Crime Plus Music (7 page)

“Take that, motherfuckah,” he rasped.

All about him, Shaderoc, the Tiger Woman and the musicians did battle against the invading notes. Invaders and defenders experienced losses. A ravenous note dove for him and a panicked Gibson strumming his axe on reflex. To his surprise, the sonic waves the guitar released burst the demon note into tiny pieces. A hand clamped on his shoulder. It was Shaderoc.

“With me,” the big man said, already in motion.

Down a dark tributary to the cave they went. Gibson still was on his crutch, but he somehow kept up with Shaderoc's long strides. From up ahead in the half-light came a blast of sound that sent Gibson onto his back and Shaderoc to his knees. Growling, venal notes swarmed about them, their teeth lunging for them and a jumble of off-key singing assailing their ears.

Gibson had managed to sit up but he felt nauseous.

“Come on, follow me, Church.” Shaderoc was back on his feet, aiming and firing his rifle, disrupting some of the notes that died screaming. More of them filled the tunnel. The soul shaker went prone and started belly crawling forward. Gibson imitated him, using his arms to propel himself forward. He was glad he'd been diligent in his workouts.

“We got to get to the source,” Shaderoc said over the cacophony.

Apparently they were heading toward the origination point of the attacking notes. They began to travel down an incline and soon found themselves sliding through dirt and loose rocks into another chamber.

“Shit,” Gibson swore as they came to a halt.

Before them was a giant pulsing entity, sort of like a gigantic cocoon or hive from which knobby, exoskeleton-like shell material protruded. There were also thousands of undulating feelers wiggling from the mass. The hive construct was lit from within and the demon notes squirted into life from the ends of the feelers. A rhythmic drone beat pounded at their bodies as well. Shaderoc crawled over to Gibson.

“We got one chance,” he said. “I'm going to rip open a seam in that mutha and in that moment she'll be vulnerable.

“Shaderoc, I—”

“No, this is how it must be. I told you, only you can bring it home.”

Before he could object again, the big man was up and seeking handholds invisible to normal men, scaling the rock wall. Hundreds, thousands of notes swirled about him. He unlimbered his rifle strapped across his back and blasted the notes to hell. Others he wrung their stems in his bare hands. But they were overwhelming him, their racket and jagged teeth opening countless wounds and gashes on his mighty body. His clothing was ripped to shreds and his rifle had been torn away from his hands. But Shaderoc kept on.

Then in position, he looked over his shoulder at Gibson and winked. The notes battering him, he unsheathed his sword, but it wasn't a saber. It was the fabled pimp cane and was resplendent, made of dark burnished wood with a jeweled head in the image of a pitbull's skull. He jumped from the small ledge he'd gained.

The pimp cane was arched high over his head, held in both hands as he yelled “Die, nasty mothersucker, die.” Shaderoc came down at the Hive Mother, his body engulfed in her musical killer note children.

But the beasts couldn't halt Shaderoc's momentum. Out blazed a laser blade from the end of the cane, crackling with cosmic gravitas. The white-hot beam opened a deep gash in the rutted hide. “Now, man, now,” he yelled as the notes engulfed him, stilling his words forever as he fell away.

“Shaderoc,” Gibson yelled. Getting upright, the fizz and pop like toxic carbonated water flooded his chest again. But he rallied and his fingers worked the strings feverishly, his thumb thumping a ferocious funk attack. His fingertips bled, sweat blinded his eyes. He sent his sound spears at the opening even as it healed itself shut. The wound closed, most of his sonic javelins bouncing away impotently. But hadn't one or two gotten through? Hadn't he been able to pull it off? Agonizing moments crawled by and Gibson could see no change as the notes zoomed around his body like a cyclone, those hungry teeth nipping at and sampling his flesh.

But as he sunk down, as his consciousness left his torn body, even as he watched his arm ripped off and eaten, the hive burned brighter from within. Its pulsations increased and as if too much water was being streamed into a balloon, its sides stretched beyond tolerance and burst. In one collective earsplitting wail, the notes died. Some of their bodies slammed into each other, the cavern walls, or simply fell to the earth, writhing in their death agonies.

One-armed, Gibson, his stub miraculously cauterized, crawled to Shaderoc. His form was getting soft, his hard distinct Kirby lines dissolving. In his outstretched hand with the squared-off fingers was a squarish block with miniature tubes and knobs all over the surface of it—a gadget straight out of the Fantastic Four.

“Take it, you earned it.”

“What?” he stammered.

“Make me proud,” Shaderoc said and died.

Gibson rolled onto his back. He held tightly onto the gizmo, which was warm and hummed in his hand. Overhead was black, yet in that void he could see the distant twinkling stars. The dark vault got lighter and lighter, Gibson's face placid in satisfaction.

“Oh, jeez, hey, Mom, Dad, better come here.”

“What is it, Cory?” called the middle-schooler's father anxiously.

“Is he dead?” said Cory, not sure what he should feel.

“Tell your mom to call 911, okay, buddy?” Nic Thomlinson bent down to the body splayed across his doorstep. “Tell them we need an ambulance.” He felt for a pulse in Church Gibson's neck but could detect none. Looking about for a clue as to how long the musician might have been out here, Thomlinson saw something sticking out of the dead man's fist. He knew from those
Forensic Squad
episodes he helmed a decade ago he shouldn't remove evidence but he did. It was a thumb drive.

“Huh,” he said, pocketing the item.

S
EVEN
MONTHS
LATER
,
THE
SOUNDTRACK
album of
Shaderoc the Soul Shaker
would be the number one download for three weeks running. Church Gibson would be nominated for a posthumous Oscar, and there was interest in a biopic about him. While different people had their favorite track from the film, the complete score on the thumb drive recovered from his stiff fist, was a track of what was presumed Gibson yelling “Shaderoc” over and over, with a haunting, evocative guitar instrumental underneath. Thomlinson used it on the ending credits.

THE LONG BLACK VEIL

BY VAL McDERMID

J
ESS
TURNED
FOURTEEN
TODAY
. W
ITH
every passing year, she looks more like her mother. And it pierces me to the heart. When I stopped by her room this evening, I asked if her birthday awakened memories of her mother. She shook her head, leaning forward so her long blond hair curtained her face, cutting us off from each other. “Ruth, you're the one I think of when people say ‘mother' to me,” she mumbled.

She couldn't have known that her words opened an even deeper wound inside me and I was careful to keep my heart's response hidden from my face. Even after ten years, I've never stopped being careful. “She was a good woman, your mother,” I managed to say without my voice shaking.

Jess raised her head to meet my eyes then swiftly dropped it again, taking refuge behind the hair. “She killed my father
,
” she said mutinously. “Where exactly does ‘good' come into it?”

I want to tell her the truth. There's part of me thinks she's old enough now to know. But then the sensible part of me kicks in. There are worse things to be in small-town America than the daughter of a murderess. So I hold my tongue and settle for silence.

Seems like I've been settling for silence all my adult life.

I
T
'
S
EASY
TO
POINT
TO
where things end but it's a lot harder to be sure where they start. Everybody here in Marriott knows where and when Kenny Sheldon died, and most of them think they know why. They reckon they know exactly where his journey to the grave started.

They're wrong, of course. But I'm not going to be the one to set them right. As far as Marriott is concerned, Kenny's first step on the road to hell started when he began dating Billy Jean Ferguson. Rich boys mixing with poor girls is pretty much a conventional road to ruin in these parts.

Me and Billy Jean, we were still in high school, but Kenny had a job. Not just any old job, but one that came slathered with a certain glamour. Somehow, he'd persuaded the local radio station to take him on staff. He was only a gofer, but Kenny being Kenny, he managed to parlay that into being a crucial element in the station's existence. In his eyes, he was on the fast track to being a star. But while he was waiting for that big break, Kenny was content to play the small-town big shot.

He'd always had an eye for Billy Jean, but she'd fended him off in the past. We'd neither of us been that keen on dating. Other girls in our grade had been hanging out with boyfriends for a couple of years by then, but to me and Billy Jean it had felt like a straitjacket. It was one of the things that made it possible for us to be best friends. We preferred to hang out at Helmer's drugstore in a group of like-minded teens, among them Billy Jean's distant cousin Jeff.

Their mothers were cousins, and by some strange quirk of genetics, they'd turned out looking like two peas in a pod. Hair the color of butter, eyes the same shade as the hyacinths our mothers would force on us for Christmas. The same small, hawk-curved nose and Cupid's bow lips. You could take their features one by one and see the correspondence. The funny thing was that you would never have mistaken Billy Jean for a boy or Jeff for a girl. Maybe it was nothing more than their haircuts. Billy Jean's hair was the long blond swatch that I see now in Jess, whereas Jeff favored a crew cut. Still does, for that matter, though the blond is starting to silver 'round the temples now.

Anyhow, as time slipped by, the group we hung with thinned out into couples and sometimes there were just the three of us drinking Cokes and picking at cold fries. Kenny, who had taken to drifting into Helmer's when we were there, picked his moment and started insinuating himself into our company. He'd park himself next to Jeff, stretching his legs to stake out the whole side of the table. If either of us girls wanted to go to the bathroom, we had to go through a whole rigmarole of getting Kenny to move his damn boots. He'd lay an arm across the back of the booth proprietorially, a Marlboro dangling from the other hand, and tell us all about his important life at the radio station.

One night, he turned up with free tickets for a Del Shannon concert fifty miles down the interstate. We were impressed. Marriott had never seen live rock and roll, unless you counted the open mic night at the Tavern in the Town. As far as we were concerned, only the truly cool had ever seen live bands. It took no persuading whatsoever for us to accompany Kenny to the show.

What we hadn't really bargained for was Kenny treating it like a double date right from the start when he installed Billy Jean up front next to him in the car and relegated me and Jeff to the backseat. He carried on as he started, draping his arm over her shoulders at every opportunity. But we all were fired up with the excitement of seeing a singer who had actually had a number one single, so we all went along with it. Truth to tell, it turned out to be just the nudge Jeff and I needed to slip from friendship into courting. We'd been heading that way, but I reckon we'd both been reluctant to take any step that might make Billy Jean feel shut out. If Billy Jean was happy to be seen as Kenny's girlfriend—and at first, it seemed that way, since she showed no sign of objecting to the arm-draping or the subsequent hand-holding—then we were freed up to follow our hearts.

That first double date was a night to remember. The buzz from the audience as we filed into the arena was beyond anything we small-town kids had ever experienced. I felt like a little kid again, but in a good way. I slid my hand into Jeff's for security and we followed Kenny and Billy Jean to our seats right at the front. When the support act took to the stage, I was rapt. Around us, people seemed to be paying no attention to the unknown quartet on the stage, but I was determined to miss nothing.

After Del Shannon's set, my ears were ringing from the music and the applause, my eyes dazzled by the spotlights glinting on the chrome and polish of the instruments. The air was thick with smoke and sweat and stale perfume. I was stunned by it all. I scarcely felt my feet touch the ground as we walked back to Kenny's car, the chorus of “Runaway” ringing inside my head. But I was still alert enough to see that Kenny still had his arm 'round Billy Jean and she was leaning into him. I wasn't crazy about Kenny, but I was selfish. I wanted to be with Jeff so I wasn't going to try to talk Billy Jean out of Kenny.

Kenny dropped Jeff and me off outside my house and as his taillights disappeared, I said, “You think she'll be okay?”

Jeff grinned. “I've got a feeling Kenny just bit off more than he can chew. Billy Jean will be fine. Now, come here, missy, I've got something for you.” Then he pulled me into his arms and kissed me. I didn't give Billy Jean another thought that night.

Next day when we met up, we compared notes. I was still floating from Jeff's kisses and I didn't really grasp that Billy Jean was less enamored of Kenny's attempts to push her well beyond a goodnight kiss. What I did take in was that she appeared genuinely pleased for Jeff and me. My fears that she'd feel shut out seemed to have been groundless, and she talked cheerfully about more double dating. I didn't understand that was her way of keeping herself safe from Kenny's advances. I just thought that we were both contentedly coupled up after that one double date.

All that spring, we went out as a foursome. Kenny seemed to be able to get tickets to all sorts of venues and we went to a lot of gigs. Some were good, most were pretty terrible and none matched the excitement of that first live concert. I didn't really care. All that mattered to me was the shift from being Jeff's friend to being his girlfriend. I was in love, no doubting it, and in love as only a teenage girl can be. I walked through the world starry-eyed and oblivious to anything that wasn't directly connected to me and my guy.

That's why I paid no attention to the whispers linking Kenny's name to a couple of other girls. Someone said he'd been seen with Janine who tended bar at the Tavern in the Town. I dismissed that out of hand. According to local legend, a procession of men had graced Janine's trailer. Why would Kenny lower himself when he had someone as special as Billy Jean for a girlfriend? Oh yes, I was quite the little innocent back in the day.

Someone else claimed to have seen him with another girl at a blues night in the next county. I pointed out to her that he worked in the music business. It wasn't surprising if he had to meet with colleagues at music events. And that it shouldn't surprise her if some of those colleagues happened to be women. And that it was a sad day when women were so sexist.

I didn't say anything to Billy Jean, even though we were closer than sisters. I'd like to think it was because I didn't want to cause her pain, but the truth is that their stories probably slipped my mind, being much less important than my own emotional life.

By the time spring had slipped into summer, Jeff and I were lovers. I'm bound to say it was something of a disappointment. I suspect it is for a lot of women. Not that Jeff wasn't considerate or generous or gentle. He was all of those and more. But even after we'd been doing it a while and we'd had the chance to get better at it, I still had that Peggy Lee, “Is that all there is?” feeling.

I suppose that made it easier for me to support Billy Jean in her continued refusal to let Kenny go all the way. When we were alone together, she was adamant that she didn't care for him nearly enough to let him be the one to take her virginity. For my part, I told her she should hold out for somebody who made her dizzy with desire because frankly that feeling was the only thing that made it all worth it.

The weekend after I said that to her, Billy Jean told Kenny she wasn‘t in love with him and she didn‘t want to go out with him anymore. Of course, he went around telling anybody who would listen that he was the one to call time on their relationship, but I suspect that most people read that for the bluster it was. “How did he take it?” I asked her at recess on the Monday afterwards. “Was he upset?”

“Upset, like broken-hearted? No way.” Billy Jean gave a little “I could give a shit” shrug. “He was really pissed at me,” she said. “I got the impression he's the only one who gets to decide when it's over.”

“You know, I've been wanting to say this for the longest time, but he really is kind of an asshole,” I said.

We both giggled, bumping our shoulders into each other like big kids. “I only started going out with him so you and Jeff would finally get it together,” Billy Jean said in between giggles. “I knew as long as I was single you two would be too loyal to do anything about it. Now I can just go back to having you both as my best friends again.”

And so it played out over the next few weeks. Billy Jean and I hung out together doing girl things; Billy Jean and Jeff went fishing out on the lake once a week and spent Sunday mornings fixing up the old clunker her dad had bought for her birthday; we'd all go for a pizza together on Friday nights; and the rest of the time she'd leave us to our own devices. It seemed like one chapter had closed and another had opened.

J
ESS TURNED FOURTEEN TODAY
. S
EEMS
like yesterday she came into our home. It wasn't how we expected it to be, me and Ruthie. We thought we'd have a brood of our own, not end up raising my cousin's kid. But some things just aren't meant to be and I'm old enough now to know there are sometimes damn good reasons for that.

I remember the morning after Jess was conceived. When Billy Jean told Ruthie and me what Kenny Sheldon had done, I didn't think it was possible to feel more angry and betrayed. I was wrong about that too, but that's another story.

It happened the night before, when Ruthie and I were parked up by the lake in my car and Billy Jean was on her lonesome, nursing a Coke in one of the booths at Helmer's. According to her, when Kenny walked in, he didn't hesitate. He came straight over to her booth and plonked himself down opposite her. He gave her the full charm offensive, apologizing for being mean to her when she'd thrown him over.

He claimed he'd missed her and he wanted her back but if he couldn't be her boyfriend he wanted to be her friend, like me. He pitched it just right for Billy Jean and she believed he meant what he said. That's the kind of girl she was back then—honest and open and unable to see that other people might not be worthy of her trust. So she didn't think twice when he offered her a ride home.

She called me first thing Sunday morning. We were supposed to be going fishing as usual but she wanted Ruthie to come along too. I could tell from her voice something terrible had happened even though she wouldn't tell me what it was, so I called Ruthie and got her to make some excuse to get out of church.

When we picked her up, she was pale and withdrawn. She wouldn't say a word till we were out at the lake, sitting on the jetty with rods on the water like it was any other Sunday morning. When she did speak, it was right to the point. Billy Jean was never one for beating about the bush, but this was bald, even for her.

“Kenny Sheldon raped me last night,” she said. She told us about the meeting at Helmer's and how she'd agreed to let him drive her home. Only, before they got to her house, Kenny had driven down an overgrown track out of sight of the street. Then he'd pinned her down and forced her to have sex with him.

We didn't know what to do. Fourteen years ago, date rape wasn't on the criminal agenda. Not in towns like Marriott. And the Sheldons were a prominent family. Kenny's dad owned the funeral home and had been a councilman. And his mom ran the flower arranging circle at the church. Whereas the Fergusons were barely one step up from white trash. Nobody was going to take the word of Billy Jean Ferguson against Kenny Sheldon.