or broken any laws. He listened to his singing, heard the pain and energy there. “I’m not Salman Rushdie,” he whispered, “and I’m not Pat fucking Boone, either.”
“ Have mercy,” Billy groaned. “Oh, please spare my life;
I’ve got two little babies and an innocent wife.”
Billy entered Alan’s house through the unlocked front door. After spending an hour at the mercy of the Testarossa’s blaring speakers, his ears rang as if he had two enormous seashells jammed against his head. The whispering sound was worse than any shellshock he’d ever suffered after performing in front of the towering speakers he used at stadium shows. It didn’t hurt as much, but it was twice as haunting.
Billy flipped on lights as he moved from room to room. He covered the downstairs – all clear – and then started toward the stairway that led to Alan’s bedroom.
Billy paused at the foot of the staircase. Quiet. No music upstairs. No voices. He climbed into the shadows and found a light switch at the top of the stairs.
And then, standing alone in the dark, he noticed a knocking sound. Not anything with a solid beat, but measured, insistent. Definitely there.
Billy turned on the lights and almost fell backward. A man stood ramrod straight at the far end of the hallway. Big shoulders and an ankle-length black leather duster. An oxblood Stetson hat. No face.
A mannequin. Jesus. Suddenly Billy remembered the costume fitting for the “Stackalee” video. This was his outfit. Had to be.
“Alan,” Billy said, “this isn’t funny.”
Billy moved down the hallway, following the knocking sound that seemed to be coming from Alan’s bedroom. He pushed against the bedroom door, but it wouldn’t give. He pushed harder, the knocking stopped for a moment, and he managed to squeeze into the room.
The door fell closed immediately, pushed by Alan’s weight. The agent was still alive, but Billy could tell that there wasn’t anything left of him. There was a small black hole on one side of his forehead and a bigger hole on the other, and his white sideburns were sticky with blood. Part of his brain lay in a glob on the carpet, but there was enough left in his skull to control his right hand, which tapped a measured beat on the bedroom door.
The costume designer was on the bed. He had a similar wound, but he wasn’t moving. On the wall above the bed, four words were scrawled in blood: WHERE’S MY MAGIC STETSON?
Billy pulled the bedcovers over the designer’s corpse. A silver-plated Colt .45 tumbled out of the tangled blankets and landed at his feet. He scooped up the weapon and checked for ammunition. Four bullets remained. Billy clicked the cylinder closed.
And then he realized that the whispering ringing in his ears was gone.
Alan’s meaningless Morse code suddenly took on a steady beat, like one of the old bluesmen pounding a guitar to keep the rhythm. A gold bracelet on the agent’s wrist made a shivery sound like a tiny cymbal. Billy cocked the pistol. Involuntarily, his foot began to tap.
Billy licked his lips. He stared at Alan’s wrist, at the gold bracelet. And then he sang, his voice quavering with horror as the words spilled out of his mouth, unbidden.
The White Elephant Barrel House was wrecked that night;
Gutters full of beer and whiskey; it was an awful sight.
Jewelry and rings of the purest solid gold
Scattered over the dance and gamblin’ hall.
Billy slipped through the doorway, holding the pistol before him. The house was quiet now. He’d moved Alan to the center of the bedroom, where the only thing to tap was the lush, soft carpet.
The silence felt good. No seashell echo. No singing. Billy took a deep breath. He’d get into the car and drive to a police station, or anyplace where he could find people. He’d find safety in numbers.
At the top of the staircase, Billy turned abruptly and stared down the hallway.
The mannequin was gone.
A blast of heat boiled up the staircase;
“ Have mercy,” Billy groaned. “Oh, please spare my life;
I’ve got two little babies and an innocent wife.”
Billy entered Alan’s house through the unlocked front door. After spending an hour at the mercy of the Testarossa’s blaring speakers, his ears rang as if he had two enormous seashells jammed against his head. The whispering sound was worse than any shellshock he’d ever suffered after performing in front of the towering speakers he used at stadium shows. It didn’t hurt as much, but it was twice as haunting.
Billy flipped on lights as he moved from room to room. He covered the downstairs – all clear – and then started toward the stairway that led to Alan’s bedroom.
Billy paused at the foot of the staircase. Quiet. No music upstairs. No voices. He climbed into the shadows and found a light switch at the top of the stairs.
And then, standing alone in the dark, he noticed a knocking sound. Not anything with a solid beat, but measured, insistent. Definitely there.
Billy turned on the lights and almost fell backward. A man stood ramrod straight at the far end of the hallway. Big shoulders and an ankle-length black leather duster. An oxblood Stetson hat. No face.
A mannequin. Jesus. Suddenly Billy remembered the costume fitting for the “Stackalee” video. This was his outfit. Had to be.
“Alan,” Billy said, “this isn’t funny.”
Billy moved down the hallway, following the knocking sound that seemed to be coming from Alan’s bedroom. He pushed against the bedroom door, but it wouldn’t give. He pushed harder, the knocking stopped for a moment, and he managed to squeeze into the room.
The door fell closed immediately, pushed by Alan’s weight. The agent was still alive, but Billy could tell that there wasn’t anything left of him. There was a small black hole on one side of his forehead and a bigger hole on the other, and his white sideburns were sticky with blood. Part of his brain lay in a glob on the carpet, but there was enough left in his skull to control his right hand, which tapped a measured beat on the bedroom door.
The costume designer was on the bed. He had a similar wound, but he wasn’t moving. On the wall above the bed, four words were scrawled in blood: WHERE’S MY MAGIC STETSON?
Billy pulled the bedcovers over the designer’s corpse. A silver-plated Colt .45 tumbled out of the tangled blankets and landed at his feet. He scooped up the weapon and checked for ammunition. Four bullets remained. Billy clicked the cylinder closed.
And then he realized that the whispering ringing in his ears was gone.
Alan’s meaningless Morse code suddenly took on a steady beat, like one of the old bluesmen pounding a guitar to keep the rhythm. A gold bracelet on the agent’s wrist made a shivery sound like a tiny cymbal. Billy cocked the pistol. Involuntarily, his foot began to tap.
Billy licked his lips. He stared at Alan’s wrist, at the gold bracelet. And then he sang, his voice quavering with horror as the words spilled out of his mouth, unbidden.
The White Elephant Barrel House was wrecked that night;
Gutters full of beer and whiskey; it was an awful sight.
Jewelry and rings of the purest solid gold
Scattered over the dance and gamblin’ hall.
Billy slipped through the doorway, holding the pistol before him. The house was quiet now. He’d moved Alan to the center of the bedroom, where the only thing to tap was the lush, soft carpet.
The silence felt good. No seashell echo. No singing. Billy took a deep breath. He’d get into the car and drive to a police station, or anyplace where he could find people. He’d find safety in numbers.
At the top of the staircase, Billy turned abruptly and stared down the hallway.
The mannequin was gone.
A blast of heat boiled up the staircase;
Similar Books
