Deadly Night Part 4

"What in the h.e.l.l are you both talking about?"

That was me, as I just looked down at my watch. 8:40 p.m.

"Nathaniel. Nathaniel Smith is still here," Tom explained. "I know it sounds nuts, though it shouldn't since this is what we look for in other places....the haunted locales we visit. The guy never left after his death. Yes, I told you the truth about the grave stone out back, but the reason I got this house for twenty grand less than the asking price was on account of the 'resident ghost'."

"So you knew this place was haunted?" asked Justin, moving into his Wayan brother voice pitch. "And you bought it anyway?? Well at least we'll know what you're up to if you decide to skip an investigation....'Gotta play with my kitchen ghostie, don't you know!'"

Ah, another mirthful moment to ease tension. But Tom and Fiona were both dead serious, and eyed him like he'd just called on Satan to make it rain. Then something else happened. The cupboard next to Justin began to tremble, like a small tremor moving through the foundation from deep below the earth's crust. Only, this quake remained inside the d.a.m.ned cupboard.

"What the...," Justin squeaked. The previous impish look in his eyes was vanquished by real fear.

"Well you p.i.s.sed him off!" seethed Tom, moving over to where Justin stood, while Angie looked on wearing another smirk-she's such a smarta.s.s. He shooed them both away to the other side of the kitchen. The tremor ceased. "Nathaniel was a cook in the army, until he retired in 1932. After that, he continued his trade until he contracted lung cancer, in 1943. Then he died here in the back bedroom in 1945."

"The spirit here is very protective of you, am I right about that?" asked Fiona. "I wish to apologize for all of us if we made him upset by what we were talking about."

She waited before going on, shooting a serious look to both Justin and Angie. As weird as it sounds, the oppression in the air around us began to lift.

"You're right," said Tom. "Nathaniel doesn't care much for my younger brother, Albert, nor his wife, Beth. Al and I have never really been close, but since we're both getting older, we've been trying to work on our relations.h.i.+p. But things are still tense between us.... When I moved in here and enlisted their help, we had something similar to this happen in the middle of the night while Al and Beth were sleeping in the guest room. It was just pots and pans that night, and the drawer turned upside down. Nathaniel must really be ticked off this time."

"I guess he doesn't care much for a black dude, either, huh?"

Justin said this jokingly, but given the way people used to think, he might've defined the source for the spirit's hostility.

"Nathaniel was an African-American, too," said Tom, moving back to the pile to finish cleaning up. "But respect for one's elders remains much the same as it was back when he walked among the living."

"Sounds like he's still walking among the living, if you ask me," Justin mumbled, out of direct earshot of Tom. Not so sure about Nathaniel's.

Angie and Jackie began picking up the pots, pans, and utensils. I stood ready with the broom and dustpan. Already thinking of an excuse to tell the band, there was no way in h.e.l.l I'd make it to rehearsal on time. It was d.a.m.n near nine o'clock.

"I think Nathaniel feels threatened for what might happen to you, Tom," said Fiona, finally, after wandering around the kitchen and acting as if she were listening intently to a conversation that was undetectable to the rest of us. She took the dustpan and motioned for me to help her clean up the rest of the debris on the floor. "To be honest, I feel the same thing....threatened. For all of us here tonight."

A large crystal bowl sitting atop the refrigerator began to vibrate, wobbling as if it might fall off. It gave my wife quite a start, since she stood in front of the fridge. When the bowl stopped vibrating, a soft ringing sound emanated from it that lasted more than a minute before it gradually died away.

Creepy, man...very creepy.

"Who's with me on taking a little trip?" she asked.

Everyone eagerly voted for it, once they learned she intended to revisit Johnny's place that night. Despite being taped off by the police, Fiona has a knack for finding her way around such deterrents. Who knows? Maybe another message will come through from beyond the veil that separates the living from the dead, this time for her specifically.

A message from Candi? If so, hopefully something to help bring a quick end to the craziness that'd started last night. Too bad I couldn't be there. I had four ticked off music buddies to worry about.

It's the last thing I thought about before peeling out of Tom's carport on the way to east Nashville.

Chapter Eight.

East Nashville is a scary place, man. Lots of crime, seedy motels, and run-down neighborhoods. However, like any other metropolitan area, it has its good streets and a few upscale neighborhoods that border the less desirable locations.

It might seem logical that our band would keep its rehearsal hangout in one of the nicer venues, maybe in the better sections of Madison and not nearby Inglewood. Especially with all of the expensive equipment involved...it would be risky otherwise.

Well, the location is in Madison. But no, the building where my heavy metal band, Quagmire, rehea.r.s.es is an old warehouse just off Gallatin Road. Anyone local would cringe a little, since the liabilities listed above surround us in abundance.

So, why do we do it here? There are lots of good reasons, actually. Like the fact we can play as frigging loud and long as we like. And though the building looks really run down from outside, it's pretty nice inside. The ac and heat work well, and the owners have let us build a soundstage and lay down some plush carpeting from where one of my band mates works in the daytime. Not to mention the place is really secure, and would take the skills of a Navy Seal or some other special operative to break in.

"You're lucky we heard the phone, Jimmy, or we would've gone ahead without your late a.s.s!"

Ricky Chamberlain, or better known as 'RC' in our little music world, was the first one to greet me. Co-founder of the band with me six years ago, he hails from Atlanta. Why in the h.e.l.l he chose Nashville over L.A., Seattle, Phoenix, or even the Big Apple has always been a mystery to me. But I'm d.a.m.ned grateful he and I crossed paths.

Yeah, he's a little p.i.s.sed with me, but he'll get over it. He always does, and it's not like he's a little late now and then. 9:13 p.m., which ain't bad considering I didn't get out of south Nashville until almost nine o'clock. At least I called ahead to let em' know.

"Is everybody here?" I asked, grabbing my ba.s.s out of the back seat before running after Ricky as he disappeared into the building.

"Yes."

I heard the echo of his voice and footsteps moving down the darkened corridor to our room, picturing his shoulder length wavy brown hair bouncing as his long strides carried him forward. Gangly in stature, he possesses the cla.s.sic rocker look, with chiseled Jim Morrison facial features. I'm not the only one who thinks he resembles the legendary Door's front man, and I must say he takes full advantage of his looks and innate charm, charisma, or whatever the h.e.l.l it is that keeps a steady stream of females coming and going in his life. It's the only area where we're polar opposites, since I've always been a monogamous kind of guy.

There are other differences, too, but very slight, since we've blended a bit over the years. I guess some folks would call that mutual respect, as with our favorite sports teams and such. Like I've acquired a taste for the Falcons and he keeps tabs on the Broncos. Even my interest in the paranormal has gradually become interesting to him as well. Now if I could just get the other dudes to buy in to ghostly investigations.... It's my a.s.sumption that they all respect Fiona's talent as a gifted psychic, since she's done at least one reading for each member of the band.

If they're telling me the truth, and I have little reason to doubt them on this, she's been quite accurate. h.e.l.l, everyone except our drummer has had her read for them a few times, and they've referred her to family members and friends, which speaks to some customer satisfaction. My daytime employer should be so lucky.

Anyway, by the time I reached our rehearsal room, Ricky had already claimed his Strat and climbed onto the stage. Everyone else gathered their instruments, and Max Racine, our lead guitarist, pointed meanly for me to take my place next to our drummer, David Harris, who prefers the name "Mongo" .

I removed my five-string fretless from its case and leaped up on stage to join everyone else, hoping I'm as graceful at our upcoming gig, set for the weekend after next. A party affair, but one of the larger garden varieties, we'd been given the 'heads-up' from our manager, Michael d.i.c.kinson, that a few A&R folks (label people for those unfamiliar) would be in attendance. At a frigging party, no less. But that can happen when the invitees have deep connections via the industry here in Music City to their kin in New York and L.A. Or so I'm told.

"We're gonna start with 'Primetime' and move on to 'Natural Religion', 'Mary's Candy', and 'Little Miss Walker'," Max advised, his blond Mohawk s.h.i.+mmering in a strange mix of blue-green hues from a pair of colored spotlights just above his head. A slim cigar balanced precariously between his thin lips, he regarded me like I'd just grown a third eye in the middle of my forehead. Perpetual contempt for the married guy in the band.

He's always reminded me of what Rod Stewart would've looked like if he were part of Billy Idol's band. The most surly and eccentric rocker among us.

"Any particular reason we're moving through this arrangement of our tunes?"

I admit to a little smugness here, since I co-wrote three of the songs, and the other was completely written by me a few years back. Actually, all of Quagmire's tunes are creations of Ricky and me, with a few newer ones that Max has contributed to. Mongo prefers credit on arrangements, since actual songwriting is not his forte.

Mongo's the one guy that Michael wasn't keen on at first, in terms of image. Balding with non-descript eyewear and plain facial features, he sort of resembles a thumb with a bandana. Mongo could blend easily into any crowd, never to be noticed or missed. But the guy can't be topped as far as laying a syncopated beat and creating a powerful groove. Really, his work has inspired us all to get better. So, in effect it's like this: no Mongo equals a lesser product and no promising record deals.

"I think the order adds a certain flair, setting the tunes off as the potential singles they could become," offered Chris, before Max could answer me.

So, I guess it's his doing, then. Max's indifferent shrug just confirmed it.

Christopher Grimes is our brand new front man. At one of our last gigs in May, Chris approached us about becoming Quagmire member 'number five'. Twenty-three years old with blond wavy hair ala Led Zeppelin's Robert Plant down to his a.s.s, he brings a commanding stage presence. Not to mention he's a virtuoso violinist who can run circles around either guitarist as far as tearing off screaming arpeggios. Add that to his Geoff Tate--Ronnie James Dio operatic voice, and we have our meal ticket to the illusive big time. At least that's what my ears and gut tell me.

Dude's prettier than the rest of us, too. But even with Chris's boyish good looks and Kid Rock energy, it seemed a long shot that we'd take him in. That is, until he took a dozen downloads of our tunes and learned them all in a matter of a week. Then he added his special flavor and presence.... My G.o.d, you could've heard a pin drop in our rehearsal room when he finished his run-through. Then we had to work especially hard not to fawn over ourselves in telling this kid he could join us. Even Ricky's cool with it, since he's grown progressively weary of the strain on his voice that our complex melodies have brought on. Now he can stay in the background with me, adding our strong harmonies to Chris's lead vocals. It sounds frigging awesome.

"Once we come to an agreement on the order for the remaining thirty-three tunes, we'll be able to support a longer show, say an hour or two," continued our young prodigy.

The only thing I worry about is whether Chris's condescending tone and over-the-top sophistication will eventually chap my a.s.s. Lord knows I deal with enough of that s.h.i.+t at my day gig.

"Well, okay dudes," I said, grabbing the wireless receiver for my amp and plugging it into my ba.s.s. "Let's get rollin'."

Mongo set the tempo and we launched into our first set. Before the advent of Chris, we used to mosey about the stage, jamming with one another between trips to the dual microphones set up at the platform's edge. Not anymore. Still getting used to Chris's dominance of center stage, it's hard not to get distracted by his antics: strutting back and forth before an imaginary audience while twirling his violin bow. When he launches into a lead, his nimble hands become a maniacal frenzy across the electric violin's fret board.

Ricky and I try not to get in the way of either Chris or Max, swinging our hair in time with every crunching power chord and ba.s.s thump we deliver. When Ricky's brother, Paul, filmed us a couple of weeks ago, the way we worked as a band looked really cool, Ricky's and my hair swinging in rhythm and catching the oscillating colored light rays.

Of course, our new maestro stole the show, his bow shredded from the throes of what I believe was near-psychotic pa.s.sion. With his mouth contorted to the side, his wild eyes convey an almost eerie lunacy. That's how Ricky and Paul describe it. I'd say it's more like 'o.r.g.a.s.mic terror', as if he's some deranged s.e.x fiend. And chicks dig the dude-at least Ricky' and Chris's small harems do...frigging groupies. They went all gaga the other night, and we didn't finish our work. That's why I insisted there be no girls tonight.

But hey, if his talent and allure gets us to the next level, then I'm all for the distractions that are part of the deal with him. It's fine by me if he has all the chicks and media fame. He can sit in the forefront of our band photos, too, for all I care. Just give me credit for the songs I help write and let me tag along for wherever this crazy train takes us.

Tonight's rehearsal went very well...and with hardly any questions from the guys about Candi Starr and d.i.c.key Rollins' murders. I needed the break, really. h.e.l.l, it'd be there waiting for me anyway, once I left the euphoria of a great practice session and drove home.

We wrapped things up by 11:40 p.m. Mongo and I shared a laugh as I helped him load his drum cases into the back of his old Suburban. Soon after, I was back on Gallatin Road and heading home.

Traveling along I-65 southbound after midnight usually means a nice drive down a deserted highway. It's perfect for unwinding after a long day and a productive rehearsal. I suppose that's why I didn't notice the dark van following me. I probably should've caught it early on, say at least by the time I pa.s.sed downtown Nashville. But I didn't. Not until I reached Franklin.

Jamming to one of my personal mix CDs that features every melodic metal band I've grown attached to over the years, I was just getting into my head-shake to Megadeth's "Ninety-nine ways to die" when I finally noticed the van mirroring my moves as I veered into the fast lane and then back to the middle of the highway just beyond Cool Springs Mall. I still might not have thought much of it, so lost was I in my private revelry. But it was hard to ignore the sudden high beams flas.h.i.+ng from behind me. I at first thought a cop rode my a.s.s.

Cruising a few miles above the speed limit rarely gets somebody pulled over in Williamson County, and my lights were just checked the other day when I got the oil changed for the Camaro. So, that pretty much eliminated a police K-9 unit.

"What in the h.e.l.l?"

The van drew closer...close enough for me to see the grill emblem. It was a Buick, late model...and a big sucker at that. A petrol-splurging special from a couple of years ago, right before fuel prices rose to insanity.

"Back off, you mother...."

I didn't finish uttering the crown jewel of all curse phrases. Maybe it's because I had instinctively floored the Camaro to where I had just pa.s.sed ninety. Yeah, talk about a gas-guzzler giving chase...probably lost an eighth of a tank from that alone as it kept pace with me.

Now, I'm not easily spooked, being in the ghost hunting biz and all. My initial reaction was to get really p.i.s.sed. But then the van backed off...way off. Only when I exited onto another highway, I-840, did it come a little closer. In the distance behind me two small white orbs stayed on my trail.

I figured I was just being paranoid. Hopefully in about a week I'll return to a more rational outlook about things, and I won't be so d.a.m.ned jumpy.

I decided to slow down to seventy-five. No sense in being radar bait, but at the same time I didn't want to provide a guided path to my home. When I came upon Arno Road, my usual exit, no lights were visible behind me. Still, I raced under the overpa.s.s and followed the road to the maze of darkened back roads that would bring me to my secluded home. The moon s.h.i.+ning in half-cycle, I felt half tempted to drive home with the headlights off.

Deftly navigating through sharp curves and hidden hills, I soon pulled up into the long gravel driveway that leads up to my house. I dimmed the headlights, creeping up quietly and pulling the Camaro behind my house, just in case whoever drove the mysterious van somehow figured out the general area where I lived-despite my best efforts to remain elusive.

I cut the engine and got out of the car, releasing a low sigh as I collected my ba.s.s and tiptoed up to the back door. The kitchen light was on, and I detected a slight glow from the living room through a side window.

Then I heard it.

h.e.l.l, I think everyone living along our road heard it. A loud rumble from a V-8 engine, revved full throttle.

What in the h.e.l.l now?

I crept around the side of the house, peering toward the road. There was no one visible. No truck or van.

The rumble resounded again...louder, although I had the distinct feeling it hadn't moved.

I moved up quietly to our mailbox, my protective instincts in full force. I wished to G.o.d I had my gun with me...but there wasn't time to sneak inside the house to get it.

The revved engine continued to announce its presence, echoing eerily into the night air. It seemed to slice through the humidity, making it sound more menacing. Like, 'step out here and face the music, Jimmy boy!'

Did I have a choice? Sure...well no, I didn't. Other than running inside and diving under the covers with my grieving wife in our bed. What about the kids? Other than calling the cops and hiding out in the storm cellar beneath our home until dawn, there wasn't much else we could do. Definitely nothing that'd keep me from feeling like a real wuss.

For some crazy, s.h.i.+tty, reason I pictured Max's smug grin-complete with another slim cigar clinched between his teeth.

What's wrong, you p.u.s.s.y-whipped, rock n' roll wannabe??

That got me going. I ran out onto the road and stood in the middle of it, all the while the engine rumbled ahead of me in the darkness...less than a quarter of a mile ahead, atop a hill.

Two halogens suddenly appeared in the darkness. The van. It had to be the same one. Whoever sat behind the wheel flashed the high-beams.

I tried to s.h.i.+eld my eyes from the harsh brightness with one arm. Braced for the inevitable attack of the vehicle rus.h.i.+ng toward me, I pictured myself diving into a s.h.i.+tload of thistles and briars inside the drainage ditch next to our mailbox.

How'd this frigging a.s.shole find me, anyway?

Not many folks live along our road, since everyone's property consists of five to fifteen acres of wooded land. Luckily, houselights now came on at the Tanner's place, directly across from where the van sat.

The threatening vehicle backed up and swerved sideways, its wheels screeching even louder than the rumble. I could feel the driver studying me through the tinted pa.s.senger window. A very queer sensation, I sensed such malevolence ...intense rage emanating toward me. Really weird, man, and I recalled what Fiona told me earlier that afternoon about the killer. I also thought about the shadowy figure creeping about our place last night. Could we be next on the killer's list? I pictured the dude sitting in the van, sizing up a new victim.

I guess it sucks to be me, or even worse to be Fiona, since she's a much closer friend to the recently departed.

A shotgun blast into the air erupted from the Tanner's porch, and I heard Mac Tanner shout a string of obscenities at the driver. Before old Mac reached the pa.s.senger side door, the van spun around and sped off in the opposite direction, its angry rumble soon fading away.

My neighbor didn't give up his vigil right away, and to avoid a drawn out discussion with him I hurried back to my house before he noticed my presence. I waited outside my backdoor for nearly twenty minutes...listening to the endless chirping and calls from insects and a pair of tree frogs. But I heard nothing else. Nothing that rumbled, anyway.

It mattered little that our menacing visitor didn't come back. For the rest of the night, I stayed on high alert. Even when I slipped into bed next to my beautiful wife, I slept light.

I would've heard a mosquito scratching its a.s.s.

The dawn's fiery glow crept in a h.e.l.luva lot earlier than I would've liked.

Friday was really going to suck...bad.

Chapter Nine.

Traffic along I-65 north was unusually congested. Or, at least it seemed like it. I mean, doesn't it always when you're running a few minutes later than normal?

That's all it took to get my Friday morning off to a frigging great start. Well, actually it happened earlier, during breakfast, when Fiona told me a little about what happened around 3 a.m. My tired a.s.s needed yet another cup of coffee to keep the fire going after that. It takes a lot of 'self-lifting' to get ready to face any day gig, I'm sure-definitely true for any call center supervisors I've ever known. The working consensus from my peers is that it takes two cups to get in the 'right' frame of mind.