Full Tilt (Rock Star Chronicles) (18 page)

The men were described as Caucasian, in their early twenties, and both about five feet ten inches tall and of average weight. The attacker wore a black trench coat and gray stocking cap while the driver was wearing a baggy green army jacket.

She pulled back and stared in disbelief at the headline again.

Wesley.

All she could think about was the day before. Him scaring her from behind in the basement, then plopping down on the couch in his apartment—wearing a wet green army jacket.

Karen checked the wall clock. She couldn’t disturb Everett now. Adding some coffee to her mug, she went to the desk in the den, got on the Internet, and searched for
methamphetamines
. Within seconds, she was scanning feature stories, drug prevention sites, and law enforcement pages—and with each item she read, an alarm rang louder in her ears.

Meth could be smoked, swallowed, injected, or snorted. The powerful stimulant actually overwhelmed the brain, spinal cord, and central nervous system. The intense high users got could last days and usher with it chilling side effects, such as extreme paranoia, frantic physical activity, a false sense of power, unpredictable rage, heart failure, and even suicide.

Karen was glued to the computer as time flew. With each website she visited, she uncovered more explanation about Wesley’s eerie behavior and more confirmation about what she’d seen in his basement.

Meth labs didn’t take up much room and could easily be set up in apartments, sheds, motel rooms, barns, garages, vacant buildings, vehicles, and yes, in basements. The drug could be cooked in as little as three hours using everyday household products.

Karen wanted more coffee but couldn’t pull herself away from the wellspring of information being illuminated before her eyes. After some almost frantic searching, she finally drilled down to a page that offered police photographs and—
BAM
—the images hit her like a locomotive. Meth supplies, meth pipes, and meth labs. The pictures may as well have been taken in Wesley’s apartment.

Karen glanced at the grandfather clock. Time to get ready for church soon. She began down another rabbit trail. Searching specifically under “meth explosion,” she was blown away by the results.

The websites of TV stations and newspapers all over the country popped up—reporting up-to-the-minute instances of meth lab explosions. In many stories, the people involved were badly burned, maimed, and even killed, while the lucky ones were in shock or slightly injured.

The deadline Karen had set for herself to get offline was just three minutes away. The last story she found explored some of the utterly sick things people had been known to do while flying high on meth. One user outside Chicago parked his car on train tracks to commit suicide but fled the scene on foot at the last minute, causing the commuter train to ram his car, killing eight people on board. Another small party of users in Oregon got lost in the woods during a snowstorm; they were so discombobulated that they couldn’t describe to 911 operators where they were, and all perished.

Other “tweekers” committed dastardly acts that hurt others, like throwing babies from moving vehicles and locking children in attics. One of the strangest accounts was of a group of young users in California who actually pierced their shoulders with meat hooks and dangled their tattooed bodies from bamboo tripods off a local sandbar, all in the name of “fun.”

When Karen arose from the computer, she was light-headed. Her coffee was cold and so was her heart. She set her cup in the sink, stopped, and stared out at the cold white landscape. The pages of David’s journal came back to her, as did his desperate cries for help. She wanted desperately to speak with Everett, but she couldn’t. So Karen headed for the bedroom to get ready for church.

Although Everett had grown accustomed to having all eyes on him as the lead singer of DeathStroke, it didn’t help when he was about to jam before six hundred onlookers at his church. In fact, he wanted to crawl within himself and hide.

The place was decked out for Christmas with poinsettias and greenery, candles, and a large manger scene. Karen had come in several minutes ago and sat about fifteen rows back.

Everett’s stomach gurgled as he made himself smile at the blur of faces, took a seat on the wooden stool, and adjusted the microphone in front of him. Yes, people were watching, but they weren’t just any people—they were Christians.

He’d checked himself in the mirror just before going on, making sure the baggy long-sleeve top he wore covered his remaining tattoos, and that his hair was just right.

But they still knew his story.

As their eyes bored into him, were they judging him for his seedy past? Did they really believe a sinner like him could be one of them? Were they waiting for him to slip up, to say or play something “ungodly”?

Everett forced a smile, nodded a hello, and adjusted his acoustic guitar. As a hushed sense of anticipation blanketed the sanctuary, another jolt of anxiety rocked him. He folded inward, frightened, as if he were perched on a ledge atop an eighty-story building. He couldn’t seem to look beyond three feet from his face. He wanted to be anyplace but here.

He searched for his sister’s words like a heart patient grasping for nitroglycerin.

“God made you precisely the person you are.”

His eyes found a boy sitting with the youth group, near the front.

“For His purpose.”

Arms crossed. Head down. Black T-shirt.

“Don’t worry about what anyone else thinks.”

Curly, bleached-blond hair on top, shaved sides.

“Be yourself, Everett Lester.”

Earrings.

“Meet them right where they are.”

Chains.

“Share with them.”

Tattoos.

“They’ll listen to you.”

“Whoever you are,” Everett moved the mike slightly, and his deep voice echoed, “we’re glad you’re here.”

“Be transparent.”

“Before I became a Christian, I was the leader of a band called DeathStroke.” Mention of the band brought a smattering of laughter. “Ah, some of you have heard of it.” A sense of relief came with the laughter.

“During my years with the band, I thought I was something special, someone very powerful. The world made me feel extremely important.” He took an anxious breath. “Since then, though, I’ve learned something I believe God wants each one of us to understand. And that is, we’re nothing without Him.”

The truth of Mary’s words was seeping in, taking hold.

“Life is fragile, guys. Think about it. Our bodies are nothing but flesh and blood, bones and water. We breathe and walk and run and laugh—we are sustained minute by minute because He says so.”

A hum of verbal agreement arose throughout the auditorium. He looked around, low and high, in silence; even shading his eyes to see the faces surrounding him, looking back at him with love and care and a sense of anticipation.

“I wrote this song in prison when I was on trial for murder. It’s all about this realization that He is everything and I am in awe of Him.”

He closed his eyes and began strumming. “Many of the words and ideas for this song come from the book of Job. Job says, if God determined to do so, if He should gather up His spirit and His breath, all flesh would perish and man would return to dust. Imagine that. God’s indescribable. Close your eyes and listen. This song is called ‘Now I See You.’”

Working the strings hard and fast, the song came alive—sharper, richer, louder. Everett’s head and shoulders bobbed with the music. The vibration of the acoustic strings filled the room like a melodious fountain, bringing a smile to his face. At that moment, Everett knew it wasn’t him playing, and it wasn’t his voice that thundered so deep and strong.

Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundations?

When I said to the sea,

“Come this far and stop right there”?

Have you ever in your life

said, “Let it be morning”?

Or caused the sun to set in its place?

What about the rain—who’s its father?

Hey, who put wisdom deep inside?

Can you bind the chains of the constellations?

Can you loose the cords on all the stars?

I lay my hand on my mouth.

I am insignificant.

Insignificant.

I had heard of you with my ears,

But now I see You,

Now I see You,

For who You are,

For who You are…

You are marvelous and mighty,

You are the King of kings,

You are far beyond description,

You alone can do all things.

You are the Maker and the Ruler,

The God of heaven and earth.

You are Father of all creation,

You gave me second birth.

Now I see You,

Now I see You,

Coming in the clouds,

A whirlwind in the night.

Now I see You,

Now I see You,

Father of all nations,

The One who gives me life.

It wasn’t until the song was finished that Everett opened his eyes and looked around. Every person was standing. Many of the faces glistened with tears. He found Karen in the audience on her tiptoes, waving like a schoolgirl, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. Then he turned to the boy in the black T-shirt. He wasn’t clapping, but he was standing, and his eyes were fixed on Everett.

Touch that boy, Lord. Draw him close.

Setting his guitar on a stand, he joined Karen amid the congregation. They hugged. “It was awesome.” She squeezed his hand as the worship team took the stage.

“Thanks,” he whispered. “You okay?”

“Fine.” Her eyebrows arched.

“What is it?”

“Found some stuff in the paper and on the Internet,” she murmured. “I’ll tell you more later.”

“Give me the upshot.”

“It all points to Wesley…”

18

TONY BADINO’S OLD BLUE
Monte Carlo smelled like gasoline and roared like a stock car. Wesley was in the cold vinyl passenger seat up front, where he’d just burned his finger on a blistering pipe they’d used to smoke several chunks of meth in the parking lot of a White Plains bowling alley.

“Why don’t you get the heat fixed in this thing?” Brubaker rubbed his hands together in the backseat. Tony shot him a nasty look in the rearview mirror, gunned the Monte Carlo onto the street, grabbed a Marlboro, and lit it while steering with the insides of his elbows.

Wesley cranked up the stereo to the screams of AC/DC, which blared from two homemade speakers mounted in the rear window: “I’m rolling thunder, pouring rain. I’m coming on like a hurricane. My lightning’s flashing across the sky. You’re only young but you’re gonna die. I won’t take no prisoners won’t spare no lives. Hell’s bells…hell’s bells.”

In the blur of the rush, Wesley stared out the passenger window. Something about the winter made his brother’s death even more unbearable. Guilt cried out from the frozen ground. Wesley’s soul was barren. There was nothing to live for anymore, except getting stoned. And even that was killing him slowly.

What if he were to murder Everett Lester?

Maybe that was his calling.

Vengeance.

Nothing would matter once he did the deed. The cops could do whatever they wanted to him.

I’m gonna die, anyway.

Would the heaviness clear once he pulled the trigger?

If not, maybe he’d just turn out his own lights, as well.

Tony bounced the Monte Carlo into a plaza in the suburbs and jerked to a stop in front of a long, gray, one-story building called Shooters.

“Grab your toys, fellas.” Tony got out of the car and headed for the trunk. “This is my treat. All you can shoot, on me.”

Each of them hoisted a heavy duffel bag from the trunk and strutted into the shooting range as if they owned the place. A muscle-bound guy with a baby face and a gray T-shirt walked toward them behind the long glass case.

“Hey, Badino.” He held up a thick hand. “What can I do for you?”

“Hey, Dennis.” Tony’s eye twitched as he spoke. “We need ammo and range time. You got lanes open?”

“Yep.” He turned to examine the small, closed-circuit black-and-white TV screen. “I only got one guy in there. You’ll pretty much have the place to yourselves.”

“Excellent,” Tony said. “Give us, let’s see, three boxes each of twenty-twos, thirty-eight specials, nines, and forty-fives. And I suppose Bru is gonna need some twelve gauge.”

The guy raised an eyebrow, wheeled around, and got busy gathering the ammo, whistling.

Wesley and the others dispersed like kids on a treasure hunt. Tony admired the wide assortment of knives locked in a showcase across the room. Brubaker wandered along the front of another long showcase, admiring the dozens of shotguns, rifles, and carbines that hung on the Peg-Board behind it.

Wesley went straight for the main display case, which was packed with several hundred new and used Taurus revolvers, Walther semi-autos, Cobras, Sigs, Colts, whatever you wanted.

“Okay.” The big guy clunked the last boxes on the showcase and pushed a clipboard toward Wesley. “If you guys will each sign in, you’ll be ready to go. You need eye or ear protection?”

Tony marched over and took the pen and clipboard. “Nah. We got all that.”

“If you’re going to be shooting a twelve gauge, be sure to use the rifle range,” Dennis said. “There’s a door beyond the regular stalls.”

Brubaker signed next and held out the clipboard. “Wes.” He set it on the counter.

Wesley, who had wandered over to the knives, approached hesitantly as Tony and Brubaker opened the white door that led to the range.
I’m not signing that thing! It’s probably a background check or some kind of straight line to the cops.

“What’s this for again?” Wesley motioned to the white paper that awaited him on the clipboard.

“Liability release.” Dennis handed him the pen and smirked. “Basically says if you shoot yourself, it’s not my fault.”