Voice (30 page)

The song came to an end. The crowd seemed to return to itself, applauding wildly, and Johnny held up his hands as though blessing them.

The lights came up, and sure enough, there was Douglas, slouching by the door, looking up at Johnny with shrouded eyes.

Quentin played through the rest of the set with a troubled mind.

***

“Fifteen hundred bucks!” Danny said jubilantly. They were the last band of the night, so the tally had been ready for them when they finished. Already, the place was starting to clear out.

“You’re kidding,” Case said. “There’s no way they could have fit three hundred people in here.”

“That’s gotta violate fire code,” Quentin mumbled. He looked from face to face at the thinning crowd. Douglas had been here, maybe still was, and that worried him. He’d lost track of the guy some time during the last song. Maybe that meant Douglas had gone—and maybe not.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Johnny said, “we have finally fucking arrived.”

Quentin didn’t know about that—he was finally fucking leaving. For once, he didn’t have to work in the morning, and he wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of here and get some sleep.
Maybe that’s it,
he thought.
I’m just overtired.

No, wait—there was Douglas. The older man was slipping out the door right now.

Quentin watched as half a dozen kids in the crowd coalesced into a group and exited behind Douglas. Maybe they were just leaving, like everyone, but there had been something in their faces as they’d watched Douglas leave that he didn’t like.

“Guys, I’m exhausted,” Quentin said. “I’m gonna head out.”

“Good show,” Case said.

“See you Tuesday?” Johnny added.

“Yeah. See you Tuesday.” He slung the gig bag holding his bass over his shoulder and moved toward the door.

Outside, the small clot of kids had been joined by another two or three, and a handful of others trickled in, swelling their numbers. Quentin could barely see Douglas, a block or so beyond them.

He thought of the group that had killed somebody outside one of their shows before, and he made a decision. He walked quickly to the lot next to the club where his car was parked, popped the trunk, and slid his bass in. He checked the charge on his cell phone. Full. He could dial 911 before those kids even looked at someone cross-eyed.

He started to close the trunk, then paused. Pushing his bass aside, he groped for his tool belt and pulled the heavy framing hammer from its loop.

Just in case.

He ran back to the sidewalk. The little mob hadn’t gotten far. He started walking behind them, ignoring the strange looks from the handful of people who bothered to notice him.

***

That’s it,
Douglas thought.
Almost done.
The disciples were learning, growing in strength, and he’d managed to keep them away from Johnny for the last few months, managed to keep their more unpleasant activities quiet, or at least quiet enough. Now they were ready. He had seen them at the club. They had watched Johnny raptly, but other than that, they seemed normal enough. They moved like normal people, and they spoke like normal people, and they didn’t do anything to attract attention to themselves. Only Douglas noticed the strain they were under as they fought to keep from either throwing themselves at Johnny’s feet or sating their other hungers on whoever was convenient.

There was precious little left for him to do now but watch and wait.

He heard the footsteps behind him as he neared the end of Commerce Street, where the streets snarled together and the streetlights faded, and he smiled.

Douglas turned to meet the disciples. There were ten or so, walking toward him, murmuring in quiet voices. They walked smoothly, and their voices were low and controlled.

“Evening,” Douglas said.

“Your work is done, old man,” a hard-faced kid in an old bomber jacket said. “Johnny told us.” The others echoed him. “Johnny,” they said. “Johnny, Johnny.”

Douglas stood straight as he felt his burden fall away. He was close to his god, now, so close he felt he could almost fly to meet him. “Come on, then,” he said, gesturing toward a nearby alley. “Let’s get out of the road and do this.”

Hungry white grins split their faces, and they moved after him.

***

Quentin watched the old man slip into the alley, the clot of kids following close behind him. Whatever business they were doing, they wanted to do it away from the street.

It’s nothing good, then.

Quentin walked toward the mouth of the alley, digging his phone from his pocket. He’d take a quick look, see what was going on and, if appropriate, call the cops.

He looked around the corner of the building. Enough light reflected off the white wall of the opposite building that he could make out figures moving in the alley. There was Douglas’s thin figure, topped with a cloud of dark hair. Others stood arranged around him in a circle.

What the hell was he doing?

Douglas lifted his arms to either side and looked heavenward. “This is the end,” he said, the whisper slithering along the night breeze to Quentin’s ears.

The kids sprang toward the center of the circle. Cloth tore, baring Douglas’s bone-white chest, and—
what the fuck?
—the kids jumped him. A tall one lunged at his shoulder, burying his teeth in the meat. Blood, black in the dimness, flowed down Douglas’s body. Another kid clawed and gouged at his belly. Still another stuffed Douglas’s fingers in his mouth and bit down with an awful crunch.

A moan, horribly ecstatic, came from Douglas as he slumped to his knees.

JESUS CHRIST!
Quentin backed away from the alley, fumbling at his phone. There was a sudden motion coming from behind him, and somebody slapped the phone to the ground.

“No no no,” a woman’s voice said, and she leered at him with hunger and insanity in her eyes. “You shouldn’t be here.”

A second later, the knife punctured his stomach, then struck again, and again.

There was blood, so much blood, and pain, and then the world went black.

The practice room felt like a funeral parlor.

Case sat on the floor in the place where Quentin’s amp used to be, her eyes fixed on a random spot on the far wall. Danny sat beside her, hand entwined in hers. She had no clear idea if she was supposed to be receiving comfort or giving it, but she was glad he was there. Erin was on her other side, weeping silently into her hands.

Johnny sat against the door with his legs stretched out in front of him. Grief and confusion twisted his features, interrupted by an occasional flash of rage that seemed to come from nowhere and return just as quickly. He had called her just before the cop showed up on her doorstep that morning, and she thought she would be forever grateful for that. The thought of hearing the news from a stranger made her stomach sick.

Because this is your family,
she thought.
It’s a stupid, fucked-up, dysfunctional family, but all families are, and this one is yours.

Johnny had called, and it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world that they should meet here after the police finished with everybody. There would be a real funeral service later in the week, but Case thought the farewells from the four of them would take place right in this shitty practice room—were taking place right now—where they’d all spent so much time together.

She wondered if she’d be able to play in this room again.

Quentin was dead. He had been knifed to death a few blocks down from the club, and Case inferred from the questions the cop had asked (“Did Quentin have any enemies?” “Did he have a drug habit?” “Did he owe anyone money?” “Do you know if anybody would have wanted to make an example of him?”) that the killing had been spectacularly brutal. That was impossible to imagine. Quentin with enemies? No way. She thought of all the time she’d spent going over song parts with him, drilling him over and over, getting exasperated and calling him names, rolling her eyes, trembling in frustration. His patience was endless. He’d never so much as snapped at her—and she had to hand it to him, once he’d (finally) learned something, it was there to stay. Had been. He’d play it the same way every time, completely solid, one hundred percent reliable.

Who could hate Quentin? Who could
possibly
hate Quentin?

“I—” Johnny began, but then he stopped, confused. For once, Case knew just how he felt. What could be said that wouldn’t cheapen Quentin’s death by trying to encapsulate it in some lame, limpdick, meaningless phrase? “
I’m going to miss him
”?
“
He was a swell guy
”?
“
He was a good bass player
”?
Or the perennial favorite, “
It’s not fair
”?
All of those statements were true, and they were all hopelessly inadequate.

“It’s not fair,” Danny said. Case had the presence of mind to bite her lip before a bitter laugh escaped. Her chest hitched, and Danny, perhaps mistaking it for a sob, put his arm around her. Rather than getting angry, she moved closer to him. Later, she would be pissed, if not about Danny’s lame commentary, then about the whole damn thing in general. She would rage and curse and maybe—probably—break a bunch of things. Not here, though.

***

Later, Case could never remember who said it first. They had been sitting in the practice room for quite some time, silent except for the occasional awkward comment, and then somebody—Danny, maybe?—said out loud what (surely) they’d all been thinking:

“We’re going to need to start auditions really soon, if we’re going to find another bass player before the tour.”

Nods greeted this statement, as though it were a foregone conclusion—to everyone except Erin. Erin lifted her head and looked around as though they’d all gone crazy.

“We have to get a different room,” Case said, ignoring Erin. “I can’t—I don’t want somebody else to stand
there
. That was Quentin’s spot.” Sentimental, she knew, but she felt strongly about that.

Johnny nodded. “We’ll change rooms. I’ll talk to the owner.”

Danny wiped a tear off the end of his nose. “I’ll put an ad for a bass player on Craigslist. Unless you know somebody who might want the job, Erin.”

Case looked at Erin automatically. Her face was pale, with livid red spots high on her cheeks and the expression of someone who has just been slapped, hard.

“You can’t mean that,” Erin said.

Danny’s tone was defensive. “I just meant, you know. You know everybody.”

“Quentin is
dead
,” Erin said. “He’s dead, and you all are talking like he just walked off the job one day, and you’ve got to find someone to fill his shift before the dinner rush. He’s
dead.
Don’t you get that?”

Case felt her temper stir and stretch its claws. “Do you know how many hours I spent in this goddamn room with Quentin? Do you have any idea? You think I don’t notice the ragged fucking hole here? Maybe I just missed it?”

“And you think the best way to respect Quentin’s memory is to carry on like nothing happened? Replace him at the earliest opportunity, and move right along?”

Case could hardly believe what she was hearing. “Jesus, no! I’m—
we’re—
going to miss Quentin like crazy, but life goes on, you know? We’ve got
three weeks
before we leave. What do you want us to do?”

“You can’t mean to go through with it.”

The statement hit like a physical blow, and now Case felt like
she
was the one who’d been slapped. “Are you saying we should cancel the tour?”

Erin lifted her chin. “Yeah. Maybe you should.”

“Are we supposed to stay home and mope? Stare at the ceiling for a few weeks? That’s how we’re supposed to
respect
Quentin?”

Erin stood up. “Quentin is
dead
,” she said yet again.

Case couldn’t figure out what that was supposed to prove, but she didn’t like Erin looking down at her. She stood. “I know he is,” she said softly. “We’re not.”

“Oh, that’s—”

“Shut up,” Case said. Erin flinched. “You’ve had your say. Quentin is dead. I know. We all know. But this isn’t a hobby, Erin. Not for us. We’ve poured our lives into this—Johnny, Danny, and me. We’ve worked our asses off, and you can’t even imagine some of the things we’ve sacrificed.” She pointed to Danny, but an uneasy thought of Johnny intruded. “This is what we are meant to do with our lives, and if Quentin were here, he’d come along. But he’s not. That sucks, but I’m not ready to hang up my guitar because of it.”

Johnny nodded his agreement.

“You, too, Danny?” Erin said, tears standing in her eyes. “Is that how you feel?”

Danny looked at the floor. “Yeah.”

Erin looked at each of them in turn. Case met her eyes, unsmiling.

“Then fuck you,” Erin said, and she left.

***

Finding a bass player to fill in turned out to be a lot easier than expected. Brad’s band was on temporary hiatus while the keyboard player took a couple of months off to focus on his wife and newborn son, and the bass player—a tall, gangly guy named Allen Sorenson—was looking for something to do. The only holdup was that it took Johnny two days to track down the owner of the rehearsal space and negotiate a room change. No matter what the rush, nobody was willing to audition a bass player in the old room. There wasn’t even any discussion on that topic—it was understood.