“
Geez, I forgot about that!” said Fiona, chuckling. “No, I doubt seriously it’s the same person, but who can say for sure? You remember how scared we were, Jackie?”
“
As Angie would be, too, if she ever encountered something like that!” Jackie agreed. “Okay, how would you respond to a pair of legs running full force at you, with no torso visible?”
“
Could you see the shoes?” asked Angie, and then she paused to take a picture of the marker for the Arkansas regiment.
“
Yes, we could...for this particular apparition,” said Fiona. “It made it all that much worse. But by the time we reached the car, nothing followed us. At least nothing we could see.”
“
And the pants—weren’t they what soldiers back in 1864 might’ve been issued?”
Justin’s tone sounded increasingly excited, which only added impish opportunity for Angie.
“
Are you sure it doesn’t bother you that most of these idiots buried here were fighting to keep your ancestors in bondage?”
A little disdain in there too, and I wasn’t the only one to detect it.
“
Well, they might’ve been all for it…the ignorant ones buried here, I guess,” he said, and for a moment he looked like he regretted his latter comment. “But, that’s not why the war started. Slavery became a bigger deal when Lincoln wanted to end the war. States rights. That’s why this happened…and if the federal government keeps passing laws that belittle our rights—like the Patriot Act bullshit—then we may be fighting again over pretty much the same thing.”
“
Still, you’re black.”
Despite the dimness, everyone stopped walking. I figured Angie must be on her period. Always a bit ornery, she’s been a little bitchier since yesterday. Perhaps she’s having a much harder time dealing with the death of our friends than she’s let on.
“
Okay,” he said, and then the familiar smirk crossed his bearded face under the moon’s soft glow. “I’ve always liked stuff about the Civil War…don’t know why, man. But, hey, maybe it’s because my great-grandmother was white and comes from a shitload of money—none that my side of the family will ever see, but still. Or, maybe the reason I care about Tennessee’s Civil War history is I get to gloat about some things…. Like the fact a bunch of a-holes from Pulaski formed the illfated KKK. I mean, who in the hell cares about them anymore? But, even better is this: I can wipe my dirty shoes on the back porch over yonder, where four Confederate good ole boy generals lay dead after ‘pretendin’ to know what the hell dey’s doin’ when dey got der damn’t asses kill’t’”
Ouch…But funny as hell, despite an opinion the local southern gentry would surely take issue with.
“
The only Confederate general who made it out of the Battle of Franklin alive was the dumbass who started the whole thing too,” continued, Justin, his tone serious for a moment, though the playful glint in his eyes remained. “General John Bell Hood. Peg-leg Hoodie had one leg and an arm paralyzed from a gunshot wound…high off his ass on laudanum. He blamed everyone else for the Union slipping through his flimsy blockade near Spring Hill. And,
that
sucker lived through the battle…probably up on a hill with his spyglass, saying shit like ‘That’s it! Go get em’ boys!!’”
He laid on another of his comedic voices to emphasize his point, and we all laughed our butts off. Me and Jackie staggered about, trying to catch our breath. Damned hilarious—really it was.
Well, it only took a moment for the uptight members of our band of nighttime miscreants to sound the alarm.
“
Shhhh!!”
Tom and Tony came scurrying back to us, motioning for everyone to crouch low amid the tombstones.
“
We might’ve seen something, just beyond the back gate that leads to the house!” said Tom, seething again. I couldn’t tell if that was from physical exertion or his usual irritation.
“
And ya’ll have probably just blown it for us!” said Tony, as angry as I’ve ever seen him. It must be something pretty amazing captured by the infrared camera for him to be this upset.
“
Sorry, guys,” said Fiona. “We’ll keep it down…right?”
She looked at the rest of us, and even I nodded emphatically.
“
It’s too late,” said Tom, motioning toward the parking lot. A police cruiser had just pulled in, its top row of lights dormant. “It looks like we’ll have to climb the fence like last time.”
Well, that sucks. The investigation cut short, we now had some new drama on our hands. Tom can be somewhat nimble when he needs to be, and it’s the same thing with Tony…at least nimble in a Chinese fire drill sort of way.
Luckily, no one dropped anything as we slipped over the fence, careful to avoid the wrought-iron spikes. Equipment and all seven of us safe, the lights atop the cruiser came to life just before I climbed over the fence. The last one out of there, I don’t think the heavy-set officer saw me, his silhouette framed by flashing red and blue rays, like Meatloaf on stage at the Exit Inn.
The image made me laugh, amid more shushes from the group. But funnier than that was seeing the look on Angie’s face as she gazed at the cop shining his flashlight through the grave markers we’d recently traversed through.
Either she’s afraid of the man with the badge, or maybe she finally saw a ghost.
Chuck E. Cheese’s with the boys was a lot of fun. Glad we went early in the afternoon on Saturday instead of waiting until 4 p.m., like we’d originally planned. Ryan and Alex are great kids, and a hell of a lot of fun to be around. I love music, and checking out haunted places can be a real rush, but Fiona and our boys are the focus of my life. Nothing gets me high like an afternoon spent with them. Well…intense sex with my wife runs a close second, I must admit—and only because orgasms don’t last several hours.
Anyway, we were on our way to a movie, and to be honest I can’t remember the name of it right now. Just the latest Pixar flick and this one was a 3-D version. Fiona got a call from Detective Silver.
I’ll admit that my pulse quickened the minute she addressed ‘Ed’ by name, but again my problem is with him and not her.
“
Oh my God…
No!”
Even Ryan and Alex understood the immediate implications in their mom’s tone, though so young. My older boy, Ryan, looked over at his little brother bobbing in his car seat.
“
There goes our plans, Alex!” he said, wearing a chagrinned ‘oh well’ expression and shrugging his shoulders.
Before Alex could launch himself into a full bawling fit, I turned to face them, reaching back to pat his knee in the Camaro’s backseat.
“
Hang in there, guys…let’s see what’s up first.”
I offered an easy, confident smile—which is usually all it takes to instill similar confidence in them, that everything’s going to be all right. But, the fact Fiona had just burst into tears flattened the optimism like a Sumo wrestler landing hard on a seventy pound midget.
“
Babe…what’s going on?” I asked, gently as possible.
“
He killed somebody
again!”
“
Oh, shit,” I mumbled, unsure where to go with my next question. Was it someone we knew? The third country celebrity, perhaps? That’d be logical, based on what we knew about the killer’s preferences so far.
“
Mitch…Mitch Dobbins…
He’s
dead!”
“
What??”
Now I was the one in complete shock. Candi’s bassist, and the only original band member from when she first hit the local bars in Nashville. Another good friend of Fiona’s, but an even better friend of mine.
Mitch and I worked the same rotation of rock n’ roll bands in need of a decent bassist. It might surprise some folks that despite the near-forty thousand guitar pickers in the greater Nashville area, there are just a few hundred bassists. The number shrinks dramatically when you factor in versatility and actual experience in the various music genres our city supports: country, rock, gospel, soul, jazz, and even hip-hop. I can count those suckers on my fingers and toes.
Luckily, I’m one of them. Mitch is…er, I guess
was
another of the proud few.
“
You’re sure it’s Mitch Dobbins—
our
Mitch, you’re talking about??”
“
Yes!”
she cried out, her hair flying as she whipped her head toward me.
Her eyes morphed to bright green—highly agitated. I definitely should’ve thought of a better reply, but what’d exited my mouth represented my stunned disbelief. I still couldn’t fully grasp the idea. Mitch had been killed…murdered. Meanwhile, Alex cried harder, meaning the world of shit I’d just entered would likely get a lot messier if I didn’t think of something quick.
“
I’m sorry.”
Okay, I wimped out. The bronze kahunas I’m known for just shriveled up, man. Little malted-milk eggs now, like the ones we’ll be giving our youngsters at Easter.
Damn!
Thankfully, Tony and Justin weren’t around to witness this.
“
I
really
am sorry, babe,” I continued, gesturing with my free hand for her to give me a chance to explain while I kept an eye on the road. I doubt this would’ve been any easier if she’d driven today instead of me. “It’s just that Mitch is my oldest friend—the only one besides Ricky who’s still left from when I first moved here!”
Good thing she’s more understanding than most females I’ve been around. It probably doesn’t hurt that she reads thoughts and emotions fairly accurate too. If ever a girl could see into her man’s heart, Fiona would be her.
“
I know…I know, hon,” she said softly, returning her attention to the road ahead.
We’d pulled out of the parking lot of Chuck E. Cheese’s and the theatre sat less than a quarter of a mile away. It might as well have been in the next county. The kids might’ve been fine watching a flick that afternoon, but it’d be a tough gig for their parents.
“
There, there, baby,” she said, pausing to look back at Alex, weeping in his car seat. Fiona reached back to lightly stroke his leg. “We’re still going to the movie, boys. Mommy and Daddy just got some bad news, but we’ll be okay.”
Odd response, some might think, though she’d do about anything to fulfill her promises to the boys. So, we went to the movies…or at least started to, anyway.
Apparently the brief tension in the car took its toll on our oldest boy’s nerves. Or, perhaps it was the extra chocolate brownie Ryan ate inside the restaurant. Whatever the reason, molted brownie bits ended up all over the back of my seat, as Ryan puked. Alex cried even harder, and if not for a quick trip to Wal-Mart nearby, Fiona might’ve lost the contents of her stomach through her mouth as well.
Needless to say, it nixed our plans for the afternoon. More tears from the boys, until I showed them two relatively new Disney releases I purchased while picking up the upholstery cleaner and a big bottle of Febreeze. I also picked up a blu-ray copy of “Interview of the Vampire” for Fiona, which lifted her spirits…a little.
The car cleaned up and happy smiles in the backseat, we headed home.
Not sure what my wife thought about, since she quickly found an ‘Eighties’ station, and turned up the radio. Her way of dealing with sadness and loss—at least while in the car. As for me, once the initial sting eased up a little, I thought about the good old days with Mitch. Two buddies from opposite sides of the country, united by our similar musical tastes and the mutual struggle to earn a living by playing tunes in the south’s ‘Music Mecca’.
A gig audition from four years earlier suddenly popped into my head….We both tried out for Jared Moseley once. Mitch ended up with the gig, but Jared’s road manager almost gave it to me after I pulled off a slap-happy arpeggio run on my fretless after
he and his assistant pissed me off, stating I couldn’t keep a simple groove as well as my buddy. Two birdies in the air with my back to em’ as I walked out…what I’d call a concise clear reply as to what they could do with their three-month tour offer.
But now Mitch is dead.
Just before we reached our neck of the woods, Fiona revealed some of what Ed told her. A neighbor found Mitch in his townhome parking spot, slumped over his steering wheel. Dead since early Friday morning, apparently he’d just returned home when his assailant accosted him. The car door ajar, the killer shot him in the back of the head. Probably reaching for his own Fender fretless, which Mr. Ed told Fiona laid haphazard between the seats, covered with blood splatter and brain and bone bits.
Candi and Dickey’s killer’s M.O. seemed to be a little more sadistic than this. The single bullet that passed through Mitch’s head, embedded in his BMW’s dash, matched the pair that shredded Johnny’s and Brenda’s brains. Same killer. I really think there could be more than one asshole involved here.
So far, Candi’s killer had taken the lives of her hairdressers and personal manager…and moved on to her bandmates. How much longer did we have until Candi’s psychic/ghost hunter friends were added to the list?
We pulled up to our driveway, and while Fiona got out to check the mail I couldn’t resist taking a look back up the road, to the hill top across from the Tanner’s place.