In the Dead of Night (59 page)

They all looked at each other—and by then, Melvin had removed his bass from its case and climbed onto stage. It was like the big fella was feeling left out of our moment of sweet reverie—despite the enormous role he had already filled as part of our latest lineup.

“
Dragging the River
, man,” said Max, wearing a disbelieving smirk. “Yeah, that’s right…your song about some ghost boy has them all going ga-ga over it.”

“It’s actually a pretty damn good tune, Jimmy,” said Dave, regarding Max evenly. Marijuana doesn’t make everybody a happy camper, I guess. “It’s got a fresh feel that nobody’s doing right now.”

“Maybe never,” added Ricky, grabbing his Telecaster to start things off that night. He climbed onto the stage and motioned for Max and Dave to join him in getting ready to play. “Mongo’s right…there ain’t nothin’ else like it. And, now they want us to come up with more songs to go with it. So, I’m only going home to Atlanta for a few days at Christmas instead of taking all of next week off. Think you can make time to start hammering out some new tunes with me when I get back, Jimmy?”

“Sure,” I said shaking my head at how surreal this seemed.

I had been begging Ricky to help me hash out some new ideas for months, and he had repeatedly made excuses or found other ways to blow me off. It must’ve been some serious enthusiasm on Mike’s part to reignite Ricky’s passion for songwriting. It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t received a copy of the rough mix of
Dragging the River
from when we laid it out last week.

“Was it the version of the song we knocked out last Wednesday that Mike heard?”

“Yes,” said Ricky. “The four of us got together Sunday afternoon and cleaned up our parts, and while we were working on it, Michael dropped by. Once he heard what we had so far, he hung out with us until we finished the final mix.”

“But, how could you do that with just my scratch vocals to work with?”

I was genuinely confused. We had never shown our manager anything other than our most polished tunes. I felt a wave of horror sweep through me as I pictured the inevitable mistakes on a first take.

“You nailed the tune, James.”

This time it was Melvin who spoke. He had just lit a fresh joint that Max had handed to him. He took a hit and motioned for me to take the next one.

“Not yet,” said Max, intercepting his precious dope from making it to my mouth as I joined them on stage. “Jimmy boy needs to hear what we did to his song. So, get back down there, relax in the chair and have a listen. Everything’s cued up.”

Dave laid his drumsticks next to his seat, and the other three slid down next to their amps. I smiled at the thought that a band photo in this relaxed, doped-up state might be a cool thing to try for an album shot. Especially Dave’s expression as he made fun of Melvin for still wearing his sunglasses that were fogging up from the doobie’s smoke drifting in as he took a couple of extra hits before delivering the savory weed to Dave.

“Are you gonna play the damned tune or would you prefer for one of us to do it for you?” asked Max, in irritation. His stoner side is a bit worse than his normal loveliness.

“No, I’ll play it.”

Once Dave’s standard count off resounded through our ultra-sweet system, an impressive revision of the song we worked on last Wednesday night filled the room. The ‘nightclub mix’ quality didn’t surprise me since we’ve created some impressive demos before from our rehearsal hall. But for a moment I didn’t recognize the emotionally charged voice belting out the lyrics at some points of the song and gracefully relating the kid’s sense of loss at others. After dealing with Chris’s incredible vocal talent, I never expected something coming from my vocal pipes sounding better than him.

But on this song it did.

What would it mean to our prospects if I could duplicate that effort for our other songs we had decided to keep, and the new ones to come? I started to genuinely smile, and then all at once the emotional torrent from everything going on fell upon me.

“What’s wrong, man?”

Ricky was the first to arrive as I slid out of the command chair and onto the floor. I was sobbing like a baby and couldn’t stop. The roller-coaster ebb and flow of feelings that ranged from joyful elation to profound despair was more than I could handle. I prepared for Max’s ridicule, or even disappointment from our new guy, Melvin, or the stalwarts who always stood in my corner, Ricky and Dave.

But when I regained enough composure to look around me, I saw them all hovering nearby. No one laughed at me.

Even after the song had ended and I joined them onstage to run through the eight tunes we were keeping from our past incarnation as Quagmire, I didn’t receive a single taunt for my second emotional breakdown in their presence within a week of the first one. And, yes, we voted to change our name that night.

Say goodbye to Quagmire, and hello to Black Dauphine, in honor of the band’s first trip to New Orleans last February. It was during Mardi Gras, and Bourbon street was full of decadent life. Meanwhile, Dauphine was totally dark. One street pulsed with energy and the other felt dead and dangerous. The perfect outlook for a Nashville rock n’ roll band. At least we think so.

We played as if we were on fire that night, and we all felt fantastic about our prospects. But I was leaving much later than planned, and I prepared myself for a well-deserved butt chewing from Fiona, Ed, or both.

Driving home with the midnight temperature sitting at a balmy forty-one degrees, according to the dash thermometer in my car, I listened to my MP3 copy of that night’s rehearsal. It sounded even better through the Camaro’s stereo system, and I kept it cranked up until I hit the Cool Springs area on I-65 south. I hadn’t forgotten about Angie’s favored visitation point and prepared myself for her inevitable taunts to interrupt my joyful ride home. But other than a gust blowing against the car, she was silent. Hell, I didn’t even feel her presence…no prickly sensations along the back of my neck.

She left me alone that night. At least I’m pretty sure she did. As I unpacked the Camaro and prepared to step inside our home through the back door, I thought I saw a shadowed form standing near the tree line along the back edge of our property. But when I glanced again after flicking on the kitchen light and setting my shit on the floor, there was no one there.

Maybe it was foolhardy, but I didn’t believe for a minute that Angie’s ghost would follow me inside the safety of a house blessed by burning sage. Really, I should’ve been more worried about three guys and an Uzi watching our place. But the blissful reverie from just an hour earlier wouldn’t let me worry about it. I didn’t fret about anything, other than sneaking under the covers and inching closer to my sleeping wife without her knowing it.

Her gentle snores let me know all was well, and that my latest mission was indeed a success. I listened to her sleep rhythm and tried to clear my mind of all else. Soon, like her, I was fast asleep.

Chapter Sixteen

“So, how did we get rooked into this again?”

“Well, as I was trying to tell you last night, while you were playing Deathly Hollows on the Playstation with Alex and Ryan, this is largely your fault,” said Fiona, shooting me a knowing look that was laced with irritation.

“How so?”

I had an idea what she meant, but I wasn’t about to volunteer information that could easily worsen the weather in Jimmy-land. Fortunately, I had a nice distraction following the caravan of vehicles that had set out for Jefferson City, Tennessee from a Pilot truck stop near Mount Juliet a few hours ago. It was nearing three o’clock, Saturday afternoon, and we were off to visit the former capstone event from our original Civil War ghost tour agenda.

Fiona would’ve preferred doing the driving today, but since she’s better navigating mountain roads at night, the plan was for her to handle the driving duties on our return journey to Nashville Sunday evening, after our investigation of Mossy Creek and the rest of our trip had been completed. Meanwhile, the topic of what this particular investigation was supposed to accomplish inspired our latest conversation, and pulled us away from a retro medley of Amanda Marshall, Stevie Nix, and my wife’s favorite eighties band, Duran Duran.

“You said something to Jerry about the original tour, and he called Jackie, and later Tom, to say how bad he felt for you that we didn’t include this last site for the tour,” she said, as we lumbered along I-40 heading east. “If it was for a bigger Civil War battle, maybe we would’ve come here anyway. Did I tell you that Ned Stamos and his wife Shirley will be waiting for us when we get there?”

“No...no, you didn’t,” I said. “Is it just them, or will more folks from TCP be there, as well?”

“All fifteen members are coming,” she said, and I sensed her irritation was from having to repeat details that I should’ve recalled from an earlier conversation. “Terry and Felix have professional grade video cameras, and Ned hopes they can produce a segment worthy of inclusion with our other investigations, after everything gets resolved.”

No doubt, she was referring to our current situation, where our paranormal television program remained in danger of being completely canceled. I took it as a positive sign that Fiona spoke as if it would get resolved in our favor.

“We should give it our best shot today, then. It was thoughtful of Jerry to think of me that way…. But, once Ed finds out about this, I’m sure he’ll blame me for it.” I pictured the old Detective Silver and his open disdain for me, and what he used to describe as my ‘cavalier behavior’. “I don’t imagine anyone mentioned this trip to him, or did they?”

“We didn’t think it would be a good idea—especially after Ned, Shirley, and everyone else associated with Tri-Cities Paranormal were beyond excited about this opportunity,” said Fiona, turning down the radio a few more notches, since likely we’d be discussing this subject for much longer than she had initially anticipated. “He’ll never know, unless someone in our group tells him.”

“Or, once he sees the televised investigation segments, and doesn’t recognize the event as being one that he attended.”

I added a wry smile to make sure she knew this wasn’t a criticism of anything she said.

“He wasn’t there when we visited Shiloh and Chattanooga.” She gave me a smug nod.

“True, but he has a nose for finding the truth that’s almost as impressive as his pursuit of off-limits pussy.”

“He has a girlfriend now,” she countered, coolly.

I didn’t have to look her way to realize Fiona was glaring at me. Hell, I could feel it. Even my seat felt warmer, and I glanced at the seat heater switch just to make sure I hadn’t inadvertently turned it on.

“I’m just kidding, sweetie,” I said, smiling sheepishly and blowing a small kiss to my wife that went unnoticed. Well, I suppose it was noticed…it just didn’t disarm those fiery green lasers of hers. “Speaking of which, do you think it will become serious between him and…her name is Cindy, right?”

“I hope so,” she said, and I could almost feel the heat move away from my head and torso as she turned her attention back to the road ahead of us. The latest road signs for Knoxville and the exit north to Jefferson City were coming up. “Mainly for your sake, since you have an almost neurotic obsession with him.”

What?!

“You don’t mean that.”

Now I was the one getting hot, as in under the collar. The only obsession I had ever known in regard to Mr. Ed was in picturing me pummeling his face until his pussy-tickling moustache fell off and his expensive veneers cracked open to reveal the mealy teeth stubs hidden inside. Not that I would ever actually do such a thing. For all his shortcomings, I knew there was some good inside Detective Silver—even before a girl named Cindy came along.

“You are so silly, hon’,” she said, a little more lovingly. “Neurotic obsession doesn’t have to be sexual in nature. Some Titans’ fans are just as obsessive, and even I’m that way when it comes to Duran Duran.” She laughed.

“Give me some time to get past the way he used to be,” I said, hoping that she saw my obsession was strictly hostile protectiveness of my territory. Namely the sanctity of my union with her—and I never worry about unfaithfulness on her part. It just rankles me that someone—namely Ed—seemed to disregard that sanctity. Here lately, though, he seemed a bit less flirtatious.

“People can change,” said Fiona, letting me know again that my thoughts were an open book to her.

“I hope so,” I conceded, and then sought to change the subject. My wife’s immediate grateful smile told me she was still in my head. “Okay, so why are we meeting a mile away from where most of the Mossy Creek battle took place?”

“You mean the old barn that Jerry mentioned?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not that far from the Branner graveyard,” said Fiona, and then she pointed to the exit for Jefferson City. Like I’d somehow miss the damned sign. “And, we’ve got an exclusive visitation arranged for that section of the property, since it is far enough off the beaten path from the main house.”

“What house is that again?”

“You know…the Glenmore Mansion.”

“Ah, yeah…I remember now,” I said, recalling how stately the Victorian estate that was now a museum looked in the day…and how frigging creepy it looked at night. It was like Donald Trump versus the Adams Family in contrast. “That’s the house with the lantern ghost in the attic, and the Branner spinster sisters who are supposed to walk the hallowed halls deep into the night.”