Deadly Night Part 9

...Is this the way that you see me?

Broken heart that won't lay down Is this the way you would be free?

To take your life without a sound Is this the way that it should be?

It's not the same without you around...oh no-o-o....

It gave me frigging goose b.u.mps. Seriously, I thought I might start crying, and pinched my arm hard enough to leave a bruise so I wouldn't. No sissy s.h.i.t for me, man. Not that night, anyway. Hearing two extremely talented people-world cla.s.s musicians-perform my creation to such perfection...such inspired pa.s.sion. Well, it frankly made me much more grateful to be alive. Not to mention it obliterated any remaining doubts I had as far as holding our own against the very best talent the non-country music industry has to offer.

I'd have to say our rehearsal was one of the best we've ever had. High energy and inspired play...we better have a frigging shower in our dressing quarters at our upcoming gig if we perform anywhere near this level. We were sweating like pigs, man...ah that ain't right. Pigs don't sweat...at least not like us. It's more like the overzealous wrestlers on TV. Hair and leotards soaked, like the old rock n' roll shows from the early nineties-back when I was cutting my musical teeth to the likes of Van Halen and Skid Row.

"You want to join us tomorrow night, Jimmy?" asked Mongo, as we loaded the last of his drum cases into his van. "Chris and RC are hitting the t.i.tty bars, and Max says he's coming along too. We're all planning to meet downtown at eight."

"Sorry, man, but our ghost hunter group has a gig tomorrow evening," I told him, not that I would've come anyway. It's just not my thing. Fiona wouldn't care one way or the other, since lookin' ain't the same as touchin'. But still, I can't get enough of her, and the last time I came along on a t.i.tty-bar run, I could hardly wait to leave. It p.i.s.sed Max off something fierce.

Ricky might be heading back to his wilder ways, though.... I prayed right then his c.o.ke habit wouldn't be next. It got him a month in detox a year ago and two years probation. It'd be worse next time. Then kiss our music dreams goodbye.

"You're so frigging whipped!"

Max stood behind me, snickering while lighting up another cancer stick. Ricky and Chris came out to the parking area behind him. Ricky locked the warehouse's main entrance.

"Well, besides...I'll be attending d.i.c.key Rollins' funeral service tomorrow afternoon," I said. Direct hit there, since Max's ex wife used to work for d.i.c.key a few years back, and would likely be in attendance. "Later this week, we'll have another one to attend for Mitch Dobbins."

Another punch to the gut, and Max's sneer vanished from his face. I couldn't help but smile a little. p.u.s.s.y whip that, a.s.shole!

"Mitch is dead?" he asked, his tone incredulous.

"You didn't know?"

This time it was Ricky chiming in, even more surprised at Max's ignorance about a mutual friend's demise than Max was about the death itself.

"No...I didn't," Max confessed. Stunned. It made me feel a tad guilty for digging at him a moment ago. "When did it happen?"

"I think it happened Friday," said Mongo. "That's when I first heard about it."

"And it's all related to Candi Starr and d.i.c.key's murders, too."

They all turned toward me. Oh s.h.i.t. I momentarily forgot this wasn't public knowledge. Fiona would kill me if she knew I just blabbed protected info.

"Where'd you hear that from?" asked Ricky, eyeing me suspiciously.

Chris stood by, apparently lost. He must've been living under the same rock as Max these past few days. Then again, he might not have known who Mitch was. It's not like one can easily identify the musicians who support the "Nashville Sound" walking down a street. Some of the finest studio players in the world live in relative obscurity here. Only their expensive cars and big houses give them away.

"I thought it was on the news," I lied, trying to remember if looking to the left or right would support my ruse. Hopefully to the right. "But it could've been my own stupidity, since d.i.c.key and Candi were mentioned. Maybe the only link is their Nashville music connection."

I hoped this worked. I'd still be in trouble if any of them approached my wife about it. Hopefully they wouldn't see or talk to her within the next week and a half. The case might be resolved by then, or better yet, my band mates would've forgotten all about it.

Ricky, Mongo, and Max nodded thoughtfully. The few security lights in the parking area are great for loading stuff up to leave...not so much for hanging around to chat after midnight, and it was going on one o'clock.

"We probably should get out of here," Mongo advised, looking over his shoulder while locking up the back door to his van. He moved to the driver side. "If you change your mind, we'll meet at the McDonald's off Broadway near the highway downtown."

"All right," I told him, and then nodded to the others. Ricky and Chris rode together in Chris's new Porsche and Max brought his vintage MG. "We sounded awesome tonight!"

That got a much better response, as Chris and Ricky paused to give me a high-five. Max offered an approving nod, his cigarette clinched between his teeth. I don't think Mongo heard me, as he'd already climbed into the driver's seat of his van and slammed the door shut. I heard the door locks latch...a sure sign he's more creeped out than the rest of us. He should come on a ghost hunt sometime.

Max followed Mongo down the drive to the main road, and Chris nearly rammed Max's a.s.s. I guess Chris wanted the h.e.l.l out of there, too...or maybe he's still trying to figure out the shifting sensitivity of his new sports car.

In any case, that left me alone. I lingered for another moment...just to see if I heard or sensed anyone keeping an eye on me from some hidden vantage point.

There was nothing...only crickets and some unseen barn owl calling from a nearby train yard.

The temperature was in the low sixties by the time I hit the highway, and the wind hitting me seemed much chillier after the heated sweat generated from our rehearsal. Like the other night, traffic was spa.r.s.e. Unlike the last time I drove home, there was no sign of the mysterious van.

Maybe it was just some kids messing with me after all. Or, if it was someone stalking Fiona and me, they only did it when we drove the Camaro. That idea especially alarmed me, since what would happen if the dark van showed up when Fiona drove alone?

I hardly noticed the exit signs while racing down I-65, thinking about this s.h.i.t. There was hardly anyone around by the time I exited onto 840-just a convertible heading west, while I veered east.

I love my bike, man, and driving in the middle of the night alone is amazing. It's the best way to relax and unwind, I think. Just me, the road, and the steady drone from the Harley's powerful engine.

I'm not sure what happened first. Maybe the powerful halogens and the engine roaring up behind me from out of nowhere took place at the exact same moment. It scared the holy s.h.i.t out of me.

Surprised, my fear escalated once I recognized the emblem on the grill.

The wicked Buick was back...back on my a.s.s big time!

I sped up to over one hundred miles an hour, hoping to reach my exit at Arno Road before this psychopathic jerk could follow me. Like that'd matter after the sucker found my home last night. The van kept pace, moving up dangerously close to my rear wheel. A little push and I'd be a greased mess for the highway patrol to worry about, forced to call in a large forensic crew to pick my scattered remains off of the asphalt sometime after daybreak What if the driver really did have something to do with the Mafia? I'd be an easy target for a gun with this dude running up my a.s.s...the same weapon that killed Brenda, Johnny, and Mitch? Images of my broken body and chopped up bike lying a dozen feet under some construction site suddenly flashed before my tired eyes, and I grimaced at the thought of becoming added ingredients to some concrete bas.e.m.e.nt floor. Like Jimmy Hoffa.

Then again, maybe this a.s.shole waited for me to do something really stupid or careless, like spill the bike, and then run over what's left of my road-pizza carca.s.s.

I sped up even faster. Nearing one-twenty.

Taking no chances, I pushed on to the next exit. One-forty and really tensing up. The bugs. .h.i.tting my neck underneath my helmet stung from the impact at this speed. But then the dude abruptly slowed down, and the bright halogens disappeared. There was nothing but pitch darkness behind me.

Was my a.s.sailant getting ready to pick me off using a high powered rifle with an infrared scope? d.a.m.n, it really sucks having a very vivid imagination! The mental picture of my head exploding like a watermelon with an M-80 in it was especially tough. But I kept moving...focused on getting home in one piece.

To be more covert and maximize my chances of eluding the crazed menace, I cut the beams on my bike to low. Thankfully, I know the back roads-even those beyond our neck of the woods.

When I reached the street next to the one we live on, I cut the lights completely, and by the time I reached our deserted road I shut the engine down and coasted home.

Just the noisy cicadas and me, and a lonesome dove sitting on the Tanner's porch. I got off the bike and pushed it up the hill past their home. No one stirred, despite a light inside their draped living room. Even their German Shepherd named Spaggs was nowhere in sight. No growls, no doors creaking open, and best of all no engine sounds from anywhere around me. Only my labored breaths and racing heart.

I got back on my Harley and coasted the rest of the way home, parking quietly in back of my house. No lights were on inside, just the security lamps surrounding the cabin. I didn't even turn a nightlight on once I was safely inside my home. I checked on Fiona and the boys, and then peered outside through a slight crease between our living room curtains.

No one. No van and no Mafia a.s.sa.s.sins out there. At least not any that I could detect. Wish I could tell you this made me feel relieved. Far from it.

After climbing into bed with my wife, who seemed lovelier than ever as she slept soundly, I ran everything since last Wednesday through my head.

There were too many deaths, too little sleep, and a string of coincidences that couldn't be easily dismissed. Worse yet, I still hadn't shared my previous experience involving the mysterious van with Fiona. I meant to do it, honestly I did. But with everything going on, I didn't-couldn't-find the right opportunity.

Now I had no choice. Everything that'd happened to me lately took care of that. There were no more excuses and no legitimate reasons to justify my procrastination.

I laid awake in bed for nearly an hour...just thinking. Debating on the best way to tell Fiona, and worse yet what to tell her.

The complete truth? Yeah, most likely...it sure as h.e.l.l seemed like the best approach. I'd just pull her aside and tell it like it is...sometime tomorrow. It definitely needed to be done before anything else happened.

It suddenly sounded so easy. But, I knew in my heart that it wouldn't be.

Chapter Fifteen.

Call it a lesson learned.

A really big lesson, considering the verbal b.u.t.t-kicking I got from Fiona once she learned the details of what'd happened to me after my band's last two rehearsals.

"What?!" she shrieked, causing me to cower like a little boy caught peering inside his parents' dresser at their s.e.x toys. "You mean this crazy nut's been stalking you-h.e.l.l, ALL of US??? And you didn't tell me about it??!"

Good thing I didn't mention the ninja dude standing in our driveway the other night.

Maybe an even better thing is that I didn't let her drive this night, although her close proximity in the pa.s.senger seat made my ears ring a little. Well, a lot, actually. Any louder and it would've done more damage than the combination of Max's screaming guitars and Mongo's cymbals.

What a way to start our Monday evening.

We were heading to the Gerst Haus Restaurant in Nashville. The place is Tom and Tony's favorite restaurant, and they both look for any excuse to go there. Since the food's real good, everyone agreed to meet there for dinner before our investigation at the Thompson house.

"I didn't want to alarm you-"

"Now that's the dumbest thing I've heard come out of your mouth in years!" she fumed, her interruption letting me know she'd scrutinize every word in its infancy. It'd be best to think hard before saying anything else. "I'm alarmed now-w-w!! If whoever this guy is goes after the boys...I'll never forgive you!"

Fiona's eyes misted while her lips quivered. A tear-filled deluge could be on its way in a moment.

"He won't," I said, confidently. "He and whoever is with him won't touch em'. They're after me for some reason."

I really didn't know if the boys would be untouched down the road, but for now I just knew they'd be okay. Despite not having Fiona's sentient gifts, I do get some intense gut feelings every now and then. Like my strong intuition about more than one person out there, and if I'm right, I wouldn't be surprised if we're dealing with a guy and a girl. That's the strongest impression I get.

"Don't rely on your 'feelings' on this one, Jimmy!" she scolded, announcing the fact she was reading my thoughts verbatim, despite her claims it's a hit or miss thing when it comes to deciphering my mental images. "And, I'm picking up just the guy...if there's a girl involved, then it's some struggle within him."

Since I'd never mentioned a guy/girl impression before, I nodded in response, reluctant to expose myself to any more telepathic voyeurism. Luckily, we were within a block of the restaurant. Since Fiona doesn't air her personal dirty laundry, and never has, she changed the subject to sort of 'rinse' our discussion. Talking about other subjects, like what she might order for dinner. Her intent was to be clear-eyed by the time we reached the parking lot. So for the moment, my indiscretion was as good as forgotten. At least until the next stupid thing I did.

It gave me a chance to reflect on how the day had gone up until our ride to the Gerst Haus. After another restless night's sleep, I just had to suck it up, since most of my day at the call center would be spent in meetings hashing over old business we'd already discussed last week...and the week before that. We talk about pretty much the same things every meeting, month after month, year after year.

Not much ever changes in the art of delivering customer service over a telephone.

By the time I got back to my desk, I could only take care of a couple of call-backs from angry customers and confirm my team's final payroll report. That left just a few minutes to touch base with Matilda, rebuffing her attempts to dredge out news on the killer still at large and my team's recent slump-and what I planned to do about the latter. Then it was out the door and off to the historic Ryman Auditorium, where d.i.c.key's memorial was scheduled to begin at four o'clock.

Since Gerard, my brother-in-law, agreed to hang around Fiona and my boys for the day, he told me that he'd have Fiona there ten minutes early. With very little time to waste, I drove the Camaro like a bat out of h.e.l.l to make sure she wasn't standing around waiting on my a.s.s. As fortune would have it, the only cop to notice my craziness headed the other direction on I-65, with no immediate opportunity to whirl around and chase after me. I'd already exited by the time I saw the flashing lights coming back my way, and I quickly maneuvered around the mid-afternoon traffic until I reached the parking lot next to the Ryman.

"I got here as quick as I could, babe," I told my wife, right after I caught up with her near the main entrance.

I feared she'd be alone, but two other females stood with her. I recognized one from a BMI songwriter event last spring. Both girls were blond and pretty, and they sauntered off together toward a side entrance. I almost followed them, thinking they must know the routine around there, but Fiona lightly tugged my arm to lead me inside the building's main doors.

Smartly dressed in a black pantsuit and gold blouse, her eyes reflected the glistening silk. Golden orange like a Bengal tiger, and yet tinged by profound sadness. The loss of those close to her continued to extract a toll.

We moved toward the balcony, since the place was packed. There were probably more folks here than the Ryman had seen in quite some time. The place used to be a church, and every country music legend has played in this building, from the 1920s on through the current resurgence, as well as a bevy of popular rock artists during the past decade.

That afternoon, people all around us were standing-even the ones who could sit down, since the wooden pews leave much to be desired in terms of comfort. Dimly lit, the atmosphere had a concert vibe...like d.i.c.key might finally get his own artist wish, since while alive his music biz destiny was to help others attain fame and fortune. Fiona told me that his dreams of performing to such fanfare were cast aside long ago, when he realized his musical gifts weren't special enough to take him to the top.

He might've struggled as a performer, but he sure was one h.e.l.l of a manager. The accolades from so many stars-most of whom were clients at one point-gave me a much better appreciation of the man's greatness, and what the industry lost by his death.

The service lasted roughly an hour and a half, and the energy around us grew more and more intense. Not sure why, but it seemed noticeably different than Candi's service yesterday afternoon.

Maybe it's the building, with so much age, history, and....

Ghosts?

d.a.m.n! For a moment I felt incredibly tempted to sneak out to my car and grab one of our cameras. But that temptation fizzled away when I considered the sea of emotion surrounding us. A curious mixture of grief, and yet also, a ton of admiration for a man I soon realized I knew very little about. I thought all managers in the music biz were snakes-even the nice, approachable ones. My band's manager can be a conniving p.r.i.c.k. From what I learned at the service today, d.i.c.key wasn't anything like that.

When the service ended, Fiona and I filed out with everyone else, her head nuzzled beneath my chin. I didn't realize how much closeness had waned between us since the killings started. A temporary thing, I hoped...prayed. She suddenly looked up into my face and smiled, so I know she felt the same way.

We remained close like that until we reached the Camaro. I opened her door before moving around to the driver side. Fighting my arousal, I debated on how to broach the subject I'd been avoiding. Maybe I didn't wish to spoil the moment, or more likely, I turned chicken s.h.i.t. Either excuse would do, I guess, as to why I continued to stall in telling her about the mysterious Buick and its hostile driver. At least it's finally out there now, while I navigated through congested traffic in our quest to reach the Gerst Haus....

"What up, y'all?"

It would figure that Justin greeted us first at the restaurant. He might be a little green in haunting investigations, but the kid has got keen instincts when something's not right. He didn't say anything about the tension between Mr. and Mrs. Alea, but the way he studied Fiona's face told me-and surely her, too-that he sensed something was amiss. Then everyone lined up to give my wife a much needed hug. The girls wept with her, which made an awkward few minutes for the guys.

"There's plenty of beer and ale," said Justin, motioning to the bar. He didn't need to educate Tom or Tony-they'd tried them all over the past few years. "We should have a table in just a few minutes."

The truth, I hoped. I was starving...literally, with a bad case of the shakes coming soon.

"I've got the buzzer right here," added Tom, holding up the palm-sized square with the pulsating red and green lights.

He and Tony wore matching black NVP T-shirts, along with the insignia caps we ordered for our most recent group photo shoot last month. Dragon Lady must've seriously intimidated them when we visited the Thompson place last week. Nice gear, really, and maybe someday it'd be fun for our entire group to dress in our 'official attire' for an investigation.

But tonight? Sorry boys...our insignia will do little good to ward off Charlain's abrasive malice. Justin's gold chain and white rabbit's foot won't help either. Sure as s.h.i.t, the matron of the remodeled Victorian formerly known as Robertson Manor will be waiting in her driveway with her arms folded while she taps her Gucci-covered toes on her driveway's sealed surface. Not exactly a picture of overflowing fondness and support. More like Grimm's cannibalistic witch ready to gobble up the Hansels and Gretels once the seven of us arrive, armed only with our normal array of cameras, EMF detectors, and voice recorders for protection.

But that was still a couple of hours away, after a belly full of Gerst Haus specialties and two or three tall gla.s.ses filled to the brim with the darkest ale. It wouldn't be enough to knock us drunk on our a.s.ses, but a lasting buzz was surely in order that night.

At least Jackie, Angie, and Justin wore their normal investigation attire. Blue jeans and dark Ts, which are the standard choice for the group's majority. Fiona and I still needed time to change, which isn't as difficult as one might imagine, since we've gotten used to the routine. We can both change quickly in the tinted-window confines of the Camaro.

"So, why did you decide to be a d.i.c.khead and not tell anyone about a dark van following you home after rehearsal?" asked Jackie, loudly across our table, her buzz already in full force.

We had just sat down. The long dinner table was made from imported dark oak. Heavy oak, I should say. Immovable. The restaurant's festive ambiance is quite different than the Chophouse. A bit rustic, like the German taverns of old.