***
After Quentin put his bass away, he found a table near Erin and the others. There was laughter and shouting all around, but he tuned it out, watching the old rocker between moving bodies. That bad feeling from the stage lingered like the aftertaste of something foul, and, rational or not, he associated it with John’s friend, or dealer, or whatever the hell he was.
The guy slipped through the crowd, seeming to touch nobody, looking into one face after another and moving on. Clubgoers turned away from him as he approached and looked elsewhere as he passed by. He said nothing, exchanged no words with anyone, but kept moving, sharklike.
What the hell is he looking for?
Quentin wondered. If he were a dealer, Quentin would have expected him to mutter a few words, whisper in an ear or two, negotiate a deal or slip away from a polite rejection—but he never stopped, never slowed his even movement through the crowd.
Around Quentin, conversation twisted and flowed. He ignored it all, intent on the old guy’s progress through the room.
***
Brad was talking, and Case really wanted to hear what he had to say—but a jarring, jerky motion in the crowd beyond him teased her vision, and she found herself looking over his shoulder rather than paying attention.
It was just an out-of-place goth kid, hair dyed black, dressed all in black, heavy chain hanging from his pocket and looping up to his belt—in short, stamped from the same mold as a zillion other affected, disaffected kids. Only the way he moved drew Case’s eye. He stumbled and shambled through the room, clearing a space around him as others edged away, and at first Case thought he had some kind of physical ailment or handicap.
Then she got a good look at his face. A sense of déjà vu so sudden it was like careening vertigo smothered her, and her heart clenched tight like a fist. The spittle smeared on his chin, the sly grin, and the half-crazed eyes were horribly familiar, so much so that for one second she thought this was the same person she’d accosted at a different club all those weeks ago. But, no—this was clearly somebody else, and that chilled her as much as anything.
Brad trailed off and turned around, putting his elbow up on the back of his chair.
“Am I boring you?” he started, but he trailed off. “What the fuck?”
***
The old guy stopped close to the door and cocked his head, for all the world like a dog hearing a whistle in the distance. Quentin watched him turn, watched his eyes light on something across the room, watched the slow smile of satisfaction spread across his face.
Quentin followed the man’s eyes, saw nothing particular in the knot of people at the center of the floor. There were people crowded thickly everywhere he looked, and he craned his neck, looking for whatever had attracted the man’s attention.
The crowd moved aside, finally, and Quentin got a good look at the goth kid, who had a little clearing of his own. Quentin had seen the kid during the show, near the front in fact, and he’d looked like was having a good time. That wasn’t the case anymore. Even from here, he looked seven kinds of fucked up, and Quentin thought he was actually drooling on himself.
Quentin glanced around the crowd and quickly spotted the old guy moving toward the kid, eyes afire and mouth twisted in a grin. Indecision seized him, and he looked from the old guy to the kid and back.
This is none of my business,
he thought.
Then he got up. His mouth had gone dry, his pulse pounded behind his eyes, and his hands shook, but he got up. Somebody needed to have a talk with that creepy fuck, and it didn’t look like anybody else was on the job. Quentin bulled through the crowd, muttering apologies as he shoved people aside and stepped on feet.
***
Case watched the kid stagger in one direction, then another. Whatever Brad had been about to say was gone, and he stared as well.
“He looks like he might need some help,” Brad said uncertainly.
“I’m not sure,” Case began.
The kid stopped his slow, weird turning. Case saw his shifty eyes narrow, saw his muscles tighten and his knees bend.
“Fuck!” she said, and she was on her feet, moving across the room.
What are you doing? Surely he’s not going to—
The kid sprang forward in an ungainly motion, half shuffle, half leap, and his arms reached out just as he stumbled. He lurched forward, grabbing a woman by the shoulders. She screamed. A bottle fell and shattered. The two of them, locked together, tottered, but stayed standing.
Case pushed two people roughly aside just as the kid opened his mouth and lunged. She heard his teeth snap shut on air even from ten feet away, even over the music.
The woman screamed again, and the kid pulled back, face contorted with savage joy, mouth open wide—
Case didn’t try anything fancy—just rushed forward, buried both hands in the kid’s hair, and pulled. The kid was a bundle of sticks, probably no heavier than she was, and the motion threw him to the ground, hard.
The kid bounced, arched his back in pain, and moaned.
He’d better stay down,
Case thought. He pushed himself partway up, then slumped back to the sticky club floor.
The kid looked up at her, wiping his mouth, confusion in his eyes. He looked at the saliva on his hand with complete bafflement.
“Hey, what’s going on?” he asked.
Nearby, somebody else yelled, and a ripple of motion in the crowd caught Case’s eye.
It was Quentin.
***
“What did you do, you son of a bitch?” Quentin yelled. The last few people between him and the old guy got out of the way. “What did you do?”
The old guy pressed his back to the wall and crossed his arms. “I’ve got no problem with you, Quentin,” he said, his hoarse baritone barely audible over the crowd. “And you’ve got no problem with me.”
“The hell I don’t!” Quentin lunged forward and grabbed the guy’s shirtfront with both hands, crushing him against the wall. The guy actually laughed, and a ghastly odor spilled from his face and washed over Quentin. Quentin gagged, but he didn’t let go. “What did you do to that kid? What did you do to Johnny?”
The old guy put his forearms on Quentin’s chest and shoved. Quentin stumbled backward a few steps, flailed his arms, and fell on his ass. He was up again a second later, both hands reaching toward the old bastard—
And somebody stopped him, putting two strong hands on his shoulders from behind. Suddenly, Case and Johnny were both there, Case standing directly between Quentin and the old guy, and Johnny off to the side, looking mortified. Quentin looked behind himself, where some guy he didn’t know was holding his shoulders. He wore a terrifyingly ugly paisley shirt and a sickly, embarrassed grin.
“Jesus, that’s enough,” Case said. “Quentin, why don’t you have a seat?” She turned to the old guy. “And you, I keep seeing your ugly goddamn face everywhere. How about you make it disappear tonight?”
The old guy stepped back toward the door and gave an insolent wave. “See you around,” he said, and he left.
Johnny scowled at Quentin. “What the fuck was that all about?” Quentin started to reply, but Johnny cut him off. “You know what? I don’t care. We’ll hash it out later. We had a good show tonight, and I want to enjoy it. Why don’t you relax?” He shook his head with weary contempt and walked away, headed toward the bar.
“Case, I—”
“It’s cool, Quentin,” Case said. “Johnny’s right—we can talk about it later. And we
will
talk about it later.”
Quentin slunk back to his table, not meeting the curious gazes of his friends there.
***
“Sorry about that,” Case said after Quentin and Johnny left. “I’d have put money on me picking ten fights before Quentin got up the nerve to say something mean to somebody, but I guess you never can tell.”
“Yeah,” Brad said. He scratched his head. “That was . . . unexpected. Your bass player is lucky that old guy didn’t beat his ass.”
Case gave Brad a searching look. He was barely rattled by the whole thing, and she liked the way he’d followed her to the crazy goth kid, liked the way he’d gone straight for Quentin, trying to pull him out of the fight. Her blood was pumping from the adrenaline, and she could feel her heart beat. The night had been strange and a little ugly, but she was revved up now. The evening didn’t have to be a total waste.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Brad raised his eyebrows. “Where are we going?”
“First, you’re going to help me carry my shit out to the car. After that . . . we’ll see.”
That hesitant, unsure laugh again. God, he had a good laugh. “Point me at the aforementioned shit,” he said.
With Brad’s help, it took only two trips to get Case’s stuff loaded. Once that was done, Case tracked down Erin—she wasn’t about to make the mistake of disappearing without a goodbye again. Erin gave Brad an appraising look and Case a nod of approval. “See you at the office,” Erin said.
“The office. Right.”
It was just as Case left that a perverse impulse grabbed her. She pushed the door open and couldn’t seem to stop herself from glancing back over the row of tables to where Danny sat with his wife. Danny’s eyes met hers and he looked down, a miserable expression contorting his face for one fleeting second before it was gone.
Case smiled at Brad and rushed out.
Johnny danced up the sidewalk toward his house. God, what a buzz! What a night! He had
owned
that room. He remembered the room, rapt and enthralled, during “Watching the World End,” and he laughed.
“Could have heard a pin drop during that motherfucker,” he said, punching the air.
He put his key in the lock of his front door, and suddenly the feeling that somebody was watching him returned so strongly it felt almost like a hand touching his neck. He spun around, dropping the keys on the ground. There was no one. Even across the street, the lights were out and the curtains closed. That did little to dispel his sudden fear; if anything, it worsened, tightening a cold hand around his heart.
“Anyone there?” he asked, and immediately wished he hadn’t. His voice sounded pitiful and frightened, and if somebody was there, it wouldn’t do much to deter them.
He looked around again, across the flat expanse of lawn. There wasn’t so much as a thin sapling sticking up out of the ground, nowhere for anyone to hide at all. He tried to convince himself that he was reassured, but he didn’t really feel better.
He picked up his keys, sure that
now,
when his back was turned and he was in an awkward position, something would leap out of—somewhere—and grab him with sharp claws, either tearing him to bloody bits on his own doorstep or dragging him off to a place he tried not to think of these days—but nothing happened.
Johnny unlocked the door and let himself in.
The stench was thick, almost unbearable, and it came rolling out of the house like a dockside fog bank, conjuring images of gutted fish and heaps of rotting chum. Johnny gagged. His eyes watered and his stomach roiled. This was the worst it had been, ever. He couldn’t go in there. Oh, hell no. He turned, leaning back against the outside of the house. The door hung open, gaping idiotically.
“God, what the fuck
is
that?” Johnny asked, covering his mouth and nose. And how had it gotten so bad? There was no way he was going to believe that anything could stink like that unless something dead had gotten into the house.
Right. Like a twelve-foot catfish rotting under the floorboards. Who do you think you’re kidding, Johnny?
But again, that line of thought went somewhere he wouldn’t want to go even in broad daylight standing in the middle of I-35, let alone here at night, lost in the shadows between the two looming houses on the neighboring lots.
He uncovered his mouth and inhaled tentatively. It was bad out here now, and he thought that if it got much worse the neighbors might finally complain. Hopefully the house was airing out some, though. There weren’t a hell of a lot of other places he could spend the night. He took another breath. It was definitely clearing some, at least outside. If he opened a few windows, maybe it would clear out inside, too.
Johnny got up and went in. The smell had thinned out, dropping from inducing instant nausea to merely causing mild dizziness.
The prescription drug from Hell.
That struck him as less funny than it should have been.
Leaving the door open, he stepped into the living room and flicked the light switch. Faces of dead rock stars—and a few living—stared at him from the wall. He imagined he could see approval in some of their faces, though others were more reserved in their approval. Björk, a holdover from the previous tenants that he’d somehow never managed to take down, looked downright baleful. The stare on her pale face gave him the shivers.
Losing your cool here, buddy.
Even so, she had to go. He tore the poster off the wall, crumpled it into a ball, and let it fall on the floor where he stood.
Serve that bitch right
, he thought.
He turned and—
and Sweet Jesus Christ, there was somebody looking in the back window!
A leering face was pressed to the kitchen window, tongue outstretched and waggling at him, eyes bulging and rolling. The laughter in his throat turned to one long, wretched scream, and he fell backward, hitting his ass on the slab hard enough to slam his mouth shut. His teeth clacked together and he scrambled back, anything to get away from that horrible face in the window.