In the Dead of Night (17 page)

No one. No van and no Mafia assassins out there. At least not any that I could detect. Wish I could tell you this made me feel relieved. Far from it.

After climbing into bed with my wife, who seemed lovelier than ever as she slept soundly, I ran everything since last Wednesday through my head.

There were too many deaths, too little sleep, and a string of coincidences that couldn’t be easily dismissed. Worse yet, I still hadn’t shared my previous experience involving the mysterious van with Fiona. I meant to do it, honestly I did. But with everything going on, I didn’t—
couldn’t—
find the right opportunity.

Now I had no choice. Everything that’d happened to me lately took care of that. There were no more excuses and no legitimate reasons to justify my procrastination.

I laid awake in bed for nearly an hour…just thinking. Debating on the best way to tell Fiona, and worse yet
what
to tell her.

The complete truth? Yeah, most likely...it sure as hell seemed like the best approach. I’d just pull her aside and tell it like it is…sometime tomorrow. It definitely needed to be done before anything else happened.

It suddenly sounded so easy. But, I knew in my heart that it wouldn’t be.

Chapter Fifteen

Call it a lesson learned.

A really
big
lesson, considering the verbal butt-kicking I got from Fiona once she learned the details of what’d happened to me after my band’s last two rehearsals.

“What?!”
she shrieked, causing me to cower like a little boy caught peering inside his parents’ dresser at their sex toys.
“You mean this crazy nut’s been stalking you—hell, ALL of US??? And you didn’t tell me about it??!”

Good thing I didn’t mention the ninja dude standing in our driveway the other night.

Maybe an even better thing is that I didn’t let her drive this night, although her close proximity in the passenger seat made my ears ring a little. Well, a
lot
, actually. Any louder and it would’ve done more damage than the combination of Max’s screaming guitars and Mongo’s cymbals.

What a way to start our Monday evening.

We were heading to the Gerst Haus Restaurant in Nashville. The place is Tom and Tony’s favorite restaurant, and they both look for any excuse to go there. Since the food’s real good, everyone agreed to meet there for dinner before our investigation at the Thompson house.

“I didn’t want to alarm you—“

“Now that’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard come out of your mouth in years!” she fumed, her interruption letting me know she’d scrutinize every word in its infancy. It’d be best to think hard before saying anything else. “I’m alarmed
now-w-w!!
If whoever this guy is goes after the boys…I’ll
never
forgive you!”

Fiona’s eyes misted while her lips quivered. A tear-filled deluge could be on its way in a moment.

“He won’t,” I said, confidently. “He and whoever is with him won’t touch em’. They’re after me for some reason.”

I really didn’t know if the boys would be untouched down the road, but for now I just knew they’d be okay. Despite not having Fiona’s sentient gifts, I do get some intense gut feelings every now and then. Like my strong intuition about more than one person out there, and if I’m right, I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re dealing with a guy and a girl. That’s the strongest impression I get.

“Don’t rely on your ‘feelings’ on this one, Jimmy!” she scolded, announcing the fact she was reading my thoughts verbatim, despite her claims it’s a hit or miss thing when it comes to deciphering my mental images. “And, I’m picking up just the guy…if there’s a girl involved, then it’s some struggle within him.”

Since I’d never mentioned a guy/girl impression before, I nodded in response, reluctant to expose myself to any more telepathic voyeurism. Luckily, we were within a block of the restaurant. Since Fiona doesn’t air her personal dirty laundry, and never has, she changed the subject to sort of ‘rinse’ our discussion. Talking about other subjects, like what she might order for dinner. Her intent was to be clear-eyed by the time we reached the parking lot. So for the moment, my indiscretion was as good as forgotten. At least until the next stupid thing I did.

It gave me a chance to reflect on how the day had gone up until our ride to the Gerst Haus. After another restless night’s sleep, I just had to suck it up, since most of my day at the call center would be spent in meetings hashing over old business we’d already discussed last week…and the week before that. We talk about pretty much the same things every meeting, month after month, year after year.

Not much ever changes in the art of delivering customer service over a telephone.

By the time I got back to my desk, I could only take care of a couple of call-backs from angry customers and confirm my team’s final payroll report. That left just a few minutes to touch base with Matilda, rebuffing her attempts to dredge out news on the killer still at large and my team’s recent slump—and what I planned to do about the latter. Then it was out the door and off to the historic Ryman Auditorium, where Dickey’s memorial was scheduled to begin at four o’clock.

Since Gerard, my brother-in-law, agreed to hang around Fiona and my boys for the day, he told me that he’d have Fiona there ten minutes early. With very little time to waste, I drove the Camaro like a bat out of hell to make sure she wasn’t standing around waiting on my ass. As fortune would have it, the only cop to notice my craziness headed the other direction on I-65, with no immediate opportunity to whirl around and chase after me. I’d already exited by the time I saw the flashing lights coming back my way, and I quickly maneuvered around the mid-afternoon traffic until I reached the parking lot next to the Ryman.

“I got here as quick as I could, babe,” I told my wife, right after I caught up with her near the main entrance.

I feared she’d be alone, but two other females stood with her. I recognized one from a BMI songwriter event last spring. Both girls were blonde and pretty, and they sauntered off together toward a side entrance. I almost followed them, thinking they must know the routine around there, but Fiona lightly tugged my arm to lead me inside the building’s main doors.

Smartly dressed in a black pantsuit and gold blouse, her eyes reflected the glistening silk. Golden orange like a Bengal tiger, and yet tinged by profound sadness. The loss of those close to her continued to extract a toll.

We moved toward the balcony, since the place was packed. There were probably more folks here than the Ryman had seen in quite some time. The place used to be a church, and every country music legend has played in this building, from the 1920s on through the current resurgence, as well as a bevy of popular rock artists during the past decade.

That afternoon, people all around us were standing—even the ones who could sit down, since the wooden pews leave much to be desired in terms of comfort. Dimly lit, the atmosphere had a concert vibe…like Dickey might finally get his own artist wish, since while alive his music biz destiny was to help others attain fame and fortune. Fiona told me that his dreams of performing to such fanfare were cast aside long ago, when he realized his musical gifts weren’t special enough to take him to the top.

He might’ve struggled as a performer, but he sure was one hell of a manager. The accolades from so many stars—most of whom were clients at one point—gave me a much better appreciation of the man’s greatness, and what the industry lost by his death.

The service lasted roughly an hour and a half, and the energy around us grew more and more intense. Not sure why, but it seemed noticeably different than Candi’s service yesterday afternoon.

Maybe it’s the building, with so much age, history, and….

Ghosts?

Damn! For a moment I felt incredibly tempted to sneak out to my car and grab one of our cameras. But that temptation fizzled away when I considered the sea of emotion surrounding us. A curious mixture of grief, and yet also, a ton of admiration for a man I soon realized I knew very little about. I thought all managers in the music biz were snakes—even the nice, approachable ones. My band’s manager can be a conniving prick. From what I learned at the service today, Dickey wasn’t anything like that.

When the service ended, Fiona and I filed out with everyone else, her head nuzzled beneath my chin. I didn’t realize how much closeness had waned between us since the killings started. A temporary thing, I hoped…prayed. She suddenly looked up into my face and smiled, so I know she felt the same way.

We remained close like that until we reached the Camaro. I opened her door before moving around to the driver side. Fighting my arousal, I debated on how to broach the subject I’d been avoiding. Maybe I didn’t wish to spoil the moment, or more likely, I turned chicken shit. Either excuse would do, I guess, as to why I continued to stall in telling her about the mysterious Buick and its hostile driver. At least it’s finally out there now, while I navigated through congested traffic in our quest to reach the Gerst Haus....

“What up, y’all?”

It would figure that Justin greeted us first at the restaurant. He might be a little green in haunting investigations, but the kid has got keen instincts when something’s not right. He didn’t say anything about the tension between Mr. and Mrs. Alea, but the way he studied Fiona’s face told me—and surely her, too—that he sensed something was amiss. Then everyone lined up to give my wife a much needed hug. The girls wept with her, which made an awkward few minutes for the guys.

“There’s plenty of beer and ale,” said Justin, motioning to the bar. He didn’t need to educate Tom or Tony—they’d tried them all over the past few years. “We should have a table in just a few minutes.”

The truth, I hoped. I was starving…literally, with a bad case of the shakes coming soon.

“I’ve got the buzzer right here,” added Tom, holding up the palm-sized square with the pulsating red and green lights.

He and Tony wore matching black NVP T-shirts, along with the insignia caps we ordered for our most recent group photo shoot last month. Dragon Lady must’ve seriously intimidated them when we visited the Thompson place last week. Nice gear, really, and maybe someday it’d be fun for our entire group to dress in our ‘official attire’ for an investigation.

But tonight? Sorry boys…our insignia will do little good to ward off Charlain’s abrasive malice. Justin’s gold chain and white rabbit’s foot won’t help either. Sure as shit, the matron of the remodeled Victorian formerly known as Robertson Manor will be waiting in her driveway with her arms folded while she taps her Gucci-covered toes on her driveway’s sealed surface. Not exactly a picture of overflowing fondness and support. More like Grimm’s cannibalistic witch ready to gobble up the Hansels and Gretels once the seven of us arrive, armed only with our normal array of cameras, EMF detectors, and voice recorders for protection.

But that was still a couple of hours away, after a belly full of Gerst Haus specialties and two or three tall glasses filled to the brim with the darkest ale. It wouldn’t be enough to knock us drunk on our asses, but a lasting buzz was surely in order that night.

At least Jackie, Angie, and Justin wore their normal investigation attire. Blue jeans and dark Ts, which are the standard choice for the group’s majority. Fiona and I still needed time to change, which isn’t as difficult as one might imagine, since we’ve gotten used to the routine. We can both change quickly in the tinted-window confines of the Camaro.

“So, why did you decide to be a dickhead and not tell anyone about a dark van following you home after rehearsal?” asked Jackie, loudly across our table, her buzz already in full force.

We had just sat down. The long dinner table was made from imported dark oak. Heavy oak, I should say. Immovable. The restaurant’s festive ambiance is quite different than the Chophouse. A bit rustic, like the German taverns of old.

“I should’ve said something…I know,” I admitted, feeling my face burn. I paused to look over at my wife, who motioned for me to go on. Could this be a down payment on an eventual full pardon? “I guess I didn’t want to frighten Fiona and the boys needlessly, if the asshole was just out to harass me. I doubt he cares much for rocker-biker dudes.”

“For real?” said Justin. He paused to take a drink from the Bavarian lager he selected for dinner. “It’s gotta be the same dude killing everyone around here. Right?”

Fiona and Jackie nodded as well, and this time I shrugged my shoulders. Tony and Tom shook their heads in silence, while Angie wore the same worried look from the other night.

“It could be,” I agreed, sipping on the amber ale I ordered. Closest thing to Killian’s I’d find in this place. “But, what if it’s not?”

“Just the same, I decided to call Ed about it,” Fiona advised, which seemed to surprise only me.

Fine German ale really stings like a mother when it’s going through your nose, and everyone looked in my direction as I spit it up. She must’ve called Dick Tracy after we entered the restaurant.

“Sorry, hon’, but he needs to know,” she continued, reaching over to gently pat my thigh. “It’s just too bad you couldn’t catch the van’s license plate.”