The bottle sat there, like the useless thing it was, on the round patio table beside the mini-amp, backlit by a large, but purposely dim Coleman lantern. With the nearest motion sensor dismantled, the lantern cast the porch in an eerie jaundice, while Clay, as in-character as any self-deluded Boyle impersonator, watched his own superimposed shadow writhe against the house.
If nothing else, he was getting better at Throne covers. Again and again he ran through “Face the Music” and “Tried to Fix You” and “American Rapture,” hoping it was enough to fool the woman who had known Rocco Boyle better than anyone.
Fat chance, he could hear his old man telling him. I’m going to come home and find your mutilated body. And have you even bothered to consider how hard that will be for me, Clay?
Yet, to this point, Deidre remained indifferent to Clay’s tribute set. Was she watching from one of the windows, afraid to step outside? Or did she sense the trick and, in turn, the trap? Nine o’clock worked its way to ten. Before long, Peter would be home from work, Essie in tow, assuring her that his master suite no longer looked like the climax of a Nirvana set—only to find that Clay had scarcely finished a third of the job, the law books as scattered as ever, the mattress still angled in the bathtub. Clay imagined himself rushing inside with some fabricated excuse, and that would be when Deidre pounced, when they were all together, and maybe then Peter would understand that the destruction had not been his troubled son’s doing—right before their skulls were fractured by a flying highboy.
Gritting his teeth, Clay turned the single-watt amp to 10 and started into “American Rapture” again. The famous four power chords heard ’round the world. And he wondered if he’d ever write a song like this, three-and-a-half minutes of sound powerful enough to unite the voices of a hundred-thousand people in a divided country. How did that feel? To start with a few notes, composed alone in your basement or garage, and watch it grow and grow and grow? Let me experience that just one time, Clay thought.Even one-hit wonders were better than never-weres.
One of the French doors thumped softly against the side of the house.
Clay hadn’t seen it opening, but all of a sudden it was agape. Thrown wide. And something had stepped though the entryway. Nothing visible. But something palpable.
Clay started to lift his head, but some preserving force screamed out, No! If she saw his face—not half as handsome or a quarter hirsute as Rocco’s—the whole feeble plot was cooked.
He focused on keeping his head turned, and in so doing fell off rhythm. And stopped singing entirely. Reaching the “Rapture” chorus, famous or not, Clay couldn’t remember a goddamn word of it.
The deck creaked.
Baby? Deidre asked. And it was amazing, how a voice so high could fill you with such a low-belly dread. Is it you?
Clay’s tongue was flaccid. It was the worst sort of stage fright imaginable—the kind that could get you killed. And when he missed the solo, the whole song went to pieces.
Rocco? Deidre asked. She dared to advance another step. And another. Until she was standing directly behind the imposter. The moment her cold fingers touched the back of his neck, Clay knew his acting career would be over.
Meanwhile the bottle was sitting there, ignored. Why wasn’t she going for it?
Have you been here all this time? Why haven’t you played for me before?
Clay’s pick hung over the strings. All was quiet but his heartbeat, pounding at the night like a tom-tom of doom. And even if the jacket was uniquely Boyle’s, this close, Deidre had to notice the differences between them.
Rooster was in the house, she went on. He chased David and his family off, so I chased him off. The collar of Boyle’s jacket lifted. She was leaning toward Clay, and even if it wasn’t possible, he’d have sworn he could feel her breath, sour and warm, against his ear. I’ve dreamed of you so many times. Now she touched Clay, gripping his chin tightly to turn his face toward her. Baby, why won’t you look at me?
Clay resisted her pull, waiting for her to comprehend, to turn furious and violent. But Deidre’s fingers slipped away. Hey. This isn’t… it is, isn’t it? Large shadows rattled along the side of the house as she nudged the bottle against the lantern light. The one we found on the beach.
That was when the paralysis in his hands broke and Clay started playing the only thing he could think of. The three open strings that Boyle had used to lure him into the Generator in the first place. Low E, A, D. Thrum-Tum-Tee. Then back up. Tee-Tum-Thrum.
Did you leave something inside for me? One of your letters? Deidre’s voice grew thick. On the verge of tears. I thought this bottle was gone. Like you, baby, just like you.
Clay played faster. It was working. God, it was working. Deidre’s energy shifted away from him and the bottle seemed to tremble as she traveled down its narrow neck.
Thrum-Tum-Tee…
Don’t wait, Clay’s mind screamed.
Tee-Tum-Thrum…
Don’t wait dammit!
Deidre’s voice rose from the mouth of the bottle. There’s nothing here….
Clay missed the low E and the guitar made him pay with a jarring twang.
Rocco?
Clay snatched at the cork and fumbled it. It bounced once and went off the table.
“Oh, fuck me, no!” he hissed and dropped to all fours. The Rick’s cord snagged and the mini-amp jumped off the table and struck Clay in the kidney.
You’re not Rocco, Deidre told him.
Guitar dangling from his torso, Clay probed frantically in the dark beneath the table. He could see exactly nothing. For all he knew, the cork had skittered into the grass.
Rooster,Deidre realized. And then she was screaming full-bore: How dare you! How fucking dare you!—echoing against the glass so that it sounded like there was two of her in there. And she was moving back up
