<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 24 Last Assassin Back in Portland, people were talking. They were used to seeing Anton 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 hadn't been seen in weeks. To show that he hadn't forgotten them, and maybe 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, because in Idaho it was a requirement of citizenship. He'd never owned a weapon before, but he felt the need for self-protection. For a while he treated it as if it were the relic of a vanished civilization, something too exotic to even touch. It was heavy, metallic, cold and strangely sexy. 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. He didn't know why, but these noble birds swarmed to him like mosquitoes. They circled within range and he picked them off one by one. It reminded him of his childhood shooting-gallery experiences at the State Fair. At the same time it made him feel lawless, like Che Guevara or Jesse James. He'd already written all the songs to The Last Assassin, so work in the studio went smoothly. To preserve the secrecy of what he was doing, he'd given up on any attempt to involve other musicians in the process. He recorded all the parts himself, as he had with Destroyed Teen. He spoke to no one about it, including Steve. The music he created was slashing, explosive 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 he hadn't shown 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 with 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 course of a young man like himself, the Last Assassin, whose quest began when he cut himself loose from a sleepy, backwater town. Tasting his independence, his sense of 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. His 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 infallible. He directed their actions from a media fortress called the Citadel, hidden in a remote mountain valley. He communicated with them using telepathic signals beamed to special receivers the tribe had built. The receivers distributed his energy throughout the tribe. They decorated the devices with masks and feathers, and worshipped them as if they were idols. World-class mongrel human, hallucinatory pagan, have you forgotten yourself, have you gone mad? On the razor's edge again— spooky as it is, I like it. It fascinates me, this darkness. Let me in! He discovered there were others in the tribe who had doubts about the Colonel. They were trying to learn the location of the Citadel so they could attack it. Finally the secret fell into their hands from a captured spy. They staged a rebellion, smashing the receivers that controlled their thoughts. Their action split the tribe. Some joined the idol smashers, while others cursed them for destroying the signal. At this point the young hero became the Last Assassin. He led a band of rebels into the mountains for a direct assault on the Citadel. As he looked down into the valley where the Citadel lay, he had a premonition that 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'd flown too close to the sun and was about to be burned. Still, he'd proven the Citadel existed, and now others would take up the fight. Maybe the Colonel was too powerful to be attacked directly, but he could be fought by smashing the receivers. If enough people followed the Last Assassin and said no, in the end the Citadel would be defeated. At the end of each day in the studio, Anton collected his tapes and locked them in a high-impact briefcase that he kept with him everywhere, in restaurants or even on walks in the woods. He kept his gun there, too. Of course, Reinhold could have bugged the studio if he'd wanted to know what he was working on. The briefcase did little to guard his privacy, but still, it 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 between 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." "You seem a bit edgy lately. Ever since you started recording." "You bet. It was easier to protect my ideas when they were all in my head." "Are you afraid someone will steal your work?" "That's the least of it." "Were you this way with your other albums?" "It's natural, I think. A mother always protects her young. Only this time it's more dangerous." "Dangerous how?" "You said it yourself once. I've got friends who aren't my friends. People like Kliff, and others like him only worse. People deeper in. Hardcore people, recruiters and spies. They helped me at first, then little by little, they drew me into their web until they thought they could control me. Those people don't want this album made." Steve figured he was being delusional. It was true that Anton knew some sketchy characters, but they didn't seem dangerous, not in that way. Overzealous fans and promoters were a drain on the emotions, and they would suck him dry if he let them, but they could be shaken off. That was why they'd come to Idaho. They should be enjoying their new freedom. He went in the kitchen to make pasta. Seeing they were out of sauce, he decided to make a quick run to the supermarket. As he left, Anton was curled up on the couch, flipping through his notebook and making notes. Steve gave him a peck on the cheek on his way out. Anton got up, went in the bedroom and closed the door behind him. Leaning against it, he crossed his arms and scowled as he stared out the open window. A breeze agitated the curtain, reminding him of a room he'd been in as a child, the room with a rose-colored curtain where he'd first met Timmins. Other memories flooded back, bicycles on a quiet street, freshly mown grass, porch swings and lemonade. Since then, his whole life had changed. He no longer felt innocent. He felt responsible. He was afraid that people would take The Last Assassin as nothing but a fable. It described the Colonel and the Citadel, but it didn't make any connection to the here and now. If he wanted people to join his revolt, he would have to show that The Last Assassin was his own story. In his concerts, he would teach people to read between the lines. He would spell out the parallels between himself and the Last Assassin. To drive the point home, he would debut the album at the House of Mysticism, his own church. He would ask Kliff 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. The media would be invited, including TV crews for the first time. This would excite controversy, and many of 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 big 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 I'm here in the light. Sadly, there are people who want to misuse your faith. They built this church to make me a guru, but look around you. Harry Mellow is a sham. It's brainwashing, propaganda. I denounce the Psychic Hygiene Movement. I denounce the House of Mysticism. I denounce Colonel Reinhold, my secret sponsor." As he sang the songs on the album, he would reveal their meaning. At Trashtown, he'd been part of a tribe controlled by Colonel Reinhold. In fact the Colonel 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 a Reinhold agent. 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 last few notes reverberated 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. Take it all down, start over! 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 whole 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 they would tear him apart too. That would be awesome. He needed musicians to join him on the big night, and right away he thought of Blake and Vince. Reuniting the Psychic Rangers would multiply the event's impact. Of course he'd burned his bridges to them long ago, but The Last Assassin was a return to their old spirit. More than that, it was an apology for all the wrong decisions he'd made. Once they heard the album, he felt sure they would agree to work with him again. Passing a message to them would be a problem, however. There were lines of communication between his camp and theirs, but they were riddled with spies. If he tried to use those channels and send them a copy of the album, he was sure that Reinhold would intercept it. His best hope was to invite them to Idaho so they could talk. He decided to start with Vince, who would be harder to convince. He contacted a club kid who was friends with Vince, and gave him instructions. The kid went to Vince's favorite opium den, where he found him lounging on cushions, smoking a water pipe. "Anton's working on a new project," he said. "It's like Fever Dreams, only better. He wants me to tell you it's his farewell album, your last chance to work together." "Farewell album? What a drama queen." Vince blew a lazy ring of smoke. "If he's got something to tell me, he should tell me himself." "That's just the thing. He's not in Portland. He says the album's too dangerous, so he's laying low until it's done. But I can take you to him if you agree." Vince laughed, revealing the missing molars he'd never fixed. "I know where he is. Twin Falls, Idaho. And I know about The Last Assassin." The kid flinched. "How did you know that?" "Ever heard of rumors? They're the best source of information. And this one's been around for weeks. So tell him to drop the spy routine, and come back to Portland if he wants to talk to me. I promise not to kick his ass, though I probably should. But don't ask me to go all the way to Idaho to kiss and make up." He squinted through the smoke. "Does that sound insensitive or harsh?" Anton was disappointed to hear Vince's reply, but he didn't have time to waste. The album was nearly finished, and he needed musicians to back him up in concert. He settled on Icky, a keyboard player and drummer he knew from the Portland club scene, and Skip, a raw and hungry bass player 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, in the hope that other musicians would invite him to jam. Anton had done that, and he was impressed. Skip's muscular bass line was a flexible takeoff point for Anton's fancies. It made a perfect counterpoint to Icky's ambient drumming and spacy keyboards. He invited them both to Twin Falls, and put them up in a motel as 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. • • • Meanwhile, 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 that he'd 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 only confirmed that he was in revolt. He knew about Anton's search for collaborators, and that Anton was preparing to release an album. Information about The Last Assassin was already on the grapevine. He knew it contained explosive secrets, and he could imagine what those secrets were. Such an album was uncalled for, a breach of discipline, a rash fantasy that had to be stopped. Anton's revolt was no real threat to him, but he was angry all the same. After their meeting with Ethan Frump, he'd assumed that Anton realized 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. He sent Kliff to Twin Falls to have a talk with him. Kliff's friendship for Anton had been severely tested by The Last Assassin. From the beginning he'd helped Anton, not only because it was what Reinhold wanted him to do, but also out of love for Anton and what he'd wanted Anton to become. For him it was the ideal marriage of business and pleasure. He'd never been as attached to Reinhold as Anton thought. He would 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. The arrival of Steve had been a blow to him, because he felt that Anton was making a mistake. Anton was letting himself be led astray by a young punk who had nothing to offer. It was a tragic loss of focus. Anton was a leader now, with responsibilities. Quitting the game in a fit of rebellion wouldn't do anyone any good. If Anton didn't like the way things were going, he should fine-tune his strategy to get the results he wanted. Instead he was lashing out at the very people who had nurtured and protected him all along. Kliff had tried to remain friends 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 done. He'd even 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 space into a seamless unity. With all the work he'd done, he was practically an artist himself now. He'd hoped this would bring him closer to Anton, because they were involved in the same project even if they weren't working together directly. Then suddenly Anton went missing, and word reached him 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 people, "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," his "farewell to poetry," and said it was his strongest work in years. Despite his best efforts, however, Kliff 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 breakbeats, 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 were songs like "Reinhold's Army" and "Join the Volunteers." People were debating if the Colonel was real. Kliff 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. The next time Anton walked into his favorite hamburger joint, Kliff strolled out of the bathroom buttoning his fly. "Oh, hello." "Fuck you." They slid into a booth and glared at each other across the table. "I guess Reinhold knows more about this than I want him to," Anton said. "You don't know what a firestorm you've caused. You've forced him to act." "What's he doing about it? Besides sending you?" Kliff pulled out his antique silver cigarette case. Choosing one of his hand-rolled specials, 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?" "He wants you to fix the problem. People know you're working on an album called The Last Assassin. They say it mentions the Colonel and the Citadel. They say it has code words like 'recruiters' and 'volunteers.' So let's imagine your album comes out with a different title. Let's imagine 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." "The album would be meaningless if I did that, don't you think?" "I hope not." Kliff tried to reassure him. "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?" He was unable to hide his dismay. Anton smiled. "Because the conspiracy is evil, and I want to stop him." "He's your sponsor! What's he ever done but try to help you?" "He's put me in some pretty compromising situations 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." "The garden, the garden...?" "The assassin's paradise. The reward for loyal agents." "Oh, that!" Kliff's 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 put a hand on his arm, a gesture that surprised them both. "You want to know the truth? The real turning point was Harry Mellow. Do you think I'm going to be a whore for a new religion? One that brainwashes my own fans?" "Of course I do. 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." Kliff showed his disgust. "You're just doing it to prove you're still pure. For that, you're willing to betray anyone who's ever helped you, including me, your best friend." "You're not my friend, Kliff." There was a long silence. After a while Kliff said quietly, "Who was with you at the beginning? Who discovered you?" "I discovered me. I noticed my own talents before anyone else." "Who brought you to Trashtown? Who got you your first gigs?" "And so what?" Anton shrugged. "Who put you in touch with your benefactor?" "Don't think I'm grateful for that." "Who put you in touch with your benefactor?" Kliff said again. "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." 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 have imagined the current situation—" "A deal's a deal." "You're launching a direct attack!" "I'm not attacking Reinhold. He's my benefactor, like you said. He runs a foundation back in Portland. He's a supporter of the House of Mysticism. What I'm attacking is the Colonel. I'm attacking the Citadel and its army of assassins. Does any of that exist? The last time I looked, the referees and spies were all invisible. You're figments of my imagination, right?" Kliff nearly laughed. "That's clever, Anton. Too clever for your own good." "The Colonel isn't like Disneyland or the Catholic Church. He's not an ethnic group like the Chinese. He can't accuse me of attacking his character. He can't take me to court to defend his brand. The minute he comes into the open, I've already won." "Are you 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?" "Coming from me, it's a warning. Behind the warning is a threat." Anton shook his head firmly. "I made my decision a long time ago. I'm not going back now." "Listen to me, Anton. Whatever you may think of me, I'm still your friend. I'm trying to look out for you. Would you put aside your ego for a minute and use your brain? 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. 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's authorized me to decide what changes to make. Once I've signed off on it, you can release it with his full support." "Are you power tripping or what? Do you think I'll take you as my official censor? Let you go through my album line by line?" Kliff fidgeted, so he got in another dig. "If you were my friend, you'd offer to stand by me, no matter what. But no, you're the Colonel's loyal lapdog. Nothing will change that." Kliff hung his head. "Thinking Reinhold can be beaten isn't noble, it's foolish." "You're a coward, Kliff." "All I'm saying is, it's not a good road for you. I can't predict how or when, but there'll be consequences you won't like." "I'm expecting that, it's only fair. I know you won't help me like you did in the past. I'll have to become an independent artist, like I always claimed to be. It'll be a challenge, but at least I'll be true to my principles for a change. Are those the sorts of consequences you have in mind?" "That's part of it, but it doesn't end there." "Where does 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 could get hurt." Anton realized that Steve was in danger. He'd never spoken to Steve about the Citadel, and he'd insulated him from The Last Assassin as best he could. Now he saw that he could be attacked through Steve, even though Steve had nothing to do with it. That made him even more determined to launch his revolt, but he had to do it in a way that would draw Reinhold's attention away from Steve, and onto himself alone. He held out his hand. "Thanks for coming all the way out here, but this conversation is over. I don't take ultimatums, and I don't accept compromise. If you ever decide to switch sides, maybe we can be friends again. Until then, we've got nothing to talk about." Kliff shook his hand and stood up. He pulled on his overcoat, followed by a cap and gloves. It was already winter, and the mountain air was quite cold. Seeing him about to leave, Anton softened a little. "I hope I don't live to regret this." "You won't regret it. Reinhold doesn't work that way." He drew his coat tighter and went out. • • • "Enough playing little games," Anton told himself. Before Kliff's visit, he might have imagined that Reinhold would be indulgent with him, but Kliff's ultimatum had made the situation 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. He released The Last Assassin unchanged, as he'd sworn to do. The album was shipped out across the country, but it dropped into oblivion as soon as it appeared. Magazines spoke of his "mysterious silence" as if it were unbroken. In the few places where it went on sale, it vanished from the shelves within days, gobbled up by Reinhold's goons. Of those rare individuals who got their hands on a copy, few understood what it was about. The only magazines that tried to tease apart its layers of meaning were Mexican occult journals, and an anarchist 'zine in Wisconsin. Distributors dropped him 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 in Boston or Atlanta, he was told that the club no longer did live acts. Magazine editors got letters asking them to stop writing about him, because he was old news. He could see the pattern. The Colonel was erecting a wall of silence around him. Rather than letting this worry him, he used it to bolster his argument. "Doesn't this prove there's someone working against me behind the scenes? A shadowy figure, like it says in my album? So whose side are you on? Will you stand with me, or give in to fear?" Though he was in over his head, he clung to the fantasy that he was in control. He told himself it would be easy for disgruntled Citadel agents to 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 knew he was at a disadvantage. With no access to the media, he was isolated and vulnerable. He'd lost the benefit of surprise. 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 not as the hometown champion, but at the head of an invading army. He did a show in Boise to test this approach. He played in an old saloon before a crowd of fifty to two hundred people, depending on who was in the room at the time. They wandered 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 it's stupid and naive, then fuck you." When it was all over, they melted into the night as if they had never been. It was Anton's first concert since Steve had met him, but Steve couldn't get excited about seeing him on stage. The unfamiliar distance between them made him uneasy. Besides, the songs were no longer new to him. He'd listened to The Last Assassin many times since its release. He knew how important the album was to Anton, but it would never be his favorite, perhaps because he'd witnessed the suffering that had gone into it. If Anton wanted to create a dark album, that was his right. But Steve had been hoping for something different. How had the happiness of their early days come to this? When the show was over, they loaded the truck and left it where it was for the night. Skip went off to visit his family, who lived in Boise. Icky and the roadies took a taxi to a motel. Anton and Steve sat in their car smoking a joint. They'd driven down together from Twin Falls, but rather than heading back, they went to a downtown hotel. The hotel was a restored Victorian, with wood floors and an elegant staircase. Their room was done in shades of rose, with velvet wallpaper and the original gas fixtures. Before getting in bed, Anton stood at the mirror, 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." Steve watched in confusion as he took off his pants and got in bed. Just after dawn, Anton slipped out of the room while Steve was still sleeping. The sidewalk was empty and snow-blown as he shook off the thickness of sleep 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 over his ankles, he resembled no one in particular, least of all Anton Dupree. He was the archetypal 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 him. "I'm famous and nobody knows it!" He found this exhilarating. No matter how many people had been sucked in by the hype of Extreme Liberties or Destroyed Teen, there were still many more that had never heard of him. 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. It bolstered his spirits. Steve woke an hour later, and felt the emptiness of the bed next to him. He dressed in a hurry, threw cold water on his face and went down to the lobby. The receptionist told him that Anton had gone out, leaving a message confirming what he'd said the night before. He had business to take care of, and 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 sat there nursing a cup of coffee, half hoping to see Anton walk in the door. He drove past the saloon 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 wanted and drove home. Over the next couple of days, he grew uneasy, wondering why didn't Anton come home or at least call. The people in the corner dives they frequented began to greet him with sad expressions, seeing him come in so often without his pal. Finally he called his aunt, but she hadn't heard from Anton either. Not knowing what else to do, he went back to Boise to look around. No one at the saloon had seen Anton or the other band members since the concert. The manager eyed him as if he thought Anton had ditched him on purpose. That 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 with 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 walked the neighborhood around the saloon, asking people if they'd seen anything unusual that past Sunday. Had they noticed the white truck? Eventually a gas station attendant told him it had stopped there on its way out of town. "Musicians. There was 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 was who, exactly." "Did you see which way they went?" The man waved vaguely. "Got on the highway, I suppose. Took off out of town." He knew it was pointless to follow their trail, since he had no idea where they were headed. A sense of helplessness surged through him. Ever since he'd met Anton, 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 his aunt again. "I'm worried about what might have happened. 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?" "Maybe something came up." "He would've called, don't you think? I haven't heard from him in nearly a week. He's never vanished on me like this before." "I'm sure he'll be in touch as soon as he can." "You seem awfully calm about it." "Has it occurred to you he might not want to be found?" she said as gently as possible. "What do you mean by that?" "Maybe it's best to let this go for a while. Time has a way of sorting things out." The sense of desperation he got then convinced him go to Portland. It would be better to do anything at all, even something that would turn out to be a waste of time, rather than sit around and wait. He hurried to get off the phone so he could pack. He looked around the house to see what he would take with him. He had no idea how long he would be away. Uneasily, he considered the possibility that he might never find Anton. He packed a suitcase with enough provisions for a few days. He collected Anton's journals and books, snapshots and mementos, and put them in boxes, adding his own things as well. He was mindful of Anton's paranoia. If he had to be away for an extended time, he didn't want to leave anything of importance lying around. He would take everything to his aunt's place on his way out of the state. He drove to Anton's studio and let himself in. In testimony to how obsessively Anton protected his work, the place was already clean. When he returned to the car, something told him to look under the seat. He was shocked to find the briefcase with the master tapes to The Last Assassin. In his mind, this proved that Anton hadn't walked out on him. He'd gone somewhere dangerous, and left the case with him for safekeeping. As he pulled out the case and set it on his lap, he thought 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 installing a bomb. He held it in his hands as if it might explode. If that happened, the names of two of Anton's bands, Exploding Youth and Generic Dummy, would apply to him. He told himself that if Anton needed the gun, he already had it. When he got back to the house, he set the briefcase down next to the boxes he'd packed. There was nothing left in the house but furniture and dishes. Obviously they'd never settled in. This made him feel sad, but he was used to it. He'd bounced from one place to another throughout his life, without really knowing a place that felt like home. He left a note for Anton that said, "Gone looking for you in Portland. If you see this, call my aunt." He drove to his aunt's house with the boxes, and spent the night. Heading out the next day, he kissed her and said he would be back soon. <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>