Full Tilt (Rock Star Chronicles) (16 page)

“I’m confused.” He set his gaze on her. “This isn’t right, your having to deal with all this darkness. My dysfunctional family. Millie. The infertility—”

“Honey—”

“Just let me finish. I know it’s probably not true, and you’ll say it’s not, but I feel like we’re being paid back for my past sins.”

Karen reached over and covered his hand with hers. “None of this is a surprise to God.” She spoke with a courageous smile. “Why do you think all this is happening to us all of a sudden?”

“I know what you’re going to say—”

“Because of the tour,” she whispered. “God cares about souls. Remember that Scripture I sent you in prison? ‘And they overcame him because of the blood of the Lamb and because of the word of their testimony.’”

He stared at her, absorbing the encouragement like a thirsty plant.

“Satan can’t stand the thought of you sharing your testimony with thousands of people. What God’s done in your life is so
radical
. And He’s gonna use it for His glory.”

“I want that more than anything.” He touched her hand. “You know that?”

“Satan’s gonna make it a war.” Her eyes wandered, and she seemed to be talking to herself as much as to him. “Look how low he stoops. Trying to divide us. Scare us. Depress us.” Her eyes were glassy with tears.

Everett drew closer to her. “I hate it. I’ve been so down. And I know you have.”

“Satan wants us doubting God, doubting ourselves…” Her tears fell now.

He began to say something, but she cut in. “I know you, Ev! You’re lettin’ Satan play
mind games
on you. He wants you struggling over the past, weighed down by guilt…”

“What about your not being able to get pregnant?”

“What about it?” She leaned forward and squeezed his hands. “Ev, God loves us. He’s taken away the stain of our sins. Do you believe it or not?”

“Out on the ridge this morning, when we buried Millie,” he pulled his hands away, “I wanted a drink.”

She started to speak, but this time he interrupted her.

“It was overpowering. Okay? I could
taste
it. And I was craving how it would make me
feel
. And then, when you told me about the baby, the urge got twice as strong. I knew it would help me forget and cope. How is a guy like that supposed to have an impact for God?”

“Did you have a drink? Did you go get wasted?”

“No!”

“Then rejoice, Ev! God’s
shaping
you. He’s getting’ you ready for something big. The testing of your faith, the temptations—they produce
endurance
.”

As she spoke, he could feel the wind coming back into his sails. “You are so perfect for me. Come here.”

She took his hand, hopped on his lap, wrapped her arms around his neck, and gave him a kiss that was cold from the ice cream. “And you’re perfect for me,” she laughed, “because where else would my faith get tested so radically other than with you?”

He playfully swatted her hip. “Very funny.”

She blinked those long brown lashes and flashed him that radiant smile. “You’re never going to get rid of me, Everett Lester. I’m here for you till death do us part.”

They drove home, hand in hand, passing only a few cars along the way. It was cold and black out as they pulled onto Old Peninsula Road.

“My folks cried when I talked to them this morning about my infertility.” Karen eyed the winding road.

“I forgot to ask how that went. I’m sorry.”

“There hasn’t been time.”

“What’d your dad say?”

“He hit a wall.”

Everett searched her face by the light of the dashboard. “Really?”

“Once I told them the details, he had to get off the phone. He was crying. I mean, he was in agony. I’ve never heard my dad like that.”

“Come here.” Everett put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close.

“Mom was trying to be strong, but she was a mess, too.”

“They know how much kids mean to you.”

“Mom started talking about adoption right away.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, too,” Everett said. “I guess I’m still trying to resign myself to the fact that I’ll never have a precious little girl with your smiling eyes.”

Karen turned away. “I’m still in a fog. Adoption’s just not what I envisioned…”

“I know.” He rested a hand on her knee. “Let’s just let this soak in. We need to pray about it.”

“The folks wanted to know if they could come a couple days early.” Karen looked at him. “I told ’em yes.”

“Absolutely.”

“I think they’ll fly in Tuesday or Wednesday.”

“That’ll be great. Give Jacob and me a little more time to get organized for the prison gig.”

As Everett turned the Honda into the driveway, they both regretted that they hadn’t left any lights on, inside or out. Twin Streams was black.

“I had no idea we’d be gone this long.” He pushed the button on the garage door opener; they parked and went inside.

“I’ll let Rosey out,” Karen said. “She’s got to be ready to burst.”

“Okay.” Everett turned on several lamps and plugged in the Christmas tree lights. “I’m gonna get the mail.”

Heading out the side door, he strolled down the pebble driveway, which was one of Karen’s favorite features of the place because it was lined on both sides by locust trees that blossomed with big clusters of white flowers in the spring.

The main house looked beautiful beneath the starry sky. It was built on a foundation of old barn stones and had six bedrooms, many with their own balconies, and a magnificent wraparound porch.

Passing the small, vacant house across the driveway, which had originally been built to house tenant farmers, Everett filled his lungs with the cold night air and cleared his head. There were no city lights to impair the view of thousands of stars, each hung by God and given its own name.

The back floodlights came on, and Everett watched Rosey prance into the snow.

Then he saw it—something standing in the yard where the manger scene once stood.

“Everett!” Karen’s scream echoed from around back. “Come here, quick!”

He had already broken through the locust trees and taken off running through the snow. When he got to the backyard, Rosey was sniffing and licking the base of the baby Jesus figure, which had been returned but was barely recognizable.

Karen stood ten feet away with her hands locked over her mouth.

“This can’t be happening.” She stared wide-eyed, her body frozen.

Everett fell to his knees, glaring at the large words that had been scrawled over the baby Jesus in red:
You Die
.

“Freaks!” He pounded the snow with his fists, his voice booming into the night. Fear mixed with fury and boiled within him as he scanned the grounds for intruders, ready to rip the head off of anything that moved.

Rosey whined and zigzagged the area, her nose to the ground.

Convinced the culprits had fled, Everett studied the wood figure in the glow of the floodlights. Karen still didn’t move. And for the next few chilling moments, Everett contemplated how on earth he would tell his wife that he suspected the horrendous inscription had been painted in blood.

16

IT WAS AFTER 10
p.m., but it felt like first thing in the morning to Wesley. He’d tried to sleep when Aunt Karen left that afternoon but—blast it—there was no way. The itching wouldn’t stop. It felt like cockroaches were crawling all over him. And the sweats, they came in waves, like the flu.

He scrounged around in the gray duffel bag, sorting through various ammo and guns. Finding the bag of white-yellowish crystal-like powder, he squeezed it gently, put it up to his face, and inhaled.

Wesley heard a noise in the unfinished part of the basement. He busted in and flicked on the overhead—nothing but stillness. Crossing to the lab, he found it was locked up tight.

Then a smooth, mesmerizing voice spoke to him from the crossbeams. “Vengeance.”

Wesley looked up at the ductwork, the wires, and copper pipes—but saw nothing.

A low, insidious chuckle came from the ceiling.

Wesley did a 360. Seeing no one, he slammed the light switch off, yanked the door closed, and leaned with his ear to it—listening.

“They’re watching you,” the voice whispered.

He dashed to the telephone and picked it up—dial tone.

He fumbled for his cell phone, opened it, and examined the glowing screen. Normal.

“I know you’re here.” Wesley twirled through the apartment from stereo speaker to stereo speaker. Nothing. He even checked the radio dial and receiver for hidden cameras or secret messages. None.

He clicked on the TV and dropped into the recliner, mashing his nagging eyes with the palms of his hands. His skin prickled, and he grated the inside of his elbows and thighs with his long fingernails. When dots of blood appeared on the raw, pink patches he’d scratched, he repeatedly slammed his forearms and clenched fists on the arms of the chair as hard as he could.

Death would be better than this.

“I. Am. Ven–geance.” The loudening voice seemed to be coming from the wall.

“You’re the devil! I know you are.” Wesley turned off the TV and ran into the bedroom, dove onto the waterbed, and ripped at the patch under his eye with four clenched fingers.

“I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die—like David,” he repeated, partly because he hoped it was true and partly to drown out the voices.

“Who says turn the other cheek?” The voice became arrogant. It was wicked and distressing—and so real it sent icy chills up Wesley’s arms and coaxed him to stand and stagger toward it.

“I am Vengeance, and I own your mind, Wesley.”

He dashed to the gathering room, threw the recliner out of the way, and smacked both arms against the bare wall. Canvassing it as if he were washing a billboard, he stopped suddenly—and listened.

“You are not alive, and you are not dead.” The voice laughed. “You are
mine
.”

Wesley jumped back. “Go away! Leave me alone, you…” He slid to his knees, ripped open the duffel bag, whipped out the Witness 9mm he’d pulled on Karen, and braced it with both hands in front of him, pointing at the wall. “I’ll blow your head off, you filthy demon.”

The low chuckle again. “Get your phone.”

The cell phone rang.

Wesley’s heart jackhammered. Out of breath, he grabbed it. “Yeah.”

“Yo,” Tony Badino blared. “It’s time. Black Chevy Xtreme. It’ll be there in ten minutes. One gram. Two hundred bucks. Plus the .38 caliber Armscor. That’ll be another two fifty. That’s four hundred fifty bucks you need to collect. Got it?”

“Yeah. Where you been?” The heat came again, sweat drenching his face.

“I’m workin,’ dude. Plus I had to run errands for my old man. We all set?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Wesley turned on the light to the deck outside his apartment and peered out, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “You remember those fire trucks I told you about? The ones I saw the other day at the house across the street—”

“Oh no. You ain’t gonna start this again…”

“Dude, I think they were planting cameras in my neighbor’s attic. No lie. I feel like we’re bein’ watched, maybe bugged. I’m talkin’ federal agents. Some kind of task force—”

“Lester, listen to me. We are not bein’ watched! You’re freakin’ out again. I’d know if there was heat at your place. I guarantee it’s clean.”

There was no way to stop rubbing his eye. It pricked and tingled and cried out to be scratched!

“Lester, are you there?”

“Yeah, I just feel so dang bad.” He wanted to cry and explode and die—all at once. He looked at the gun in his fist, and the chill of what it could do unnerved him. “I’m goin’ stir-crazy here. I need to take an ice-cold shower to stop this itching. I thought you were comin’ by with some more stuff. Man…the…the…the…I told you about Everett’s wife scopin’ this place out. Maybe she planted something for the Feds. Cameras maybe…”

“Listen to me, you stinkin’ fool. Get ahold of yourself. You got another eight minutes. Here’s what you do. Right now. Take a tiny bit of that go-dust—I mean a
fraction
—from that bag you’re about to sell. Give yourself a bump.”

“For real?” Wesley wanted to laugh hysterically.

“Do it. You need it. These slam-heads comin’ over now are clueless. They ain’t gonna weigh it or nothin’. Go get yourself some of that chalk, but only just enough to get you heated. You hear me?”

“Oh, yeah, Tony, yeah. Thanks, dude, thanks. I owe you.”

Hands trembling at seizure magnitude, he slid the phone into the pocket of his baggy pants and went for the bag. Within seconds he was set up at the small kitchen table with a mirror, razor blade, straw, and the gram bag he was about to sell. If he had any saliva, his mouth would have been gushing, as the thrill of what he was about to do produced in him a complete and utter sense of ecstasy.

He could do little to stop his hands from shuddering, and every once in a while his whole body jerked. But he was used to the symptoms and, in no time, had anxiously scraped together two imperfect lines of meth on the surface of the mirror with the razor blade, each about two inches long.

“I’ll make you go away,” he yelled at the wall in the other room, then erupted in his own sadistic laugh.

Bent over the mirror with the straw snug in his right nostril, Wesley ran the tooter the length of the first line, making every particle disappear.

The rush came like a roaring waterfall.
Oh yeah, baby.

After exhaling, he breathed in again through his tingling nose, feeling his head drop backward and hoping the meth would crystallize in his brain so he could feel that way forever.

Sheer flipping euphoria.

“I’ll teach you to mess with me!” He vacuumed the next line with the opposite nostril and hunched over the table, giggling, a sense of well-being engulfing him.

Boomity-boomity-boom. In a flash Wesley’s coat was on, the gun and gram were in a plastic bag, and he was out at the street. The black Xtreme came like clockwork. Two girls, a guy, and a dog—all white. Looking to get cranked up.