Full Tilt (Rock Star Chronicles) (26 page)

It was a peaceful place, and Wesley decided if he had to live, it would be here. He could stay here on meds for a long time. In fact, he didn’t know where else he could survive. His life had become one of constant upheaval as he either warded off the evil spirits and the insatiable desire to get high, or gave in to the monster and suffered the unbearable physical and mental consequences.

He’d made a fool of himself earlier, flipping his food tray, threatening the unit supervisor, and begging for a bump of the drug that had become his master. It’d been pitiful but was probably not altogether uncommon at Harbor View.

“I hear you had a rough day,” came a pleasant female voice from behind. “You doing okay now?”

Without turning around, he listened to Cassidy’s footsteps. “Can I sit?” She stood over him. He liked it when she was near. He nodded and continued staring out at the blurry night.

“My first few days were bad.” She pulled a chair next to his wheelchair. “I told you what I did... It’s gonna get better.”

I doubt it.
He glanced over. Her face was fair, and she had marble brown eyes, and pretty black eyebrows, which matched the color of her short, messy hair. He wondered if he’d see her when they got out, or if this was one of those foxhole friendships.

“It’s nasty out there, isn’t it?”

“I like it.” A wave of heat rolled over Wesley’s tired body.

“The rain, you mean?”

“Yeah. And the Sound…”

“What do you like about it?” she asked.

“The lights. They’re distant. You can admire ’em from over here without having to get involved.”

“No commitment, huh?”

He nodded. “That’s right.” Her cheeks were wide and tapered down to a cute pointy chin, and she had big dimples that came easy. There was a small gap between her front teeth, and she had a tattoo that looked like a leafy bracelet around her left wrist.

“We’ve gotta make up our minds that things are gonna be different when we get out,” she said. “That’s gonna take commitment, and a Power beyond ourselves.”

“I can’t do it.”

“Yes you can, Wes. I can, too. The key is cutting the cord to the bad relationships.”

“Good girl for listening to your counselors.” Wesley gave her a crooked grin. “I can tell right now the desire’s still gonna be there. It’s there
now
. I’ll never forget what the high is like, never be able to erase it from my mind. It’s too outta-this-world.”

“Give it time. I thought the same, but the cravings are going away a little more each day.”

“I can’t function outside this sanctuary without meth, okay? No matter what the lecturers say.”

“Well, with that attitude—”

“Hey, I’m just bein’ honest. My issues…they’re gonna drive me to it.”

“You gotta let all that go.” She chuckled. “I’ve been reading my Bible a little bit.”

“Don’t even go there, Cass. I’ve got a mess on my hands. My family’s had it with me.”

“They’re still going to love you.”

“I’ve made enemies of some relatives…”

“What’d you do?”

“Pulled a gun on my aunt, among other things.”

She rested a hand atop his shoulder. “You know, Wesley, people can be pretty understanding. Especially if you go to them and say you’re sorry.”

“I got friends outside here.” He exhaled loudly. “One in particular. He’s gonna drag me down.”

“Not if you say no. Not if you stop the relationship. That’s what I’m gonna do.”

He smirked. “You don’t know this guy. He’s a psycho.”

“You know what? I don’t buy it. I don’t think any of those things are what’s really worrying you.” She stood, crossed her arms, and looked out at the rain. “Do you want a Coke or something? Coffee? Candy?”

“Whaddya mean by that?”

“I mean, I think there’s something else bugging you.” She peered down at him. “Something you’re afraid of. And it haunts you so bad, you feel like you’re always gonna need meth to hide from it.”

He gripped the wheels of his chair and rolled it back and forth slightly. “What gives you the right… How is it you think you know so much about me?”

She turned back to the window and laughed. “Well, just think about what I said. Maybe you’ll face reality someday, after I’m gone.”

“I didn’t know they hired you as one of the counselors.” He dropped his head to his chest and shook it, then looked back up at her. “Whaddya say we drop this and go find me a smoke?”

She continued to scan Long Island Sound for what must have been a minute, then turned to him with a close-mouthed smile and stepped behind him to take the handles of his wheelchair. She exaggerated a grunt and backed him away from the window. As the chair swiveled and his view of the rainy night disappeared, he pondered what Cassidy had said, about the fear—about the haunting.

The meth he’d sold to his brother, the fact that he’d played a part in David’s death, it ate at him. Was it real—the guilt? Was he at fault for ending his brother’s life? Wesley had lived in such a wasteland since the grim day the Camaro crashed, he really couldn’t decipher truth from falsehood. All he knew was, Vengeance continued to speak to him, assuring him that if he would end his Uncle Everett’s life, all his sins would be erased. And, perhaps, Wesley could be a human being again.

But he didn’t want to kill, didn’t want to hurt anyone. Not really. The meth was in his system, part of him. Distorting things. Causing the voices. Messing up his family. And even as he glided down the peaceful hallway lined with Christmas cards, tiny lights, and tinsel in one of the finest treatment facilities in the country, Wesley knew deep down he would never kick the meth.

Never.

Once the Monte Carlo turned off Cross County Parkway, nothing was familiar to Everett. The blue car made a series of turns on main highways and back roads, and all Everett could do was follow and try to catch the name of a street here and there.

On and off, the skies opened up, and he was forced to flick his wiper blades to high as he struggled to follow Badino’s car without being spotted. He sensed they were heading north, running parallel to the Hudson, and kept peering out the driver’s side window, certain he would see the river. They just passed a city college and a small park, and he saw the shimmering water beyond.

The Monte Carlo reduced its speed and hit a series of dark backstreets. Everett’s chest tightened. He was the only car left behind them, which forced him to drop way back. As he did, he reached for the cell phone, opened it, and dialed 911.

“911. What is your emergency?”

“I need to report some suspicious activity.”

“Go ahead, sir.”

“An older-model Monte Carlo, blue, just got off Cross County Parkway, and it’s near the river, headed north on Warton Avenue, I believe.”

“What’s going on, sir? What’s the car doing?”

“The drivers are using methamphetamines. In the trunk is a duffel bag. It’s got bloody clothes in it. And I believe there’s a dead body in the trunk. I’m following. I’ve got to go now. I’ll call back.”

“Sir, what is your—?”

Everett turned off the phone, tossed it on the seat beside him, and slowed to a crawl. The Monte Carlo must have been moving at less than ten miles per hour. The rain plastered the leather top of the Audi, reminding Everett of the time he and Eddie had camped out as boys.

A fierce thunderstorm had arisen, pelting the canvas tent with rain. Neither his mother nor his father even checked on them. Everett could almost taste that same fear and vulnerability as he squinted through the blurry windshield and kept driving.

He couldn’t continue much longer like this, on these desolate roads, or Badino and company would realize they were being followed. Everett cut his headlights, and the second he did, the Monte Carlo stopped, dead in the middle of the street. And so did his heart.

Opening his window slightly, Everett pushed his head against the splattering rain and listened. He could only keep his wipers on intermittent, because he didn’t want the creeps to hear him back here.

Both doors of the Monte Carlo banged open at the same time. Everett was ready to bolt, but no, they hadn’t seen him. Tony raced around the driver’s door to the front of the car in the path of its headlights and fell to his knees, his long, hunched shadow extending eerily into the night.

Meanwhile, the tall guy opened the trunk, ripped out the duffel bag, and ran it around to the front of the car where Tony was crouched over. The tall guy dropped the duffel and bent to help. Together, they pulled and jerked at the pavement.

What the…

A manhole cover. They lifted it and set it aside. In a split second, the duffel bag was gone—into the hole. Then both men dashed to the back of the car, one on each side. Leaning into the trunk, the tall guy muscled the limp body under the armpits out of the trunk. Tony locked his arms around the knees and lifted.

Everett found it difficult to take a breath. He snatched the phone and hit redial.

“911. What’s your emergency?”

“I just called a minute ago,” he whispered frantically. “Blue Monte Carlo. Warton Avenue. They’re dumping a body in the sewer system. Hurry!”

With the sagging corpse between them, Tony and the tall guy took small, fast steps around the passenger door into the dreamlike path of the headlights. It took but a few seconds, and the man was gone.
Ploop.
Headfirst into the hole.

Within seconds, the lid was back on, the red brake lights flashed, and the car was moving.

God help me.

Everett zipped the Audi to within a few feet of the manhole cover and waited till the Monte Carlo was out of sight. Jerking the parking brake and finding the door handle, he raced into the rain.

On soaking knees he fought the heavy lid from its hole.
So heavy.
Sliding it aside, he peered into the dark abyss. Nothing. But when he heard the raging current, he knew the body and the bag must be gone.

The scene lit up. Everett whipped around. Bouncing headlights—wide and yellow—catapulted toward him from the direction of the Monte Carlo’s exit.

He froze like a deer.

The roaring car hit the last curve before the manhole cover. Sweeping light flooded the scene. The nightmare became reality.

It’s them!

No time to get in the Audi.

Pop!

The sound of the gun blast was muffled by the relentless rain. But Everett saw the flash from the passenger window of the approaching car.

He dove and hit hard, rolling across the flooded pavement.

Pop. Pop.

To his feet he scrambled, running low, into the grass. Down a slope.
Whoa!
His feet slid out from under him. He landed hard but bounced up, taking an incline and heading into the open.

Behind him, the Monte Carlo screeched. Then a loud crunch.

Everett ran with all he had, dodging trees at the last second because of the darkness.

Small, white lights were visible in the distance.
A house?

BAM. BAM.

A different gun. Louder. Bigger.

Badino.

BAM. Pop, pop. BAM.

Watch out for the trees!

He darted through the black night. He could barely see. The open landscape jumped up and down with each soggy footprint. Trees and grass, trees and grass. His body was heavy and sopping. The house or barn or whatever it was remained frustratingly far off. He squinted for someplace to hide. Anyplace.

Turning back, he saw a flash in the distance. Seconds later, a blast from the gun.
Good.

He was getting away. Farther and farther from the killers.

Keep running!

The tree clobbered him in midstride, and his whole world went from fifteen miles an hour to zero in less than a second.

He was on his back. Could not breathe. The cold ground soaked into him. He fought to suck air into his lungs.

Small, white stars whirled in the blackness. The opening in his throat had shrunk to the size of a straw.

Pain. In the chest. Bad pain, deep inside.

Breathe!

Voices. Beyond the trees and grass and rain. Getting closer. He couldn’t suppress the strangled gasps that bellowed up from deep within his chest.

He had to get air!

But they were coming. And so were the sirens. He heard them now. Just before everything somersaulted to black.

26

WRAPPED IN A HEAVY
, black wool blanket with the letters
NYPD
embroidered in yellow, Everett absorbed the warmth and sweet aroma of pipe tobacco in the backseat of the patrol car. Groaning from the splitting pain in his chest, he examined the laptop computer mounted to the dash, and then the fifty-something officer, Harry Barnett, who stood in the rain out in front of the squad car’s headlights.

Barnett had found him sprawled out at the base of a sugar maple tree several hundred yards off of Warton Avenue. For the past ten minutes, the veteran officer had been shining his powerful flashlight into the sewer hole that Everett had left uncovered and was just returning to the car.

“We’re gonna have to wait till this rain stops and get a crew on this.” He dropped into his seat and pulled the black NYPD poncho over his head. “Probably first thing in the morning.” He threw the raincoat to the floor beside him. “That water’s raging in there now. How you feeling, Mr. Lester?”

“Considering the alternatives, like a million bucks.”

“Paramedics should be here soon.”

“I don’t know if there’s anything they can do. It feels like cracked ribs or something.”

“Well, you need to get checked out either way. How’s the head?”

Everett ran his fingers over the hard lump. “Feels fine.”

“You’re gonna have a pretty good egg up there. Lucky the skin didn’t split open.”

“How’s my car?” he asked.

“Pretty bad. Maybe totaled. Good thing is, we’ll be able to get some decent paint samples of the Monte Carlo.”

While Barnett warmed his tough hands, lit his cherry-colored wood pipe, and scribbled on a form attached to a clipboard, Everett explained everything that had happened that evening, starting with the brick through the living room window at Twin Streams. He repeated the facts about Millie’s death and the manger scene and his suspicion of Tony Badino. Through it all, Everett made no mention of Wesley or Dominic Badino.