“But how does that help any of us? They’ll die and I’ll be the noblest songwriter this side of nobody. And you’ll be homeless on your own property. Forced to, what, haunt the orange grove for eternity?”
It doesn’t have to be that way. How I see it, if my band ever dumped me, I’d show up at the Palladium and shift their reality a little. Here,Boyle’s voice sharpened: I’d stroll right out on that fucking stage and ask the crowd if they wanted to hear me play. The moment they roared back, the show’d be mine. Anyone who tried draggin’ me off would have to deal with them. Then the world would understand, without me, Rocket Throne would never be Rocket Throne. Ego, see?
Clay ran a hand through his mop of hair. “That’s some shit you’re talking.” March into the lion’s den and steal the show? Goose bumps rose on his arms at the very thought. “How would I even get past the bouncers?”
It’s been a few years since I played the Palladium, but if it’s the same security company, I never knew those guys not to have an extra pass for a generous groupie or a guy with green. Get some cash together and bribe your way in. Chances are, they’ll pat you for weapons and look the other way. If that doesn’t work, scalp a ticket, fight your way to the front, and jump the barricade. They’ll probably only have one or two hulks blockin’ the stage. Wait till they’re elbow-deep in crowd-surfers, then go.
“Ego,” Clay repeated, his pulse going. Because recent events had made him crazy enough to want to try. If tonight was Ghost’s big coming-out party, then let everyone hear the band as it was meant to be heard. Let them realize who Ghost’s real frontman was. If it worked, it would take all of Priest’s leverage and turn it on its head. And maybe—an optimistic maybe—Savy would be freed from the damnation she’d signed on for.
Their mistake had been to leave Clay with nothing to lose. And right now, crashing a stage seemed a much better endnote than falling off a cliff.
This is rock-n-roll we’re talkin’ about, Boyle told him. Rebellion and power to the people. The Hailmaker should’ve fucked with the movie business.
“Right,” Clay laughed.
Afterward, haul ass out of there. Get back here.
“Aren’t they chasing you? How would I know where to find you?”
Don’t worry, none of them can see me like Savy can. And I play cat and mouse like a champ. Just live to tell the tale and get home. I’ll make sure it’s clear for you—
Rocks came skittering down from the hiking trail. Clay spun. Saw no one.
But there was someone.
Speak of the devils, Boyle said.
“Claaaaaay,” Essie called down. “Oh, my God. What are you doing at the edge of a cliff?”
“Essie?” Clay called back.
“I heard you begging for help. Oh, God! Please don’t hurt yourself. I’m coming down.”
“And when she gets here,” Clay whispered, “she’ll shove me over.”
Pretty much.
“Es, it’s my fault. You were trying to save me from a bad fate. You didn’t deserve what happened to you. But you chose to serve the Queen Bitch, so if you take another step, I’m going to bash your brains in.”
For a breathless moment, Essie quit moving. “Oh,” she said sadly. But when she next spoke, all amity was gone. “He’s dead, you know. Payton Alexander? They found him under his desk. Heart stopped cold. Like something had frightened him real bad.”
Shit. Was that true? Was Payton dead? Please, no—
She’s coming again, Boyle warned.
“Do you want your father to go the same way?” Essie wanted to know.
Don’t go in for that bait. Wait till I distract her, then break for the ravine.
“Rocco, if I don’t succeed, I want you to know—”
Don’t get sentimental, just rain on their fuckin’ parade for me!
Then Boyle went clambering over the rocks, heading south along the bluff, kicking over his own framed photos, scattering rocks, plowing through every creosote bush in a twenty-yard radius. And Clay moved in the opposite direction, slipping away in the gathering dark.
He moved, quiet as he could. Eventually the cliff’s drop-off gave way to grassy hillside that lowered itself steeply, but gradually toward the tree line below. There was a dirt path at the bottom, a fire road, and if Clay picked his way down to it he was certain he could make it back to his Jeep.
Behind him, he heard Essie moving away, doing her best to assure him that running wasn’t the answer. “Happy hunting,” he whispered.
Footfalls shuffled above him. Shit! Clay had been so focused on watching his ass, he hadn’t picked up the other tiger lying in wait. They’re both here. Determined to finish the job.Maybe his demise was the one thing that could release them from their rotting bodies. Or maybe they were doing it for fun. Clay hunkered down, listened.
Karney appeared from behind a cluster of boulders, fifteen yards away.
Clay started crawling backward, then caught himself. Even if the cliff had receded to a skier’s slope, going ass-over-head here was a recipe for disaster. In the fading dusk, Clay saw Karney’s milky-blind eye (compliments of the pool acid) oozing half out of the swollen pink dome of his head. And he saw the mini-amp, jutting from his guts where Savy had stuck it.
The grass was high where Clay crouched, but not high enough. Karney’s other eye fell on him and his teeth clenched. “You’re all alone,” he barked.
“That’s a song I’m used to singing,” Clay told him.
“What the hell are you up to?”
“I’m getting the band back together.”
“Don’t count on it.” Karney sneered.
Clay gave him the finger.
Then Karney bolted for him and Clay dove on his side, landing hard on his hip and going into a baseball slide, down, down the grassy slope.
It worked well at first, his progress smooth and swift. Halfway down, though, his heel caught and his body jumped up
