14

BY THE TIME EVERYONE met back at The Groove in Santa Clarita, several days after I was questioned by the Dayton police, almost every single person was high on something.

The recording had dragged on for months, and the tension was as thick as the smoke floating in the studio.

A few forged attempts at sympathy were made toward me, with the splint on my nose and the dark bruises beneath my bloodshot eyes, but mainly I felt resentment zeroing in on me from every direction—the band, Gray Harris, Tina Drew, Pamela McCracken, even the production staff.

Maybe I was just paranoid, but it seemed like my performance in Dayton and the injuries that ensued, along with the concert cancellations, were just the latest cause for embitterment.

Everyone sought their own way of escape. Even Gray Harris, our dependable leader, had begun to use cocaine to whiteout the dark and frantic strain of recent weeks.

One of the few people not high was bassist Ricky Crazee, who had amazingly kicked his past addictions to drugs and alcohol several years earlier. He had done it cold turkey and was still clean.

Ironically, Ricky was perhaps more miserable than any of us, as he attempted to lend soberness and leadership to the chaotic task of wrapping up the recording of Freedom. In his attempt to organize the final leg of the project, he was met by pride, stubbornness, and apathy from a bunch of people who were half stoned out of our minds.

Me…I had decided to imbibe a slow, steady flow of Scotch and painkillers to extinguish the fiery darts of those around me. Alone in the dark, denlike studio lounge, which was lit by several mod lamps and decorated with a floor-to-ceiling rock waterfall, I poured myself a Dewar’s, settled into a comfortable recliner, and lit a Salem.

Although the splint on my nose was a nuisance, the whiskey numbed the pain in my face and neck. Resting my head back and blowing smoke, my eyes fell to a black electric guitar that hung on the wall, a gift the band and I had signed and given to the owners of The Groove. It was one of many instruments, plaques, and framed records that hung neatly on the walls and glowed impressively beneath the low-lit track lighting.

Then I thought about Olivia Gilbert in room 314. My mind kept returning to her—the tubes and tape and bandages and drainage device—and her mother Claudia rocking bemused by her bedside. Nor could I erase the memory of the days spent with Jerry Princeton and Mary—a time that had made me feel accepted, hopeful…refreshed.

With the Scotch and cigarette in one hand, I casually fingered my way through a basket of mail that sat on a small table next to my chair. When I realized it was DeathStroke fan mail that had been forwarded from fan club manager Jeff Hall, I rocked the leg rest up on the recliner and sat forward in one motion.

Setting my drink on the table and putting the basket in my lap, I picked through the stack letter by letter, searching for the familiar envelope, handwriting, and postmark from Topeka.

There it is.

Finding one envelope from Karen, I searched the remainder of the stack for others. There was only one.

Rubbing the Salem out in the ashtray next to my chair, I set the basket of mail on the floor and gave the letter from Karen my full attention.

Greetings Mr. Lester,

Sorry it’s been a while since I’ve written. I’ve been extremely busy with my job and helping out with the youth group at my church. But I haven’t stopped thinking of you.

What a surprise it was to hear your voice on my answering machine! I only wish I could have been there to speak with you. When you called, you sounded discouraged and confused. I am sorry.

I read about Olivia Gilbert. The teens at our church are praying for her to pull through. It was kind of you to visit her at the hospital. I’m sorry about what happened to you there and hope you are healing quickly.

Mr. Lester, I feel in my heart that there is a spiritual battle being waged over you right now—even as I write this letter. Each time I pray for you, tears come to my eyes because of the emotion bucking up inside me.

Do you feel the battle going on in your life?

I know the word Satan probably sounds ridiculous to you, but the Bible tells us he is real, and it warns that he is out to “kill, steal, and destroy” each of us. Satan will fight powerfully to stop you from believing in Jesus Christ. He will manifest himself to you in the allure of drugs, women, money, and power; he will make you feel like you’re not good enough to be God’s child; and he will use devastating circumstances and evil people to thwart you.

But I sense God is calling you, Mr. Lester. Do you hear Him?

He’s using me to call out to you, and probably others.

Don’t ignore Him. Please! Call out to Him. Are you tired of your life? Fall into His arms of love. Open up to Him like a friend. He is waiting.

When I first believed, I said a prayer, something like this: “Lord, I’m a sinner. I’ve done so much wrong. But I know the Bible says You died to forgive my sins. I repent of them. I turn away from them. And with Your strength—with the power that raised Jesus from the tomb—I vow to follow You, and to give the rest of my life to You. Amen.”

I’ll be in touch again soon. Until then, warmest regards from Topeka!

Karen

Dropping back into the chair, I considered reading the prayer in Karen’s letter, saying it to God, just for the heck of it. What could it hurt?

In fact, I did.

Leaning forward, with my elbows resting on my knees and the letter there in my hands, I read the words to the prayer quietly, thoughtfully, sending them up…into the sky. “Amen.”

Had I prayed?

But I’m drunk. He won’t accept it.

You didn’t just pray, something told me.

Besides, you need to count the cost. What’s it going to cost you, Lester, to become a Christian? The music would have to go, the women, the drugs, and booze, the adoration, the money—anything I wanted, anytime.

Forget it! Those things are my life. They are who I am.

But…have they made you happy? Have they satisfied?

They’re supposed to! Everyone who didn’t have those things thought they satisfied.

But what about in your case, Lester?

I looked down at the letter again, then closed my eyes.

“I am a sinner, God. A messed-up sinner,” I whispered. “Karen says You’ll cleanse me. Is it true? Will You?”

The familiar voice from behind scorched me like a flamethrower. “I suppose that’s from Karen Bayliss.”

I turned my head to see the rage in Endora’s small black eyes…her silk jacket still on…keys in hand…out of breath.

For a flash, I saw that she was taken aback by my damaged face. But she ignored the impulse to sympathize. She had come too far…“You lied to me!” She strutted toward me, ripping the letter out of my hands.

Reading the words on the page, she sassed: “‘I’ll be in touch again soon…Karen.’ Why didn’t you tell me about Karen Bayliss? KB. Huh? This is the K that I warned you about!” She crumpled the letter.

As I rose from the chair she shoved me as hard as she could back into it.

“Take it easy,” I warned in my nastiest voice, standing again. “I’m covered with bruises!”

“I found letters at your place in New York! A bunch of them. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t even think about Karen being the K person,” I said in a nasally, innocent voice. “It’s just fan mail.”

“Yeah, fan mail that comes with pretty roses, fan mail you keep in its own separate compartment in your desk…with no other fan mail?” she barked out. “What is going on, Everett? Is this woman getting to you? Have you talked to her?”

“Calm down,” I said, annoyed. “I’ve been getting letters from this chick for ten years.”

“This chick, this person, this thing, is out to destroy you. Do you understand what I’m saying to you? Don’t you know by now that you can trust me on things like this?”

I laughed. “You’re crazy. She wants me to be a Christian. That’s all. She’s not interested in me…as a man.”

“She is what the Love card was all about.” Endora opened up the crumpled letter. “I swear to you on my mother’s grave, Everett, this woman is out to ruin your life and career. She’s out to stop everything we’ve fought for!”

“What are you talking about?” I yelled. “What do you mean…‘Everything we’ve fought for’?”

“Leading people to the truth about freedom on earth, about life on the Other Side.”

“That’s your truth. Those are your beliefs.” I snatched the letter from her. “Stop pushing your agenda on me.”

At the same time, we both looked at DeathStroke publicist Pamela McCracken, who ducked her head into the lounge for a moment but quickly realized she was in a war zone and disappeared.

“Liza Moon can tell us more about this, Everett; I just know it. I’ve been getting these incredible feelings. They wake me up at night.”

“You’re nuts! Liza’s dead. Karen Bayliss was writing me letters long before Liza died.”

“Something’s going on!” she whispered in a rage. “Liza can tell us more. I know she can! We need to contact her. I want you to do a séance with me. We can reach her.”

“No! I have no interest in talking to the dead. And I’m getting sick of your psychobabble.”

“Don’t do that, Everett. Don’t turn on me. You do not want me against you.”

“What is that? Some sort of threat?”

She set her purse in the chair and began taking her coat off. “I’m warning you about this girl. If you pursue her, I will not be by your side. You’ll be on your own. And she’ll bring death to your door. You’ve been warned.”

“I’ve never talked to her,” I said innocently.

“Have you tried?”

“I called, but she wasn’t there.” I took a swig of my drink. “Let’s change the subject.”

Endora sat down, found a compact in her purse, and checked her mascara. Then she snatched a cigarette and lit it.

“You have everything you need!” She turned and stared at me, smoke jetting out her nostrils. “Do you understand that? So many people would die to be in your shoes. People worship you—just the way you are. You don’t have to change.”

“Does it matter to you that I’m not happy?”

“Stop questioning so much. That’s your problem. Can’t you just enjoy yourself, enjoy your music and all that you have, like you used to?”

I felt the warm, crumpled letter in my hand. “Things aren’t like they used to be.” I stared at the rock waterfall. “Something’s wrong. I’m…changing.”

“But it can be like old times, Everett.” She scooted closer to me. “Where is that rock ’n’ roll god I first met in LA? You were so bold and confident back then, knew exactly what you wanted and where you were going—straight to the top.”

“And now…rock bottom,” I said blankly. “I need help.”

I watched the clear water shimmering over the different levels of multicolored rocks.

Yes, I need help.

“You’re getting tired, aren’t you, Everett?” Her voice cut to monotone. “Getting sleepy. So tired from all the hard work and travel, the worries and pressure. Drowsy, Everett. Close your eyes and rest. I’ll wake you in good time.”

I could hear the water, trickling and gurgling over the rocks, but I was fading.

“You’re drowsy.” She sounded like a mother speaking to a three-year-old. “You’re so tired that you’re giving yourself up to me… Sleep now, child… Simply allow me to impose my will over you.”

It was as if I were draining away, into the water.

“We’re doing a little test,” came the distant voice, zoning in and out. “Gain dominion over your mind…take the guitar…smash…black out…will not remember…”

I was out of breath and flat on my back when I came to, with red-faced Ricky and Gray frantically pinning me down.

A small crowd had gathered at the doorway to the dark lounge, each person staring in bewilderment.

Pain in the knuckles of my hands.

“What’s happening?” I said to the faces glaring down at me.

“You tell us.” Gray breathed hard, raising his sweaty head toward what used to be the rock waterfall.

Now it was a pile of broken slate mixed with stones and pieces of the black Les Paul that used to hang on the wall. The hoses that formerly powered the waterfall were mangled, one shooting straight up into the air like a drinking fountain.

Looking to my right and left, I saw blood trickling from my knuckles, the neck of the guitar still in my clenched right hand. I, too, was out of breath.

“Did…I do that?”

Ricky shook his head in disgust and collapsed to the floor next to me.

I stared up at the familiar faces, some wearing looks of shock, some of sympathy, and others of repulsion.

“It’s a wrap,” Gray announced, still panting. “Make sure everyone knows we’re through. We’ll start tomorrow at nine.”

“What happened…Gray?” I asked, my heart pounding.

They let me sit up on the floor.

“Are you trying to tell me you don’t remember what you just did?” he said, ticked.

“I don’t. Honestly. What happened?”

“What do you think?” Ricky said. “You demolished that waterfall.”

“Cursing God the whole time you did it,” Gray added.

“Was I alone?” I said, almost scared to ask.

Gray handed me his handkerchief. “Just you and your demons, Everett.” He got to his knees, then his feet, and walked out of the room. “Just you and your demons.”