So, a little more than a month after their first visit, Clay and his father were straining up the steep grade of Via Montana in a Pack Up! moving truck.
Much to their realtor’s chagrin, Peter had lowballed the asking price. A week went by without word before Dave Ganek—former Throne roadie turned family man—responded with a counter of three-million-three, his “final price,” take it or leave it, brother. No one was more thunderstruck than Vanessa, who had explained, with the patience of a teacher to pupils both deaf and dumb, that the original price was a steal to begin with! But after six years in residence, it seemed the Ganeks were good and ready to leave, and they weren’t interested in drawing the process out. Peter had simply been in the right place at the right time with the right story.
The Harpers drove the van across the country from Philadelphia, slept in truck stops, and hefted their furniture and boxes into the large house themselves. As Clay joked, you had to cut costs somewhere.
That first afternoon, they dove, sweaty clothes and all, into the deep end of their new, amoeba-shaped swimming pool, while “Under the Bridge” and “Ode to L.A.” played from Clay’s iPhone. At dusk, they sat up on the balcony outside Peter’s bedroom suite, guzzling lemonade and witnessing the electricity wink on across the shimmering expanse of the San Fernando Valley. “Is that a vision?” Peter said, and what could Clay do but nod at the endless miles of lights? “We’re going to do well here, Clay.”
A desperate hope clung to Peter’s statement, a vulnerability Clay could relate to. There was an excitement between them, a sense that, in this new west-coast life, they were building toward… something. “We are,” Clay said, grinning honestly.
His first night in the house, Clay heard the guitar. The footsteps would come later, but the guitar was there from the beginning. He’d fallen asleep in bed and woke when the book he’d been reading—the Sex Pistols’ 12 Days on the Road—slid off his chest and slapped the floor. He was reaching for the lamp on the nightstand when the strings found his ears.
The Ganeks had warned them that Throne fans kept frequent vigil outside the gates. The house may have been difficult to find for the casual tourist, but there were countless web sites devoted to Boyle’s last earthly address, complete with Google satellite pics. As a result, Dave Ganek had installed a security system with sensors mounted along the perimeter walls and signs warning trespassers of prosecution by law. “Most times they only want to take pictures and talk about how they saw Throne at South-by or wherever,” Dave said. “A few try to climb the hill for a glimpse of the Generator. As long as they don’t trigger the alarm or wake my kids, I’ve always let them be.”
In other words, visitors came with the territory. You couldn’t live in Graceland without Elvis impersonators showing up. But as Clay lay there in the dark, listening to the phantom guitar through the open window, his threshold proved lower than anticipated. The player was only screwing around, striking the same three notes again and again, and Clay thought that was pretty ignorant. If you’re going to hang out at Rocco Boyle’s house, the least you can do is learn to fucking play!
He crawled from bed and felt his way through the cavernous unfamiliar house, down to the wide, open-concept kitchen. He was halfway through his Cherry 7UP when he realized his mistake. The guitar wasn’t coming from the street. It sounded louder here, at the back of the house. Whoever was playing wasn’t on the far side of the wall either.
They were on the property. In the yard.
A glance at the alarm panel made his pulse jump. Peter had gone to sleep without arming any of the zones. Meaning someone could have scaled the wall undetected.
Aware of the number of curtain-less windows looking in at him, Clay struck the lights off, one by one. He and his father had marveled at how easily the house had swallowed their worldly possessions; they would have to buy more stuff just to get the echo out of the rooms. Now that echo worked against Clay, amplifying even the smallest shuffle.
Nothing moved outside though. The motion lights sat dark.
And the cool night enveloped Clay’s skin as he slipped onto the back deck. Vanessa had warned them that L.A. wasn’t the Florida of the West; it wasn’t a tropical climate, but a desert one—dry heat during the day, significant temperature drops at night—and Clay folded his arms, feeling a shiver run through his frame. Feeling watched.
The three-note performance continued in the dark to his right. As Clay crossed the deck and stepped barefoot in the damp grass, the player suddenly slowed, as if sensing his presence.
The shadow of the unlit Generator came into view and Clay froze. In there.
Someone had scaled the wall and picked the lock and now they were inside there, paying homage to their dead hero.
Then the guitar ceased, and Clay heard a voice, whispering from Boyle’s old studio. Speaking directly to him.
But the surrounding canyon must have bounced sound around in odd ways, because a moment later Clay realized, again, he was mistaken. Now there were two or three low voices and they were actually on the far side of the wall.
Clay followed their laughter, the crackling of their feet in the hillside chaparral. The motion sensors worked against him as he set off one lamp after another. If the lights worried his visitors, though, they didn’t let on, perhaps thinking they were the ones setting them off.
By the time they reached the cul-de-sac, Clay had installed himself in the shadows behind the front gate. A secret witness to the figures who appeared in the amber streetlight.
