We gather in the dark once more, beckoning the gods of noise and love and power to help us all ascend again. Above me, below me, to either side. And the stage is an altar to that which makes us all feel so alive. Each plays his part. How will we serve?
Gunner nodded. “This guy — what is the technical word — sucks. What do you think of the handwriting?”
“Intense. He’s in a hurry to get his thoughts down.”
Those who channeled our anger, fear, lust, desire at so crucial a time, they will lead our prayers again soon. Half have been sacrificed along the way. Chaos died long ago. Thunder is far more distant now. But the Heart, the Voice, their power still pulses, still nourishes.
And I am part of them all.
“Egomania rocks,” Gunner said.
“He’s swept up in the moment. We’ve all been there.”
“You see? That’s exactly the kind of alternative thinking that gets us our rep with the squad.”
“You cried last time we saw Dylan.”
“You promised never to bring that up.”
I am the rough edge of the Voice. The righteous anger of the raging Heart. I feel the movements of the faceless dancers. Sense the volume coming from within the screamers. The power is communal, undulating between us like the friction of lovemaking. We embrace it, surrender to it, join together with the band…
…And become gods.
Gunner looked at his partner. “Is this guy stalking The Who?”
“I don’t think so. He wants to give himself to the moment, like when everybody sings along… except this guy’s taking notes about it.”
“Oo-kay.”
“You’ve never seen someone writing down a song list at a show? This guy just took it a little further. I’ve gotten ridiculously carried away at concerts too, screaming my voice raw.”
“They scream at Barry Manilow shows?”
“Keep reading, jackass.”
I am who they’ve written about all these years, who they sing about, preach about, uphold as worth knowing: the helpless dancer, the punk, the godfather, the New Boss.
Every soul-stirring line is embraced again, like old lovers, passion thrusting us together, intertwining past and present, love lost and regained, building, building, ever-building to sweet release.
It is accomplished.
Gunner squinted frowning tightly. “Who-lyric references, orgasm references, then a classic Jesus-complex crucifixion reference. Should we make reservations at Bellevue now?”
Mallory shook his head. “In and of itself, there is nothing criminal or psychotic in these descriptions and no clear link to the murder.”
“Except for the fact that they were found on and around the victim’s sticky, bitten up corpse,” Gunner said.
“Minor detail at this point. They could have been planted to throw us off. Could be the vic’s. We don’t know.”
“So, what do we know?”
“Not much.”
Suddenly, the vile thing flies out from the masses. End over end it tumbles, time slowing as it targets the Voice. No mystical dagger here, no Sword of Damocles. To the shame of us all, mortal vanity shatters Eden.
Gunner scrunched up his face. “To quote Freud: ‘Huh?’”
“That was Freud?”
“Definitely. Widen your horizons, man.”
“This sounds like the event that triggered him. Can you make out what happened?”
Gunner, sighing, took and reread the card. “I dunno, but something blew his high. Maybe the vic here stood up on his chair, blocked this guy’s view,” Gunner flipped to the next card; the handwriting was significantly more cramped, the writing much smaller.
“Whoops,” he muttered. “Here we go.”
I spy him sneaking away. He is a pre-level opportunist, nothing more. Hide in plain sight will he? Leave his seat as if to pursue the guilty? Clever soul. Clever.
I can be clever too. I can be whatever’s needed. A dybbuk, perhaps. Or a gilgul.
Mallory exhaled. “Dybbuk? Gilgul?”
“Transmigrating demons.”
“English, Gunner.”
“They jump into people, according to Jewish tradition.”
“You’re Jewish now?”
“Hey, I’m single, fat, and sloppy. Makes for a lot of reading time.”
“What, the Torah? Studying ancient tomes now?”
“Time Life Books. Mysteries of the Unknown, baby.”
“Ah. Then we’re talking purely facts.”
“I go out drinking, you have a problem; I stay home and read, you have a problem,” Gunner snapped.
“It’s time you found someone for more than a quickie.”
“Can we talk about this later, Mom?”
Fuck this, I’m outta here. Shit, who the fuck does he think he is, threatening me? I’ll beat that old Limey bastard, I don’t care how diesel he is. I improved the show anyway. When was the last time the old fuck got that passionate about anything? Shit, I made something happen, became part of the show. Fuck’em they can’t take a joke.
He sings that he’s free? Fuck that, I’M free. I’M FREE. I can do it all. Look at security, not even daring to meet my eyes. Fucking losers.
This fucking corpse of a station monitor, she’s already sitting in her coffin. I pity them all. They’re pathetic. Old. Dead.
Me? I’m alive, motherfucker, ALIVE!
Look at this old man, approaching me. Probably gonna offer me 20 bucks to let him blow me. Anything to feel part of my power.
Motherfucker is following me. Following ME? I’ll take the old bastard to the stairs and toss the prick down onto the tracks. Fuck you, complementing my T-shirt. So ancient you probably blew Elvis. You don’t know me—
What the fuck? Motherfucker is steaming! Smoke coming outta his fucking collar! Get the fuck outta here! Get the—
—SHIT!—
—He’s—
—I’m bur—
It is accomplished.
Mallory looked from the cards to a stunned Gunner then back to the cards.
He ran, naturally.
Fuck yeah I ran—
And he struggles still.
Get the fuck outta my head, you weird old fuck!
But he’s paid the price for listening to the darker voice. This is neither the beginning nor the end. This is The Way.
Everyone pays.
Everyone pays.
They read the cards twice more before Mallory slipped them back into the evidence bag, sealed it. He looked up, meeting Gunner’s angry stare.
“What, we’re supposed to buy all that?” Gunner growled. “We’re supposed to believe this kid wrote…?”
“Whoever wrote this wants us to believe the kid wrote his part, yes.”
“But, Mal, you don’t—”
“It’s pretty difficult to write while you’re being murdered. Also, the burn marks didn’t seem fatal to me. I thought it might’ve been done with a lighter, or even a cigarette. And this says nothing about his getting bludgeoned.”
Gunner took the bag, held it up to eye level. “So what’re we looking at here?”
“A greeting.”
“From who?”
Mallory shrugged. “Not sure. What do we know? He’s a rock fan.”
“Aging rock fan.”
Mallory smiled at his partner. “Why do you say that?”
Gunner nodded with his head at the cards. “His references.”
“Can’t a kid know The Who? Q104 plays them all the time.”
Gunner took out the cards again, flipped through them until he found what he was looking for. “It’s the choices. Kids hear what, maybe three Who songs on the radio these days? ‘Baba O’Riley.’ ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again.’ Maybe ‘Pinball Wizard.’ Would a kid know ‘I’m Free’ well enough to reference it? Or ‘Join Together’? ‘Punk Meets the Godfather’? From the radio, a kid wouldn’t know those songs well enough to casually acknowledge them like that.”
“How about a kid who listens to his parents’ record collection?”
“Enough to quote from all those songs? I’m not buying it. This guy’s somewhere in his late 40s, maybe 50s.”
“And what, he’s killing young rock fans?”
“Don’t know. But I do know where we need to go next.” Gunner’s eyes gleamed. “We gotta go where this crime started. We gotta get to the Garden.”
Tizzie came up, cut off their exit, whispering melodramatically. “Not yet, guys.”
Gunner frowned. “Now you want to mess with us?”
“Note-boy might still be in the area.”
Gunner eyed his partner. “Maybe we don’t gotta get to the Garden.”
Mallory stayed on Tizzie. “Where?”
“Don’t fuck this up by swinging your heads around to look, but a waitress just called in a report of a suspicious creep who’s been watching us from the diner window all morning.”
Gunner stared at the ground. “We gotta surround the place.”
“Detectives, uniforms, and squad cars are already moving. We got the area shut down.”
Mallory smiled for the first time all morning. “Told you I wasn’t needed.”
Tizzie smiled back. “C’mon, this is too good to be true.”
It was, but not completely.