usually some Mexican laughing tobacco around, and always lots of booze, but not the varied, seductive powders that passed for currency here in Hollywood. He could think things over, dry out, get rid of this insanity once and for all. The idea was comforting.
Pin g. Seventh floor.
The hallway was dark, and once again Peter sensed the trace of some twisted presence. He shivered and flicked on the lights.
When he entered the lobby of Music Works, the track he and Dee Jennings were working on was playing. The music was coming from somewhere in the back of the complex, probably his own office. Dee was already waiting for him. That knowledge, plus the loud sound of aggressive rock and roll, helped to reassure him. He was becoming sexually excited, despite himself.
"Dee?"
No answer, but then the amps were cranked to the max. Peter could feel his speaker cabinets vibrating against the walls. Dee liked to listen that way. What rocker didn't? She was probably singing along, bouncing around, laughing.
God, she's going to be hard to give up, Rourke thought. Half of her seemed worth any two other women. But Gordie was right, and Peter knew it. Dee belonged to Easton and her all-important career. There was no way. Besides, he couldn't accept being a diversion, not any longer. It had become too painful.
"Dee?"
Peter dropped his briefcase on a secretary's desk, now sure what she was up to; both loving and hating it. A little quickie before the record date, huh? He felt himself harden in anticipation, but didn't enjoy the feeling. After his sad talk with Gordie Easton the sexual excitement made him feel guilty. It crossed his mind to say no, but just for a moment.
He opened the door. Dee was lying across his desk, naked and waiting for him with her legs spread wide. But her stomach had been sliced open, her mouth was frozen in a silent scream and she was very, very dead.
Rourke gagged. The music pounded like angry fists.
Gore was splattered everywhere. Dee's eyes were glazed over, locked forever in a gut-wrenching expression that shrieked out the pain and terror of her final moments. She had been tortured; tiny burn holes freckled her lovely skin, and the office stank of scorched flesh. Peter recoiled. He tried to cover his eyes before he saw the words, the words he suddenly knew would be there, but it was too late. They were on the far wall, printed in his woman's dried blood:
FIRST THE ThundEr & LigHTNing
thEn THE DEVILS RAIN!
Rourke stared and stared at his own lyrics in crimson smears. He mumbled, shook his
head and fell back against the wall. He dropped away into nothingness.
[...images ripple and dart through his mind like piranhas in a pool, snapping and ripping away: dog, someone calls quietly, dog? see his friend robert reiss crucified and wearing a crown of thorns, while below on golgotha a little man with twisted features steals down the side streets of an ancient city of antediluvian gables, thatched roofs and smoldering ruins, hears the wails of victims and the joyous cry of a crowd /burn/witch/burn/ in another place, some unspeakably awful place, something immense, coiled like a pile of reeking intestines, rears its fanged snout and rushes for him...]
"Oh, my God!"
Bryan Friedheim. But he was not on the same plane, he was elsewhere; touching Rourke's body, looking as Robert Reiss had. Were there tears in his eyes? How strange to see tears there. Rourke twisted around on the carpet and knew he was dying.
"Forgive me," Peter whispered. "Please."
"Operator, get me the police and an ambulance. Hurry!" [ ...am i moving? yes, rolling from side to side but i am not alone in my own mind, that thing knows where i am and it is watching. waiting...]
"He's really out of it."
Someone was talking, barking orders. A rustle of linen, the bitter scent of antiseptic. He was rolled onto a stretcher. Something bit into his arm like an angry insect. He saw a bottle floating in the air above him, trailing a tube roped
Pin g. Seventh floor.
The hallway was dark, and once again Peter sensed the trace of some twisted presence. He shivered and flicked on the lights.
When he entered the lobby of Music Works, the track he and Dee Jennings were working on was playing. The music was coming from somewhere in the back of the complex, probably his own office. Dee was already waiting for him. That knowledge, plus the loud sound of aggressive rock and roll, helped to reassure him. He was becoming sexually excited, despite himself.
"Dee?"
No answer, but then the amps were cranked to the max. Peter could feel his speaker cabinets vibrating against the walls. Dee liked to listen that way. What rocker didn't? She was probably singing along, bouncing around, laughing.
God, she's going to be hard to give up, Rourke thought. Half of her seemed worth any two other women. But Gordie was right, and Peter knew it. Dee belonged to Easton and her all-important career. There was no way. Besides, he couldn't accept being a diversion, not any longer. It had become too painful.
"Dee?"
Peter dropped his briefcase on a secretary's desk, now sure what she was up to; both loving and hating it. A little quickie before the record date, huh? He felt himself harden in anticipation, but didn't enjoy the feeling. After his sad talk with Gordie Easton the sexual excitement made him feel guilty. It crossed his mind to say no, but just for a moment.
He opened the door. Dee was lying across his desk, naked and waiting for him with her legs spread wide. But her stomach had been sliced open, her mouth was frozen in a silent scream and she was very, very dead.
Rourke gagged. The music pounded like angry fists.
Gore was splattered everywhere. Dee's eyes were glazed over, locked forever in a gut-wrenching expression that shrieked out the pain and terror of her final moments. She had been tortured; tiny burn holes freckled her lovely skin, and the office stank of scorched flesh. Peter recoiled. He tried to cover his eyes before he saw the words, the words he suddenly knew would be there, but it was too late. They were on the far wall, printed in his woman's dried blood:
FIRST THE ThundEr & LigHTNing
thEn THE DEVILS RAIN!
Rourke stared and stared at his own lyrics in crimson smears. He mumbled, shook his
head and fell back against the wall. He dropped away into nothingness.
[...images ripple and dart through his mind like piranhas in a pool, snapping and ripping away: dog, someone calls quietly, dog? see his friend robert reiss crucified and wearing a crown of thorns, while below on golgotha a little man with twisted features steals down the side streets of an ancient city of antediluvian gables, thatched roofs and smoldering ruins, hears the wails of victims and the joyous cry of a crowd /burn/witch/burn/ in another place, some unspeakably awful place, something immense, coiled like a pile of reeking intestines, rears its fanged snout and rushes for him...]
"Oh, my God!"
Bryan Friedheim. But he was not on the same plane, he was elsewhere; touching Rourke's body, looking as Robert Reiss had. Were there tears in his eyes? How strange to see tears there. Rourke twisted around on the carpet and knew he was dying.
"Forgive me," Peter whispered. "Please."
"Operator, get me the police and an ambulance. Hurry!" [ ...am i moving? yes, rolling from side to side but i am not alone in my own mind, that thing knows where i am and it is watching. waiting...]
"He's really out of it."
Someone was talking, barking orders. A rustle of linen, the bitter scent of antiseptic. He was rolled onto a stretcher. Something bit into his arm like an angry insect. He saw a bottle floating in the air above him, trailing a tube roped
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