Crucifax (9 page)

"Wasn't ready? Jesus Christ, all I hear for a year is 'the band's gotta play, the band's gotta play.' Now you say they wasn't ready? The fuck you waitin' for, kid?"

Kevin began poking at his eggs with his fork; the eggs were runny, and the bacon seemed undercooked. He glanced down the counter.

The stranger was smiling at him.

"Course," Sam went on, the toothpick bobbing up and down between his lips, "I never heard you play, but I figure, shit, the stuff they call music these days"—he cocked a thumb over his shoulder toward the radio—"my dog could bark through a tube and be a fuckin' star."

A large black man lifted himself onto the stool next to Kevin with a throaty grunt and slapped a beefy hand onto the counter.

"Leland!" Sam said with a grin, stepping away from Kevin and wiping his hands on a towel. "The usual?"

Leland nodded with a gravelly mumble.

Kevin was looking at his breakfast but thinking about the stranger's smile. It had been a pleasant one, the kind of smile you give somebody you haven't seen in a while, the kind of smile you see in airports and bus stations.

Leaning back slightly, Kevin looked around the back of the big man sitting beside him.

The stranger was gone.

Kevin stared for a moment at the empty stool, then took some cash from his jacket pocket.

"You leavin', kid?" Sam blurted. "Without eatin'?"

"I don't feel so well, Sam."

"Jesus. And to think I spent all those years in France goin' to fuckin' chef's school."

Leland cackled and turned, grinning, to Kevin; most of his teeth were gone.

"Hey, Leland," Sam said, "you read the paper yet? This fuckin' city…"

Kevin put a five by the plate, took his helmet from the counter as he stood, and turned to look into the mirrored sunglasses of the smiling, platinum-haired stranger.

"You're a musician," the man said, gently fingering the ruffles of his shirt. His voice seemed to come from deep within his chest, soft but resonant. Somehow, he sounded much older than Kevin had thought.

"Yeah, so what?" Kevin snapped, tucking his helmet under one arm.

"I heard you talking with the old man. You have a band?"

"Why?"

His smile grew with amusement. "Because I'm interested. I just got into town, and"—he removed his sunglasses— "I'm a musician, too." His eyes did not squint in the harsh light of the overcast sky; they seemed relaxed and unaffected. They were gold, scattered with flecks of caramel-brown, and the lashes above them were thick and light-colored. "What do you play?"

"Lead guitar." Kevin tried not to stare at his eyes, but it wasn't easy. When the man moved his head and the dull sunlight filtered through his platinum bangs, the lashes seemed to glow, and the caramel flecks appeared to shift about the pupils. "And, um, I sing a little, too. Me and one of the other guys."

"Play any clubs around here?"

Kevin was finally able to look away from him; he put the helmet under his other arm.

"Well, uh… not yet. We don't get to rehearse as much as we need to."

"Do you have a place?"

"Garages, when we can get them."

The man nodded and ran the edge of his sunglasses back and forth over his lower lip, his eyes wandering beyond Kevin for a moment. Then he smiled again and held out his right hand.

"My name is Mace."

Kevin took his hand, and they shook. Mace's grip was firm; his long fingers wrapped nearly all the way around Kevin's hand.

"Would it help if you had a place to rehearse?" he asked. "A place you could use whenever you wanted?"

Kevin let go and dropped his hand to his side.

"Why? You got a place?"

"Maybe. It depends."

"On what?"

"Do you write music?"

"Yeah."

"And the band plays only
your
music?"

"Mostly."

"Does the band have a name?"

Kevin glanced at the diner a few yards away. Sam was serving up Leland's breakfast, grumbling about something.

"Look, man, whatta you want?" he asked, looking into Mace's golden eyes again.

Mace held up a long, narrow palm, as if to put him at ease.

"You don't have to be suspicious," he said. "I don't blame you. In fact, I admire that. I just think we might be able to help each other out." He turned and started up the sidewalk toward Ventura at a slow, thoughtful pace.

Kevin fell into step beside him without a thought, his head cocked so he could see the man's face.

"I write music, too," Mace said. "And I sing. I'm not from around here, so I don't know anyone, I have no connections. But I know a few things about music and the business. And I have a large place. A place that would be perfect for rehearsal." He looked at Kevin from the corner of his eye.

"But… there's a but, right?"

"I'd want to hear you play first. If you're good, I'd like to join the band. Lead guitar and lead vocal. I would also want to handle the business end."

Kevin stopped, but Mace kept walking. With a slack jaw, he watched the tall man for a moment.

"Who the hell do you—what do you—you mean you just wanna—" He caught up with him, chuckling sarcastically. "You just wanna take over my fucking band?"

"No."

"That's what it sounds like!"

Mace stopped and faced him.

"It would still be
your
band, of course," he said congenially. "But I think you could use some help. And that's what I'm offering."

"And just what would you do to help us?"

He took one step toward Kevin and said, "I would help you shape the band, give it character, personality. I'd get you some work when I felt you were ready." Another step. "I'd help you with the music you wrote and played, make sure it was strong. Powerful." He took one more step. "And, if you let me, I would help you turn this band—"

He slowly lifted his right hand—

"—into a band—"

—raised it above Kevin's head—

"—that would make this valley—"

—and lowered it, his palm on top, his fingers curling down over Kevin's skull like spider's legs.

"—
eat metal.
"

Kevin's eyes were locked onto Mace's, and his head was filled with images of the band playing on a stage, ripping the smoky darkness of a nightclub in half with its loud, rumbling music. A thrill rippled through him when he saw the confidence in Mace's eyes, the faith Mace seemed to have in Kevin's ability to turn the band into something successful, something, as he had said, powerful. It didn't seem to matter that Mace had not yet seen the band play. It was Kevin in whom he had faith, not just the band.

"We have a… a demo tape," Kevin said.

Mace took his hand away. "Good. Tonight at seven?"

"Where?"

"There's an abandoned building on Ventura and Whitley. Do you know it?"

"The old health club?"

"Yeah. Bring the others. I'd like to meet them. Come to the parking lot in the rear. I'll let you in."

"Okay. Seven o'clock."

Mace cocked a brow. "You have to trust me. Do you trust me?"

Kevin nodded slowly.

"Good. I'll see you tonight, Kevin."

Kevin watched Mace walk on toward Ventura. The confident swing of his arms made Kevin think this stranger was someone important. It seemed more obvious now than it had at first.

As Mace rounded the corner and walked out of sight Kevin felt something building inside him, something he couldn't identify at first but soon recognized as a sense of accomplishment, as if a bridge had been crossed, a doorway passed through. He felt as if he'd done a good thing, a
great
thing, although he'd done nothing at all. He still didn't know what Mace had in mind for the band, but he felt good about it.

Something was about to happen, he could feel it. Something positive that would change things for him, make everything okay. He felt excited as he went back to his motorcycle and slipped on his helmet. He knew the others would be skeptical, maybe even angry with him for not consulting them first.

Consult them about what?
he thought. He'd agreed to nothing yet, signed nothing, made no deals.
Fuck 'em.

As he started his bike with a roar Kevin realized Mace had called him by name.

But he couldn't remember introducing himself….

Nine

J.R. went to the end of the hall in the counseling center and poured himself another cup of coffee, then headed back to his office. He met Faye Beddoe in the hall.

"So," she said, her voice thick with a smoky Jamaican accent, "how is the new boy on the block?" Faye seemed to fill the hall; she stood six feet tall and had big bones and skin as black as night. Her long hair was tied in a bun, and a red sweater draped her shoulders. At fifty, she was a strikingly handsome woman. The moment he met her, J.R. knew he would have enjoyed high school more if she had been his counselor.

"Okay so far," he said.

"You have a full schedule today?"

"Yeah. Next appointment's in about five minutes. A girl named Nikki Astin."

Faye's smile melted from her face, and she pulled her head back slowly, frowning. "Oh?" she said quietly. "They let her out this year, eh?"

"Let her
out?
"

Faye's laugh was deep and musical, and her whole body moved with it as she put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Just ragging you, boy," she said through her laughter. "Never met the girl, I'm sure she's an angel." She laughed at that, too. "I'll let you get to it. Perhaps I'll see you at lunch." She walked away, tugging her sweater around her shoulders a little tighter. "You feel a chill in here, or is it just my imagination?"

"Yeah," he said, still smiling, "it's a little nippy. Summer's over."

"Ah, yes," Faye agreed, almost grimly. "Summer is over."

J.R.'s small office had a desk, two chairs, a metal file cabinet, and one window that faced the parking lot. He'd pinned up a few of his favorite "Far Side" cartoons and a poster of Sylvester Stallone in ballerina garb titled "Rocky Tutu." Nothing too stuffy; he wanted to make the kids comfortable.

During the minutes that remained before his next appointment, he sipped his coffee and thumbed through Nikki Astin's file.

Her grades were not good, to say the least. Two years ago she'd been held back a grade and had gone to three special education classes. Her parents had been divorced four years earlier, and according to the records, there had been a custody battle, which Mrs. Astin had won.

"Mr. Haskell?" a breathy, timid voice asked.

J.R. stood with a smile and said, "Nikki Astin? Come in, have a seat."

She filled his office with the aroma of White Shoulders perfume and grape bubble gum. A surprisingly conservative gray skirt and black blazer failed to hide her voluptuous curves, although the suit displayed very little of her smooth, tanned skin. Her full brown hair was pulled into a ponytail; she wore no jewelry and a conspicuously small amount of makeup. She sat with her knees together, her posture rigid, and her hands folded neatly over the notebook on her lap.

"First of all," he said, "you can call me J.R. I don't feel much like a Mr. Haskell." He tucked her records back into the file folder. "How has your first day gone so far, Nikki?"

"Fine. I've had two classes already. American History and Music Appreciation."

"Music Appreciation, that's good. Have a good summer?"

Her smile expanded into a warm grin. "Oh, yeah," she said. "1 had a wonderful summer." Her entire demeanor changed; she relaxed in the chair a bit, and her eyes seemed brighter as she nodded with enthusiasm.

"Great. What did you do?"

She was hesitant for a moment, sucking her lips between her teeth.

"I accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior," she said, nearly in a whisper.

Don't lose the smile,
J.R. told himself firmly, not wanting to put her off. He took a long, slow sip of his coffee. J.R. had not entered a church or opened a Bible since he'd left his father's house at the age of eighteen. He'd had a few born-again students in Santa Rosa, but as a teacher, he hadn't needed to deal with their spiritual beliefs as he would in a counseling position. He was determined not to allow Nikki's beliefs to influence his relationship with her. But whenever someone started talking religion, J.R. heard his father's soft, resigned voice and imagined his sister's swollen corpse hanging at the end of a rope….

"Mmm," he said, touching a knuckle to his lips, "when did that happen?"

"When I joined the Calvary Youth. Have you heard of us?"

"I'm afraid not."

She put a hand on his desk and leaned forward, saying, as if she were reading the words from a book, "We're a group of Valley teenagers who have dedicated our lives to Jesus Christ and His work."

"Well, that's… good. It sounds like a, um, worthwhile organization. Do you have any literature or—"

She quickly opened her notebook and removed a pamphlet, handing it to him with a smile. "I helped design these."

J.R. glanced over it briefly. "And who's in charge of your group?"

"Reverend James Bainbridge."

Something about her changed when she said the man's name. It was subtle, but obvious enough for J.R. to notice. Her eyes seemed to pull out of focus for just an instant, the lids became heavy, perhaps, and her mouth pulled downward slightly. Trying to be inconspicuous, he picked up a pen and jotted the name down on the pamphlet.

"Can I keep this?"

"Oh, please. Are you interested? I mean, the group is made up of teenagers, but we hold meetings for anyone who wants to come. Every Wednesday night."

"Well, I'm sure you—"

His phone purred softly.

"Yes?"

"There's a Mrs. Donahue on line one."

"I'm with a student right now, Miss Tucker."

"I tried to tell her that, but she insists it's important. She says you're her son's counselor. Urn, Kevin Donahue?"

"All right, thank you." He turned to Nikki and said, "Hold on just a second, here." When he was connected, Mrs. Donahue was speaking to someone else in a loud, impatient voice.

"—don't care how much he said it would cost, I'm telling you, Fran, it won't work!"