In the Dead of Night (9 page)

If they’re telling me the truth, and I have little reason to doubt them on this, she’s been quite accurate. Hell, everyone except our drummer has had her read for them a few times, and they’ve referred her to family members and friends, which speaks to some customer satisfaction. My daytime employer should be so lucky.

Anyway, by the time I reached our rehearsal room, Ricky had already claimed his Strat and climbed onto the stage. Everyone else gathered their instruments, and Max Racine, our lead guitarist, pointed meanly for me to take my place next to our drummer, David Harris, who prefers the name “Mongo” .

I removed my five-string fretless from its case and leaped up on stage to join everyone else, hoping I’m as graceful at our upcoming gig, set for the weekend after next. A party affair, but one of the larger garden varieties, we’d been given the ‘heads-up’ from our manager, Michael Dickinson, that a few A&R folks (label people for those unfamiliar) would be in attendance. At a frigging party, no less. But that can happen when the invitees have deep connections via the industry here in Music City to their kin in New York and L.A. Or so I’m told.

“We’re gonna start with ‘Primetime’ and move on to ‘Natural Religion’, ‘Mary’s Candy’, and ‘Little Miss Walker’,” Max advised, his blonde Mohawk shimmering in a strange mix of blue-green hues from a pair of colored spotlights just above his head. A slim cigar balanced precariously between his thin lips, he regarded me like I’d just grown a third eye in the middle of my forehead. Perpetual contempt for the married guy in the band.

He’s always reminded me of what Rod Stewart would’ve looked like if he were part of Billy Idol’s band. The most surly and eccentric rocker among us.

“Any particular reason we’re moving through this arrangement of our tunes?”

I admit to a little smugness here, since I co-wrote three of the songs, and the other was completely written by me a few years back. Actually, all of Quagmire’s tunes are creations of Ricky and me, with a few newer ones that Max has contributed to. Mongo prefers credit on arrangements, since actual songwriting is not his forte.

Mongo’s the one guy that Michael wasn’t keen on at first, in terms of image. Balding with non-descript eyewear and plain facial features, he sort of resembles a thumb with a bandana. Mongo could blend easily into any crowd, never to be noticed or missed. But the guy can’t be topped as far as laying a syncopated beat and creating a powerful groove. Really, his work has inspired us all to get better. So, in effect it’s like this: no Mongo equals a lesser product and no promising record deals.

“I think the order adds a certain flair, setting the tunes off as the potential singles they could become,” offered Chris, before Max could answer me.

So, I guess it’s his doing, then. Max’s indifferent shrug just confirmed it.

Christopher Grimes is our brand new front man. At one of our last gigs in May, Chris approached us about becoming Quagmire member ‘number five’. Twenty-three years old with blonde wavy hair ala Led Zeppelin’s Robert Plant down to his ass, he brings a commanding stage presence. Not to mention he’s a virtuoso violinist who can run circles around either guitarist as far as tearing off screaming arpeggios. Add that to his Geoff Tate--Ronnie James Dio operatic voice, and we have our meal ticket to the illusive big time. At least that’s what my ears and gut tell me.

Dude’s prettier than the rest of us, too. But even with Chris’s boyish good looks and Kid Rock energy, it seemed a long shot that we’d take him in. That is, until he took a dozen downloads of our tunes and learned them all in a matter of a week. Then he added his special flavor and presence…. My God, you could’ve heard a pin drop in our rehearsal room when he finished his run-through. Then we had to work especially hard not to fawn over ourselves in telling this kid he could join us. Even Ricky’s cool with it, since he’s grown progressively weary of the strain on his voice that our complex melodies have brought on. Now he can stay in the background with me, adding our strong harmonies to Chris’s lead vocals. It sounds frigging awesome.

“Once we come to an agreement on the order for the remaining thirty-three tunes, we’ll be able to support a longer show, say an hour or two,” continued our young prodigy.

The only thing I worry about is whether Chris’s condescending tone and over-the-top sophistication will eventually chap my ass. Lord knows I deal with enough of that shit at my day gig.

“Well, okay dudes,” I said, grabbing the wireless receiver for my amp and plugging it into my bass. “Let’s get rollin’.”

Mongo set the tempo and we launched into our first set. Before the advent of Chris, we used to mosey about the stage, jamming with one another between trips to the dual microphones set up at the platform’s edge. Not anymore. Still getting used to Chris’s dominance of center stage, it’s hard not to get distracted by his antics: strutting back and forth before an imaginary audience while twirling his violin bow. When he launches into a lead, his nimble hands become a maniacal frenzy across the electric violin’s fret board.

Ricky and I try not to get in the way of either Chris or Max, swinging our hair in time with every crunching power chord and bass thump we deliver. When Ricky’s brother, Paul, filmed us a couple of weeks ago, the way we worked as a band looked really cool, Ricky’s and my hair swinging in rhythm and catching the oscillating colored light rays.

Of course, our new maestro stole the show, his bow shredded from the throes of what I believe was near-psychotic passion. With his mouth contorted to the side, his wild eyes convey an almost eerie lunacy. That’s how Ricky and Paul describe it. I’d say it’s more like ‘orgasmic terror’, as if he’s some deranged sex fiend. And chicks dig the dude—at least Ricky’ and Chris’s small harems do…frigging groupies. They went all gaga the other night, and we didn’t finish our work. That’s why I insisted there be no girls tonight.

But hey, if his talent and allure gets us to the next level, then I’m all for the distractions that are part of the deal with him. It’s fine by me if he has all the chicks and media fame. He can sit in the forefront of our band photos, too, for all I care. Just give me credit for the songs I help write and let me tag along for wherever this crazy train takes us.

Tonight’s rehearsal went very well…and with hardly any questions from the guys about Candi Starr and Dickey Rollins’ murders. I needed the break, really. Hell, it’d be there waiting for me anyway, once I left the euphoria of a great practice session and drove home.

We wrapped things up by 11:40 p.m. Mongo and I shared a laugh as I helped him load his drum cases into the back of his old Suburban. Soon after, I was back on Gallatin Road and heading home.

***

Traveling along I-65 southbound after midnight usually means a nice drive down a deserted highway. It’s perfect for unwinding after a long day and a productive rehearsal. I suppose that’s why I didn’t notice the dark van following me. I probably should’ve caught it early on, say at least by the time I passed downtown Nashville. But I didn’t. Not until I reached Franklin.

Jamming to one of my personal mix CDs that features every melodic metal band I’ve grown attached to over the years, I was just getting into my head-shake to Megadeth’s “Ninety-nine ways to die” when I finally noticed the van mirroring my moves as I veered into the fast lane and then back to the middle of the highway just beyond Cool Springs Mall. I still might not have thought much of it, so lost was I in my private revelry. But it was hard to ignore the sudden high beams flashing from behind me. I at first thought a cop rode my ass.

Cruising a few miles above the speed limit rarely gets somebody pulled over in Williamson County, and my lights were just checked the other day when I got the oil changed for the Camaro. So, that pretty much eliminated a police K-9 unit.

“What in the hell?”

The van drew closer…close enough for me to see the grill emblem. It was a Buick, late model…and a big sucker at that. A petrol-splurging special from a couple of years ago, right before fuel prices rose to insanity.

“Back off, you mother….”

I didn’t finish uttering the crown jewel of all curse phrases. Maybe it’s because I had instinctively floored the Camaro to where I had just passed ninety. Yeah, talk about a gas-guzzler giving chase…probably lost an eighth of a tank from that alone as it kept pace with me.

Now, I’m not easily spooked, being in the ghost hunting biz and all. My initial reaction was to get really pissed. But then the van backed off…way off. Only when I exited onto another highway, I-840, did it come a little closer. In the distance behind me two small white orbs stayed on my trail.

I figured I was just being paranoid. Hopefully in about a week I’ll return to a more rational outlook about things, and I won’t be so damned jumpy.

I decided to slow down to seventy-five. No sense in being radar bait, but at the same time I didn’t want to provide a guided path to my home. When I came upon Arno Road, my usual exit, no lights were visible behind me. Still, I raced under the overpass and followed the road to the maze of darkened back roads that would bring me to my secluded home. The moon shining in half-cycle, I felt half tempted to drive home with the headlights off.

Deftly navigating through sharp curves and hidden hills, I soon pulled up into the long gravel driveway that leads up to my house. I dimmed the headlights, creeping up quietly and pulling the Camaro behind my house, just in case whoever drove the mysterious van somehow figured out the general area where I lived—despite my best efforts to remain elusive.

I cut the engine and got out of the car, releasing a low sigh as I collected my bass and tiptoed up to the back door. The kitchen light was on, and I detected a slight glow from the living room through a side window.

Then I heard it.

Hell, I think everyone living along our road heard it. A loud rumble from a V-8 engine, revved full throttle.

What in the hell now?

I crept around the side of the house, peering toward the road. There was no one visible. No truck or van.

The rumble resounded again…louder, although I had the distinct feeling it hadn’t moved.

I moved up quietly to our mailbox, my protective instincts in full force. I wished to God I had my gun with me…but there wasn’t time to sneak inside the house to get it.

The revved engine continued to announce its presence, echoing eerily into the night air. It seemed to slice through the humidity, making it sound more menacing. Like, ‘step out here and face the music, Jimmy boy!’

Did I have a choice? Sure…well no, I didn’t. Other than running inside and diving under the covers with my grieving wife in our bed. What about the kids? Other than calling the cops and hiding out in the storm cellar beneath our home until dawn, there wasn’t much else we could do. Definitely nothing that’d keep me from feeling like a real wuss.

For some crazy, shitty, reason I pictured Max’s smug grin—complete with another slim cigar clinched between his teeth.

What’s wrong, you pussy-whipped, rock n’ roll wannabe??

That got me going. I ran out onto the road and stood in the middle of it, all the while the engine rumbled ahead of me in the darkness…less than a quarter of a mile ahead, atop a hill.

Two halogens suddenly appeared in the darkness. The van. It had to be the same one. Whoever sat behind the wheel flashed the high-beams.

I tried to shield my eyes from the harsh brightness with one arm. Braced for the inevitable attack of the vehicle rushing toward me, I pictured myself diving into a shitload of thistles and briars inside the drainage ditch next to our mailbox.

How’d this frigging asshole find me, anyway?

Not many folks live along our road, since everyone’s property consists of five to fifteen acres of wooded land. Luckily, houselights now came on at the Tanner’s place, directly across from where the van sat.

The threatening vehicle backed up and swerved sideways, its wheels screeching even louder than the rumble. I could feel the driver studying me through the tinted passenger window. A very queer sensation, I sensed such malevolence …intense rage emanating toward me. Really weird, man, and I recalled what Fiona told me earlier that afternoon about the killer. I also thought about the shadowy figure creeping about our place last night. Could we be next on the killer’s list? I pictured the dude sitting in the van, sizing up a new victim.

I guess it sucks to be me, or even worse to be Fiona, since she’s a much closer friend to the recently departed.

A shotgun blast into the air erupted from the Tanner’s porch, and I heard Mac Tanner shout a string of obscenities at the driver. Before old Mac reached the passenger side door, the van spun around and sped off in the opposite direction, its angry rumble soon fading away.

My neighbor didn’t give up his vigil right away, and to avoid a drawn out discussion with him I hurried back to my house before he noticed my presence. I waited outside my backdoor for nearly twenty minutes…listening to the endless chirping and calls from insects and a pair of tree frogs. But I heard nothing else. Nothing that rumbled, anyway.

It mattered little that our menacing visitor didn’t come back. For the rest of the night, I stayed on high alert. Even when I slipped into bed next to my beautiful wife, I slept light.

I would’ve heard a mosquito scratching its ass.

The dawn’s fiery glow crept in a helluva lot earlier than I would’ve liked.