<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 13 Extreme Liberties "Citizens of the night, rise up and fight...." These lines, gracing the beginning of Extreme Liberties, announced a new era. Sure of himself now, Anton spelled out his program. Sure of his popularity, he apologized to no one. Yet within himself he felt a profound mistrust. He didn't doubt the value of his work, but he wondered if he was a worthy messenger. He was twenty already, and the world was just as squalid as it had been when he was seventeen. What had he done to deserve his fame? Back in Iowa, people had ignored his recklessness in their rush to make him a hero. Regardless of how he'd behaved, they'd seen in him the model youth they wanted. As a result, his popularity had been meaningless, and now it was the same. People who came to his shows just because the Psychic Rangers were popular weren't at all like their original fans. The flat-bellied, spiral-eyed, androgynous teenagers who had helped make the Trashtown House Jam what it was, a free-for-all of bonfires and metallic banging, had been chased to the sidelines by thick-necked types who yelled incoherently and drank too much beer. If he hadn't been the leader of this mob, Anton felt, they would have torn him apart in a flash. In the final weeks before the album's release, he divided his time between two roles, music producer and head of Chaos Theory Records, the independent label he'd set up to sell the album. He called Extreme Liberties "the product" in mockery of entertainment industry types, but it was also the truth. He had to decide how to package the product, and what the product's likely audience would be. Which cities and towns would be critical to the success of their tour? Which media outlets would be most effective in reaching the band's base? He had to design a marketing campaign for the band, knowing all the while that their fans were skeptical of promotional tricks. He left the details to Kliff, knowing that Kliff would rely on their troops on the ground, local fans who had stepped forth during their last tour. These self-identified supporters served two purposes. They helped to spread the word about the new album, and they sent back useful information about which venues to play, which local bands might work as opening acts, and which media outlets were their allies. Because of Kliff's network of contacts and his experience as a scout, he was a natural for this line of work. When Anton broke the news to him that Sabrina would be their new road manager, Kliff wasn't at all happy. Anton tried to appease him. "Your responsibilities won't change. You'll control the agenda as always. She's there to handle logistics, and that's it." Kliff launched into a confession. "Did I ever tell you? I slit a man's throat once when I was twelve." His hand sliced through the air, catching the light. "The next morning, I couldn't believe it had happened, so I went back to find the body. It was gone, but there was a man there who led me to Reinhold. Back then, Reinhold was running a bookmaking operation from his waterfront offices. He had a whole system of tables that could tell the winning number from the types of ships that moved past his window." "So he took you in? A kid he knew had killed someone?" "I was the first, and I was his favorite for a long time. He taught me scouting tactics, use of poisons, how to strangle without leaving a mark. How to come and go without being seen." "And Sabrina?" "She wasn't there yet. But once he started needing enforcers, he called her up." "They knew each other already?" "Either that, or he summoned her like a demon." Anton laughed. "Are you serious?" "Coming from nowhere like she did, she seemed like a demon. And she used me in ways I don't like. The first time someone fell in love with me, she killed him. It wasn't the only time, either. I think she enjoyed it. Reinhold let her do it because he needed her to get where he was going. Later, once he had the upper hand, he let me choose my own assignments, and I slipped out from under her wing." He reached in his jacket pocket for his tobacco. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. They were good to me for all that. In those days, they were the only family I had. I'm not proud of what I did, but it was better than eating garbage, sleeping in doorways. We do what we can to survive." "So what are you saying? Should I drop her from the tour?" Kliff lit the cigarette he'd rolled. "Don't worry about me, that part of my life is over. Besides, I'm not sure it's possible to say no to Sabrina. All I'm saying is, be careful. That woman is never what she seems. Even if she lets you see behind the mask, it's just another mask." • • • Before joining the Psychic Rangers, Vince had avoided the drums for a long time. Drumming was his passion, so much so that it scared him. He was convinced that no good would come of an obsession like that. When Anton came into his life, avoidance was no longer an option. Their relations were turbulent because Anton was turbulent, but he was no longer afraid of his own talent. As the Psychic Rangers' career took off, Vince became an object of desire to many. People now said he was one of the best drummers on the West Coast. It felt great to be taken seriously, to be in demand at parties, to be responsible for music that people cared about. Yet at the end of the day he always returned to Diane, the keeper of his equilibrium, the woman he called his wife. Work on Extreme Liberties was so intense at times that he felt like a prisoner in the studio. The rare intervals he spent with Diane only increased his anxiety. It was like being released from a jail cell for a conjugal visit, only to be locked away again. On those occasions, their lovemaking was more urgent than joyful. Somehow they got sloppy, and Diane ended up pregnant. They told only a few friends about it, as they tried to decide whether to bring a child into the world. Vince was a homebody at heart, and he loved the idea of balancing a daughter on his knee as he taught her the drums. But before that could happen, he knew that the band would experience a whirlwind of activity with no end in sight. It would be two or three years before they reached a plateau from which they could look down on their competition. Even then, he knew that Anton would never be satisfied. This was no time to raise a child, but adoption was never an option. As he told Blake, "I'd hate to think she might be raised by a cop." Another complicating factor was that he and Diane were both addicts. They'd been shooting up together since the days when they lived in a dark and noisy apartment under the freeway. Among the artists and musicians they knew, heroin was a bourgeois addiction, a sign of status and privilege as opposed to crack. For those who could afford it, it was a quiet decadence, a weekend hobby. When they wanted to unwind, they would tell their friends they were leaving the city and shut themselves in their apartment, refusing to take any calls until their "return" a few days later. It was as refreshing as a trip to the country, without the dirt and bugs. Diane's porcelain features, Vince's long hands made their habit obvious to anyone who thought about it. Whoever saw them together would be struck by their moldering beauty, a back-from-the-dead quality that was eerie in people so young. But no one spoke to them about it, not even Blake who knew everything. In their circle, it was taken for granted that people had the right to make their own choices. They were the ideal junkie couple. Diane was a model of stay-at-home chic, clipping coupons, baking casseroles, sewing her own curtains. Vince's stamina and endurance were positive signs of his habit. The drug steadied his brilliance, settled him into a groove. It kept him from spinning aimlessly, slamming into things, shooting off sparks. As a successful musician, he had no problem paying for his supply. He even had a reliable source, a left-wing lawyer who hung around protests looking for clients. He and Diane were as one in their addiction, and they liked it that way. Vince never discussed this with Anton, because there was no point. He never let his habit interfere with his work. Even in the midst of a long rehearsal, he could slip into the bathroom for a fix and everything would be fine. Yet it was clear to him that Anton knew, because every so often Anton joked about his monkey. "Time to feed the monkey," he would say as they left the studio for the night. Once at a party, he told a couple they'd just met, "My friend here has a pet monkey. A rare Asian monkey that needs special care." Anton liked to taunt him about his home life, calling him "pussywhipped" and a "househusband." Apparently, he saw Diane as a rival. It was true that Vince felt more loyalty to Diane than to the band, but he never used that as an excuse. He showed up on time and did all that was asked. Yet Anton would accuse him of "getting too comfortable" or "starting to slack." Vince was a quiet person who spoke through his drums, so it took him a long time to confront Anton about this. When he did complain, Anton blew it off. Vince began to withdraw emotionally from the band, thinking of it as little more than a gig. He should have been excited by the upcoming tour, but only his sense of duty kept him going. He asked himself what gave Anton the right to be such a jerk. Had fame spoiled him? But in fairness, Anton hadn't changed much. Vince's own perspective had changed more. Now that they'd achieved a success bigger than he'd ever imagined, he was ready to kick back and enjoy what he'd won. But Anton kept going, impatient as ever. That was the basic difference between them. Anton would never be satisfied, and he already was. Once the album was finished, he realized that Diane would be having their baby in the middle of their three-month tour. The thought had been there in the back of his mind, but he'd pushed it away so he could work. After the recording sessions were over and he came up for air, the reality of the problem hit him with full force. He asked Anton to shift the dates so he could stay by Diane's side. "You mean she's pregnant?" Anton said, fixing him with his pale stare. "You didn't know?" "Nobody told me." "She's been showing for weeks." "I haven't seen her." "The baby's due a month into the tour." "Too bad. We'll be on the road." "If I'm not here to look after her—" "You'll see the baby when you get back. It happens to guys in the army all the time." Vince bit his lip in frustration. "But how will she score?" It was the first time he'd mentioned their habit to Anton. "You mean she's still shooting up?" Anton was horrified. "Now that she's pregnant?" "We both do it." "I know, but that's not the point. What about the baby? Won't she be born addicted?" "We've thought about that. She'll get it from Diane's milk." Anton stared at him, mouth agape. "We're breastfeeding to start with. Over time, Diane will give the baby less milk and more formula, and the taste for opiates will go away." Anton winced. "If you ask me, you guys shouldn't be having a baby at all." "We're keeping the baby." "Fair enough, but what am I supposed to do? Rescheduling a fifty-city tour is impossible. We've had these dates lined up for weeks. You knew that Diane was pregnant. You knew when the tour would start. Why did you wait until now to say something?" Vince glared at him. Why did Anton always have to outsmart him? "So here are your options," Anton said. "You can stay behind, which means you've quit the band. Don't do that. Or you can bring her along, and let her give birth on the road. We'll give her everything she needs, a midwife, a private room. She'll be as comfortable as if she were at home in her own bed. Or she can stay here, which means you'll need to find someone to look after her. A sister, a best friend. As far as the heroin goes, what do you do when you're on the road? You bring along enough to last for the whole trip, right? I don't think you'd cop from strangers in each new city." Vince looked uncomfortable. "I know you bring a supply. And I know you're responsible about it. You're careful not to come up short when we're still two weeks from home. If you did, you'd endanger the tour. Instead, you stick to a schedule. You don't let it become someone else's problem, and I appreciate that. What I'm saying is, you could apply the same sort of thinking to Diane. Get her enough to last the whole time you're away." "And our daughter? It would be crazy not to see her for three months." "Then bring Diane with you. It seems like the best choice." He put his hand on Vince's arm. "Whatever you decide, there'll be plenty of time to watch your daughter grow up. But this is our breakthrough tour, the one where we become serious players for the first time. I know you don't want to throw it away. So talk with Diane, and let me know your decision. I'll do whatever I can to make it work." This was how Anton was able to keep people's loyalty, Vince realized, despite being such a prick. Even if it was for narcissistic reasons, he understood the motivations of those he relied on, and at crucial moments he came through. Vince hadn't gotten everything he wanted, but he'd been heard and respected. He began to look forward to hitting the road. In the end, Diane decided to stay behind in Portland, because she was afraid the stress of the tour would be too much for her. Anton offered to fly her out to visit the band once the baby was born, to give Vince a chance to say hello. At their sendoff concert at New Jerusalem, Diane sat backstage as the rafters rattled and shook. After the show, she followed Vince to the bus to give him a long embrace. He wore a long black cape against the cold, and she had on a scarf and mittens she'd knitted herself. As the bus pulled away, she stood waving. • • • Anton did an interview at a college radio station in Boulder, Colorado. "Are you God?" asked the DJ. "I don't think so. And you?" "My girlfriend thinks so, but she's—" "Seventeen? I'd like to meet her." "That's not cool!" "You're the boss. What do you want to talk about?" "You've got a new album—" "There's always a new album. In fact most the songs on Extreme Liberties, which must be the album you're talking about, I wrote months ago. I've forgotten them already. Releasing an album is the last step of a process. After that, you move on." "So you're already working on another one?" "We've introduced two or three new songs since we've been on tour. It's a constant cycle. I figure I've got a few good albums in me. I'm like a woman who's born with eggs in her belly, and when she reaches puberty, they start dropping out one by one. There's nothing she can do to stop it, they just keep falling out until they're gone. I started ovulating, I guess, when I was about fifteen. That's the right time, isn't it? The only thing I've got to worry about now is making sure the eggs are fertile, so they don't get flushed down the toilet. Another baby, another album. By the time one is incubated and born, the next one's on its way." "So who do you have sex with, to make you fertile?" "Excuse me?" "Uh...." "It's immaculate conception, I guess. But remember, it's only an analogy. I'm fertile now, that's all I'm trying to say. And I won't be forever. You ever notice that a lot of musicians are great when they're young, but by the time they're thirty, they've got nothing left to say? Even so, they keep making albums because it's a habit. I figure I've got about five good albums left in me. Right now it's easy, I just let them pop out. But sooner or later, I'll dry up. No more eggs, no more babies. I hope I'll know enough to stop trying when the time comes." "Thanks for clearing that up." "No problem." "So let's listen to a cut from Extreme Liberties, a song called 'Wake-Up Call'...." The DJ pushed a button and the song went out over the air. The phone was ringing at 9:00 a.m. It was Jesus on the other end He said to me, "You see, my friend Wake with me, and we'll pretend The world is dead and we are risen...." Will you enjoy these voices, this dream? • • • Sabrina was proving herself to be a tough, no-nonsense road manager. There was no room in her life for useless motion, and she was dedicated to the ruthless elimination of waste. Never again would they have to wait outside the concert hall while the bus driver exorcised it with burning sage. Never again would they worry about arriving in town to find the show canceled, or being stiffed by a club owner after the performance. Every so often she would vanish for a few hours, but she always left detailed instructions with her assistants, Peter and Cybele. They carried out her wishes with robotic precision, so her absences were never felt. As a kid growing up on the Midwestern plains, Anton had wondered about the "ghost trucks" he saw on the Interstate, blank, white-walled semis with cryptic slogans like "02168 DESMO CHIC." Who put them on the road, and what did they carry? Sabrina told him they were Postal Service trucks, and she had a small fleet of her own. Unlike the real ones, hers didn't carry ceramic angels or vacuum-packed hams. Reinhold's three-cornered trade in porn, weapons, and drugs was the life blood that kept her alternative postal route running. Backstage after their concert in Tucson, she asked him if he'd like to see for himself. The band would be traveling to San Antonio overnight, with a day off before the next show. That would give them enough time to do a trucking run and rejoin the group. "Usually I don't make the runs myself," she explained. "I just check with my agents and take their reports. But we've been having some trouble lately in this part of the country, so I need to see for myself. It might be boring for you, but you could always take a turn at the wheel, or help unload the goods. It will give you a taste of life in the field." Anton was wary of being alone with Sabrina, but her seductive pull was as strong as ever. Besides, he was curious. When she looked at her watch and said, "Time to decide," he said he would come. Within moments, Peter appeared at her side as if summoned. "Anton is coming with me on tonight's mission," she said. "Tell the band he'll be staying in Tucson tonight. He'll be back with the group before the next concert. Let them think he has a girlfriend here." Peter showed them his crooked grin. "Now be a dear and pack a bag for each of us. Deodorant, toothbrush, change of socks. Meet us in front of the arena in ten minutes." Peter disappeared, and she ushered Anton out the stage door to the parking lot. A group of fans was standing around waiting for Anton to sign copies of Extreme Liberties. She shooed them away with her psychic force. A youth with red hair and incandescent blue eyes broke through her barrier. "I thought you might want this," he muttered as he pressed a well-used book into Anton's hands. Anton looked down to find a copy of Rimbaud's Illuminations. He wanted to kiss his admirer, but when he looked up the boy was gone. Sabrina steered him through several rows of parked cars. She said the words "blue Nissan Sentra" and there it was. She reached under the bumper to retrieve a key that was taped there. They drove to the front of the arena where Peter was waiting with their bags. As they moved through the outskirts of Tucson, Anton thumbed through the Illuminations, reading with difficulty as the streetlights flickered past. O my Good! O my Beautiful! Hideous fanfare where I don't stumble at all! Hurrah for the incredible work and the marvelous body, for the first time! It began amid children's laughter, and will finish by it. This poison is going to stay in all our veins even when, the fanfare turning, we are returned to our former disharmony. They pulled up in front of a wooden building at the edge of a railroad yard, which had the feel of an old-time roadhouse. Anton assumed this was the Tucson branch of the Salon des Assassins. A man appeared in the door as Sabrina cut the engine. He strolled over and introduced himself as Mitch. He was rangy and young, with fur on his upper lip like Kliff. He wore a flannel shirt, jeans, and work boots. When he saw Anton, there was a shock of recognition. "The truck's already loaded," he told Sabrina. "It's waiting out back. You'll be heading to Edwards Air Force Base to hook up with Sergeant Wiklas. In exchange for our porn, he'll give you tins of raw and refined substance. But the main cargo out of Edwards will be guns and explosives. Normally we'd have a specialist ride with you to deal with the weapons, but since you're handling it personally, we saw no need for that. In Bakersfield you'll put the weapons into boxcars headed for L.A. The gangs down there will know what to do with them. From there, you'll switch to a sedan. You know Ben at the All-Seeing Eye in Fresno? He sells surveillance equipment and occult paraphernalia downtown." "A little guy with round glasses and a velvet jacket? Looks like he's been tripping for the last twenty years." "That's the one. Once he gets his hands on the substance, the mission is over. If you like, he'll arrange for your trip to San Antonio." She asked to see the cargo list, and Mitch handed her a clipboard. She flipped through the pages and read a few entries out loud. "Lucy's Pet Donkey, bestiality, thirty minutes. Tijuana Go-Go Boys, gay gang bang, one hour twenty. Raising My Niece, pedophilia. Rough and Tumble—that's you, Anton—specialty tastes. Prison Sluts on Lockdown, lesbian gang rape." She put the list down. "Let's take a look at the truck before we head out." She stepped from the car. Anton started to follow, but she told him to wait. "How's Danny been handling himself on his runs?" he heard her say as they walked into a stand of trees behind the building. "He's been getting into the product, I'm pretty sure...." Mitch's voice trailed away as they disappeared. Anton went back to reading Rimbaud. We, so worthy of these tortures! let us fervently gather this superhuman promise made to our created body and soul: this promise, this madness! Elegance, science, violence! We were promised that the tree of good and evil would be buried in shadow, that tyrannical honesties would be exiled, so we might bring forth our very pure love. He heard a whistle, and looked up to see Sabrina beckoning from the trees. He switched off the reading light and got out of the car. They drove for a few hours through the desert flatlands. At Edwards Air Force Base they stopped at a remote checkpoint, and followed a service road for several miles. They parked behind a cluster of buildings, out of view. After a few minutes Sergeant Wiklas pulled up in a Humvee, and they spent half an hour trading crates. Wiklas complimented Reinhold on his discovery of an underage Thai who "can take three at a time and loves it." He offered to increase his production of illegal powders if the Colonel wanted. Leaving the base they passed through the same checkpoint, and were greeted with a wave and a salute. Anton dozed off on the road to Bakersfield. When he woke, they were parked in an empty lot near a warehouse. The sun was just coming up, and Sabrina was talking into the radio handset. Evidently there was a crisis, because she seemed angry. "Our transfer point is in a hot zone," she explained once she was done. "I can feel it, so I didn't go in. I think the authorities have it staked out. Someone hasn't been paid off, or properly scared." She thought for a moment. "We're going to have to make a change in plans. Get yourself some breakfast at that place across the road. They have great huevos rancheros. I'll be back in a couple of hours." When he looked back from the restaurant door, Sabrina was gone. He sat at the counter, ordered his breakfast, and soon was immersed in Rimbaud again. Laughter of children, discretion of slaves, austerity of virgins, horror of faces and objects from here, be consecrated by the memory of this night. It began in all manner of boorishness, and now it finishes in angels of flame and ice. By the time Sabrina returned, he was nursing his third cup of coffee. "Well, that's taken care of," she said. Her expression told him not to ask questions. She was impatient now, because they were behind schedule. They got in the truck and drove to the transfer point. Anton helped load the heavy crates of weapons into a row of empty boxcars. When he started to slide the doors shut, Sabrina stopped him. "Leave it that way. It's what we want." "You mean free for the taking?" "Those weapons will be in L.A. tonight. We're stoking a gang war. It's part of our plan." They drove to the Postal Service distribution facility, where they parked their truck among a rank of others like it. Slipping the tins of raw and refined substance into their bags, they walked across the lot to the employee parking area. "Won't the surveillance cameras pick us up?" Anton asked. Sabrina laughed and shook her head. Anton took the wheel for the drive to Fresno. Sabrina sat next to him exchanging small talk as they passed a bottle of schnapps. "I have to congratulate you," she said. "The tour is more popular than I expected. What do you think about extending it, adding more gigs?" "Sounds good to me. I'll talk to Kliff, see what he can arrange." When they reached Fresno, the streets lay prostrate under the midday sun. They parked in front of the All-Seeing Eye and rang the bell. Ben came furtively to the door, ushered them into the back and drew the curtains. He poured them a cup of tea, took the tins of substance in his hands and held them lovingly. Ben was delighted to meet Anton in person. He pulled an album of clippings from a shelf and said, "I've been following you since you were nobody." He showed them an interview Anton had done in his Trashtown days, and reviews of their first concerts, before the band even had a name. He got on the phone, and within minutes they had a ride to San Antonio in a private jet. A young Web entrepreneur would take them there, in exchange for VIP treatment at the concert for himself and his friends. A corporate limo came for them an hour later. On the plane, the talk was about snowboarding, a rave in India, and the latest user interface. Anton withdrew into his seat, taking refuge in Rimbaud. Brief night of drunkenness, holy! if only for the mask with which you gifted us. We affirm you, method! We don't forget that yesterday you glorified each of our ages. We have faith in poison. We know how to give our whole life every day. This is the time of the Assassins. • • • Anton lay on the motel bed, one arm flung over his head, drowsily watching as Debbie touched up her eye shadow. He could see her face in the mirror. He liked to make love to her with her makeup on, but as soon as they were finished she would rush to the mirror to redo it. The makeup was garish and excessive, but it was a turn-on for him because it was so extreme. It made her look like a trailer park whore, which she probably was. Debbie had been following the band for several days now, sleeping with each of them in turn. She wouldn't let him use protection when they had sex, which made him believe that she wanted his baby. He wondered what kind of mother she would be. He didn't particularly care what happened to his seed, because that would be a separate person with no connection to him. What worried him was that she would sue him for child support. She'd gotten on the bus in Tulsa to trade blow jobs for lines of coke, and she was still hanging around two weeks later, even though he threw her out each time he saw her. A word to Sabrina would have ensured that she never got near him again, but she was also servicing Blake and Vince. That was out of character for Vince, but the electricity of the tour and Diane's absence had prompted him to him give in. For Anton's part, he enjoyed treating Debbie like trash, because he was curious to see how much she would take. "What part of 'leave' don't you understand?" he would say. "Don't start imagining you're my girlfriend. You're just a tramp who's a decent lay." After dabbing her tears with the back of her hand, her mascara in ruins, she would go through the ritual of repairing her face once again. She couldn't be too smart, he figured, or she wouldn't be putting up with this. It depressed him to think that she stuck around only because other men treated her worse. He was quick to abuse her with words, but at least he never raised a hand against her. • • • After their concert in Omaha, they drove to Des Moines. In between, they crossed through western Iowa where Anton was raised. It was the first time he'd been in this part of the country since his departure two years before. Penetrating the Heartland like this was his idea, rather than concentrating on the two coasts. On stage in Des Moines in front of thousands of people, he received a signal from Timmins. It came during the crescendo to "Rhythm of the Reich," a beat-driven, post-apocalyptic grungefest featuring some intricate guitar work by Blake. My shoes are on fire by radio control Military maggots are feeding on my soul I'm sharing body odors with people I don't like I'm dancing to the rhythm of the Reich. He had a clear picture of Timmins crouched on the floor of a white room, a large sheet of paper at his feet. Timmins himself was dressed in white. A metal bed frame was visible behind him, and a window covered in wire mesh. He was sketching with fierce concentration, tongue pressed between his teeth. Realizing that Anton was watching, he looked up. The evasive quality that had been with him since the death of his sister was gone, replaced by an aura of calm. He looked as if he'd survived a nightmarish ordeal. "You tried to warn me," he said, "but I wasn't prepared. I had no idea it would be so hard." The apparition was as real as if Timmins had been floating in the air a few feet away. Thrown off balance, Anton lost control of the stream of notes he'd been spraying around the arena. He almost dropped his instrument, but he made a graceful recovery. Timmins pushed back his hair and asked, "Did I catch you at a bad time?" "I'm performing. You should never do this while I'm performing." "You mean you're pretending to be something you're not?" "Performing isn't pretending. Performing is what musicians do." Timmins' expression was a bit out of focus, but his eyes no longer resembled the windows of an empty house. The pain he'd felt from his family tragedy was plainly visible. So was his sense of betrayal at Anton's departure, and the slow awakening he'd experienced over the past few months. His future career as the Last Painter, chronicler of the End Times, was there too. They both had the same thought at same moment. They'd grown wiser and sadder since they first met. "You laugh now, but wait and see," Anton had warned then. Anton finished the set with virtuoso flair, forcing Vince and Blake to keep up with his pyrotechnics. As he came off stage, Sabrina gave him an impulsive hug, holding him at arm's length as he shook a cloud of sweat from his hair. He danced around restlessly, like a boxer after a knockout. "That was your best show yet," she said. "Best I've seen, anyway." "I nearly lost it out there." "It was like something snapped inside you, but in a good way. After that, you couldn't miss. What happened, though? It was like you saw a ghost." "The ghost of my dead brother," he said without thinking, but it was true enough. He knew that the white room was in a mental hospital. Timmins had warned him about that months before. "I've been seeing a therapist. It's the years of my life that are being wasted that get to me." It worried him to think of Timmins in such a place, but there had been no sense of panic in his friend's face. Indeed, he seemed to be at peace with himself. But how had he ended up there? There must have been a crisis. That explained why their psychic link had been spotty for months. What mattered now was that he knew how to find Timmins. The intensity of the signal meant he was close by. They had to be in Chicago the next day, and after that they were heading east. So there was no way he could see Timmins now, but they would cross the Midwest again on the final leg of the tour. He could shift a couple of dates, and work in a visit. Meanwhile, he would make a few phone calls to learn exactly where Timmins was. • • • Kliff was called away in the midst of the tour for a private chat in the Citadel, Colonel Reinhold's inner sanctum. No one knew where it was, or if it had a physical location at all. The only way to get there was by psychic transport. Kliff was alone in his room when he felt Reinhold's call, which was like the ringing of a mobile phone inside his head. He closed his eyes, and an almost inaudible hum told him he'd been transported. When he opened his eyes again, he was in the reception room of the Citadel. A briskly efficient orderly helped him from his chair. She waved a wand of light over his eyes to verify his identity, and showed him to a video conference room where the Colonel was debating the finer points of torture with a Pakistani general. "Sorry, dude, gotta go," Reinhold told the general as Kliff came in. The line flickered and went dead. Reinhold poured them each a tumbler of scotch and gestured Kliff to a seat. He leaned back and cracked his knuckles one by one. Kliff drew a joint from his front pocket and stuck it between his teeth. After the usual preliminaries, the conversation turned to Sabrina and her role as road manager, as Kliff had known it would. "I thought I told you to keep Anton away from the referees," Reinhold said. "What could I do? She didn't ask my permission." "Didn't you see this coming?" He tapped a fingernail on the rim of his glass. "She was stalking him on our first tour. She'd show up in random places and let him see her. He asked me about her, but I pretended not to know anything. Later, I caught them having a conversation at a party. It was the first time I'd seen them together. I don't know what they said, because they broke it off as soon as I walked in. After that, there was no contact for over a year. I thought it was over, but she showed up again a few weeks ago, just before the new tour. She volunteered to be the road manager, and he went for it." "So you did see it coming. Why didn't you talk to me about this?" "I figured you knew. If you saw a problem, you would've told me." Kliff had him there. He couldn't very well admit he'd been blindsided. "I'm sure her intentions are good. She sees a resource she wants to develop, just like the rest of us. But she's freelancing, that's the problem. She's spoiling him with access and ideas. Too much exposure for Anton isn't good for the plan. I'll talk to her and tell her to back off. Meanwhile, I want you to do what you can to get him away from her. We've got to keep him hungry. If he starts thinking he's predestined, he'll go soft." They talked about ways to draw Anton away from Sabrina. Ordering her to disappear from his life was a possibility, but that would anger her as well as the other referees, who would take it as a check to their own power. And if Anton blamed the Colonel for her disappearance, that would make it harder to work with him on other fronts. He didn't like to be thwarted, even in his own interest. "Maybe we should buy his affection," Reinhold said with a chuckle. "Bribe him to stay away from her." "He'll never go for that!" "Righteous people are so tiresome." He twirled his hand in a trifling gesture. "You have to find a way to trick their sensibilities." "And it wasn't a real bribe? If it was disguised." "No, it's better to put it right out there. Tell him, 'Here's a lump of cash. Be a good boy and you'll see more. Be a bad boy and you won't.' I'll drape it in high-minded sentiments, of course, but there'll be no way to mistake it for anything but a bribe. It will make him curious, I expect. He'll respect me for my authenticity, my willingness to show my hand openly." Kliff had to admit he was right. If the appeal was blatant enough, Anton would go for it just to prove it couldn't touch him. That was how his mind worked. "But how will he know what the bribe is for? How will he connect it with Sabrina?" "He knows that Sabrina is working behind my back. He doesn't know why, but he wants to find out. He'll realize that the money is a downpayment for his loyalty. But it's not about the money, and he'll understand that too. It's a way to get his attention. My hunch is, he'll contact me directly. And I'll tell him to go to you for advice. In whatever way you choose, give him the hint that he should spend less time with Sabrina. I think it's best not to threaten," he winked, "but rather to make life interesting for him." Kliff felt a warm glow. The Colonel was asking him to seduce Anton. This scared and excited him, because it was the culmination of his fantasy. Seduction was his greatest talent, and with Anton it was sincere. He would offer Anton unheard-of pleasures. Sabrina lured Anton through mystery, but he would satisfy Anton day after day. In the end, Anton would lose all interest in Sabrina. He would have his heart's desire, and be a loyal soldier as well. Wasn't that what Reinhold's empire was all about? • • • Diane flew to Chicago with her infant daughter, who received a baptism of sorts in the love of the crowd. During an open-air concert on the shores of Lake Michigan, she was brought on stage and lifted over the heads of the audience, while Anton chanted over and over, "Radiant baby, indeed she glows." Blake's guitar solo was transcendent, so eerily perfect he didn't even realize he was playing. Many swore later they had seen the child bathed in a halo of light, though maybe it was the sunset. People were clapping and swaying, and one young woman suddenly burst into tears and had to be carried away. The Extreme Liberties tour was so popular that it was extended for another six weeks. They were receiving the sort of mainstream attention they'd always envied and dreaded. Vince was torn between excitement at what was happening, and his longing for a quiet life. The momentum of the tour swept him along, but he grew cranky and withdrawn, and didn't always perform at his best. Blake was sensitive to these moods, and he had a complaint of his own against Anton. He wondered if Anton still thought it was all about the music, or if he was pursuing fame for its own sake. The exhilaration of success obscured these tensions for now, but the fault lines were already in place. <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>