“I called you in here to have a drink and to say that I’m sorry for how things were left. It’s natural for you to think of me as a bad guy. But I had the right to do what I did. A lot of people leave groups and go out on their own. I didn’t commit any mortal sins.”
“Maybe not. But you helped destroy Pete.”
“Pete was already destroyed. It was just that neither of you would admit it then. I’ve kept track of him. In and out of rehab. Every time the stays get longer. Every time there’s a little bit less of the Pete we grew up with.”
The words came out. I didn’t say them. In fact I was as shocked as John had to be. “Well, right now there’s enough of him left to be off alone somewhere with your wife.”
There was a flash of deep pain in the eyes. “I’m well aware of that, Michael. One of my people has been keeping an eye on her for me. Kelly and Pete are in a small office off the balcony. I’m trying not to think about what’s going on.”
Again he spoke before I could.
“I could stop them. But she needs to get it out of her system. She thinks she’s still in love with him. Her one true love. I have everything I’ve always wanted now, but I’ll never have her the way Pete had her. Maybe when she sees him tonight, sees that he’s not who he once was—” He shrugged. “But that’s kidding myself. She loves the idea of Pete. She knew he was a junkie and that’s why she went off with me. But she can’t get rid of this idea of him.” He tapped his forehead. “She won’t see him as he really is. He’ll be the old Pete to her.”
I wanted to think that this was just a performance. That way I could enjoy it as simple bad acting. But I knew better. As much as I hated him I knew that he was telling the truth.
“That make you happy, Michael?”
“Yeah. It does. The one thing you can’t have. That makes me very happy.”
And then, snake-quick, the smirk was back in the eyes. “You like it at Guitar City, do you? I’m told that you’re their best salesman.”
“Screw yourself.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Michael. Are you happy at Guitar City?”
The girls don’t come as easy as I thought they would. You see all these reality shows where girls will do anything to sleep with rockers. But I do all right. A lot better than I was doing before John added me to his band. The money’s pretty good, too. I own a ’57 ’Vette and when I take it back to the old neighborhoods you’d think the Irish were having St. Patrick’s Day.
The touring was cool for the first year, but now it gets to be a drag sometimes. John’s letting me play on the next CD. He says that’ll keep us in L.A. for at least six months. Cool by me.
Kelly has pretty much willed me out of existence. Even when I’m forced to stand close to her she won’t acknowledge me in any way. Everybody in the band notices, obviously. I think they feel sorry for me.
She only came after me once. This was after a gig in Seattle. She’d had a few drinks and right in front of John she slapped me and said, “I know where he got the coke, Michael. You gave it to him. More than enough to kill him. And I know who put you up to it.” She was staring right at John when she said it.
The word is she’s staying with him because of the kid. And that may be true. But maybe she’s like the rest of us. You know, the whole rock-and-roll thing. She’s the belle of the ball, “The Nicole Kidman of Rock,” as People called her recently. And maybe that’s how he keeps her. She wouldn’t be as hot if she divorced him. More number-one double-platinum CDs. Not even her beauty can match that.
The last time I went back to Chicago I stopped by the halfway house where Pete had last stayed. The woman Natalie? I gave her a check for $2,500 to help with the bills for the house. I thought she’d be real happy about it but she handed it back and walked away.
Late at night I feel bad about it sometimes. But as John always says, maybe we did him a favor. I mean, it wasn’t like he was ever going to have a comeback or anything.
The Madwoman of Usk
by Edward Marston
The author of four historical series under his pseudonym Edward Marston, Welshborn Keith Miles also writes many books and stories using his real name. This new story, set in the Middle Ages, features Gerald of Wales, a sleuth with an uncanny ability to sense the presence of evil. The latest Marston novel out in paperback, Soldier of Fortune, follows 17th-century soldier Daniel Rawson. And don’t miss Marston’s new hardcover, Murder on the Brighton Express.
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Of all the gifts with which I’ve been blessed by the Almighty, none is perhaps as striking as my ability to sense the presence of evil. It’s uncanny. I can detect venom behind a benign smile, lust in the loins of a virgin, and blackness in the heart of the outwardly virtuous. The first time I was acquainted with this strange power was when I was still a youth, studying in Paris. One of the many churches I visited harboured such a wondrous collection of holy relics that it had become a place of pilgrimage. Local people and visitors to the city flocked to view the sacred bones, leaving coins beside them as a mark of respect. One old woman, to whom my attention was drawn, came to the church every day to pay homage.
“She’s an example to us all,” I was told in a respectful whisper. “Though she’s seen seventy summers or more, she never misses her daily visit to the shrine. Behold her, Gerald.”
I did as I was bidden and watched her with care. After trudging down the aisle with the help of a stick, she lowered herself painfully to her ancient knees, dropped a coin onto the pile before her, then bent her head in prayer. There she stayed until the discomfort grew too great. Hauling herself to her feet, she genuflected before the altar, then struggled back down the aisle. It was a touching sight and I was duly moved — until, that is, she passed within a foot of me.
“Isn’t she remarkable?” said my companion.
“In some ways, she is,” I conceded.
“Such dedication is inspiring. Truly, she is a species of saint.”
I was blunt. “I don’t feel that she’s ready for canonisation yet.”
My comment was felt to be unkind, but I held my ground with characteristic tenacity. I knew something was amiss. Witnessed from a distance, the old woman’s commitment was stimulating. She herself had become an object of veneration. When she brushed past me, however, I caught a scent that was less than saintly. Keeping my thoughts to myself, I returned to my studies and lost myself in the beauty of the Scriptures.
On the following day, I made sure that I was in the same church at exactly the same time. The woman was punctual. Through the door she came as the bell of the nearby abbey was signalling tierce. I let her shuffle past me and make her way to the side chapel where the relics were housed. She was so preoccupied with the effort of lowering herself to her knees that she didn’t see me sink down a yard away from her. Like me, she deposited a small coin on the altar rail, then lowered her head in prayer. The difference between us was that I kept my eyes open so that I could watch her.
What I saw outraged me. Down went her head and up it came again in a movement so slight as to be invisible to anyone not right beside her. As it went down once more, her lips fastened upon a coin and lifted it up before dropping it into a fold in her gown. Instead of praying to her Maker, she was instead plundering the church. In place of the one coin she had deposited, I counted over a dozen that she took. She was nothing but a common thief. I reported what I’d seen and, though nobody believed me, it was agreed that the old woman would be kept under surveillance the next day. Almost twenty coins were filched by her greedy lips on that occasion. Arrest and retribution soon followed.