” they said. “Johnny, Johnny.”

  Douglas stood straight as he felt his burden fall away. He was close to his god, now, so close he felt he could almost fly to meet him. “Come on, then,” he said, gesturing toward a nearby alley. “Let’s get out of the road and do this.”

  Hungry white grins split their faces, and they moved after him.

  ***

  Quentin watched the old man slip into the alley, the clot of kids following close behind him. Whatever business they were doing, they wanted to do it away from the street.

  It’s nothing good, then.

  Quentin walked toward the mouth of the alley, digging his phone from his pocket. He’d take a quick look, see what was going on and, if appropriate, call the cops.

  He looked around the corner of the building. Enough light reflected off the white wall of the opposite building that he could make out figures moving in the alley. There was Douglas’s thin figure, topped with a cloud of dark hair. Others stood arranged around him in a circle.

  What the hell was he doing?

  Douglas lifted his arms to either side and looked heavenward. “This is the end,” he said, the whisper slithering along the night breeze to Quentin’s ears.

  The kids sprang toward the center of the circle. Cloth tore, baring Douglas’s bone-white chest, and—what the fuck?—the kids jumped him. A tall one lunged at his shoulder, burying his teeth in the meat. Blood, black in the dimness, flowed down Douglas’s body. Another kid clawed and gouged at his belly. Still another stuffed Douglas’s fingers in his mouth and bit down with an awful crunch.

  A moan, horribly ecstatic, came from Douglas as he slumped to his knees.

  JESUS CHRIST! Quentin backed away from the alley, fumbling at his phone. There was a sudden motion coming from behind him, and somebody slapped the phone to the ground.

  “No no no,” a woman’s voice said, and she leered at him with hunger and insanity in her eyes. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  A second later, the knife punctured his stomach, then struck again, and again.

  There was blood, so much blood, and pain, and then the world went black.

  Chapter 25

  The practice room felt like a funeral parlor.

  Case sat on the floor in the place where Quentin’s amp used to be, her eyes fixed on a random spot on the far wall. Danny sat beside her, hand entwined in hers. She had no clear idea if she was supposed to be receiving comfort or giving it, but she was glad he was there. Erin was on her other side, weeping silently into her hands.

  Johnny sat against the door with his legs stretched out in front of him. Grief and confusion twisted his features, interrupted by an occasional flash of rage that seemed to come from nowhere and return just as quickly. He had called her just before the cop showed up on her doorstep that morning, and she thought she would be forever grateful for that. The thought of hearing the news from a stranger made her stomach sick.

  Because this is your family, she thought. It’s a stupid, fucked-up, dysfunctional family, but all families are, and this one is yours.

  Johnny had called, and it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world that they should meet here after the police finished with everybody. There would be a real funeral service later in the week, but C
ase thought the farewells from the four of them would take place right in this shitty practice room—were taking place right now—where they’d all spent so much time together.

  She wondered if she’d be able to play in this room again.

  Quentin was dead. He had been knifed to death a few blocks down from the club, and Case inferred from the questions the cop had asked (“Did Quentin have any enemies?” “Did he have a drug habit?” “Did he owe anyone money?” “Do you know if anybody would have wanted to make an example of him?”) that the killing had been spectacularly brutal. That was impossible to imagine. Quentin with enemies? No way. She thought of all the time she’d spent going over song parts with him, drilling him over and over, getting exasperated and calling him names, rolling her eyes, trembling in frustration. His patience was endless. He’d never so much as snapped at her—and she had to hand it to him, once he’d (finally) learned something, it was there to stay. Had been. He’d play it the same way every time, completely solid, one hundred percent reliable.

  Who could hate Quentin? Who could possibly hate Quentin?

  “I—” Johnny began, but then he stopped, confused. For once, Case knew just how he felt. What could be said that wouldn’t cheapen Quentin’s death by trying to encapsulate it in some lame, limpdick, meaningless phrase? “I’m going to miss him”? “He was a swell guy”? “He was a good bass player”? Or the perennial favorite, “It’s not fair”? All of those statements were true, and they were all hopelessly inadequate.

  “It’s not fair,” Danny said. Case had the presence of mind to bite her lip before a bitter laugh escaped. Her chest hitched, and Danny, perhaps mistaking it for a sob, put his arm around her. Rather than getting angry, she moved closer to him. Later, she would be pissed, if not about Danny’s lame commentary, then about the whole damn thing in general. She would rage and curse and maybe—probably—break a bunch of things. Not here, though.

  ***

  Later, Case could never remember who said it first. They had been sitting in the practice room for quite some time, silent except for the occasional awkward comment, and then somebody—Danny, maybe?—said out loud what (surely) they’d all been thinking:

  “We’re going to need to start auditions really soon, if we’re going to find another bass player before the tour.”

  Nods greeted this statement, as though it were a foregone conclusion—to everyone except Erin. Erin lifted her head and looked around as though they’d all gone crazy.

  “We have to get a different room,” Case said, ignoring Erin. “I can’t—I don’t want somebody else to stand there. That was Quentin’s spot.” Sentimental, she knew, but she felt strongly about that.

  Johnny nodded. “We’ll change rooms. I’ll talk to the owner.”

  Danny wiped a tear off the end of his nose. “I’ll put an ad for a bass player on Craigslist. Unless you know somebody who might want the job, Erin.”

  Case looked at Erin automatically. Her face was pale, with livid red spots high on her cheeks and the expression of someone who has just been slapped, hard.

  “You can’t mean that,” Erin said.

  Danny’s tone was defensive. “I just meant, you know. You know everybody.”

  “Quentin is dead,” Erin said. “He’s dead, and you all are talking like he just walked off the job one day, and you’ve got to find someone to fill his shift before the dinner rush. He’s dead. Don’t you get that?”

  Case felt her temper stir and stretch its claws. “Do you know how many hours I spent in this goddamn room with Quentin? Do you have any idea? You think I don’t notice the ragged fucking hole here? Maybe I just missed it?”

  “And you think the best way to respect Quentin’s memory is to carry on like nothing happened? Replace him at the earliest opportunity, and move right along?”

  Case could hardly believe what she was hearing. “Jesus, no! I’m—we’re—going to miss Quentin like crazy, but life goes on, you know? We’ve got three weeks before we leave. What do you want us to do?”

  “You can’t mean to go through with it.”

  The statement hit like a physical blow, and now Case felt like she was the one who’d been slapped. “Are you saying we should cancel the tour?”

  Erin lifted her chin. “Yeah. Maybe you should.”

  “Are we supposed to stay home and mope? Stare at the ceiling for a few weeks? That’s how we’re supposed to respect Quentin?”

  Erin stood up. “Quentin is dead,” she said yet again.

  Case couldn’t figure out what that was supposed to prove, but she didn’t like Erin looking down at her. She stood. “I know he is,” she said softly. “We’re not.”

  “Oh, that’s—”

  “Shut up,” Case said. Erin flinched. “You’ve had your say. Quentin is dead. I know. We all know. But this isn’t a hobby, Erin. Not for us. We’ve poured our lives into this—Johnny, Danny, and me. We’ve worked our asses off, and you can’t even imagine some of the things we’ve sacrificed.” She pointed to Danny, but an uneasy thought of Johnny intruded. “This is what we are meant to do with our lives, and if Quentin were here, he’d come along. But he’s not. That sucks, but I’m not ready to hang up my guitar because of it.”

  Johnny nodded his agreement.

  “You, too, Danny?” Erin said, tears standing in her eyes. “Is that how you feel?”

  Danny looked at the floor. “Yeah.”

  Erin looked at each of them in turn. Case met her eyes, unsmiling.

  “Then fuck you,” Erin said, and she left.

  ***

  Finding a bass player to fill in turned out to be a lot easier than expected. Brad’s band was on temporary hiatus while the keyboard player took a couple of months off to focus on his wife and newborn son, and the bass player—a tall, gangly guy named Allen Sorenson—was looking for something to do. The only holdup was that it took Johnny two days to track down the owner of the rehearsal space and negotiate a room change. No matter what the rush, nobody was willing to audition a bass player in the old room. There wasn’t even any discussion on that topic—it was understood.

  The audition went flawlessly, much to everyone’s surprise and relief. They went through “Burn,” “Changing Gears,” and “Rust,” and Allen played them all note-for-note as they had been recorded. Just to make him work for it, the band walked him through “Ashes and Bone,” the new, unrecorded tune. He picked it up immediately. Case felt an odd sorrow at that, but she tried not to let it show.

  Thirty minutes after the start of the first audition, Ragman got itself a new bass player.

  ***

  “I’ve been thinking about what Erin said,” Danny announced to Case later that night. They were in bed, as usual, but still in their clothes for once. Sex was the farthest thing from either of their minds right then.

  “Me, too,” Case admitted. She’d done her best to stay angry at Erin, but the anger had eroded away day by day, and now she simply missed her. There was more in that fifth-Beatle joke than just a joke, she was starting to realize. With Quentin and Erin both gone, the band felt like a technically good but soulless facsimile of Ragman. Once she’d admitted that she missed Erin, she had been forced to revisit that day in the practice room, and it had opened up questions she had thought she’d never ask.

  “I’m not saying we should have canceled the tour,” Danny said. “But maybe we should have waited or something. I just saw the whole thing slipping away from us, and I felt like we had to do something right away.”

  Case rolled onto her side and put her hand on Danny’s chest. “I know.” She wanted to leave it at that, but she forced herself to continue. “I think music is the only thing I’m really good at. Without it, I’ll be asking ‘Would you like a to-go box?’ and collecting shitty tips the rest of my life.” She sighed. “So when Erin said we ought to cancel the tour, I blew up. There were probably a million better ways to handle that.”

  Danny put his hand on top of hers. “I don’t know. Yeah, I suppose.” He
turned his head and looked her in the eye. “Do you think she’ll accept an apology?”

  “Maybe.” Erin’s self-righteousness bugged Case a lot, but probably only because she was right, or at least she was painfully close to being right. It would suck, but Case could talk to her.

  “I think we’ve gotta do the tour, though,” Danny said. “I really feel that. Don’t you?”

  Case nodded.

  ***

  Ten days before the tour.

  Erin hadn’t been at work in over a week, so it wasn’t as easy as running into her at the restaurant and making up. She wasn’t answering her phone, either. Case would have to show up at her apartment, and she dreaded that idea. In Case’s world, confrontations had largely been short, violent, and final—either outright physical brawls or shouting matches that Case walked away from, making sure to burn the bridge behind her. The scorched-earth model of human interaction, so to speak. Only now was she willing to concede that maybe that model hadn’t served her all that well in the past. Trouble was, she wasn’t quite sure how to replace it.

  She parked in the lot at Erin’s apartment complex. Her stomach, she was darkly amused to note, was full of butterflies—and moths, grasshoppers, and a whole insect army besides, from the feel of it. How was she even supposed to start this conversation? And how would she avoid getting pissed off and doing something unreasonable? She had no idea.

  Oh, well. “Do something, even if it’s wrong” had been one of the few pieces of advice her father had ever given her, and it seemed applicable now.

  She got out of the car and walked up the two flights of stairs to Erin’s apartment. She raised her fist to knock on the door, and then stopped. No epiphany had occurred to her on the way up the stairs, but the butterflies seemed to be hosting a keg party now. You could leave, she thought.

  “Fuck that. Do something, even if it’s wrong.”

  She knocked. No sound came from inside the apartment, and she wondered if she’d worked herself up for nothing. Maybe Erin was out somewhere—but, no. Case had seen her car in the lot. She knocked again.