<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 24 Last Assassin Anton knew that people in Portland were aware of his absence. They were used to seeing him at his favorite night spots. They expected him to do interviews, meet promoters, show up at parties and openings. But he wasn't returning calls, and he hadn't been seen in weeks. To show that he hadn't forgotten them, and to throw them off the trail a bit, he sent a postcard to Rebel Youth magazine. He knew that whatever he sent there would be published. POSTCARD FROM SHADOW, UTAH Up here in the forest, there's sun in the clearing. I'm completely naked and hidden behind trees as I watch Rachel, my Mormon wife, and little freckle-faced Zack frolic in the grass, pretending to scare each other and laughing. From the quiver at my side I take an arrow, rest the end of the shaft against the catgut string—it was a wildcat I killed with my bare hands—and stretch the bow. The arrow is launched! It pierces the heart of a sparrow in flight, hurling it to earth at the feet of my two loves. I vanish in the forest before they can spy me. Word got around Zombieland that Anton was "shacked up in the mountains with some Mormon woman. He's got a kid by her, apparently, and shoots arrows at them for fun. He thinks he's a Greek god or something." He bought himself a handgun, which in Idaho was almost a requirement of citizenship. He'd never owned a weapon before, but his paranoia was growing, and he felt the need for self-protection. For a while he treated his gun like it was the relic of a vanished civilization, something too exotic to even touch. Finally he loaded it and drove up on a remote mesa, where he taught himself to shoot. He liked to shatter the rare rock formations with his bullets, or target falcons and eagles because they were endangered species. These noble birds swarmed to him for some reason, circling within range as he picked them off one by one. This made him feel lawless, like Jesse James or Che Guevara. At the same time, it reminded him of his childhood shooting gallery experiences at the Iowa State Fair. To preserve the secrecy of The Last Assassin, he recorded all of the parts himself, as he had with Destroyed Teen. He gave up on any attempt to involve other musicians in his work, and he spoke to no one about what he was doing, including Steve. Like everyone else, Steve would learn about the album once it was released. For now, it was unfair to expose him to extra risk. The music he created was explosive, slashing, and lyrical all at the same time. Guitar shrieks, industrial noise, and clips of people's voices receded into a simple melody he played alone. There was a raw urgency to it that he hadn't felt since his first album, Fever Dreams. That had been an album of hope and longing, but this one was a shot at redemption. It was his grudge match against the Colonel, his attempt to settle the score. Perhaps he could justify his mistakes if he could save others from what he'd done. He traced the career of a young man like himself, the Last Assassin, whose quest for glory began when he cut himself loose from his childhood home and wandered far away. Tasting his independence, not owing anything to anyone, he felt free for the first time. Those days when it was new to me When I was new to it, you see, Beautiful Chaos spread its wings Over my restless wandering. The young drifter hooked up with a tribal community that lived in the ruins of an abandoned city, making strange devices out of scavenged parts. They tattooed themselves and took peyote, and traveled from town to town in caravans putting on fire shows. Some days I'm on fire, My rage entertains the snow. We're dancing in the garden Where the fertile flowers grow. This new life inspired him, but it felt like a cult. He learned that the tribe had an invisible leader known as the Colonel. No one had ever seen the Colonel, but they believed him to be invincible. He directed their actions from a media fortress called the Citadel, which was hidden in a remote mountain valley. He communicated with them using signals beamed to special receivers the tribe had built, which distributed his energy throughout the tribe. They decorated the devices with masks and feathers, and worshipped them as idols. World-class mongrel human, Hallucinatory pagan, Have you forgotten yourself, Have you gone mad? He discovered that there were others in the tribe who had doubts about the Colonel, and were trying to learn the location of the Citadel so they could attack it. After numerous failed attempts, they finally got hold of the secret from a captured spy. They staged a rebellion, smashing the receivers that controlled their thoughts. This action split the tribe. Some joined the idol smashers, while others cursed them for destroying the signal. At this point, the Last Assassin led a band of rebels into the mountains for a direct assault on the Citadel. He hoped that by taking out the Colonel, he could break his control over the tribe at its source. But as he looked down into the valley where the Citadel lay, he realized it was a lost cause. The security perimeter was alert to their presence. They'd walked into a trap. A starry sky over my head, And I'm wondering What it's like to be dead.... He was about to become a martyr, an angel shot down in flight. Still, he'd proven that the Citadel existed, and others would soon take up the cause. Even if the Colonel was too powerful to be attacked directly, he could be fought by smashing the receivers. If enough people followed the Last Assassin's example and said no, the Citadel could be defeated. At the end of each recording session, Anton collected his master tapes and locked them in a metal briefcase he always kept with him, taking it into restaurants or on walks in the woods. He kept his gun there, too. Of course, Reinhold could have simply bugged the studio if he'd wanted to know what was going on. There was no privacy when it came to the Citadel, but at least the briefcase made him feel more secure. He came home one evening to find Steve cutting pictures from a magazine, trimming them and gluing them into a collage. Steve no longer had university studies to occupy his time, so he'd taken up hobbies like this one. Anton sprawled on the couch beside him, placing the briefcase at his feet. Steve eyed the case warily. "I should put a bomb in this thing," Anton said. "That way, I could blow myself up if I had to." Steve frowned. "You seem a bit edgy lately. Ever since you started recording." "It was easier to protect my ideas when they were all in my head." "You're afraid someone will steal your work?" "I wish that was all there was to it!" "So what's the problem?" "You said it yourself once. I've got friends who aren't my friends. People like Kliff, and others deeper in." He hesitated, unsure how much to say. "There's powerful interests who've done me favors in the past. They tried to draw me into their web, because they thought they could control me. And they don't want this album made." Steve wondered if Anton was being delusional. It was true that there were shady characters in Anton's life, but none who seemed dangerous, at least not in that way. He had hangers-on who would suck him dry if he let them, but parasites like that could always be shaken off. Wasn't that why they'd come to Idaho? They should be enjoying their new freedom. Steve went into the kitchen to make pasta. Seeing they were out of sauce, he decided to make a trip to the supermarket. As he left, Anton was stretched out on the couch, flipping through his journal and making notes. Once he was gone, Anton went in the bedroom and closed the door behind him. Leaning against it, he let out his breath and stared out the open window. He was scowling, and his arms were crossed. A breeze agitated the curtain, reminding him of a room from his childhood, the room with a rose-colored curtain where he'd first met Timmins. Memories flooded back of freshly mown grass, bicycles on a quiet street, porch swings and lemonade. He'd left all that behind him, because he'd known it was a lie. Life in Twin Falls had much the same innocence, but his whole situation had changed. He no longer felt righteous or immune. He felt responsible. He was afraid that people would see The Last Assassin as nothing but a myth. It described the Colonel and the Citadel, but it told its story in a kind of code. If he wanted people to join his revolt, he would have to connect it to the here and now. In his concerts, he would reveal The Last Assassin as his own story. He would describe his relation to Reinhold, and the help he'd gotten from the Citadel throughout his career. To drive the point home, he would debut the album at the House of Mysticism, his own church. He would mislead Kliff about the album's true contents, and ask him to handle the publicity as he'd always done. Word would go out that it was an inspirational album in the spirit of the Psychic Hygiene Movement. He would invite TV crews to his concert for the first time. This would spark controversy, and his hard-core fans would brand him a traitor. The "butterflies from the street" would be drawn by the hype. Meanwhile, he would drop hints through private channels to expect a surprise. Everyone's attention would be focused on the event. As he took the stage, he would announce that he was the Last Assassin. "When I came here from Iowa, I was a nobody like you. You put your faith in me, and now here I am, in the light. Sadly, there are people who want to abuse your faith. They built this church to make me a guru, but look around you. It's brainwashing, propaganda. Harry Mellow is a whore, disobey him! I denounce the Psychic Hygiene Movement. I denounce the House of Mysticism. I denounce Colonel Reinhold, my secret sponsor." That would be the cue for his first thrashing chords. As he sang the songs on the album, he would spell out their meaning. At Trashtown, he'd been part of a tribe controlled by Colonel Reinhold. In fact Reinhold controlled everything: underground culture, the mainstream media, global finance and war. The Citadel was real, he'd seen it himself. The Colonel had spies everywhere, even here in this room. "Your best friend could be an agent of the Citadel. You could be one yourself, and not even know it!" The only solution was to think independently. Trust no one, least of all those who promised paradise. He would stir up the crowd with his final lines. Refuse to believe In heroes or gardens. Make your own garden Be your own hero Refuse to believe. As the notes faded into silence he would say, "This is my final album. There is no Harry Mellow, no paradise of fools. The only garden is the one we make for ourselves. You don't need a guru, and you don't need me. Be the Last Assassin. Believe in no one. I'm gonna be invisible from now on." He would leap from the stage into the crowd, and lead them to the lobby to attack the portrait of Harry Mellow. The cry would go up, "Smash the Brainports!" In the end, the place would be trashed. People would be stomping his image in the street, on live TV. As the riot continued, he would walk off arm in arm with Steve, a free man. Either that, or the crowd would tear him apart too. That would be awesome. He needed musicians to back him on the big night, so he thought again of Blake and Vince. Reuniting the Psychic Rangers would multiply the event's impact. The Last Assassin was a return to the rebel spirit with which they'd begun, and it was also an apology for all the wrong turns he'd made. He felt sure that once they heard the album, they would agree to work with him again. The trouble was, how would he get them to hear it? There were lines of communication between his camp and theirs, but they were riddled with spies. If he tried to use those channels, he was sure that Reinhold would intercept any message he sent. His best hope was to invite them to Idaho so they could talk things over in person. He decided to start with Vince, who would be harder to convince. He called an artist he knew who was a friend of Vince, and asked for a favor. The artist went to Vince's favorite opium den, where he found him lounging on cushions and smoking a hookah. Vince waved him over to take a hit. They shared the pipe for a while until the artist remembered his mission. "Anton called me last night," he said. "He's working on a new project. He says it's like Fever Dreams, only better. He wants me to tell you it's his final album, your last chance to work together." Vince laughed, showing the missing molars he'd never fixed. "What a drama queen. If he's got something to tell me, he should do it himself." "Well, that's the thing. He says the album's too dangerous, so he's laying low until it's done. But I can take you to see him if you want." Vince blew a lazy ring of smoke. "I know where to find him. I could be there tomorrow. And I know all about The Last Assassin." The artist flinched. "Is that the album? He wouldn't tell me a thing." Vince cocked an eyebrow. "Rumors really are the best source of information." The artist managed a weak grin. "Just tell him to drop the spy routine, and come to Portland if he wants to talk. I promise not to kick his ass, even though I know I should. But don't ask me to go all the way to Idaho to stroke his ego." He peered through a cloud of smoke. "Does that sound harsh?" When Anton heard the answer, he knew he had no time to waste. If word about The Last Assassin was starting to seep out, he would have to push up his release date by several weeks. He needed musicians for the concert right away, and they had to be the type who would come to Twin Falls on a moment's notice. He picked Icky, a synth player and drummer from the Portland club scene, and Skip, a raw and hungry bassist he'd met at Sound 2000 in Boise. Icky was still doing the same glam rock routine he'd been doing when Anton first got to Portland. Skip was the sort who hung around music stores trying out gear, hoping other musicians would invite him to jam. Anton had done that, and he'd been impressed. Skip's muscular bass line was a flexible takeoff point for his flights of fancy, and it was the perfect counterpoint to Icky's ambient drumming and spacey keyboards. He put them up in a motel in Twin Falls while they rehearsed their parts. It didn't matter if they made a few mistakes. All he needed was a solid rhythm section to keep things moving behind him. In fact, he liked the way they sounded together. They had a grunge-art sound, a lounge-garage sound. He called his new band Generic Dummy. • • • Reinhold wasn't as much in the dark as Anton might have hoped. Perhaps he didn't know every detail of what Anton was doing, but he knew enough. He knew that Anton was in Twin Falls, and had bought a gun. He knew that Anton spent long hours in the studio, and carried a briefcase with him everywhere he went. People in frequent contact with Anton, such as waitresses or music store clerks, had been trained to ask leading questions. Anton's replies confirmed he was in revolt. Reinhold knew that Anton was preparing to release an album, and was recruiting a new band. Information about The Last Assassin was already on the grapevine. He knew it contained explosive secrets, and he had a good idea of what those were. Such an album was a breach of discipline, a rash fantasy that had to be stopped. After their meeting with Ethan Frump, he'd assumed that Anton knew it was time to play with the grownups. Instead he'd chosen insubordination, and his clumsy attempts to cover his tracks proved he wasn't innocent. Anton's revolt was no threat to him, but he was angry all the same. He sent Kliff to Twin Falls to have a talk. Kliff's friendship for Anton had been severely tested by The Last Assassin. From the beginning he'd helped Anton, not because it was what Reinhold wanted him to do, but out of love for Anton and what he'd wanted Anton to become. For him it was the ideal marriage of business and pleasure. Besides, he'd never been as attached to Reinhold as Anton thought. He could have survived in the world without Reinhold, just as he'd managed to survive with him. He could survive without Anton too, but he was still trying to help Anton. Anton's involvement with Steve had been a blow to him, because he was convinced that Anton was making a mistake. Anton was a leader now, with responsibilities. Instead he was letting himself be led astray by a young punk with nothing to offer. Quitting the game in a fit of rebellion would do no one any good. If Anton didn't like the way things were going, he should fine tune his strategy to get what he wanted. Instead he was lashing out at the very people who had nurtured and protected him all along. Kliff had tried to remain loyal from afar, even after Anton sent him away. He'd continued to look after Anton's interests, running Chaos Theory Records as he imagined Anton would have. He'd signed a new group called Jitterkid that promised to be big. He'd collaborated with Farnham T. Sparks on the House of Mysticism project, developing personality tests and training materials for the new recruits. He'd used his marketing skills to blend Anton's music, images of Anton, and the design of the Rituals into a seamless unity. With all of the work he'd done, he was practically an artist himself now. He'd hoped this would bring him closer to Anton, even if they weren't working together directly. Then suddenly Anton went missing, and after a while he'd learned that Anton was in Idaho working on an album. The album would be called The Last Assassin, and people wanted to know more. Naturally, they called Kliff. As Anton's manager, he was embarrassed to be out of the loop. He stalled for time, telling them, "It's a concept album. It's very ambitious. We'll say more soon." Finally he found a couple of people who claimed to have heard it. They called it Anton's "confession" and his "farewell to poetry." It was supposed to be his strongest work in years. But despite Kliff's best efforts, he was unable to get a copy for himself. He had nothing to go on but speculation and rumor, but one thing was clear. Anton's collection of break beats, aural cutups, and spoken word prophecies revealed things that should never have been discussed openly. The Citadel was described as a hidden fortress that controlled people's lives. There was a song called "Join the Volunteers." People were even debating if Colonel Reinhold was real. He was forced to answer questions about an album he'd never heard, whose creator wasn't there to defend himself, and whose very existence made him nervous. If Anton had asked him to promote The Last Assassin, he would have refused, saying it was suicidal. He was relieved when Reinhold sent him to Idaho, because the Colonel's boot was about to come down on the whole mess. It was Anton's last chance to avoid disgrace. On his arrival in Twin Falls, he tracked Anton's movements for a couple of days before picking the best spot for their encounter. When Anton walked into his favorite hamburger joint during a break from rehearsals, Kliff strolled out of the bathroom buttoning his fly. "Oh, hello," he said. "Fuck you." They slid into a booth and glared at each other across the table. Anton spoke first. "I guess Reinhold knows more about this than I want him to." "You don't know what a firestorm you've caused. You've forced him to act." "What's he doing about it, exactly? Besides sending you?" Kliff pulled out his antique silver cigarette case, and plucked one from the row with long, manicured fingernails. He lit it with a flip-top lighter. "Being systematic as always. Containing the damage. Snuffing out the flames." He snapped the lighter closed. "What does he want from me?" "For you to fix the problem. People know you're working on an album called The Last Assassin. They say it mentions a certain Colonel, and a place called the Citadel. They say it has code words like 'scouts' and 'volunteers.' So let's say your album comes out with a different title. Let's say none of those code words are in there. We all know how rumors get started, how they distort things. People will realize they were mistaken. The controversy will die down." "That would make the album meaningless, don't you think?" "I hope not." He tried to reassure Anton. "Reinhold isn't asking for a lot of changes. He thinks the album is a great idea. A conspiracy to control the world, a young man who rises up against it—he doesn't mind that at all. It's just that, from what we've heard, you're being too direct. It comes off like you're trying to hurt Reinhold on purpose." "Maybe I am." "But why?" Kliff was unable to hide his dismay. Anton smiled. "Because I want to stop him." "He's your sponsor! What's he ever done but try to help you?" "He's put me into some pretty compromising positions over the years. Let's just say I'm sick of being Reinhold's boy." Kliff surprised himself with his anger. "You've made your own choices all along. More power, more glory, an easier and faster road. Every step of the way, you've said yes." "I turned down the garden." Kliff shook his head in confusion. "What garden?" "The assassin's paradise. The reward for loyal agents." "Oh, that!" His anger didn't dim. "The garden's for suckers, you know that. It's a consolation prize. What do you need it for? You've got the Citadel already." Anton was startled, because this was the same logic he'd used himself. He put a hand on Kliff's arm, a gesture that surprised them both. "You want to know the truth? Harry Mellow was a step too far for me. How can I be a whore for a new religion? A religion that brainwashes my own fans?" Kliff scowled. "We worked on that project for months. When did you ever raise your voice against it? When did you say no?" "I'm saying no now." "You're just trying to prove to yourself you're still pure. For that, you're willing to walk away from everyone who's ever helped you, including me, your best friend." "You're not my friend, Kliff." There was a long silence. "Who was with you at the beginning? Who discovered you?" "I discovered me. I knew about me before anyone else did." "Who brought you to Trashtown? Who got you your first gigs?" Anton shrugged. "Who put you in touch with your benefactor?" "Do you think I'm grateful for that?" "Who put you in touch with your benefactor?" Kliff repeated. "You call that friendship? You were stalking me. You lured me into a trap. If you hadn't done that, none of the rest would have happened." "Exactly. And before long, you would've gotten on a bus back to Iowa. You'd be running a car wash now, or maybe a pizza place." They were locked in a staredown. The counter guy watched them nervously. He knew who Anton was, of course, a fabulous rock star from outer space. Usually he just gobbled his burger and left. The unexpected visitor seemed to have upset him. Anton smacked the table. "Since we're talking about the old days, let me remind you about the deal we made. You promised me Reinhold would never interfere in my career. No censorship. No telling me what to do. You guys would handle the business angle, and that's it." Kliff smoothed his moustache. "I don't think we could've imagined the current situation." "A deal's a deal." "You're launching a direct attack!" "I'm not attacking Reinhold. He runs the Square Peg Foundation back in Portland. He's a supporter of the House of Mysticism. He's helped me in the past, and I'm grateful for that. What I'm attacking now is the Colonel. I'm attacking the Citadel and its army of assassins. Does any of that exist? The last time I looked, all of the agents and spies were invisible. You're figments of my imagination, right?" Kliff smiled despite himself. "That's clever, I have to admit. Too clever for your own good." "The Colonel isn't like Wal-Mart, or the Catholic Church. He's not an ethnic group like the Chinese. He can't accuse me of attacking his image, because he doesn't exist. He can't take me to court to defend his brand. The minute he comes into the open, I've already won." "Are you really that naive? He won't fight you in the open. He'll fight you on his own terms. And let me remind you, he's a lot more powerful than you. He'll crush you if he has to. He'll do whatever it takes to get his way." "Is that a threat?" "From me, it's a warning. Behind the warning is a threat." Anton shook his head firmly. "I'm not going to back down." "Just listen to me, dude! Will you put your ego aside for a minute and use your brain? Whatever you may think, I'm your friend, and I'm trying to look out for you. We're not saying don't do the album. We're saying change the title, change a few words here and there. At most, replace one or two songs. So let's go through it together, you and me. I hear it's your best work ever. We don't want to destroy it. Reinhold gave me the authority to decide what changes to make. Once I've signed off on it, you'll have his full support." "He gave you authority? Are you kidding? Do you think I'd take you as my official censor? Let you go through my album line by line? If you were really my friend, you'd be standing up for me right now. But you're the Colonel's loyal lapdog, and nothing will change that." Kliff hung his head. "Fighting Reinhold isn't noble, Anton. It's foolish." "You only say that because you're a coward." "It's not a good road for you! I don't know how or when, but there'll be consequences you won't like." "I'm ready for that. In fact, I invite that. I know you won't help me like in the past. I'll have to be independent, like I always claimed to be. It'll be a challenge, but at least I'll be true to my values for once. Is that the sort of consequence you're talking about?" "That's part of it. But it won't end there." "Where will it end?" "It ends where you let it end." "And if I don't let it end?" Their breathing grated in the tense silence. "You could get hurt. People around you will get hurt." Anton realized now that Steve was in danger. He'd kept Steve insulated from The Last Assassin as best he could, but now he understood that Reinhold was willing to attack him through Steve, even though Steve had nothing to do with it. It was unthinkable for him to give up his revolt and return to being Harry Mellow, but he had to find a way to protect Steve. He would draw Reinhold's attention away from Steve and onto himself alone. He stood up. "Thanks for coming all the way out here to see me, but this conversation is over. I don't like ultimatums, and I can't accept compromise. If you ever decide to switch sides, we can be friends again. Until then, we have nothing to talk about." Kliff nodded. He pulled on his coat, followed by a cap and fur-lined gloves. It was already winter, and the mountain air was quite cold. Seeing him making his exit, Anton softened a little. "I hope I don't live to regret this," he said. "You won't live to regret it. Reinhold doesn't work that way." Kliff drew his coat tighter around him and went out. • • • Anton released The Last Assassin unchanged, as he'd sworn to do. Until Kliff's visit, he might have imagined that Reinhold would let things slide, but Kliff's ultimatum had made things clear. If he rebelled, he could expect to be crushed. Still, he had to do it. If he didn't use his moment of fame to tell the truth, he would be a traitor to himself. The album was shipped out across the country, but it dropped into oblivion as soon as it appeared. Most people had no idea it had even been released. Magazines spoke of Anton's "mysterious silence" as if it were unbroken. In the few places where The Last Assassin went on sale, it vanished from the stores within days, gobbled up by Reinhold's goons. Of those rare individuals who got their hands on a copy, only a few understood what it was about. The only magazines that tried to tease apart its meaning were a Mexican occult journal, and an anarchist zine in Wisconsin. Distributors dropped Anton from their lists, telling their clients he'd been replaced by "a more promising artist, one with less extreme views." When he tried to book a show, he got a wrong number, or was told the club no longer did live acts. Magazines got letters asking them to stop writing about him all the time. "How boring. Tell us about the latest trends." The Colonel was erecting a wall of silence around him, but rather than let this bother him, he used it to press his case. "Doesn't this prove there's someone working against me behind the scenes?" he told promoters. "A shadowy figure, like my album says? So whose side are you on? Are you with me, or not?" He was in over his head, but he clung to the rash fantasy that he was in control. He told himself that disgruntled Citadel agents would follow him out of Reinhold's network, because their loyalty was to him. He had troops in the field who would mobilize if he said, "Now is the time." Backed by his partisans, he would stand his ground and fight. He would recruit an organization to himself, and claim a piece of Reinhold's territory. Yet he was at a disadvantage, and he knew it. With no access to the media, he was isolated and vulnerable. He'd lost the benefit of surprise, so a debut concert at the House of Mysticism was out of the question. There would be no dramatic gesture of rebellion as he'd hoped. He had to work on the smallest of scales, barnstorming from town to town with Generic Dummy. He would put his band's gear in the white-paneled truck, along with a sound system and lights. He would do shows in high school gymnasiums, college bars, and suburban parking lots. After drumming up support across the country, he would return to Portland at the head of a conquering army. He did a show in Boise to test this approach. He played in an old barroom before a crowd of two or three hundred people. They drifted in and out, sometimes enthusiastic, sometimes not. When he got to the last song, "Refuse to Believe," he told them, "I wrote this song for all of you, so if you ever feel this way, you'll have something to sing. If you want to say that's stupid and naive, then fuck you." Steve was there, of course, wandering in and out like the others. It was Anton's first concert since they'd met, but he knew Anton too well to get worked up about seeing him on stage. In fact, the artificial distance between them made him uneasy. Besides, the songs were no longer new to him. Now that the album was out, he'd listened to it many times. He knew how important it was to Anton, but it would never be his favorite. Anton's paranoia had soured him on it before he'd even heard it. If Anton wanted to create a dark album, that was his right, but he'd been hoping for something happier to come out of their time together. After the concert was over, the crowd melted away as if it had never been. The band loaded their truck and left it where it was for the night. Skip went to visit his family, since he'd grown up in Boise. Icky and the two roadies took a taxi to a motel. Anton and Steve sat in their car smoking a joint. They'd driven together from Twin Falls, but rather than heading back, they went to a downtown hotel. The hotel was a restored Victorian, with hardwood floors and an elegant staircase. Their room had textured lemon wallpaper and the original gas fixtures. Before getting in bed, Anton stood at the antique vanity, shirtless and barefoot, tossing his hair. Looking at Steve in the glass, he announced, "I won't be going back with you tomorrow. I've got some business to take care of, and it might take a couple of days. There's no point in you hanging around here waiting for me." As Steve blinked in confusion, he took off his pants and got into bed. Just after dawn, he slipped out of the room while Steve was still sleeping. The sidewalk was empty and snow-blown as he shook off the thickness of slumber with an early ramble. He was bundled in a wool overcoat, and his head was bare. The lower half of his face was wrapped in the folds of a scarf given him by a grandmotherly admirer in Tulsa. Head down, collar up, with thick-soled boots and jeans bunched at his ankles, he resembled no one in particular, least of all Anton Dupree. He was a solitary stranger, walking the silent and empty streets of Anytown, accompanied by his long, sharply-cut shadow on a Sunday morning. He scanned the window displays, hands stuffed in his pockets. His reflection caught his eye in a store window, and he patted his hair nervously. He grinned and looked around. "I'm famous and nobody knows it!" He found this exhilarating. No matter how popular he'd become due to Extreme Liberties and Destroyed Teen, even his most die-hard fans knew only a small part of his story. "They think I'm just a musician. They don't know me at all." He laughed maniacally, which bolstered his spirits. Steve woke an hour later, and felt the emptiness of the bed next to him. He dressed in a hurry, dashed cold water on his face, and went down to the lobby. The receptionist told him that Anton had gone out, leaving a message that confirmed what he'd said the night before. Steve should drive back to Twin Falls on his own. Their car was parked at the curb where they'd left it. It being Sunday, downtown was deserted, shut up tight. A solitary diner was the only thing open. Steve went into the diner to nurse a cup of coffee, half hoping to see Anton walk in the door at any moment. After an hour he grew impatient, and drove past the bar where they'd been the night before. The truck was gone from the parking lot, and there was no one around to ask what had happened. He did what Anton had told him and drove home. Over the next couple of days he grew increasingly uneasy, wondering why Anton didn't at least call. The people in the corner dives they frequented began greeting him with sad expressions, seeing him come in so often without his pal. Finally he called his Aunt Clara, who hadn't heard from Anton either. Not knowing what else to do, he drove back to Boise to look around. No one at the bar had seen Anton or the rest of his band since the concert. The manager eyed him as if to imply that Anton had ditched him on purpose. This made him feel like a useless kid who was pushing to get into Anton's light. He didn't like that at all. Remembering that Skip was from Boise, he called everyone in the phone book who had Skip's last name. He reached an old man who claimed not to know anything, a woman's answering machine, and a number that had been disconnected or changed. He wandered the neighborhood around the bar, asking people if they'd seen anything unusual on Sunday morning. Had they noticed the white truck? Finally a gas station attendant told him he'd seen it stop there on its way out of town. "They was musicians," the man said. "A bunch of 'em, five or six. Some was in back." Steve perked up. "Was there a young guy with them, with blond hair and pale eyes?" "They was all young. I can't say who had what, exactly." "Did you see which way they went?" The man made a vague gesture. "Got on the highway, I guess. Took off out of town." Steve looked off toward the mountains, knowing that Anton was somewhere out there, unreachable. A sense of helplessness surged through him. Ever since they'd met, they hadn't spent a single night apart. Now Anton might be in danger, and he was unable to act. He drove back to Twin Falls and called Aunt Clara again. "I'm worried about what might've happened," he told her. "I don't know what to do." "I'm sure it's nothing, honey. Maybe he's gone back to Portland." "Why would he do that?" "I don't know. Maybe something came up?" "I haven't heard from him in almost a week. He would've called, don't you think? He's never vanished on me like this before." "I'm sure he'll be in touch as soon as he can," she said gently. "You seem awfully calm about it." "Has it occurred to you that he might not want to be found?" "What are you talking about?" "Maybe it's best to let this go for a while. Time has a way of sorting things out." Her words only made him feel more desperate. He couldn't stand to wait a moment longer, sitting around in their empty house. He decided to go to Portland, even if he had no reason to believe that Anton was there. He said a quick goodbye to Aunt Clara, and looked around the house trying to decide what to pack. He had no idea how long he would be gone. Would he find Anton right away, or would he have to settle in and wait? With a shudder, he considered that he might never find Anton. In the end, he picked out enough clothing to last a few days. He collected Anton's keepsakes and mementos and put them in boxes, adding a few items of his own. He did this out of respect for Anton's paranoia. If he was going to be away for a while, he didn't want to leave anything lying around for prying eyes. He would take it all to his aunt's place on his way out of the state. He drove to Anton's studio and let himself in. The place was already clean, testimony to how obsessively Anton protected his work. When he returned to the car, an instinct told him to look under the seat. He found the metal briefcase with the master tapes for The Last Assassin. He shuddered, knowing it was impossible for Anton to have simply forgotten it. Anton must have gone somewhere dangerous, leaving the case behind with him for safekeeping. He took the case from its hiding place and set it on his lap, musing about the gun Anton kept inside. Had he taken it with him? Perhaps he would need it where he was. He was about to open the case to check, when he remembered what Anton had said about a bomb. He held the case delicately in his hands as if it might explode. If he tried to open it, the names of two of Anton's bands, Exploding Youth and Generic Dummy, might soon apply to him. He decided that if Anton needed the gun, he already had it. He drove back to the house and set the case on the floor, next to the boxes he'd packed. There was nothing left in the house but furniture and dishes, nothing of personal value to either of them. This made him feel sad, but he was used to the feeling. He'd bounced from one place to another as a kid, never staying anywhere long enough to call it home. He left a note for Anton on the kitchen counter that said simply, "Call Aunt Clara." He didn't want to say more. He drove to his aunt's house with the boxes, and spent the night there. Heading out the next day, he kissed her on the cheek and said he would be back soon. <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>