Voice. Part 15

And the paramedics come through

The doc shrugs his shoulders

As he looks down,

Says 'There's nothing I can do.'"

A song about a dead man, about a dying day and a sun that would never rise again. Quentin hadn't paid a lot of attention to the lyrics in practice, but now they gave him the creeps. Or maybe it was Johnny's voice. There was a dark note in it, a sort of perverse glee that he hadn't heard before, and it clashed with the grim subject of the song in a way that was deeply unsettling, like clown makeup on a corpse.

It wasn't just him, either, he noticed. Most of the movement and conversation in the crowd had stopped. A few people swayed eerily back and forth, but most of the spectators stood still and silent, casting nervous glances at each other. The creepy guy stood stock-still, finally staring at the stage, at Johnny, and the expression on his face looked like some unholy species of religious ecstasy.

Nausea churned Quentin's gut, and it seemed that the stage had gotten brighter. Fresh sweat popped on his brow. Had the sound guy turned up the lights? What the h.e.l.l? It had gotten much darker in the club, too. The back of the room near the bar was completely gone in the darkness, though there must have been some tiny trace of light since Quentin thought he could see even darker shapes twisting and writhing back there, midnight on black. He felt sick-really sick, like he was going to chuck his lunch right onstage.

Even Johnny didn't look so hot all of a sudden. He twisted around in the middle of the song, and though he met Danny's eyes and nodded, Quentin got the impression that hadn't been why he'd turned. For one instant, there had been naked fear on his face, and Quentin was sure that Johnny had turned because he thought there was somebody else back there. Behind him. He looked so convinced that Quentin himself looked to the back of the stage. There was only Danny.

Then the song ended, and Johnny stopped singing. The bar faded into view, the lights dimmed to normal. Quentin's nausea was gone as suddenly as it had gripped him, like a cramp that had eased.

There was silence, then a tidal wave of applause, thunderous but solemn.

The set came to an end, and Case flipped off her amp even before the last chord finished ringing out. The sound died abruptly. She knew it was better for the amp if she let it cool down for a minute before turning it off, but just then she didn't give a d.a.m.n. She yanked the plugs out of their sockets, threw the cables in the black duffel bag she used for miscellaneous gear, and started to get her s.h.i.+t off the stage. "Watching the World End" had turned into a nasty surprise, like finding c.o.c.kroaches in her breakfast cereal, and though that weird unpleasantness was already fading, she just wanted to be gone. Johnny looked her way with a grin on his face, but he looked elsewhere when he got a good look at her expression.

She hauled her amp off the stage and shoved it to the side. There was nowhere to put it here, other than to try to get it out of the way.

"Hey, good show!" somebody yelled.

"Right," she said without even looking up. She slid her guitar case in next to the amp and walked away.

Erin gave her a tentative smile and a questioning look as she approached the table. Case sat down. The question would wait-she really didn't feel like talking.

"Hey! I said 'good show'!"

That guy again. Case turned. Slim guy, tall. Nice eyes. n.o.body she recognized. He wore a ridiculous flower print and paisley s.h.i.+rt, unb.u.t.toned halfway down his chest.

"You go out like that in public?" she asked.

He hesitated. It looked like he was trying to decide whether she was actively hostile or just giving him a hard time. "I was only telling you that you played well," he said finally. "Not looking for fas.h.i.+on advice."

Behind him, a small mob of people were lining up. They were already waving at her.

"Be nice," Erin whispered. "I don't know what's wrong-we can talk about that later-but these people are your fans. Don't make my job any harder than it already is."

Case frowned. Erin was probably right. She looked back at the "good show" guy. "Thanks," she said, without much enthusiasm. Erin elbowed her. "I mean, thank you!" She tried on a smile, but it felt like a sneer.

"I'm Brad," the guy said. "You play a mean guitar."

"It's easy. I'm a mean person."

He laughed, though again there was some uncertainty. "How mean are we talking here? Kicking puppies mean, or just cutting off old ladies in the pa.s.sing lane mean?"

Now she did smile, a little. "Eating puppies mean," she said.

Brad nodded. "Now that's mean." He looked so serious that she had to laugh.

"Better watch your a.s.s," she said, still laughing.

Brad wasn't so bad, once you got past the wardrobe. He talked to Case pa.s.sionately about his band and his music-some kind of funk punk he described as a cross between Prince and Rancid that she couldn't imagine but now had to hear once, just to know what that would sound like. In fact, his band was going into the studio soon, and he wanted to get her to record guitar tracks on two songs where he thought a nasty guitar solo would be just the thing. His guitarist was an awesome rhythm player, he said, and he took care of everything they usually needed, but once Brad had heard Case playing, he'd immediately thought of a couple of places on the recording that could use her talents.

From there, conversation roamed-Brad's last band, Case's opinion of Dallas, dumb stories from shows they'd each played.

"Oh, I hate playing there," Case said after he finished one of his own horror stories. "One time we were waiting around after load-in and the f.u.c.king sound guy came in and told me to get the h.e.l.l out. 'Band members only. No girlfriends.'"

"Ouch."

"I told him we could go out in the parking lot, and he could find out which one of us was somebody's girlfriend."

"You didn't."

"The h.e.l.l I didn't." She gave him a wry grin. "Of course, he f.u.c.ked our sound up that night. Turned me waaaaay down."

Brad laughed. He had a warm, easy laugh that Case liked, and he was fun. The only thing wrong with him that she could see was that G.o.dawful s.h.i.+rt, and she thought she might be able to get rid of that problem. She was starting to feel pretty good, no matter what weird turn the show had taken.

After Quentin put his ba.s.s away, he found a table near Erin and the others. There was laughter and shouting all around, but he tuned it out, watching the old rocker between moving bodies. That bad feeling from the stage lingered like the aftertaste of something foul, and, rational or not, he a.s.sociated it with John's friend, or dealer, or whatever the h.e.l.l he was.

The guy slipped through the crowd, seeming to touch n.o.body, looking into one face after another and moving on. Clubgoers turned away from him as he approached and looked elsewhere as he pa.s.sed by. He said nothing, exchanged no words with anyone, but kept moving, sharklike.

What the h.e.l.l is he looking for? Quentin wondered. If he were a dealer, Quentin would have expected him to mutter a few words, whisper in an ear or two, negotiate a deal or slip away from a polite rejection-but he never stopped, never slowed his even movement through the crowd.

Around Quentin, conversation twisted and flowed. He ignored it all, intent on the old guy's progress through the room.

Brad was talking, and Case really wanted to hear what he had to say-but a jarring, jerky motion in the crowd beyond him teased her vision, and she found herself looking over his shoulder rather than paying attention.

It was just an out-of-place goth kid, hair dyed black, dressed all in black, heavy chain hanging from his pocket and looping up to his belt-in short, stamped from the same mold as a zillion other affected, disaffected kids. Only the way he moved drew Case's eye. He stumbled and shambled through the room, clearing a s.p.a.ce around him as others edged away, and at first Case thought he had some kind of physical ailment or handicap.

Then she got a good look at his face. A sense of deja vu so sudden it was like careening vertigo smothered her, and her heart clenched tight like a fist. The spittle smeared on his chin, the sly grin, and the half-crazed eyes were horribly familiar, so much so that for one second she thought this was the same person she'd accosted at a different club all those weeks ago. But, no-this was clearly somebody else, and that chilled her as much as anything.

Brad trailed off and turned around, putting his elbow up on the back of his chair.

"Am I boring you?" he started, but he trailed off. "What the f.u.c.k?"

The old guy stopped close to the door and c.o.c.ked his head, for all the world like a dog hearing a whistle in the distance. Quentin watched him turn, watched his eyes light on something across the room, watched the slow smile of satisfaction spread across his face.

Quentin followed the man's eyes, saw nothing particular in the knot of people at the center of the floor. There were people crowded thickly everywhere he looked, and he craned his neck, looking for whatever had attracted the man's attention.

The crowd moved aside, finally, and Quentin got a good look at the goth kid, who had a little clearing of his own. Quentin had seen the kid during the show, near the front in fact, and he'd looked like was having a good time. That wasn't the case anymore. Even from here, he looked seven kinds of f.u.c.ked up, and Quentin thought he was actually drooling on himself.

Quentin glanced around the crowd and quickly spotted the old guy moving toward the kid, eyes afire and mouth twisted in a grin. Indecision seized him, and he looked from the old guy to the kid and back. This is none of my business, he thought.

Then he got up. His mouth had gone dry, his pulse pounded behind his eyes, and his hands shook, but he got up. Somebody needed to have a talk with that creepy f.u.c.k, and it didn't look like anybody else was on the job. Quentin bulled through the crowd, muttering apologies as he shoved people aside and stepped on feet.

Case watched the kid stagger in one direction, then another. Whatever Brad had been about to say was gone, and he stared as well.

"He looks like he might need some help," Brad said uncertainly.

"I'm not sure," Case began.

The kid stopped his slow, weird turning. Case saw his s.h.i.+fty eyes narrow, saw his muscles tighten and his knees bend.

"f.u.c.k!" she said, and she was on her feet, moving across the room. What are you doing? Surely he's not going to- The kid sprang forward in an ungainly motion, half shuffle, half leap, and his arms reached out just as he stumbled. He lurched forward, grabbing a woman by the shoulders. She screamed. A bottle fell and shattered. The two of them, locked together, tottered, but stayed standing.

Case pushed two people roughly aside just as the kid opened his mouth and lunged. She heard his teeth snap shut on air even from ten feet away, even over the music.

The woman screamed again, and the kid pulled back, face contorted with savage joy, mouth open wide- Case didn't try anything fancy-just rushed forward, buried both hands in the kid's hair, and pulled. The kid was a bundle of sticks, probably no heavier than she was, and the motion threw him to the ground, hard.

The kid bounced, arched his back in pain, and moaned. He'd better stay down, Case thought. He pushed himself partway up, then slumped back to the sticky club floor.

The kid looked up at her, wiping his mouth, confusion in his eyes. He looked at the saliva on his hand with complete bafflement.

"Hey, what's going on?" he asked.

Nearby, somebody else yelled, and a ripple of motion in the crowd caught Case's eye.

It was Quentin.

"What did you do, you son of a b.i.t.c.h?" Quentin yelled. The last few people between him and the old guy got out of the way. "What did you do?"

The old guy pressed his back to the wall and crossed his arms. "I've got no problem with you, Quentin," he said, his hoa.r.s.e baritone barely audible over the crowd. "And you've got no problem with me."

"The h.e.l.l I don't!" Quentin lunged forward and grabbed the guy's s.h.i.+rtfront with both hands, crus.h.i.+ng him against the wall. The guy actually laughed, and a ghastly odor spilled from his face and washed over Quentin. Quentin gagged, but he didn't let go. "What did you do to that kid? What did you do to Johnny?"

The old guy put his forearms on Quentin's chest and shoved. Quentin stumbled backward a few steps, flailed his arms, and fell on his a.s.s. He was up again a second later, both hands reaching toward the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d- And somebody stopped him, putting two strong hands on his shoulders from behind. Suddenly, Case and Johnny were both there, Case standing directly between Quentin and the old guy, and Johnny off to the side, looking mortified. Quentin looked behind himself, where some guy he didn't know was holding his shoulders. He wore a terrifyingly ugly paisley s.h.i.+rt and a sickly, embarra.s.sed grin.

"Jesus, that's enough," Case said. "Quentin, why don't you have a seat?" She turned to the old guy. "And you, I keep seeing your ugly G.o.dd.a.m.n face everywhere. How about you make it disappear tonight?"

The old guy stepped back toward the door and gave an insolent wave. "See you around," he said, and he left.

Johnny scowled at Quentin. "What the f.u.c.k was that all about?" Quentin started to reply, but Johnny cut him off. "You know what? I don't care. We'll hash it out later. We had a good show tonight, and I want to enjoy it. Why don't you relax?" He shook his head with weary contempt and walked away, headed toward the bar.

"Case, I-"

"It's cool, Quentin," Case said. "Johnny's right-we can talk about it later. And we will talk about it later."

Quentin slunk back to his table, not meeting the curious gazes of his friends there.

"Sorry about that," Case said after Quentin and Johnny left. "I'd have put money on me picking ten fights before Quentin got up the nerve to say something mean to somebody, but I guess you never can tell."

"Yeah," Brad said. He scratched his head. "That was . . . unexpected. Your ba.s.s player is lucky that old guy didn't beat his a.s.s."

Case gave Brad a searching look. He was barely rattled by the whole thing, and she liked the way he'd followed her to the crazy goth kid, liked the way he'd gone straight for Quentin, trying to pull him out of the fight. Her blood was pumping from the adrenaline, and she could feel her heart beat. The night had been strange and a little ugly, but she was revved up now. The evening didn't have to be a total waste.

"Come on," she said. "Let's get out of here."

Brad raised his eyebrows. "Where are we going?"

"First, you're going to help me carry my s.h.i.+t out to the car. After that . . . we'll see."

That hesitant, unsure laugh again. G.o.d, he had a good laugh. "Point me at the aforementioned s.h.i.+t," he said.

With Brad's help, it took only two trips to get Case's stuff loaded. Once that was done, Case tracked down Erin-she wasn't about to make the mistake of disappearing without a goodbye again. Erin gave Brad an appraising look and Case a nod of approval. "See you at the office," Erin said.

"The office. Right."

It was just as Case left that a perverse impulse grabbed her. She pushed the door open and couldn't seem to stop herself from glancing back over the row of tables to where Danny sat with his wife. Danny's eyes met hers and he looked down, a miserable expression contorting his face for one fleeting second before it was gone.

Case smiled at Brad and rushed out.