<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 23 Harry Mellow Colonel Reinhold was the master of events, as usual. He knew the influence that Steve was having on Anton's life, because he was the one who had dropped Charlie and Uncle Tom onto Steve's path in the first place. He'd known the two old-timers since he was one of them, running a bookmaking operation under Railroad Bridge. Watching the barges and the freighters pass, he'd planned his empire. Over time he'd mutated and become the Colonel, but Uncle Tom and Charlie hadn't kept pace. Now they were his intermediaries, like everyone else. Steve, of course, didn't know any of this. He called Kliff into the Citadel for a briefing. "You'll still have your role to play," he said, "but for now you should watch and wait. Let Anton have his fling with the new boy. Let him think he's breaking away. Soon, I'll be ready to take things to a new level. Meanwhile I want him distracted, out of the loop. Things will go more smoothly that way. So keep an eye on his interests like you always do, and keep his image in the public eye. Only don't draw his attention, don't show your hand. The Colonel is stepping in, taking charge. I'll handle things with Anton from now on." He had his secretary at the Square Peg Foundation call Anton to make an appointment. Anton was surprised to hear a voice on the other end of the line saying, "Mr. Reinhold would like to meet with you sometime next week to discuss a project. Would Wednesday morning work for you?" He didn't know why Reinhold would bother with such formalities, when he could whisk him to the Citadel whenever he wanted. The Square Peg Foundation had moved from its old offices into a posh modern skyscraper, a prestige address it shared with an investment bank and a global marketing firm. Anton got in the elevator with people in business suits, and one bike messenger. The bike messenger recognized him, but he was too cool to say so. He leaned against the wall on his elbows and blinked slowly, like a lizard. Anton gave him a shrug as if to say, "Why am I here? I don't know either." On the tenth floor, the messenger pushed away from the wall and moved out the door. Anton rode the elevator all the way up. Reinhold ushered him into an office with a dramatic view of downtown, its river and bridges. Once they were seated, he got straight to the point. "We're forming a new church, a church for young people. Not a church in the traditional sense, with God and prayers and all that. It's more of a moral youth movement." A twitch of irony showed at the corner of his mouth. "Young people today are drifting. They need guidance, so we'll fill that role. Our partner in this venture is the Clean Kids Initiative." He paused for Anton's reaction. Clean Kids had dogged Anton throughout his last tour, with protests, media appearances, and angry clashes with his fans. "Are you out of your mind? They're against everything we stand for." Reinhold smiled. "Maybe you don't know this, but I've been one of their biggest supporters for years." Anton felt foolish. It was just like Reinhold to play both sides of the game. "Our new church," Reinhold told him, "will be an extension of Clean Kids for teenagers and young adults. It will answer the question, 'What do we do with these kids once they're grown?' We'll be taking over the New Jerusalem Chapel in Zombieland. For Clean Kids, that's the heart of the Sin Zone. For you, it's your home base. Our goal is to build on that sense of community to form a spiritual movement. Pastor Blackwell recently suffered a stroke and decided to step down, so we're seizing the moment. He's agreed to hand over his church to us, so we can upgrade it for the Psychic Hygiene Movement." Anton wasn't happy. New Jerusalem had been home to many of the city's best parties, and it was still his favorite concert hall in Portland. Now he knew why it had been closed for renovation. "What I envision," Reinhold went on, "is a new type of religious ritual that combines trance music, hypnotic visuals, and psychedelic drugs to form an experience that appeals to the techno-primitives, the urban scavengers. Those are the people we need, soldiers of chaos, bringers of mayhem for a new era. Who better than you to lead this new movement, with all your talent and charisma? They're the core of your fan base. You understand the needs of this community better than anyone." Anton wondered if Reinhold believed his own hype. Techno-primitivism was long dead. If the community still existed, he'd long since lost touch with it. He didn't want to be its leader now, certainly not for a cynical venture like this one. "You want me to found a new religion?" he said incredulously. "With myself as prophet?" Reinhold clucked his tongue. "A prophet's not what I'm looking for. What I want is a figurehead. You don't need to go around banging on doors or rallying followers. We'll take care of that. What I want is your image. You won't ever have to say 'I'm a prophet' in so many words. Just lead by example. You're passionate, full of conviction. You have faith in yourself, and people believe in you. Why not take it a step further for a worthy cause?" "You call this worthy?" "Do you have doubts?" "You bet I have doubts! How can I be a prophet if I don't believe in any of the religions we already have?" "All the better. You couldn't bring a new one if you did." "We don't need a new religion! We've got more than enough already." "Of course. But none of the old religions works any more for manipulating crowds. If we can get young people fired up, we'll have a mob ready to do anything. Torch a city, no problem. Do you think Billy Graham can do that?" Anton scowled. "I'm not into torching cities any more." "That's not my point. My point is control. The psyche is a person's control center, and religion is the gateway to the psyche. You've heard of Jonestown, Heaven's Gate? What made those people take their own lives? Their religion. If you can tinker with the psyche, you can control the person. All religions have handles on the psyche that they use to control their followers. We need a few handles of our own." "Are you saying you want me to deliver my generation over to you? Lead them into the ocean, singing? Kids don't need heroes. They don't need someone to lead the charge. They should be smashing icons, not making new ones. What they need is for everyone to get out of the way and give them the keys to the temple. That way, they can drag all the old gods and demons, all the old mysteries into the sun." Reinhold applauded madly. "That's the spirit we need! Don't you see, you're proving my point. With you out there preaching against icons, that makes you a prophet. A nihilistic one to be sure, but all the more appropriate for the times we're in." Anton shook his head in amazement. "What makes you think people will accept me as the head of a new religion? That's just bizarre." "Look around you. People believe all kinds of silly things." "From the first day of my career, I've been speaking out against opportunists who want us to follow them blindly. Now you want me to become one? "We'll put a positive spin on it. We'll say you've grown wiser, and you want to give something back. The underground press will be the first to defend you. The mainstream media will follow their lead." Anton knew the Colonel wasn't asking for his permission. Clearly this had been in the works for some time. He wished he had the nerve to fight it, but he didn't dare. "Don't expect me to get too excited about this," was all he said. "It's not going to work." From Reinhold's point of view, it didn't much matter if Anton was involved in the project or not. Anton's inflated sense of his own importance made him hard to work with at times, so he'd developed a protection against this. He'd built up Anton's image to the point where he could manipulate it independently. It was possible for him now to work with Anton's image without having to deal with him as a person. Anton consoled himself that the idea would fail on its own merits. A joint venture with the Clean Kids Initiative was too farfetched for anyone to take seriously. His fans would assume it was a joke, and his enemies would say he'd sold out. What mattered to him now was The Last Assassin, which would prove to the world that he still had principles. Once the album came out, the game would change. Until then, he had to lie low and avoid any sudden moves, so as not to rouse the Colonel's suspicions. He told Steve they would be staying in Portland a bit longer, because "something's come up, a new project." With Reinhold's blessing, preparations began for the new church. Farnham T. Sparks combed through his archives, looking for interviews and testimonials that portrayed Anton as a guru. Kliff got in touch with private collectors he knew, persuading them to part with relics from Anton's past. Posters from his shows, his first bass, and the costume he'd worn on the cover of Destroyed Teen were collected for a museum in the temple lobby. Flyers for the Psychic Hygiene Movement began appearing in clubs, record stores, and clothing boutiques around Portland. They quoted Anton in a way that led people to believe he was behind the idea, without ever claiming his direct endorsement. There were his calls to purity and sincerity, his incitements to tear down the cities and let flowers bloom in the ruins, his warnings against deceivers and false prophets. It was as if he was calling his flock to him, uniting them around him in an urgent cause. He was aware of what was happening, and he even participated from a distance. He sketched out his ideas for staging the collective rituals, and provided collages of trance music designed for various moods. He wanted Reinhold to think he was playing along, because he wasn't ready yet to bring The Last Assassin into the open. Eventually he was called back to the Square Peg Foundation to meet Ethan Frump, head of Families First! and the Clean Kids Initiative. This was the man he'd protested against back in the Trashtown days, risking arrest with his friends when they'd tried to slip into the building where Frump was speaking. It felt strange to be in the same room with him now, considering that each thought the other was Satan. Frump offered his hand under Reinhold's benign gaze. "This project is a breakthrough for both sides. Despite our differences, we're on the same team. Finally, we can speak to kids with one voice." Anton eyed him warily. Were Frump's principles just for show? Was he a player like everyone else? "This is a new role for me," he muttered. "I hope it works out." They bantered for a few minutes, until Frump excused himself with an apologetic look at his watch. "My son's Bible study is in half an hour. Let's work together, Anton. Let's make it happen." He gave Anton a clap on the shoulder on his way out. "What was that about?" Anton said as the door shut. "That's what we call a meet and greet." Reinhold got out the scotch and tumblers and poured drinks. "You told me once that you wanted a revolution. Well, here's your chance. We're forming the Unity Party in Omaha, and Ethan Frump is a big player in that. Which makes him an excellent ally for you, in my opinion. It's your chance to have a platform, sway the agenda." "I already have a platform," Anton reminded him. "My millions of fans." "Sure, but why stop there? Think of the possibilities this opens up. With real political muscle behind you, you'll be able to make the kinds of changes you've only dreamed about until now." "I thought the agenda was already set. Back at the Citadel, you were talking about elections to end elections, or something like that." "It's true, the broad brushstrokes are already in place. But there's still something you can add, your constituency. A constituency of millions gives you political clout. So go ahead, make your demands. What kind of revolution do you want? Throw all the cops in jail? Steal from the rich and give to the poor? Free love in the park?" Anton winced. "You're patronizing me. I want to destroy the political system, shut down the media, bring the global economy to a halt. I want to start over, try something new." Reinhold beamed. "Excellent! That's right up our alley." Anton knew that even if Reinhold claimed to give him a say, the plan was already written. If he played along, all would go well for him. If not, Reinhold would find someone else. He'd seen this already in his musical career. Why fall for the same tricks again? He didn't want to be a puppet in someone else's revolution. He had plans of his own. But he tried not to think this in the Colonel's presence, out of fear that Reinhold would hear his thoughts. The new church opened its doors in a blast of publicity. Instead of advertising in the mainstream media, an army of young people hit the streets. This was Anton's idea, so his barefoot followers would have the chance to earn a few dollars a day handing out flyers on the sidewalk. First-time visitors to the church were given a CD of his "inspirational sayings" if they agreed to take a personality test. He wondered if he was paying for any of this out of his own pocket. He'd never taken charge of his business affairs after Kliff's departure, so he had no idea how his money was being spent. He only knew there was always enough in the bank. After a few weeks, he decided to go down to the church and see what was happening in his name. When he arrived, he was startled to find the name "House of Mysticism" over the lobby entrance. It was from the dream that had brought him to Portland. Was the dream coming true on its own, or had Reinhold somehow been able to reach inside the dream to make it real? On either side of the entrance was a full-length portrait of himself as the young guru. The guru wore a long white robe, and a gold medallion around his neck. He floated in space, arms open in a welcoming gesture. The background was done in violet hues, and he was radiating a golden glow. "Creepy," Anton thought as he walked in. On the wall of the lobby was the same image, the original of the ones outside. It was a richly textured oil painting, larger than life, framed in silk and bathed in mysterious light. Around the walls were guitars and feathered costumes. At a lighted counter, CDs displayed Anton in a variety of erotic and transcendent poses. The candy colors, lime and lavender and orange, told him this was Périne's work from the Extreme Liberties period. Listening in on headphones, he found it was the trance music he'd created to accompany the rituals. On the other side of the room were pamphlets and books allegedly written by him, such as Escape from Matter, Why Psychic Hygiene? and Dark Blossoms, a book of poems with the tag line, "As relevant as today's headlines, as enduring as the Psalms." He picked up Why Psychic Hygiene? which was described as "the Bible of the Psychic Hygiene Movement." It was culled from things he'd said over the years in interviews and conversation, arranged to give the illusion that they formed a philosophy. It was presented in catechism format, with Anton answering setup questions in eloquent bursts. Q. Where can we find our motivation in life? A. Speaking for myself, I'm motivated by an almost Buddhist notion of the illusory nature of things. It's hard for me to take things too seriously—isolated tragedies and so forth, even my own. Q. Is this life we're living real? A. Don't you ever wonder if you're dreaming? I mean, this has to be a dream, doesn't it? How can it be so hard just to survive? On the other hand, if we're dreaming, our imagination must be pretty messed up to have invented this. Q. Where do we come from? A. I believe we're descended from men from the sky. Somehow they breathed their seed into the local species. We've preserved the memory of that initial contact, and have been driven by it since then. Always we yearn to rise out of ourselves, to soar out of this realm altogether. Q. What is the reason we're here? A. Let me explain something to you. You and I exist, but "here" and "now" do not. The world we live in is simply another womb, from which we must emerge or be born dead. Why is this so hard for people to see? A toilet flushed somewhere, followed by the rush of water in a sink, and a door opening. Anton didn't notice, because he was engrossed in his reading. A young woman, the temple receptionist, came into the lobby. Seeing Anton there, she started to tremble. When he finally looked up, she let out a yelp. "Are you here to take the tour?" she said, biting the back of her hand. Anton smiled reassuringly. "Sure, babe, let's take the tour." She caught her breath and corrected herself. "Well, you don't really need to take the tour, because you're the guru." "I may be the guru, but that doesn't mean I know everything." He waved the book at her. "For example, I don't remember saying half the stuff in here. It's almost like someone else wrote it, you know?" She nodded, biting her lip. "I might have said it. I just don't remember. So let's take the tour. I want to see what it's like to be a regular recruit." She stood there paralyzed for several seconds. She seemed to feel there was something deeply unusual about the guru wanting to be shown around his own temple, but she could hardly refuse her spiritual master. Or perhaps she was shy, terrified that he would see the holes in her training. Finally she overcame her resistance and led him to a little room with a one-way glass looking into the lobby. It contained a conference table, headphones, a video projector, and a shelf with flash cards and puzzles. It was like a third-grade work station, Anton thought, which made it reassuring in a troubling way. "Normally we'd sit here," she told him, "and I would administer a personality test. That helps us target the needs of our new recruits, so we know what programming to use. For example, we help angry people direct their anger at the right targets. Lost people we give a reference point, a goal. We give a sense of belonging to insecure people, so they can improve their self-confidence." "What about obnoxious people?" "What do you mean?" "People who don't cooperate. Belligerent people. People who mock the whole idea of what you're doing here. People who say, 'That kid's no guru. You guys are a bunch of frauds.'" She blanched. "You mean they're resistant to the Teaching?" "Sure, they're resistant to the Teaching, or maybe they just don't like the Teaching. Maybe they think the Teaching sucks." She grew extremely nervous. She kept glancing over his shoulder, which led him to think a camera must be mounted there. There was probably another camera on the wall facing him, though he couldn't see it. "We'd call security," she said firmly. "They might contaminate the other recruits." "How many recruits do you get a week, on average?" She paused as if mortified. She'd been asked a direct question by her guru, but it was one of the questions she was forbidden to answer under any circumstances. Her hypnotic indoctrination made it impossible, but she could hardly disobey her guru! Finally she spat out a non-answer. "I think—normally I'd give you a personality test here in this room, but of course we can't do that because you're the guru. So maybe—I think it's best if we go on with the tour." She ushered him into the main auditorium, which still looked familiar to him from all the concerts he'd done there, though it had been completely redone since then. As in the New Jerusalem days, it was open to community groups who sponsored break-dancing contests, drag queen karaoke, or all-girl grunge opera, which was one of the ways they drew in new recruits. But the main attraction was an all-night party called the Ritual, centered around the Musical Recipes, as Anton's sound collages were now known. These pieces were designed to arouse specific emotions, leading their listeners through a series of "chord changes" that used their emotions as an instrument. In this way, the music could be lived as well as heard. The Rituals were open to both temple initiates and newcomers, who were known as "butterflies from the street." The initiates blended with the newcomers, and those who responded in a certain way to the musical signals were invited to take a personality test, as well as their first Guided Meditation. She led him into the Meditation Center, which was a small, domed room just off the lobby. "It doubles as a chill-out room during the Rituals," she explained. She proudly showed him the Brainports, pneumatic chairs fitted with what looked like hair dryers, huge bell-shaped things that fit over the head, bristling with electrodes. In addition, a skin patch was placed against the back of the neck during mediation, "to keep a steady stream of Soul Vitamins flowing through the blood." He observed powerful speakers close to the floor, and projectors that could light up any portion of the dome's surface. "Do you want to meditate?" she asked, and he agreed. She strapped him into one of the chairs and lowered the apparatus over his head. She swabbed the back of his neck with a conductive ointment, and pressed the hallucinogenic patch to his skin. The lights dimmed and she left the room. Dizzying patterns began to play on the walls and ceiling. The space filled with his Musical Recipes, and he was just beginning to lose himself in them when a voice came over the speakers. "Welcome to the Guided Meditation Center. How are you today? Your host will be our guru, Harry Mellow." The portrait he'd seen of himself in the lobby floated before his eyes, emerging from a violet background and radiating light. It was a hologram that pulsed slowly, speaking with his voice. Sometimes I think it would be easier if I didn't know people. I can never manage to get used to the way the world works, the priorities that people have. I feel like a stranger here. Human beings have the spirits of angels in the bodies of beasts. It's like some kind of perverse joke. There are times when I'm against everything, when I hate human nature, and I even hate myself. But I learned long ago never to doubt myself at a crucial moment. It made him uncomfortable to be indoctrinated by himself, to have his own voice drilling into his subconscious, telling him what to think. I believe there is a consciousness on this earth that enslaves us. I call this consciousness ignorance, narrow thinking. It keeps us chained to what we already know, when in fact we have so much to learn. The way is scattered with clues, but few of us think to look for them. All we need is right there in front of us. It's just a question of what to do with the information. I believe that people are waking up, asking themselves why we behave the way we do. Most of the answers aren't elegant or pretty. Our life doesn't matter automatically. We have to make it matter. It's not enough to "care," to give and feel support. We have to act in a way that is dangerous, that has the potential to change things. It's better to step into the fire, to endure the test of fire, than to remain forever outside the action. Let us not seek the shelter of the familiar, let us search the world for our companions! He couldn't remember what happened next. He woke up on a couch in his studio, with no memory of how he'd gotten home. Some of the temple's evangelical pamphlets were stuffed in his pocket, confirming the awful truth, that his random thoughts were being turned into religious dogma. The circumstances under which he'd left the House of Mysticism were a mystery to him. Perhaps he'd torn the Brainport from his head and run outside, screaming in the street until someone had calmed him down and delivered him into caring hands. More likely he'd kept his cool, thanked the temple receptionist, and gone for a walk in the hills until the drugs wore off, along with his sense of panic. Until now the Psychic Hygiene Movement had been an abstraction to him. Being a victim of it himself was another thing entirely. He'd experienced what it felt like to be one of his own fans, one of the "butterflies from the street" lured into the House of Mysticism by his voice and image. He didn't like it at all. He wondered if it was always this way between a fan and his idol. If he'd been part of the audience at one of his early Trashtown shows, he would have been as caught up in the energy as anyone. He would have given in to it, sensing its authenticity. He would have caught fire, and after the dancing and the vertigo, he would have gone home to dream of a radiant new world. Even the Destroyed Teen period, with its massive arenas and huge video screens, might have inspired him. He would have seen a young star trapped in his own hype, but even then, he would have sensed that his idol was trying to break down the barriers, slashing away at the layers between them with a knife. The House of Mysticism was different. It was a marketing tool, or worse. In fact, it was much worse. It represented everything he'd fought against, indoctrination and rape of the mind. Yet he'd become its guru, Harry Mellow. How had it come to this? He'd first met Harry Mellow in a dream, and in his dream Harry Mellow had been a bit like him, blond and charismatic, with a piercing gaze. The dream guru had tried to get him to betray Reinhold's secrets, but a powerful force had kept him silent. In the dream Harry Mellow had told him, "You may not take 'Anton' very seriously, but you're perfect in the role." Now the dream had come full circle, and he was the guru he'd dreamed about. Had it been his destiny all along to become Harry Mellow? The guru in his dream had been a pious fraud, but at least he'd been a counterweight to Colonel Reinhold. They weren't playing on the same team. In reality, the House of Mysticism was Reinhold's own creation. It existed to draw people into his web. Initiates' psychological weak spots were probed and exploited, and code phrases were implanted so they could be programmed to act on cue. All this was being done in Anton's name, using his words and his music. Anton felt shame, an emotion that was new to him. As Harry Mellow, he was Reinhold's number one whore. He could only imagine what his old friends were saying. "Anton hooked up with the Clean Kids people and made himself their guru." There was no other way to explain it except as the ultimate sellout, the result of an out-of-control ego. How could he attack false idols if he'd become one? The Last Assassin was meant to expose a plot to control kids' minds, but as Harry Mellow, he was the prime example of that himself. It was as if Reinhold had learned of his plans before he'd even begun, and tricked him into short-circuiting his own intentions. He found a message from Steve on his answering machine. When he returned the call, Steve sounded worried. "Some guys saw you outside Club Omaha making a scene. I told them it couldn't be you, because you never make a scene. But it's been almost a day since I heard from you, and that isn't normal. So I figured maybe you really did freak out about something." "Do you know what they did to me?" Anton wailed. "They made a new church...." "You mean the House of Mysticism?" Steve laughed. "When I go there, I feel like I'm in Antonland." "You've been there? You?" "Sure, once or twice." "Did they brainwash you? Did you take the tests?" "I didn't need to," Steve said sweetly. "I'm under your influence already." "That place is so wrong! I went there myself yesterday, and something happened to me in there...." He was almost in tears. Steve tried to soothe him. "You've been working on that project for a while. It's not like—" "Do you remember when I said I wanted to get out? We've got to do it right now. Today." Steve felt a jolt. Ever since they'd put that decision on hold, he hadn't given it much thought. He'd assumed that when the time came, they would discuss it like sensible people. "Things are getting crazy around here," Anton said. "I can't wait another day. Are you with me or not?" They rented a white-paneled truck, and loaded their things that same afternoon. When Anton looked around his studio, he saw almost nothing he wanted. The fancy kitchen, the artwork and mementos, the rare music and films, the designer fabrics and furniture all looked like junk to him now, and it was a relief to leave them behind. He took his recording equipment, Timmins' painting of the Virgin, his own music and writing, and a few clothes and books. From Steve's place they took everything that would be useful to them in their new home, leaving the apartment almost empty. They drove to Idaho through the night. Steve's aunt lived in a small town a couple of hours north of Boise. She'd always been a free spirit, and Steve was on better terms with her than with the rest of his family. She had a young family of her own, and she would be happy to let them stay with her for a few days while they looked for a place. • • • At Aunt Clara's house, Anton was restless. They were surrounded by pine trees and mountains, and there was always something simmering in the kitchen, but that just meant he suffocated slowly, rather than all at once. Aunt Clara was open-minded about his clothes and lifestyle, saying, "A friend of Steve's is one of the family," but it was hard not to sense the disapproval of her husband, a lumber store manager with a neatly trimmed beard. He bought a used car from a local family, putting it in Steve's name because he wanted to stay off Reinhold's radar. For the next few days he drove into the mountains, looking for an isolated place to set up his studio. His dream was to live high in the rocks, far from intruders, until The Last Assassin was ready. He would rent a small ranch and record in the barn with a generator, only going into town every couple of weeks to buy supplies. In the end he found nothing that fit his fancy, so he turned his attention to the flatter, more settled southern part of the state. After drifting into Twin Falls for a burger, he noticed a squat, cinderblock building on the road out of town. It stood alone at the edge of a small parking lot, and it was almost windowless. It still had the signage from its last occupant, an auto supply store. A notice in the front window said it was for rent. He copied the phone number and drove back to Aunt Clara's place, arriving just after dark. "Oh, hello," she said, turning from the sink with wet hands. "We were just about to sit down to dinner." "Hi, Anton," Steve called from the back room. "Leave your jacket in the closet." He'd stayed behind to help his aunt around the house. "Steve...!" his aunt chided him. "What? You want me to take his jacket? He lives here now, he can find the closet." "I've got it, Mrs. G.," Anton said. He put his jacket in the closet. After dinner, as the family settled around the TV in the living room, Anton and Steve went in the back room where they'd made their nest. It was a sun room with windows all around, cushioned benches, hanging plants, and a coffee table in the center. There was an old Victrola on a nightstand in the corner. Blankets and pillows lay on the benches where they slept. Their clothes and books were scattered around in mild disorder. A summer storm was brewing in the mountains. The smells of earth, pollen, and pine floated on the night air. Steve's cousin Benji, who was about eight, appeared in the doorway and blinked at them. "Hey Benji, c'mere. You gotta see this," Steve told Anton. "It's freaky. Benji, do your dead puppy imitation for Anton." Benji came over. "I dunno, it's not really—" "C'mon, it's hilarious!" "Okay," Benji muttered. Suddenly his neck was broken and he flopped to the ground, suffering paralytic death throes and an inability to breathe. He rolled on his back and drew his hands close to his chest like a puppy's. His body had a series of spasms and went limp. After a moment he got up, dusted himself off and slunk away, ashamed of himself. Anton and Steve burst out laughing in a delayed reaction. "Spooky," Anton said. "That was pathetic." Steve imitated a whimpering puppy, and they laughed again. "Where'd he get that?" "He must've seen it for real. He's sure got an eye for detail." "So far it's my cousin's only talent, but his dead puppy imitation is right on." Anton told him about the place he'd seen in Twin Falls, and the next day they went there together. After seeing the inside of the building, Anton decided it would work for him and signed the lease. They looked for a place to live, settling on a bungalow on a tree-lined street a few blocks from downtown. It was smaller than the houses around it, and set back from the street. They returned to Steve's aunt's house for the truck, and ended up staying two more days. When they left, she gave them a handmade quilt as a housewarming present. Steve spent his days at the house fixing things up, while Anton went to the studio to oversee the improvements he needed. He had a contractor bring in cables, soundproofing materials, sheetrock, and lumber. Some of the equipment he needed wasn't available in Twin Falls, so he had to go to Sound 2000 in Boise, the only pro audio store in the state. He decided to keep the white-paneled truck indefinitely, because it was good for transport. Once the album was finished and he was touring again, he could use it to haul gear to his shows. He was eager to get to work on The Last Assassin, but setting up the new studio took him almost a month. Of course it was worth it, because he was on his own again for the first time since he'd met Kliff. Money was never a problem, but spending it made him nervous. He was sure that someone at the other end was tracking his expenses, and he almost felt guilty using it against the Colonel. <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>