<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 13 Extreme Liberties "Citizens of the night, rise up and fight...." These lines, gracing the beginning of Extreme Liberties, the Psychic Rangers' second album, announced a new era. Sure of himself now, Anton spelled out his program. Sure of his popularity, he apologized to no one. Yet he was ill at ease within himself. He never doubted the value of his work, but he questioned whether he was a worthy messenger. He was already twenty, and the world around him 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 what they didn't like about him 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 there had been meaningless, and now it was the same. The people who came to Psychic Rangers shows for the sake of the band's popularity 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, they would have torn him apart in an instant. Not for the first time, he realized he was scared of his country. As work on the album neared completion, he began to divide his time between two roles, producer of Extreme Liberties and head of Chaos Theory Records, the independent label he'd set up to promote the album. In his role as record label executive, he liked to call 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. This led to further decisions. Which cities and towns were critical to the success of the tour? Which media outlets would be most effective in reaching the band's base? He had to design a marketing campaign for the Psychic Rangers, knowing all along that his fans were highly skeptical of media tricks. He left the details to Kliff, knowing that Kliff would rely on their troops on the ground, local fans who'd stepped forward during their last tour. These self-identified supporters served two purposes. They helped to spread word about the new album, and they sent back useful information about which venues to play, which local bands might work as opening acts, 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 Kliff that Sabrina would be their road manager, he 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." "Did I ever tell you...." Kliff hesitated, unsure how much to say. Anton made a gesture of encouragement. His hand sliced through the air, catching the light. "I slit a man's throat once when I was twelve. 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 out of his waterfront offices. He had a whole system of tables that could tell the winning number from the type of ships that moved past his window." "And he took you in? A kid he knew had killed someone?" "I was the first, and his favorite for a long time." "What did he teach you?" "Scouting tactics, use of poisons, how to strangle without leaving a mark. How to come and go without being seen." "And Sabrina?" "She came later. Once Reinhold started needing enforcers, he called her up." "They knew each other already?" "Either that or he summoned her, like a demon." Anton laughed, then asked, "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 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." "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 like he was allergic to them. They were his passion, so much so that it scared him. He was convinced that no good would ever come of an obsession like that. Then Anton had come into his life like a sudden ray of light shining into his dark, cozy hole. Their relations were turbulent because Anton was turbulent, but Anton gave him something to aspire to. As Anton had predicted, it took a while for people to relate to their music, but once that happened, Vince became an object of desire to many. Now he was often called the best drummer on the West Coast. It felt great to be taken seriously, to be in demand at parties, to be responsible for music 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 had been intense enough to make Vince feel like he was a prisoner in the studio. The rare intervals he spent with Diane only increased his anxiety. It was like being released from his cell for a conjugal visit, only to be locked away again. Under such conditions, their lovemaking was more urgent than joyful. Somehow they got sloppy, and Diane ended up pregnant. They told only a few friends about it, who tried to help them decide whether to bring a child into the world. Vince was a homebody at heart, and he loved the thought of balancing a daughter on his knee as he taught her the drums. But he knew that before that could happen, the band would experience a whirlwind of activity with no end in sight. It would be two or three years before they reached a stable plateau from which they could look down on their competition. Even then, he suspected that Anton would never be satisfied. This was no time to raise a child, but abortion or adoption were worse. As he told Blake, "I hate to think she might be raised by a cop." Another complicating factor was that he and Diane were both junkies. They'd been shooting up since the days when they lived in a dark and noisy apartment under the freeway. Among the artists and musicians they knew, heroin was considered a bourgeois addiction, a sign of status and stability as opposed to crack. For those who could afford it, it was a quiet decadence, something that could be indulged as a weekend hobby. So whenever they wanted to unwind, they would tell people they were leaving the city and shut themselves in the apartment, refusing to answer the phone 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 and hollow cheeks made their habit obvious to anyone who thought about it. Whoever saw them together would be struck by their moldering beauty, a resurrected-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, so long as their behavior wasn't a danger to others. They were the ideal junkie couple. Diane was the model of stay-at-home chic, clipping coupons, baking casseroles and sewing her own curtains. Vince's stamina and endurance were positive symptoms of his habit. The drug steadied his brilliance, settled him into a groove. It kept him from spinning aimlessly, slamming into things and shooting off sparks. As a successful musician, he had no problem paying for his supply. He even had a reliable source, an activist lawyer who hung around protests looking for clients. He and Diane were as one in their addiction, and they liked it that way. He never discussed any of this with Anton because there was no point. After all, 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 suspected something, because every so often Anton would say something about his monkey. "Time to feed the monkey," Anton would say as he left the studio for the night. Once at a party, Anton told a couple they'd just met, "My friend here has a pet monkey. It's a white Asian monkey that needs special care." Anton also liked to taunt him about his home life, calling him "pussywhipped" and "househusband." He began to believe that Anton saw Diane as a rival. It was true that he felt more loyalty to Diane than to the band, but he never used that as an excuse. Even so, Anton would accuse him, "You're getting too comfortable. You're 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 finally did, Anton blew him off. He began to withdraw emotionally from the band, thinking of it as little more than a gig. At a time when he should have been caught up in the excitement of the upcoming tour, only his sense of duty kept him going. He asked himself what gave Anton the right to be such a jerk. Was Anton spoiled by fame? In fairness, Anton hadn't changed much. His own perspective had changed more. Back in the days when he had no place to rehearse, Anton had awakened his ambition and given him a reason to hope. Now that they'd achieved a success bigger than anything he'd 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. A few weeks before the start of their tour, he realized it would conflict with the birth of his child. The idea had been nagging at him for some time, but now the reality hit him with full force. He begged Anton to shift the dates so he could stay by Diane's side. "You mean she's pregnant?" Anton said. "I didn't know." "You didn't?" "No one told me." "It's been obvious for weeks." "I guess I haven't seen her." "She's coming to term a couple of weeks after the tour starts." "Bummer for you." "If I'm not here to look after her, how will she score?" It was the first time he'd ever mentioned the addiction to Anton. "It isn't easy to move around with a baby inside you." Anton was horrified. "You mean she's still shooting up? Now that she's pregnant?" "We both do it." "That's not the point. What about the baby? Won't she born addicted?" "We've already thought of 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." "If you ask me, you guys shouldn't be having a baby at all." "We're not asking." "Fair enough." "So about the tour...." "Rescheduling a fifty-city tour is an impossibility. I wish I could help, but we've had these dates lined up for months. You knew Diane was pregnant. You knew when the tour was set to start. Why did you wait until now to say something?" Vince glowered. Why did Anton always have to outsmart him? "So here are your options. You can stay behind, which means you're out of the band. Don't do that, Vince! 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 she would be in her own bed. Or she can stay here, which means you need to find someone to look after her. A sister, a best friend. As far as the heroin goes, what do you do for yourself when you're on the road? You bring enough to last for the whole trip, don't you? I don't think you'd want to cop from strangers in each new city." Vince looked away. "Don't worry, I won't bite your head off. Of course you bring a supply. 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." "This is our daughter! It would be crazy not to see her for four months." "Then bring Diane with you. That seems like the best choice." He put his hand on Vince's shoulder. "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 players for the first time. I know you don't want to throw that away. So talk with Diane, and let me know your decision. I'll do whatever I can to make it work." In the end, Diane chose to stay in Portland, because she was worried that the stress of the tour would be too much for her. A friend volunteered to stay with her in the final days of pregnancy, and they arranged for a midwife to deliver the baby. Anton offered to fly Diane and the baby out to visit the band once their daughter was born, to give Vince a chance to say hello. They kicked off the tour with a sendoff concert at New Jerusalem. After the show, Diane followed Vince to the bus and gave him a long embrace. He wore a long black cape against the foggy cold, and she had on a scarf and mittens she'd knitted herself. As the bus pulled away, she stood waving. • • • "Are you God?" asked the DJ. "I don't think so. And you?" Anton was doing an interview at a college radio station. "My girlfriend thinks so, but she's—" "Seventeen? I'd like to meet her." "That's not cool!" "Okay, 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 I think is the album you're referring to, 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 three or four new songs since we've been on tour. It's a constant cycle. I figure I've got at least a few good albums in me. I'm like a woman who's born with a certain number of 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 already on the way." "So how do you get fertile?" "Excuse me?" "Who inseminates you?" Anton laughed. "God, I guess. What do they call that, spontaneous ejaculation? No, immaculate conception. But remember, it's only an analogy. I'm fertile now, but I won't be forever. That's all I'm trying to say. You ever notice that a lot of musicians are great when they're young, but they have nothing much to say by the time they're thirty? Even so, they keep making albums 'cause they've got that habit to support. So 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 laying eggs 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'...." He 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 to be a tough, no-nonsense bitch as road manager. She had a keen sense of logistics and deployment. There was no room in her life for useless motion, and she was dedicated to the ruthless elimination of waste. No longer would they have to wait outside the concert hall while the bus driver exorcised it with burning sage. No longer would they worry about arriving in town to find their show canceled, or being stiffed by a club owner after the performance. Every so often Sabrina would vanish for a few hours, leaving detailed instructions with her assistants, Peter and Cybele from the Community Project. 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, what did they carry? Sabrina gave him the answer. They were Postal Service trucks, and she had a small fleet of her own. Unlike the real ones, however, her cargo wasn't ceramic angels or vacuum-packed hams. Reinhold's triangular trade in porn, weapons and drugs was the life blood of his operations, and her "alternative postal route" was what kept the organism alive. Following their concert in Tucson, she asked him if he'd like a firsthand look. The band would be traveling to San Antonio overnight, with a day off before the next show. That would be enough time for him to participate in a trucking run and rejoin the group. "Usually I don't make the runs myself," she told him. "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 want to see for myself. It might be boring for you, but you could always take a turn behind the wheel, or help unload the goods. It will give you a taste of life in the field." He was wary of being alone with Sabrina, especially after Kliff's warnings, 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. She instructed him to tell the band that Anton would be staying in Tucson for "personal reasons." He would rejoin the group before the next concert. "Let them think he has a girlfriend here." Peter offered them his crooked grin. "Be a dear and pack a travel bag for each of us. Deodorant, toothbrush, change of socks. Meet us in front of the arena in ten minutes." Peter disappeared, and she guided Anton to the parking lot. As they walked out the stage door, a group of fans gathered to ask Anton to sign copies of Extreme Liberties. She shooed them away with a dark look. A youth with red hair and incandescent blue eyes managed to penetrate the psychic barrier. "I thought you might be able to use this," he muttered and 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 Honda Civic" 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. Instructive voices exiled... Physical ingenuity bitterly calmed... —Adagio. —Ah! the infinite egoism of adolescence, the studious optimism: how full of flowers the world was that summer! They pulled up in front of a wooden building at the edge of a railroad yard. It had the run-down, yet lived-in feel of an old-time roadhouse. Anton assumed it was the Tucson branch of the Salon des Assassins. A man appeared in the doorway as Sabrina cut the engine. He strolled over and introduced himself as Mitch. He was rangy and on the young side, with fuzz on his upper lip like Kliff. He wore a flannel shirt, jeans and leather work boots. He glanced at Anton with a shock of recognition. "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 Peter Wiklas. In exchange for the porn in the truck, he'll give you some 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 from there to Bakersfield to protect the weapons, but since you'll be 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 be switching back to a sedan. Take that shit to Fresno! 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, though, he'll help you with travel plans 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. Tijuana Go-Go Boys, gay gang bang. 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 toward 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. He foresaw stunning revolutions in love, and suspected his wives of being able to do better than this indulgence embellished by sky and luxury. He wanted to see the truth, the hour of essential desire and satisfaction. 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 passed through a checkpoint, and followed a remote service road for several miles. They parked behind a cluster of buildings, out of view. After a few minutes, Sergeant Wiklas pulled up in his own vehicle, and they spent half an hour shifting crates back and forth. Wiklas complimented Reinhold on his discovery of an underage Thai actress whose willingness to do anything amazed his fellow soldiers. He told Sabrina that he was ready to step up his production of illegal powders if the Colonel wanted. On their way out they passed the same checkpoint, and were greeted with a wave and a salute. Anton dozed off on the road to Bakersfield. When he woke up, they were parked in an empty lot next to a warehouse. The sun was just coming up, and Sabrina was talking into the radio handset. Evidently there was a crisis. She explained the situation once she was done. "Our transfer point is in a hot zone. I could feel it, so I didn't go in. I think the authorities staked it 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 already gone. He sat at the counter, ordered his breakfast, and soon was immersed in Rimbaud again. We embrace 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. By the time Sabrina returned, he was nursing his third cup of coffee. "That's taken care of," she announced. Her expression told him not to ask. She was impatient because they were behind schedule. They got in the truck and drove to the transfer point, now cleared of threats. Anton helped to 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, free for the taking. These boxcars will be in L.A. tonight. Our people there know what to expect." From there they drove to the Postal Service distribution facility, where they parked their truck among countless others exactly like it. Slipping the tins of substance into their bags, they walked across the lot to the employee parking area. "Won't the surveillance cameras pick us up?" She laughed and shook her head. Anton took the wheel for the drive to Fresno. She sat next to him exchanging chit-chat as they passed a bottle of schnapps. "I have to congratulate you. The tour is a lot more popular than I expected. What do you think about extending it, adding more gigs?" When they reached Fresno, the streets were in a state of shock under the midday sun. Ben ushered them into the back of the All-Seeing Eye and drew the curtains. He poured them a cup of tea, took the tins of substance in his hands and held them lovingly. He was delighted to meet him in person. When they were done with business, he pulled an album of clippings off a shelf. "I've been following your career since you were nobody." He got on the phone and after a few minutes, offered them a ride to San Antonio on a private jet. A young Web entrepreneur would take them there, in exchange for VIP treatment at the concert for him and his friends. A corporate limo came for them an hour later. On the plane, the talk was about snowboarding, a rave in Baja, and the latest user interface. Anton withdrew into his seat, taking refuge in Rimbaud. I point out to you unheard-of riches. I observe the history of the treasures you found. I see the result! My wisdom is as scorned as chaos is. What is my nothingness, compared to the stupor that awaits you? • • • He lay on the motel bed, one arm flung over his head, watching drowsily as Debbie touched up her eye shadow. He could see Debbie's 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. It was a nervous tic. 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. She'd 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 think she was trying to have his baby. He wondered what kind of mother she would be. He didn't feel any responsibility for what happened to his seed, because that would be a separate person who had 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 was still hanging around even though he threw her out like a dog each time he saw her. A word to Sabrina would have guaranteed that she never got near him again, but she was also servicing Blake and Vince. This was out of character for Vince, but the electricity of the tour and Diane's absence had prompted him to him give in once or twice. 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. "I'm your girlfriend!" After dabbing her tears with the back of her hand, her mascara in ruins, she would be forced once again to go through the ritual of repairing her face. "You're not my girlfriend. You're a tramp who's a decent lay." She couldn't be too smart or she wouldn't be putting up with this. It depressed him to think that she stuck around only because other men had treated her worse. He was quick to abuse her with words, but at least he'd never raised his hand against her. • • • After their concert in Omaha, they drove on to Des Moines. In between, they crossed through western Iowa where Anton was raised. It was the first time he'd been back in this region 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 got 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 all 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. "I've made it," he seemed to be saying. "You tried to warn me, 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 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 doesn't always mean 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 undergone in the past few months. His future career as the near-mythical 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. He finished off the set with virtuoso flair, forcing Vince and Blake to take cover from his pyrotechnics. As he came off stage, Sabrina gave him an impulsive hug, then held 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," she told him. "Best I've seen, anyway." "I nearly lost it out there." "But what a comeback. It was like something snapped inside you, 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. The white room where he'd seen Timmins was in a mental hospital. He was sure of it because Timmins had warned him 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'd 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. There was no way he could visit Timmins now, but they would return to the Midwest for the final leg of the tour. He could shift a couple of dates then, 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 Colonel Reinhold's inner sanctum, known as the Citadel. No one knew exactly where it was, or if it had a physical location at all. The only way to get there was by psychic transport. He was getting ready for bed one night when he felt Reinhold's call, which was like the vibration of a mobile phone inside his head. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. 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. The briskly efficient orderly, a blend of male and female so perfect it was impossible to tell which, helped him from his chair. The orderly waved a wand of light over his eyes to verify his identity, and stuck him with a needle containing a hypnotic drug. He was transported again to a video conference room where the Colonel was debating the finer points of torture with one of the world's dictators. "Sorry, dude, gotta go," Reinhold told the dictator. The line flickered and went dead. Reinhold poured them each a tumbler of scotch and gestured for Kliff to take a seat. He leaned back and cracked his knuckles one by one. Kliff drew a spliff from his chest 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," the Colonel said. "What could I do? She didn't ask my permission." "Did you see this coming?" He tapped a fingernail on the rim of his glass. "The first time I noticed anything was during our first tour. She was stalking him. 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 while were planning the new tour. She volunteered to be the road manager, and he went for it. I told him that was a bad idea, but he wouldn't listen." "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 have told me." Kliff had him there. He couldn't very well admit that 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. I'll talk to her and tell her to back off. On your end, I want you to do what you can to get him away from her. Too much exposure for Anton isn't good for the plan. 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. If he realized their intentions, he might draw closer to her out of spite. 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, it would make him harder to work with on other fronts. He didn't like to be thwarted, even in his own interest. "Why don't we buy his affection?" Reinhold said suddenly. "Bribe him to stay away from her." "You know he'll never go for that!" The Colonel twirled his hand in a trifling gesture. "Righteous people are so tiresome. You always have to find a way to trick their sensibilities." "What if it wasn't a real bribe? If it was, you know, disguised...." Reinhold chuckled, delighted to have an idea that contradicted Kliff's and was also the right one. "Better put it right out there. '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 see it as anything but a bribe. It will make him curious, I expect. 'What does he want from me?' He'll respect me for my authenticity, my willingness to show my hand so openly." Kliff had to admit he was right. If the appeal was blatant enough, Anton would go for it out of arrogance, 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 wants him to do something behind my back. He doesn't know what it is, 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 that he'll contact me directly. And I'll tell him to go to you for advice, which makes you my mouthpiece. In whatever way you choose, give him the hint that he should spend less time with Sabrina. I think the best way isn't to threaten," he winked, "but to make life interesting for him." Kliff felt a warm glow. The Colonel wanted him to seduce Anton. That was an idea that both scared and excited him, because it was the culmination of his fantasy. Seduction was his greatest talent, and in Anton's case it was sincere. He would lure Anton with unheard-of pleasures. Sabrina attracted Anton through mystery, elusiveness, but he would satisfy Anton day after day. In the end Anton would lose interest in Sabrina, never realizing that it had been planned that way all along. Kliff 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 throng. During an open-air concert on the shores of Lake Michigan, she was brought on stage and lifted over the heads of the crowd, while Anton chanted over and over, "Radiant baby, indeed she glows." Blake's guitar solo was transcendent, eternal, so eerily perfect that he didn't even realize he was playing. Many swore later that 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 longing for a quiet life. The momentum of the tour swept him along, but he became cranky and withdrawn at times, and didn't always perform at his best. Blake was sensitive to his moods, and 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 future fault lines were already in place. <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>