Pieces of Hate (28 page)

There was movement in the room . . . footsteps hushed by carpet . . . the whisper of clothing rubbing together.

Someone had turned on the lights or opened the drapes. Who?

Craven fought to sit up, fought to think. Where was he? Who was with him? It had to be someone who didn’t know him very well — some girl he’d picked up, probably — because anyone who knew him well would know better than to do this.

Groaning, Craven hunched forward and scrubbed his face with his hands.

They were on tour . . . yeah, that’s right, Mephisto was finishing up a tour. Or had they already finished it? Was last night the last show? Or the next to last show . . . which would mean they were in Seattle. Or was their next to last stop in San Francisco?

He pushed hard on each temple with the heel of a hand, as if to squeeze the thick foam out of his skull, and croaked, “Wanna turn the fuckin’ lights off, for cryin’ out loud?”

“It is time to get up, Mr. Craven. I am afraid you have an appointment.”

Craven’s naked, scrawny body jerked at the sound of the strange voice and his eyes fluttered open between bushy brows and dark puffy half-circles. He squinted against the bright sunlight shining in through the long rectangular window across from the bed and tried to make out the figure that stood in the glare.

It was tall, thin and appeared to be dressed all in white.

Craven grunted as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, rubbing his eyes. Seeing the room brought a few things back . . . like the statuesque black girl who’d shared the round bed with him the night before. What was her name? Angie, or . . . Angica . . . Angelica, that was it.

“Angelica?” he called, running a hand back through his long, bushy black hair. “Hey, Angelica, where — ”

“She left some time ago,” the voice said. It was a male voice, gentle, refined and ever so slightly annoyed.

He was able to see better now and could see the silver-haired man in the dapper, three-piece white suit with a red tie, standing rigidly straight and looking down his sharp, narrow nose at Craven.

“Who the fuck’re you?” Craven growled, more alert now. He stood, grabbed his robe and slipped it on, tying the belt in front with a couple of firm jerks. “What’re you doin’ in my room? Who let you in?”

One narrow brow rose over a small, deep-set eye and the man asked, “Are those questions in order of importance?”.

“Okay, I’m callin’ the desk.” Craven turned to the nightstand and reached for the phone. But it wasn’t there. He looked across the bed at the nightstand on the other side. No phone there, either. He looked around the room, but could not find a telephone.

The man said, “You threw it out of the bathroom window last night because it kept ringing while you were trying to have sex.”

Craven thought about that a moment, his back to the stranger. The man was right. He spun around and asked, “How the hell did you know?”

“I believe the telephone bounced off the top of a passing bus, then shattered on the sidewalk. An old homeless woman picked it up and put it in her shopping basket with the rest of her, um . . . possessions.” The man joined his hands together in front of him.

Craven took in a deep breath and let it out slowly as he rubbed the side of his throbbing head. “Okay, look . . . I had a rough night, so just get the fuck outta here and I won’t tell anybody.”

“Every night is a rough night for you, Mr. Craven,” the man said with a smirk. “But last night was rougher than usual.”

“It’s Craven. Not Mr. Craven, just Craven. You live in a fuckin’ cave or somethin’? Don’t you know who I am?”

“Yes. You are Sidney Edward Quelch. But if you prefer simply Craven, I am happy to oblige.”

Craven froze and gawked.

No one knew his real name. Not even the press had dug that up. To everyone, he was just Craven, and that’s how he wanted to remain. If any of the band’s screaming teenage fans got word of the fact that the lead singer and guitarist of Mephisto — one of the hottest heavy metal bands in the country for the last several years — was really Sidney Edward Quelch . . . the thought made him feel queasy. He stepped over to the man, looked angrily into his eyes and asked, “What did you say?”

The man smiled. “You heard me.” His face was smooth and young-looking in spite of the silver hair combed straight back and the small eyes that seemed deep with age.

Craven’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “How did you know that? My name, I mean?”

“Oh, I know everything about you. In fact, at this moment, I know more about you than you seem to.”

Craven stared angrily at the smiling face, then spun around and headed for the door. “Okay, if I can’t call the desk, I’ll go down there and get somebody to kick your ass out!” Before he got to the door, the man spoke again:

“You can’t get anyone, Sidney. You are dead.”

Craven stopped, turned to the man and asked, “What the hell’re you talkin’ about?” Then he added loudly, “And don’t call me Sydney, dammit!”

“Excuse me, Craven,” the man said with an apologetic nod, “but you’ve always been listed as Sidney in my files. I hope you understand.”

“Files? What files? Who the fuck are you?”

“Well, now, that depends on your childhood training.” The man crossed one arm over his chest, rested the other elbow on it and stroked his chin with a thumb and forefinger. “Let’s see, your late father was the minister of a small town Protestant church . . . your mother was the organist . . . so, I suppose you would know me as Satan.”

Craven stared at him for a long moment.

The man continued. “Some call me Beelzebub, some Mephistopheles . . . or Lucifer, Belial, Leviathan, or just plain old Devil. In fact — ” He frowned and scratched his cheek thoughtfully with the tip of one, slender, long-nailed finger. “ — last month, one fellow called me the Head of Production of Disney Studios.” He thought about that a moment, then smiled wryly. “Oh, well. Insults don’t count. In any case, you would most likely be familiar with me by the name of Satan.”

A smile grew slowly on Craven’s long, pale face. “Oh, boy. Holy shit. What city’re we in, anyway? Is there a mental hospital nearby, or somethin’?” He rubbed a hand down over his face as he backed away, chuckling. “Son of a bitch, where the hell did Angelica go, anyways?” He headed for the bathroom, fists clenched at his sides with aggravation.

“Angelica left as soon as she realized you had overdosed on pills and alcohol. That was around four-thirty this morning.”

Craven spun around and glared at the man. “Look, if you get off on this shit, fine. But go do it to somebody else, okay?”

“I don’t necessarily get off on it. It is simply my job.” He joined his hands behind his back. “True, I enjoyed it very much at first. Loved it. But even the most exciting job becomes insipid once predictability sets in. And my job is fraught with predictability. Especially when it comes to you folks. Rock stars. All the same. Every last one of you. In fact, during these past two decades or so, you’ve all become virtual automatons. Not only are you no longer any fun, you are positively tedious. A burden! No challenge, no work involved at all. Give me a meek, sweaty scoutmaster to work on any day of the week. Or, say, some horny, slightly dysfunctional soul caring for a group of mentally challenged young people. Now that’s fun. But you people! You have no moral struggle, no spiritual conflict. It’s almost as if — ” He waved a hand in the air vaguely, searching for the right word. “ — as if you were bred to do what you do. And, frankly, I think what you do is atrocious. On top of that, I take it as a personal affront to myself and my work.”

Craven’s anger faded from his face and was replaced by a look of confusion as he stared at the natty stranger rambling on several feet away from him. His headache was getting worse and his muscles ached from his shoulders down to his calves; for the moment, his first priority was to get a stiff drink or a few pills . . . but lurking in the back of his mind was the growing fear that this man could possibly be one of those dangerous lunatics who stalk celebrities. He decided to forget about relief from his aches for the moment and make his way back to the bed, where he had a .45 in the nightstand drawer.

Speaking quietly, wearily, Craven asked, “What the fuck’re you talkin’ about?”

The man rolled his eyes as he lifted his arms in a loose, flapping gesture, then let them slap back to his sides. “You see? You are all the same! It’s not enough for you to suck the very life out of my work! No, no. When it comes time for you to go, you waste my time by staring at me with those heavy-lidded, drug-dulled eyes, asking stupid questions like that! And that is why I loathe each and every one of you. And — ” He lowered his head and gave a look of hateful disgust.” — I loathe your dreadful, guitar smashing, interchangeable music . . . although I use the word music very loosely.”

Craven took a couple slow steps forward, smiling. “Hey, dude, c’mon. You don’t like rock and roll? What’s your problem, huh?”

The man shook his head slowly, eyes closed. “It took you until now to figure that out? That’s another thing — you’re all stupid. And do not address me as dude. It’s Satan. If you call me dude one more time, it’ll be Mister Satan from then on. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m on a tight schedule.” He removed a small black book from an inside jacket pocket and paged through it. “Around lunchtime, I’m due to tell a disturbed teenage boy to rape, kill and eat his mother and little sister.” He closed the book and slipped it back into the pocket. “So let’s be going, shall we? I would like to have you processed, filed and settled by Judgment Day, if that’s all right with you.”

With a few more small steps, Craven shrugged and said, “Well, look, man, I’m real sorry, y’know? But I’ve gotta meet some people today. I’ve got things to do. I wanna go back home . . . or to the next gig, whichever it is. I’m not really sure. But why, uh . . . why don’t you just take off now and see if you can find someone else to go with you, huh, bud?”

The man set his jaw and a dark shadow seemed to fall over his face, especially his small eyes. Sunlight sparkled off his dazzling silver hair as he moved forward suddenly, rapidly, a low growl coming up from deep in his chest. He stopped two inches from Craven, his face pushed a little closer, and snarled through clenched teeth, “Listen to me, little person, I am not dude, I am not man, I am not bud . . . I am Satan! Do you understand me?”

He stopped, frozen there as Craven swallowed hard, trying to hide his sudden fear.

“I think you do understand, Sidney.” He took a step back and locked his hands behind his back again, his calm restored. “Now, you have no people to meet. You have no more gigs. You are dead. So, why don’t we leave before the room starts to smell, eh?”

Craven stared at the man, heart pounding rapidly, sweat gathering on his forehead. Without turning his head, he moved his eyes to his right and looked over at the nightstand about six feet away. He considered diving for it and getting the gun — he obviously needed it because there was something very wrong with this intruder — but if this stranger was armed, he would be able to draw his gun before Craven got the drawer open. Instead, he looked at the man again and asked, “So . . . where you takin’ me?”

The man bowed his head a moment and released a long, irritated sigh. “I often say to myself with some hope, They can’t all be that stupid.’ But you rock stars keep proving me wrong again and again. You are going to Hell, Sidney.”

“Hey, look, man, I don’t know how you found out about my name, but stop calling me that, okay?”

“Not unless you stop addressing me with those ridiculous terms of endearment that males like you use with other males. So, Sidney, do we have a deal? Are you going to call me Satan? After all, we’re going to be together for a very, very long time. We might as well learn to get along.”

Craven felt sweat dribbling down his spine beneath his robe. His vision began to blur with each throb of his headache. Where were the others in the band? Why hadn’t Marcus burst in on him to wake him for breakfast like he usually did? It always annoyed the hell out of Craven . . . but he would have welcomed it now.

“I asked you a question,” the man said sternly, his face getting dark again. “Are you going to call me Satan . . . or not?”

Craven thought about that a moment. True, his fear was growing . . . but so was his anger. He’d had trouble with loonies before, and he’d found that they almost always backed down if he stood up to them. There was something different about this guy — something a little more threatening than the usual nutcase — but Craven was willing to bet he’d back off if dealt with properly.

“No, I’m not gonna call you Satan. Because it’s stupid.”

The man’s eyes widened and his brows lifted slowly. His lips parted and he seemed about to speak, so Craven continued.

“Now, look,” he said calmly, but with a touch of firmness in his voice, “I don’t know who you are or how the hell you got in here, but I want you out, okay? And I’m willing to give you whatever you want, too, okay? You want some money, I’ll give you some money. I’ve got a whole cabinet of liquor, just about any drug you could want . . . I just want you to knock this shit off and get outta here.”

The man stared at him with deadly, cold eyes as his lips pressed together harder and harder, turning a creamy color.

“So, what’ll it be? What do you want? ’cause I just want you to get the fuck out so I can get on with my day, see?”