The Scream (22 page)

"Umm . . ."

"It's a big book, buddy. There's plenty of room for favorites. What's your favorite story? What's your favorite quote?"

Paul Weissman couldn't answer. Apparently he was bright enough to realize that he'd just been put on the spot. Rachel diverted her gaze to the five little Liberty Christian Villagers behind them. They were there, no doubt, to learn about the ins and outs of converting the Whore of Babylon. They had spoken not a word, and she doubted that they would. Theirs was not to reason why . . .

"You are changing the subject," he said at last. He was, to say the least, piqued.

"No. I'm focusing the subject."

"No doubt," he sneered, "you'll say that the Bible is a matter of interpretation."

"I won't make it that easy on you," she sneered back. "Believe it or not, I spent a year or two doing just what you're doing: assaulting people, insulting people, using the Bible to bully people into bending to my will. And if there's one thing I learned, it's how easily you can twist the Scriptures to back up any position you want to take."

"So you know your Bible, do you? Well, then, perhaps you can tell me what you make of First Corinthians fourteen, verses thirty-four through thirty-five-"

"Oh, piss off!" Yes, Rachel was angry now. "Of course you'd like that one. You're so predictable."

"You know what it is."

"Are you kidding?"

"Recite it."

"No. But I'll tell you what. How about if we just skip ahead a few lines, to verse thirty-eight? It's one that applies very nicely to you."

Paul Weissman winced.

"That's right. 'But if anyone is ignorant, let him be ignorant.'" She grinned fiercely. "And while we're at it, why don't
you
recite Matthew seven, verses one through six? That might be refreshing."

Paul Weissman glared at her, prepared to say something scathing.

It didn't happen.

A third voice, soft yet unwavering, spoke from behind him first.

"Judge not, that you be not judged. For with what judgment you judge, you will be judged; and with the same measure you use, it will be measured back at you."

"Be quiet!" Weissman snapped, turning to the blond girl with the strange, sad eyes. She did not listen, but only stared back and continued.

"'And why do you look at the speck that is in your brother's eye, but do not consider the plank that is in your own eye?'"

"Shut up, I said!"

"'Or how can you say to your brother, "Let me take the speck out of your eye"; and look, a plank is in your own eye.'"

"'You hypocrite!'" Rachel cut in gleefully, still quoting Matthew seven. "'First remove the plank from your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother's eye.'"

"'Do not give what is holy to the dogs,'" Paul Weissman growled, his cheeks flushed red. "'Nor cast your pearls before swine-'"

"'-lest they trample them under their feet,'" Rachel concluded, "'and turn and tear you to pieces.'"

Paul Weissman's stare was poison. She met it evenly, eye for eye.

And that, of course, was when Ted and Chris and old Am Grossinger arrived to save their damsel in distress.

It was 6:35 when Jesse finally showed up at the Penn Towers Hotel. Pete was almost positive, because Mickey's big hand was pointing at the seven and his little hand was just a weensy hair below it. That, Pete felt, pretty well nailed it down in terms of the time.

Whether it was Jesse or not was a different and more difficult matter. It required that he be able to see straight at a distance of nearly seven yards. This did not currently seem possible. Pete found that he could still read the dial on his watch if he leaned real close and concentrated real hard for a couple of seconds.

After all those drinks, in fact, the only things holding him upright were the coke and his own keen frustration. The latter had lingered through last night and today; the former had to be administered every fifteen minutes or so. In the little rocker's room. With the stall-door locked securely.

"Wait a minute." He wasn't above speaking aloud to himself right now. "I can't talk to her like this. I am more than sedated. I'm toast. This is madness."

For a few wobbling seconds he almost had himself convinced. Then he went ahead and started chasing her anyway. Even if it wasn't Jesse, it might be fun.

Especially
if it wasn't Jesse.

"Be right back!" he yelled at the bartender as he stumbled from his seat; with any luck, it would save his spot at the bar and his peach schnapps till the debacle was over. He'd been warming that seat in the hotel lounge for just over three hours. He couldn't quit now. It was a moral imperative.

The bartender nodded acknowledgment, or at least he seemed to. Again, at this distance, it was hard to tell. Pete felt confident enough to leave a five-spot next to his drink, laying odds that it would still be there when he got back.

The Thing That Might Be Jesse barreled past the entrance to the Penn Fields Lounge, leaving vapor trails behind. He staggered after, cursing his fried state, wishing that he'd hit the hopper for a toot a bit more recently. He was fading, he could feel himself fading, most of all he could feel his mind rambling and rambling about how much he could feel himself fading.

Nice drug, cocaine
, he told himself.
A real friend of a friend of intelligent thought
. A second voice in his head-the voice of the drug-tried to echo the sentiment, and wound up tripping over itself.
Oh, yeah
, he went on.
And the booze helps, too
.

He rounded the corner, proceeding down the burnt-orange and blue striped carpet to the front desk. The colors were too severe: they pulsed and vibrated like video feedback, burnt into his eyes like the sun. "Ai yi yi," he muttered under his breath, then felt himself weaving to the left and put all his concentration behind achieving stability.

Before him, the woman who looked like Jesse was approaching the registration desk. At this point, he was virtually certain it was her. Nobody else could possibly move like that, dress like that, have an ass quite so delectable. He was half inclined to sneak up behind her and squeeze it; but the sliver of rational thought still able to squeeze through the drugs pointed out that it might not be Jesse and would he ever be embarrassed.

Worse yet, it might be Jesse, in which case she would probably smack him.

Because Jesse was going through some weird shit just now. She wouldn't tell him what it was, and he was so far unable to guess, but it must be awfully goddamn bad, because it had her so worked up that she was gaining weight and cutting out of practice and turning very cold to him indeed. . . .

By this point, he was within five feet of her. She was leaning against the desk, a suitcase at her feet, checking in. He wavered there, his doubts reprising, his throat inadvertently clearing.

She turned and faced him.

"Pete," she said with uncharacteristic softness. "Not now, okay?"

It was Jesse, all right. But it was not a Jesse he'd ever seen before. Her features looked as if they'd all been lowered at least an eighth of an inch; she'd been crying, that much was for sure; her whole face was sagging as a result, a subtle sort of hillside erosion.

A glimmer of intelligence, faint and fleeting, sparked somewhere deep in the folds of his brain. He felt an important revelation tickle the tip of his tongue, then vanish. "Shit," he muttered in frustration, stumbling closer.

He wanted to understand what was wrong with her, what he could do to help. He wanted to take a stab at empathy, see if there were any way to get inside her experience.

He couldn't.

The coke wouldn't let him.

And that's the great thing about Ye Olde Peruvian Marching Powder,
he went on
. It's like psychic Saran Wrap: it locks in freshness so well that you can't even feel your own soul ticking, much less anyone else's
.

The voice of the drug echoed the sentiment into oblivion.

And then said,
Do another line. It'll clear you up
.

"Jess, I gotta talk with ya," he slurred.

Her sunken features hardened, set that way. "You don't listen very well, do you?"

"No. But I hear real good."

"Don't play word games with me."

"Don't play head games with me."

She paused, and that gave him a second. He felt that he was doing fairly well, all things considered. "You won't tell me what's wrong," he continued. "And I don't think that's fair. I'm your friend-"

Jesse snorted out a snatch of abrasive laughter. It hurt.

"An' I'm your lover-"

"
Oh
, yeah." Her lips curled into a pain-filled sneer. It hurt even worse.

"And I'm on your side, dammit! I'm on your goddamn team! You think I don't wanna know what's hurting you? You think I don't care? Come on! If I did anything to hurt you, I wanna know what it is."

"Will that make you happy?"

"Yes."

"I'm pregnant."

"I . . ." he began, and then froze.

"There." She smiled, bitter. Her face was a mask. "Are you happy now?"

"I . . ." There were no words, no words he could say. He felt his strength, his wit, his everything spiral down and away like turds in a flushing toilet. Balance deserted him; he staggered back, grabbing for a wall when none was there and barely held himself up.

"I wasn't going to tell you." The mask began to redden. "You didn't need to know, you know. I would have just taken care of it, and . . ." It was her turn to lose the words.

"You would have what?" His voice was a croak, and his eyes were wide. Like hers, they were filling with tears.

"Oh, Pete. Do I have to spell it out for you?" The first lines of clear saline dribbled down her cheeks. "Are you that fucking stupid?"

"Hey . . ."

"Hey what?" She was crying, yes, but she would not weaken. "Are you gonna try to tell me that you're ready to be a father? You're not even ready to be a real
boy
friend! You're not ready to commit to anything! You're twenty-six years old and you're a little goddamn
kid
, Pete!"

The lobby of the hotel was spinning now; he felt himself losing control. When the anger flared, irrational though it was, there was no way he could stop it. "And you're all grown up, is that right?"

"No, I'm not," she shot back. "And that's the point. I'm not ready, either-"

He moved forward then, and took her by the shoulders. "God
dammit,
Jesse," he said, voice quavering. This is different. This is our
child
we're talking about."

"No, it isn't." Her eyes were dripping fire. "This is a
mistake
. And it's not gonna happen."

He shook her roughly then, and the words blurted out.

"How can you
say
that?"

"Read my LIPS!" she hissed.

He pushed her back violently. "THIS IS A LIFE!" he began.

"No shit," she growled, pulling away. "In fact, it's
three
lives. And I refuse to fuck up any of them."

"No, you're just going to
kill
one!"

And that was when she slapped him. Hard.

"Get away from me."

Pete just stood there, the left side of his face on fire, his eyes stinging almost as badly. He watched her push past him, her suitcase in hand, and move to the elevators. The one on the far left was open and waiting. She closed in on it rapidly, resolutely, leaving trails of ghostly motion behind.

It wasn't until she was inside and the door started closing that he began to move toward her.

But doors, like opportunities, are funny that way.

They open.

And then they close.

At seven-thirty, the ramp rats were gathered in force around the loading dock at the back of the Spectrum Sports Arena, banners and beer bottles in hand, spandex clinging tight. They had come in the ludicrous hope that, when The Scream's limo came rolling in, they would somehow be chosen from the flock: to come backstage and party with the band, to do quality drugs, to get balled by a star.

Walker's main man, Hook, paused by the police-style barricades, watching them dispassionately. It was a sight that he was more than used to; at this point, bored contempt was the best that he could whip up.

"Vermin." He muttered the nickname sarcastically. "Even if the band wasn't here already, what do you think the odds would really be?"

Ramp rats and vermin were always there, of course, at every show, in every town. They were staples of the heavy metal scene. They swarmed over the parking lot in denim-and-leather-jacketed droves, hooting and howling and shattering glass, scenting the air with thick sweet smoke and exhaust, partying till they puked or passed out.

In their faces, Hook saw an alarming continuity, a numbing repetitiveness of attitude grafted to features. There was the lumphead, the rock slut, the would-be tramp; there was the handsome young rebel and his tag-along idiot friend, and the hopeless fat feeb in the too-new leather. There were the three good buddies who gawked and guffawed; there was the tat chick with the sad eyes lined in thick black Maybelline.

They were the vermin, the scuttling hordes.

They were the teenaged dispossessed.

They were the life blood of The Scream.

They were the Chosen Ones.

Hook watched them, dragging one finger idly across the unshaved stubble at his chin. He was short and stocky, powerful-looking. His long, dark, thin and thinning hair was pasted to his head. His legs were thick and stiff at the knees, where decades-old masses of scar tissue lay over the joints like wax drippings on a candlestick. They were forever hidden in the baggy green cargo pants that he wore, as always, with his battered, blasted field jacket. Its sleeves and left breast-pocket bristled with insignia and the awards he'd earned in the days before his return to The World. The back was painstakingly embroidered with The Scream's logo: a bright red slit-eyed baby in a flaming pentagram, with a banner that read,
Your Mother Should Know
. He had done it himself: fingers dancing with needle and thread, making something both fearsome and wondrous. Hook's fingers were magic.