Night Of The Beast (9 page)

"Chance?"

And now you are mine. I am The Dark One, puppy. The Beast who lives backwards, in parallel time. I hunger to enter this world. You shall assist me.

"I don't understand..."

Black Son, I selected you over twenty years ago, far in the distant future. It is yours to open The Gate and Feed me. You must do combat with white, so that I may at last ascend the throne. That is why I brought you here, to this desolate place.

Jason Smith began to comprehend, for the first time, the enormity of what he had unleashed. He barely noticed that his hated birthmark was receding, vanishing. His mind was already racing ahead.

He trembled.

"You think you're ready to go back out there again?"

"Yes."

"And maybe back home to Nevada?"

"I think so."

"So do I," Dr. Noah Silverman said. He produced a thin smile. "But I want to hammer something into you one last time." His gentle brown eyes pinned Rourke to the couch. "You've suffered a psychotic episode, Peter. I want to stress to you that modern medicine still knows very little about the long-term effects of a complex narcotic agent like rainbow. We don't know exactly what it does to the brain."

"Easy," Rourke said. "It fries your wiring, probably for good."

Silverman shrugged. "Maybe. It seems to have left you with a lot of grandiose illusions about having psychic abilities, even some false memories from childhood."

False? If you say so
, Rourke thought.
Whatever gets me the fuck out of here.

"Look, I know I can't touch the stuff again, or anything else for that matter. I realize what it did to me."

"I hope you do. Because although there is no doubt seeing Dee's body triggered that terrible meltdown experience, I feel certain the severity of the psychosis was directly linked to drug abuse."

"No argument here."

"And it could happen again."

A heavy pause. The curly-haired psychologist tapped the metal ashtray with his fingers. He has too many nervous habits, Rourke thought.
The man's under stress. Jesus, I'm starting to think like him.

Silverman: "This problem owns you, Peter. For the rest of your life you'll have to worry when you take an aspirin tablet. Understand?"

Rourke nodded. "I understand." He had endured weeks of private counseling, A.A. and group therapy, plus voluntary hospitalization to get to this point. He wasn't about to blow it. "Noah, I've had enough. I mean that."

"I hope you do," Silverman said. Tap, tap. "You're exhausted, hyper-tense and dangerously fragile. Another experience like that could kill you."

"I believe you."

"Have the police made any progress?"

Rourke shrugged. "Some demented fan," he sad, sadly. "At least I think they're still operating under that assumption."

"They'll get him eventually."

"I hope so."

"We do have some more tests that we'd like to run. Are you certain it's not possible for you to return from time to time, just to cooperate with the program?"

Peter shook his head. "Sorry." Psychological testing made him extremely uncomfortable. One of the highly-trained specialists, given enough time, might stumble upon the truth, uncover his talent. He couldn't allow that.

"What will you do now, go home to Nevada?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure. Not right away."

"Well, I hope I never see you again." Silverman winked.

"The feeling's mutual, Noah."

The two men shook hands and it was over.

Peter Rourke had spent nearly three months at Templeton Hospital under close observation. He hadn't seen the outside world since discovering Dee Jenning's butchered corpse, but now he was a free man. Free of everything, that is, except himself.

Within days of his release, Peter moved into a cheap apartment complex and changed his phone number. He swapped his fancy car for a plain green Nova and some cash. He had royalties to live on, but no job; Gordie Easton had seen to that. The two men hadn't spoken. It would have been far too painful for them both.

All Rourke wanted was time to relax, think and decide what to do with the rest of his life. And to put Dee out of his mind. Meanwhile, the band members found a new producer. Bryan Friedheim just drifted away. The little engineer left Music Works for a better gig with EMI, and after a few well-intentioned but lame telephone conversations he simply stopped calling. There was nothing else to say.

Peter slept a great deal, as instructed. He stayed clear of alcohol or drugs of any kind. Time passed, without a single craving for alcohol or drugs, but the numb ache remained. He had anticipated violence — could he have done something to prevent it? That part of the pain was private; Rourke had to carry it alone, along with a stack of other guilts. He exercised relentlessly, read voraciously and tried to heal.

Sour Candy continued to record, but without Dee Jennings they were just another band. The group was destined to collapse after one turbulent tour. Meanwhile, Peter Rourke saw a new face in the mirror each morning, a troubled young man haunted by old ghosts and unanswered questions. At times he saw his Uncle Jeremy's stern features glaring back at him in disapproval. Two needs grew: To work again, and to go back to that place he'd been so eager to escape from — Two Trees. Nevada sunshine, flat, open land dotted with pale blue sage.

I will try to write a different kind of song
, he thought.
One that can't be twisted. Perhaps a lot of songs — who knows? But not here, not in California.

Home. Once again, the call to return was the only clear voice in his head. Soon it captured him completely. He hadn't been back since his eighteenth birthday, more than fifteen years before. Despite the sad memories he knew he'd awaken, Peter suddenly longed to see his Uncle's redwood cabin. His old friends, his past. He needed to make peace with it.

Los Angeles was cruel like the desert, but impossible to fathom. It was skyscrapers, crowded streets, neon lights and the stench of freeways.

One August morning he hurriedly packed his guitar and some clothes, locked up the boring little apartment, jumped in his new car and ran like hell. He found himself swerving in and out of traffic, impatient to be out in the open.

The Hollywood Freeway looped in dizzying circles, but in time sent him on into the arms of the pitted and bumpy San Bernadino Freeway. He passed Pomona, Hemet, the outskirts, then the state line into Nevada. He ripped North and East, enjoying the wind in his hair and the warmth on his skin.

The desert greeted him warmly. He loved the smell of the sage and the squint-inducing brightness of the sunlight. He kept going, even turned on the radio until the California music dissolved into obnoxious static. He stopped to stretch, then took off again.

Less than three hundred miles from Two Trees, he stopped for gasoline. The convenience store was the only building for miles. For the first time, he noticed a car directly behind him. The driver was Latino, strikingly handsome. He drove past without looking and stopped by the pay phone. At the pump, Rourke felt a strange flutter of alarm. He brushed it away.
Just nerves, that's all.

As a skinny, pock-marked kid began to scrape dead insects from his windshield, Rourke walked over towards the bubbled phone booth for a look at the far horizon. The handsome Latino was now inside the booth, gripping the receiver tightly. He seemed to be listening to someone, yet his lips were moving. Something about the man disturbed Peter, but he could not quite place it. Then it struck him: The man was reciting the lyrics to Peter's hit, "Devils Reign." What an odd coincidence.

"Hey, mister."

Rourke turned, only half caring. "Yeah?"

The kid scraped some squashed gunk from the tinted glass and winked. "What's the last thing goes through a bug's mind when it hits your car on the highway?"

Peter shook his head.

A proud grin. "Its asshole."

The olive-skinned man in the phone booth glanced at Rourke, but quickly looked away. He had stopped moving his lips.
Another flicker? No, Jesus, take it easy
.

"Asshole, get it?"

The kid seemed delighted with himself. He cackled and returned to work. Rourke eyed the mountains and replayed parts of his childhood on an inner screen. He sensed someone behind him and spun around.

"That you, Peter?"

Rourke tracked the familiar voice. The man was lean, about his own age. He wore faded jeans and a cheap red-and-white cowboy shirt. His features were partially obscured by a full beard and moustache, but the eyes gave him away. Inocent to a fault; childlike, direct and honest. Peter grinned and stepped forward, extending his hand.

"Well I'll be damned. Robert?"

They hugged. Robert Reiss produced a shy bark of restrained, nervous laughter. The two men looked each other over, remembering. Peter couldn't wipe the smile off his face.

"Good to see you, Bobby."

"Likewise."

Two beats, then: "What brings you up this way, Pete — slumming?"

"Escaping, I hope."

A penetrating look. "Explain that, please."

"Just had to get away," Rourke continued, uncomfortable. "Homesick, I guess. What about you? What's been happening?"

Robert scuffed the toe of one frayed boot in the gravel. "Guess it won't come as a shock that I became a minister."

"Nope, not hardly."

"Well, I travel a lot now, which I like. I get to take kids all around the country in a tour bus. You know, kids with no home or family. I show them places. It's neat work, man. But I don't get to visit Two Trees too often. I'm on my way back to see Dad and Beth, just as soon as I make a stop in Elko."

"They know you're coming?"

Robert shook his head. "I was out of touch for quite a while, so I'm planning on a big surprise."

"That's nice," Rourke said.

"I found Beth the prettiest dress in Salt Lake City, and I got Dad another batch of those classic country records. Real whiny. He'll love 'em."

"Has the town changed a lot?"

"Getting smaller."

"Really?"

"There's almost nobody left, Pete. No one I feel close to anyway, except for Dad and Beth. Maybe Louise Polson."

"What about the Andersons?"

"Moved away."

"You're kidding!"

"Nope."

"Do the Wilsons still have their spread over in Clover Valley?"

"Gone. It's bizarre, man. Just about everybody we grew up around is splitting, like there's a plague or something. Maybe you shouldn't even go, Pete. It won't be the way you remembered."

Rourke considered turning around, but realized that there was nothing behind him he cared to see again. "Memories stay," he said softly. "Speaking of fixtures, how about Martoni and Urich?"

"Oh yeah," Robert chuckled. "They'll go down with the ship. Hey, ignore me. It might do you good to breathe some air you can't see."

The kid at the gas pump whistled that Rourke's car was ready. The Latin Lover was still on the phone, mumbling. Peter waved to the attendant. "Be right there."

Robert Reiss grinned. "Well…"

"It's good to see you, Bobby. We'll get together again in a few days, maybe. When you pull in to town."

"Listen," Robert said, unwilling to let go of the moment. "I hear you're really doing great. I've caught that Sour Candy single on the radio. My kids all love it."

Rourke blanched. "Thanks. Well, I should get moving. I'll still be around when you get there."

He started away. Robert paced him, still chatting. "I always wanted to ask you something. Did you lift that 666 stuff from the Bible, or the movies? Very hip."

Peter didn't answer at first. Finally said: "The movies, actually. I don't read the Bible much, as you'll recall."

Reiss impulsively placed one hand on Rourke's shoulder. A clumsy silence made Peter edgy
. Don't read me correctly, Robert. Please
.

"Has it been a downer lately, man?"

"You could say that."

"You seem like you're in a world of hurt. Can I help?"

"No, but thanks for the thought."

"These are rough times. The millenium was nothing special, but that doesn't prove anything. I'd like to talk to you about that when we get a chance. Maybe as soon as I'm back from Elko."

"Robert, you lost me."

"I know." Reiss stepped back. "I'll just say this. You've got the look of a soul that's being tested, Pete. Hang tough, choose careful and don't ever give up. Believe it or not, that's an honor. The Lord doesn't waste His time checking out those who haven't got much to offer."

Rourke shrugged indulgently. "Sure. I guess so."

"We'll talk," Robert said.

They exchanged goodbyes. Uncomfortable, but touched, Peter Rourke watched the preacher walk away. Then he got back into his car, gunned the engine and started the long haul up to Two Trees. Funny, he thought, I dreamed about him during my breakdown but now I couldn't wait to get away from him. I ran like hell from Nevada, and now I can't wait to get back. It's like something I promised I'd do, and I won't sleep right until I keep my word.

The highway sang a duet with his tires. Lazy buzzards circled above something small that lay dying in the low foothills.

Perhaps forty minutes later Rourke spotted a huge recreational vehicle parked by the side of the highway. A woman, dark haired and smallish, was waving for help. Flat tire. Rourke pulled over and rolled to a stop a few yards from the cab. Two children, an energetic young boy and a frail, slender teenaged girl, were bouncing a tennis ball against the side of the RV.