In the Dead of Night (31 page)

“Whipped!” teased Max, while everyone else gave me our band’s traditional fist bump.

“You’d be enormously lucky to find a lass like Fiona,” Chris chided him. “Chasin’ tail’s a gas, but it won’t last forever.”

“Oh yeah? If it lasts until I’m forty, that’ll be fine by me,” Max retorted, turning his gaze to size up a pair of buxom babes who’d wandered close by. “I don’t think my liver will last much longer than that anyway.”

Not if he keeps drinking like he does. Hell, he was holding a glass of straight Kentucky bourbon.

“Guys, let’s stay focused,” said Ricky. “We need to make sure this goes as planned.”

Man, this is when I like him best. Ricky’s definitely a gamer, as am I. We practice well, but once the lights are on, we’ve always taken our performance to the next level. That had to happen tonight.

“We’re going on at six, right?” asked Mongo, removing his drumsticks from their protective pouch. Everyone’s gear was already set up on stage, and the lone exception was my axe.

“No, our gig’s been moved up to five-thirty,” said Ricky.

“So time’s a wastin’,” I said. “We’re still playing for an hour, I take it.”

“Yeah, that’s still the same deal,” he confirmed. “But we’ve got a great chance to be the most memorable act here today. Two country trios played earlier, and after us there’s a jam session featuring Morris Daniels and Chuck Gil.”

“So, we are the only alternative to the Nashville Sound tonight, gents!” beamed Chris.

Dude oozes confidence. He’s holding up just as strong as ever, which I wondered about since he’s the youngster among us. I thought he might cower a little once we got here, but so far so good.

It didn’t take long to confirm the order of things: where to move back and forth on stage, while Chris does his thing; what songs made the final cut and the order; and, how to handle an encore if the right opportunity presented itself. In other words, if the response was as great as we hoped, we’d return to the stage for two more numbers. If not, then we’d leave it at an hour.

As we stepped onto the stage, Ricky told me the industry folks wanted to see a full show, including an encore, according to Michael. It’s the reason our performance was moved from six o’clock to five-thirty. Then from seven o’clock to eight, the stage would be cleared and set up for the final act of the night. Something about Green Hills’ noise codes demanding that everything be finished by 9:00 p.m.

When the curtain pulled back and we were introduced, the applause was polite, tepid. Other than the Marlowes and Fiona, Michael, and Mr. Stanford, I doubt anyone else had a clue as to what was in store for them. Once the light show started and Chris played an eerie arpeggio upon his violin, I think our audience started to understand how different we’d be from the country acts that played before us. Nevertheless, I don’t think anyone was quite ready for “Primetime” and Chris’s frenetic takeover of the immediate world around him.

Even Fiona’s mouth dropped open—and she already sensed how great this kid would be for us. But she’d never seen him play before then. I caught her approving nod to me shortly after our new leader began to croon the lyrics.

Take me to the limit—right to the top

Got a fire on my ass, and I just can’t stop

I’m reeling…indeed I am…

Yeah, I know…not as poetic as our other lyrics. But this is a frigging metal anthem this time.

Well, it’s balls to the walls—reaching for the stars

Got an ace in the hole, and gonna take my shot

I’m feeling…I just can’t lose…

Ricky and I began our hair swing, in perfect rhythm with each other, while Max and his glitter-laced Mohawk alternated between a Billy Idol romp toward the audience and then back to Mongo. True to his nature, Mongo stayed oblivious to what went on around him, completely focused on holding down the groove.

I’m the other part of that equation. Mongo and I have learned to trust each other to the point neither one has to keep an actual eye on the other to accomplish this. Very sweet, and it’s something Jim Stanford noticed long ago about our band.

Push, push, push—I’m primetime, baby

Push, push, push—I’m primed

I’m ready to roll!

The applause was incredible. I’d never experienced anything like it, and I could tell Ricky and Max felt the same way. It’s hard to say for Mongo, since he’s the most experienced musician among us. Chris, however, seemed to soak in every ounce of energy and infatuation from the audience. It’s sort of like Ted Nugent and a pound of chocolate, for those who’ve heard how the legendary rocker stayed high as a kite using his hypoglycemic condition. Only in this case, Chris’s altered state is completely natural.

The audience still seemed unprepared for what would come next.

After another heavy tune, we moved into the first of three power ballads. “Is This The Way?” tore a hole in the collective hearts before us. Lighters, tears, and a swaying crowd. Totally not Ed’s thing, as he stood stoic, eyeing all of us on stage as if we’d recently escaped some work-release program, and were high on Meth or some shit.

Finally, we reached our last number. One of Fiona’s favorites, a soulful rocker entitled “Mary’s Candy”. An astounding ovation followed—much better than expected, even by our manager. It was a very cool thing to see the A&R guys and a few country celebrities smiling broadly while they hollered for more.

“Wow! You’re frigging
amazing
, man!” I told Chris when we headed backstage, raising my voice to be heard over the din.

Folks were still applauding and a chant for more had started. It was quite possibly led by Fiona, since when I waved to her before we left the stage she could scarcely contain her enthusiasm. Seeing her ecstasy fed the adrenaline flowing through me. Totally stoked, I barely noticed Ed, who stood to her left, clapping polite. Like he attended a cattle auction instead of a small venue concert.

“Thanks, James!” said Chris, slapping me on the back. “Same to
you
, brother—your songs are the fuel to this engine, and
nothing’s
going to slow us down now!”

It made me feel incredibly proud, as it did Ricky. We shared an embrace that was interrupted by both Max and Mongo trying to join in. Kumbaya.

“Guys, get your asses back out there!” Michael hissed from behind us. “Give em’ the night cap they’re ready for!”

Chris smiled impishly and we all followed his lead back on stage. The crowd’s chant turned into a near-deafening roar as we reclaimed our instruments. “Natural Religion” proved to be a satisfying entree for our audience’s hunger, and for dessert, our final song of the night. “Lady Jade”.

More cheers and chants erupted as Chris bid them all adieu, and we followed Michael’s exit game plan. “Leave em’ wanting more—always!” is the theme he preaches.

The rest of the band toweled themselves off before rejoining the party, while I followed Ed’s strict orders to meet him and Fiona at his cruiser. It would’ve been nice to rub shoulders with many of our local celebrities, especially since I now had a bigger purpose than simply being their favorite psychic’s husband. After Fiona said goodbye to several ladies in the industry she knows quite well, she climbed into the cruiser and Ed drove us home.

Unlike the trip out there, my woman shared the backseat with me, snuggling close and seemingly oblivious to the uncomfortable glances from Dick Tracy in his rearview mirror.

It’s all good...feeling like a
real
rock star.

Chapter Twenty-six

One of the early lessons in hunting ghosts is this: Never push your luck.

There are a lot of ways to interpret those pearls of wisdom, I’m sure. I imagine whoever thought of it first in our biz meant it in the context of an actual investigation. Perhaps something simple like don’t agitate an angry spirit, or something more complex, such as don’t overdo it on the technical end with too many cameras, audio recorders, or for that matter investigators.

It’s probably never been used in the context of pissing off any law enforcement folks assigned to protect someone from a bloodthirsty killer.

Until now.

Sunday evening, just after seven o’clock. It’s Fiona’s turn to drive the Camaro again, and she’s guiding the car along an old dirt road, overgrown with briars and tall grass, and rutted from years of neglect.

Yes, Angie got her way tonight. Call it empathy for the limping skeptic, whose gig she set up more than a month ago would be canceled without another ‘make-up’ appointment until sometime next year. So she swears, anyway…seriously underestimating the persuasive gifts of her roommate, Jackie, as well as Fiona. Considering all we’ve been through, especially what
she’s
recently endured, I’d fully expect the owners to allow us a return visit sometime soon. A helluva lot sooner than next year.

“Are you still thinking of calling Ed about this?” I asked my wife, as we pulled into a clearing. A mid-sized antebellum stood a quarter of a mile away. Call it a mini-Carnton.

“Why? You sound like you don’t want me to call him,” she replied.

“It’s up to you…but this will piss him off worse than when we went to Candi’s place the other day.” I paused while she whipped the car alongside Angie’s SUV. “I thought they impounded her vehicle to look for further trace evidence?”

“They finished yesterday and Jackie picked it up for her,” she explained. “As for Ed, he probably will be angry to hear we broke his curfew instructions again. But I need to call him…just a feeling. The text I received when we were on the highway? That was him, saying he had an ‘important development—call me right away!’”

“But if you call him now, I’ll bet he shuts this down before it gets started.”

“Maybe…but do I have to tell him where we are?”

“No, I guess not.”

Yeah, what she said surprised me. Not that she’s dishonest by nature—not even close. Knowing her as well as I do, I’d say this is more like someone’s kids fibbing about going to a party with their friends when they should be doing their homework or some shit…. Okay, yeah, a lie’s a lie and there will probably be consequences. All of a sudden it sort of felt like some karmic debt would be collected on her shortly. That’d suck if it happened while exploring the old mansion in front of us.

“Hey, guys!”

Angie waved to us from the front porch once we stepped out of the car. Dressed in black jeans and boots, she wore a Bruce Springsteen T-shirt. Jackie stood next to her, dressed similarly, only she wore a retro Duran Duran T. She and Fiona could pass as twins tonight as far as shirts are concerned. Me? Same ole same old…black T and wranglers. Why mess with what works best?

“Well, we made it here without Ed’s knowledge,” I advised, not sure at all why I mentioned this. Fiona’s slingshot glance told me she thought the same thing. “Where are the boys?”

I saw Tony’s truck and Tom’s van parked next to the house. Easier to unload the gear, I assumed.

“They’re inside the smoke house setting up,” said Jackie. “Once they get the last cameras and audio stuff in place, we’ll get started.”

She paused to look up toward the second floor balcony, where one of the cameras blinked red in response. Waiting and ready. Beautiful place, by the way, and it will be even more so once the restoration’s complete. Greek revival millwork and the old reddish bricks look just like the ones used to build the finer plantation homes throughout middle Tennessee. People used to bake them right on property. Of course that meant slave labor in most cases.

The place definitely looks like a pre-Civil War estate.

“It’s a little early, don’t you think?” Fiona’s nose crinkled as she said this, and she looked back toward the fading sun. Not quite sunset yet. Normally, we don’t get started until dusk. Seven o’clock start times only happen in late fall and winter. Until tonight.

“We need to start earlier this evening since the owners aren’t keen on us being here too long after dark,” Angie advised, moving to the doorway.

Other than a very slight limp and sternness in her countenance, I couldn’t detect anything that pointed to the traumatic experience she recently endured. Good for her. It shows her iron toughness goes all the way down to her soul.

“Well, okay,” said Fiona, her disappointment readily apparent.

I could already tell that she found Montebello Manor more to her liking than she had expected, since not a damned thing existed on the internet about its existence. Due to our recent ‘house arrest’, finding the opportunity to visit the archives at any Nashville area library would’ve been arduous at best. Something to look forward to later on, I guess.

“I probably should let Ed know what we’re up to,” my wife advised, causing both me and Jackie to shoot her matching looks of surprise. I couldn’t tell if this was a catty response to Angie or not, since Fiona isn’t normally like that. “If we don’t tell him about this, I think it might make it hard to enlist his future help.”