Night Of The Beast (7 page)

Peter fumbled his way to the bathroom without turning on the lights. He stepped under the lukewarm shower. Everything hurt, each muscle and tendon and nerve ending chanted its own litany of complaint.

He felt his body with shaky fingers. Excess fat was beginning to appear. His slightly arthritic ribs were still sensitive from old football injuries, and one badly damaged knee stiffened up on him every week or so. He'd been warned an ulcer was fast approaching. He was probably an addict. I'm only thirty-two years old, he thought suddenly. Why am I doing this? Because I love music, writing songs?
This isn't music, it's suicide
.

Hey, I didn't invent the business, I just work in it. Give a guy a break.

Rourke jerked the shower handle all the way to the right. He screeched as an assault of icy needles riddled his flesh. Oh, shit, so cold. He hopped from one foot to the other, forcing himself to endure the torment. A few moments later, he looked in the mirror with the lights on. Cruel pockets had begun to sag and darken under his blood-shot eyes.

Peter opened the medicine cabinet with trembling hands, looking for a little chemical assistance. He had to get himself up for one last vocal session. And then there's Dee, he thought as he searched around behind the bottles of aftershave for some drugs. That's got to stop, too.

No more rainbow?

His heart kicked. Rourke swallowed and tried to calm himself. There had to be some of the shit hidden somewhere around the apartment. He always kept a small stash for emergencies, and tonight's session definitely qualified. He had two battles to win: First track the final tune with Dee, and then find a nice way to cool things down between them, before it was too late.

He glanced around his expensive condo, suddenly feeling foolish and artificial. Fake plants, bland furniture, pastel colors. Plastic, Peter thought. I live in the dark and the fucking world's made of plastic.

The phone rang. Rourke rubbed his eyes and stumbled over to the nightstand. He noticed the little folded packet of waxed paper lying next to the clock radio. Of course. He'd saved half a gram of Rainbow from the day before, just in case. Praise the Lord. He answered the phone with one hand and groped for a shortened straw with the other. Which drawer, damn it?

"Yeah?"

"This is your wake-up call," Friedheim said. "Would you like me to send up our continental breakfast?"

"Huh?"

"It's two gay Frenchmen who are very well read."

"Not funny, Bryan."

"That's not meant to be funny. It's what I was dreaming about just a minute ago."

"Hope you had fun. What time is it?"

Bryan waited a beat. "Nine-fifteen in the evening, Mr. Producer. And we're almost finished."

"From your mouth to God's ears."

"See you there what, around eleven?"

"Yeah," Rourke said. "That will give Dee and I some extra time to run over the song."

Transparent as a sandwich bag. Still, Friedheim was tactful. "Okay, boss. I'll meet you at the front."

Rourke hung up. He found a short straw and inhaled two scoops, then two more. When the phone rang again, he was giving serious thought to the idea of doing the entire stash.

"Maker of stars. Whatcha want, Tinkerbell?"

"Rourke," Gordie Easton said, "shut up and listen." His voice sounded slurred. Peter could hear nightclub noises in the background: shrill feminine laughter, the pounding pulse of a live band. Here it comes, he thought. I'm fired.

"All right, Gordie. You have my full attention."

"And I've got your contract," Easton said. "You wanna go cut a garage band out of Omaha?"

Rourke winced. "You're drunk, Gordie."

"And you're fucked up on the latest thing. I figure that makes us even."

"Fair enough. Why don't you just tell me what's on your mind?"

Gordie lowered his voice. Peter was shocked at the real agony hiding behind the words: "Call it off. I want you to stop seeing Dee."

"Gordie, I…"

"You think I don't know, Rourke? Shit, I've always known. You're not the first, and you won't be the last. Look, she's young and pretty, so I let her have a fling now and then. Why? Because I'm not young, and I've never been pretty. But I love her, so it's over between you. You got that, Pete? Am I getting through?"

"I care about her too, Gordie."

"Well, I fucking care more," Easton said. He's bluffing, Rourke realized. My God, he's almost begging. "You hear me? I care more."

Rourke sighed. "For what it's worth," he said, "you don't have to try and blackmail me. I can't handle her anymore. You're safe, Gordie. She'll never choose a songwriter over the head of a label. Dee's too smart for that. To tell you the truth, I don't think she loves either one of us."

"I know that too," Gordie Easton said. Then his voice broke, and so did a bit of Peter's heart. "But I need her. Do we understand each other?"

"We do," Rourke said.

"Do I have your word?" "You do.

"End of subject."

"Goodnight, Gordie."

Dial tone.

Peter Rourke sat on the edge of the bed for a while and thought about his life. It did not make him feel any happier. He flushed the rest of the drugs down the toilet and went out to brew some strong, hairy coffee in his plastic L.A. kitchen.

At a quarter to ten, Rourke was on the Hollywood Freeway approaching the Vine Street exit. He was thinking about going home. Not back to his furnished apartment, but to Nevada; to Two Trees. He hated the city more with each passing hour. An empty throb of mourning made his leased black Mercedes feel like a hearse.

Peter wanted to stop somewhere, trade the huge hog in on a jeep Ranger and just head North and East. Maybe drive straight through until there were no more tall, skeletal buildings cocooned in smog; only awesome blue mountains and open stretches of yellow-brown sand. He recalled the tangy smell of fresh sage, and the fantasy brought tears to his eyes.

The parking garage was deserted, but packed with expensive cars left by some patrons of the musical theater located just around the corner. Concrete shimmered with reflected neon. Peter shut off the engine, grabbed his briefcase and stepped out into the darkness.

Which chuckled and fell on him.

Shadowy corners cracked gnarled knuckles and whispered
(..am I skulling?…)
He walked faster, ordering his imagination to shut down. It had to be that damned rainbow again, bringing on little flashes of paranoia. The talent wasn't coming back. It couldn't be coming back. But it's happening way too often now to be an accident, he thought. That can't be. Oh sweet Jesus, is it all happening again? No, that's ridiculous. It's the dope, that's all. You just have to try and kick for good.

Wise saying: Drugs are nature's way of telling you you're making too much money. Okay, and death is nature's way of telling you to slow down?
Funny, Rourke. You know what you need? You need to go home, back to the high desert and the mountains. You need to start your life over again…and do things right this time.

Footsteps. Someone else? No. Just his own sounds, careening off the concrete walls. His vision blurred from looking down at the grinning row of chrome fenders and blank windshields of tinted glass. As the well-lit lobby area swam closer, Rourke fought to suppress his panic. That tears it, he decided. I'm signing up for rehab. I'm off that shit for good.

He stepped inside the waiting area and pressed the elevator button. A feeling of disorientation struck him while he waited for the car to arrive, a creeping sense of madness. For a long moment, it was as if he'd slipped into another man's skin — someone violent and cruel. His stomach churned.

The elevator slid open. Rourke jumped for the safety of the metal coffin before his knees could buckle. He pressed 7. Only after the doors closed, locking him in, did he begin to relax.

Home to Two Trees. It would be good to feel the desert sun. Easier to stay off the dope, too. There was usually some Mexican laughing tobacco around, and always lots of booze, but not the varied, seductive powders that passed for currency here in Hollywood. He could think things over, dry out, get rid of this insanity once and for all. The idea was comforting.

Pin
g. Seventh floor.

The hallway was dark, and once again Peter sensed the trace of some twisted presence. He shivered and flicked on the lights.

When he entered the lobby of Music Works, the track he and Dee Jennings were working on was playing. The music was coming from somewhere in the back of the complex, probably his own office. Dee was already waiting for him. That knowledge, plus the loud sound of aggressive rock and roll, helped to reassure him. He was becoming sexually excited, despite himself.

"Dee?"

No answer, but then the amps were cranked to the max. Peter could feel his speaker cabinets vibrating against the walls. Dee liked to listen that way. What rocker didn't? She was probably singing along, bouncing around, laughing.

God, she's going to be hard to give up, Rourke thought. Half of her seemed worth any two other women. But Gordie was right, and Peter knew it. Dee belonged to Easton and her all-important career. There was no way. Besides, he couldn't accept being a diversion, not any longer. It had become too painful.

"Dee?"

Peter dropped his briefcase on a secretary's desk, now sure what she was up to; both loving and hating it. A little quickie before the record date, huh? He felt himself harden in anticipation, but didn't enjoy the feeling. After his sad talk with Gordie Easton the sexual excitement made him feel guilty. It crossed his mind to say no, but just for a moment.

He opened the door. Dee was lying across his desk, naked and waiting for him with her legs spread wide. But her stomach had been sliced open, her mouth was frozen in a silent scream and she was very, very dead.

Rourke gagged. The music pounded like angry fists.

Gore was splattered everywhere. Dee's eyes were glazed over, locked forever in a gut-wrenching expression that shrieked out the pain and terror of her final moments. She had been tortured; tiny burn holes freckled her lovely skin, and the office stank of scorched flesh. Peter recoiled. He tried to cover his eyes before he saw the words, the words he suddenly knew would be there, but it was too late. They were on the far wall, printed in his woman's dried blood:

Rourke stared and stared at his own lyrics in crimson smears. He mumbled, shook his

head and fell back against the wall. He dropped away into nothingness.

"Oh, my God!"

Bryan Friedheim. But he was not on the same plane, he was elsewhere; touching Rourke's body, looking as Robert Reiss had. Were there tears in his eyes? How strange to see tears there. Rourke twisted around on the carpet and knew he was dying.

"Forgive me," Peter whispered. "Please."

"Operator, get me the police and an ambulance. Hurry!"
[ ...am i moving? yes, rolling from side to side but i am not alone in my own mind, that thing knows where i am and it is watching. waiting...]

"He's really out of it."

Someone was talking, barking orders. A rustle of linen, the bitter scent of antiseptic. He was rolled onto a stretcher. Something bit into his arm like an angry insect. He saw a bottle floating in the air above him, trailing a tube roped with white surgical tape.

"Help me," Rourke said, or tried to say. But he growled instead and snapped his jaws like an animal.

"Fucker bit me!"

"Jesus, he acts like he's on angel dust and meth, or something."

"Maybe that rainbow shit?"

"Damn. Could be. Should we stick him with some norepinephirine?"

"Probably safer to use Narcan. What's his pulse rate?"

"Through the fucking roof."

Bryan:"Will he be okay? What's going on? Can somebody tell me what the fuck is happening?"

"Got it. Start the drip."

"That ought to do it. Jesus, what's this guy been doing? Give me some more light, I want to check his skin for needle marks."

Darkness and sweet release.

"It's getting late," Beth Reiss said. "I'd better be on my way."

Candace Stone closed her test booklet and smiled. "You're a fine student, Elizabeth."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Wait," Candace said. The stoic, greying teacher reached behind her tattered blue couch. She produced a small basket filled with barnyard straw and covered with a clean, red-and-white checkered dishrag. "Take these nice fresh eggs to your poppa."

Beth slipped into her old brown coat. The afternoon had turned cold. She accepted the basket with a curtsy, since old folks like Miss Stone seemed to like that crap. People over twenty were weird. Beth wanted to run away and get some tattoos, or pierce her navel or something. But she smiled instead.