Billy went to the shed and found the little gas can Buff kept for the chainsaw. He used it to soak a couple of sponges he had taken from the housekeeping supply closet. Then he cut Rachel loose. She slapped him hard as soon as she could, tried to storm out without a word, and stumbled when her leg cramped. She punched his shoulder when he tried to help her stay on her feet. Then she rubbed her calf until it loosened up, holding the middle finger of her free hand aloft for him all the while. When she did leave, she slammed the door. Billy estimated it would take her at least a half hour to climb the hill to the Mountain House in the snow. That didn’t give him much time to get ready for Trevor Rail.
* * *
The red sun in the southeast was a dim bloodstain on a white sheet when Billy pushed through the front door of the church. He carried a stack of heavy master tape boxes that came up to his chin. Watching the steps for ice, he plodded down to the ground, took as many steps toward the woods as he could manage with his freight, and spilled the boxes onto the snowy ground. He puffed out three misty breaths, bent over, opened the lid of one of the boxes, and removed the aluminum tape reel, holding it in both hands like a cake on a plate. He examined it, rotating it until he found the light blue strip of low tack adhesive tape that kept the reel from unwinding. He pulled it off and ran a few feet out, the thick brown ribbon dangling in the snow.
Even a single reel was heavy, and he was feeling weak from lack of sleep. This was not going to be as easy as he had imagined. He looked around until his gaze settled on a low tree branch—smooth, strong, dead, and only a couple of inches in diameter. He went to the tree, snapped off the branch, and poked it through the hole in the reel making a kind of spindle that reminded him of World War II films he’d seen on the Four O’Clock Movie as a kid. Some foot soldier expert in demolitions would run from a dynamite-packed bridge with a spool of wire, letting it out as he dashed to meet his partner with the detonator pump.
Billy wrapped the loose end of the tape around the little tree in a crude knot. Then he took a Ziplock freezer bag from his pocket—fumes overwhelmed him when he opened it—and removed the gasoline-soaked sponge. He placed the sponge on the tape reel, securing it to the metal flange with a piece of duct tape. Then he picked up the reel by both ends of the smooth stick and walking backwards, watched the reel spinning on its wooden axle, letting out gasoline-coated tape. When he felt confident it wouldn’t snag and snap, he altered his grip so he could walk facing forward with the tape unwinding behind him.
He crossed the partially frozen creek, where it was necessary to throw the reel across and pick it up again—tiptoeing over the stepping stones without his arms free to balance him would have surely meant falling in. He left a few feet of tape twisting in the chuckling water and forged on into the woods. Over mossy boulders and fallen oaks, he plotted a meandering course to the little glade he knew so well.
The reel got lighter as he went deeper into the forest. Eventually he was able to jog. When it ran out, he threw the empty metal spool into a thicket and ran back to the church with the stick in hand to get another full reel and pick up where he’d left off, tying the tape ends together and trailing the brown ribbon deeper into the woods, emerging more winded each time until he was hacking up phlegm, spitting it into the snow and feeling mounting dread upon each return, a growing certainty that this time he would meet Trevor Rail on the path. He needed more time.
Yet every time he went back to the church and didn’t encounter Rail, he felt not only relief, but growing puzzlement as well. He knew Rachel would be fetching him for revenge—she had gone off in that direction. And this stunt was taking entirely too long. Once she reached Rail’s lodging and roused him, it would be a short trip down the hill in the Beemer. But there were other houses on the studio grounds, and until she found Rail’s car she wouldn’t know which one he was in. If Billy was lucky, she might be trudging up the wrong driveway right now. Or, she might be noticing smoke from his chimney, which would be a real giveaway since none of the other cottages are occupied.
Three master tapes were enough to make a trail all the way from the church to the clearing. When Billy reached that familiar place, it was winter there again and the little round pool was a sheet of black ice. His heart sank, but there was nothing to be done. He had to keep moving on faith that the creature really did exist outside of his imagination, and would appear when needed, and that somehow this showdown between the devils on his shoulders would give him a way out. There was no other path to take.
When he got back to the church for the third time, he tossed the remaining tape boxes down the shallow ravine toward the creek and kicked snow and dead leaves over them. He smoothed over the disturbed track with more snow. Even though all of these tapes were now erased, Rail wouldn’t know that. It would only waste time if Rail thought he could salvage something.
Billy stood still for a moment and listened. Was that the sound of a car engine on the air? He climbed the church steps. There was just one more thing he needed.
* * *
Trevor Rail pumped the brakes, cranked on the wheel, then gunned the gas, jetting away from the trees he had almost crashed into, and back onto the snow-covered dirt road. This was more like skiing than driving. The car wasn’t made for it. Well, at least he didn’t have to listen to that little tart screaming. He had driven away to the sound of her hollering, knowing better than to bring her along, sensing that her usefulness was spent. He shot out of the trees at the bottom of the hill, aimed the car at the church and skidded to a stop just short of hitting it.
Climbing from the leather seat, he reached into the deep pocket of his trench coat and wrapped his fingers around the grip of the Ruger revolver.
The chaos of boot prints near the church took on some coherence when he saw the tracks leading toward the edge of the woods. They led him to a tree where a length of magnetic tape was tied like a ribbon. His nostrils flared at the sight of the tape trail winding away through the woods. Rachel had got him moving when she said that Billy erased some of the tapes, but the extent of his losses was still unclear. Did Billy know how to wipe the tapes clean? Had he pressed all the right buttons? Did Rachel know what she’d seen? But this—seeing one of those tapes stretched and knotted and dragged through mud—was too much. The hours he had slaved over these tracks. Did the little shit think this was some kind of game?
Rail held the gun up and fired a single shot at the sky. Crows took wing. He bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Biiillaaay! Come out! Come out here right now and I may show some mercy.”
There was no answer from the church or the forest. Falling pinecones and melting icicles patted against the ground. That was all. He leapt across the creek and bounded into the trees, following the tracks.
* * *
Sitting on his tree stump, Billy heard the shot crackle across the sky, but not the ultimatum that followed it. Now it would be soon. He walked to the edge of the pool and tested one of the overhanging branches of the rowan tree to see if it was strong enough to take his weight. It was. Holding onto the branch above his head with both hands, he swung his feet out over the pool and stomped on the black ice with his boots. It didn’t even fracture. He regretted not bringing the axe from the tool shed.
He returned to the tree stump where his guitar case lay on the wet ground, popped the latches and lifted the lid, revealing the wine red Les Paul he had favored from the age of sixteen. He’d found it on the used rack, already bearing some of the character-building dings and scratches that it would acquire over the years. It had been waiting for him like a pound puppy at the music shop in his hometown.
In the years that had passed since, he had subjected the guitar to two world tours and many more treks across America. Now it was a relic, an old warhorse, well beyond what you could call ‘broken in,’ yet it remained his favorite. He owned guitars that were better by technical standards (and many that were far more expensive than what he’d paid for this one back when a kid could still get a real Gibson with the savings of a hard-working summer) but this one still held a tune and screamed and wept and roared like no other. This one had his blood and sweat in the wood. This one had the years and the songs in its wiring.
And somehow Pan had known about it, had told him to bring it here today, even though he had only ever brought his acoustic to the pool in the past. Was that further evidence that the creature existed in some dark part of his own mind? Had the psychedelic years fractured him, rendering a laughably familiar archetype autonomous? If that was all that was happening here, there was no sane course of action.
The only way forward was to continue operating under the assumption that Pan, god or devil, phantom of his psyche or beast in the flesh, knew what he was doing. The goat man had told him to lead Rail to this place and had told him to bring the wine-red guitar. Could that have been just so he could use the heavy mahogany instrument to crack the sheet of ice? Why not just tell him to bring an axe? Why didn’t the creature thaw the ice himself, if he had any powers? It made no sense.
Sure, players referred to guitars as axes , but what the hell kind of practical sense did that make when a gun-toting madman was on your trail? Was Pan misreading his mind and drawing unfortunate metaphorical conclusions about what would serve him? Maybe, but he had a strong suspicion that the sublime and terrible god would not give a shit about what served Billy Moon’s personal interests, because maybe Billy was himself just an instrument. He hoped he was an instrument the goat man was fond of.
Forcing himself to stop thinking—it would only slow him down now and possibly paralyze him with doubt—Billy took the guitar from its case and went back to the edge of the pool. He held it by the neck, close to the body—no need to swing it like a real axe as Townsend or Cobain had done for theatrics. He raised the heavy guitar and dropped the butt end of it on the ice, driving the strap peg like a spike. Hairline cracks radiated outward from the point of impact. He raised the guitar and brought it down again. This time the ice shattered into pieces, and black water splashed up onto the red wood.
Billy didn’t know what good it would do, but it felt right. It felt utterly necessary. He reflected that this was the same strategy he had employed for most of his life—doing what felt right—and it had only led him to his present predicament. On the heels of this observation, another voice inside him, inarticulate and deeply buried, spoke up in contradiction: something about ambition and calculation being his prior guide, something about how following his feelings was a recent development and he shouldn’t flatter himself with a romantic and selective memory. He shut it down, walked to the tree stump, sat down on it, and set about tuning the guitar, mostly to distract himself from those inner voices.
The familiar feeling of the guitar neck in his hand soothed him a little. When it was back in tune, he strummed a couple of chords. Without an amp, it was barely audible in the open air. The urge to put it down and flee the site was intense. What exactly was he doing sitting in the middle of a snowy wood with an electric guitar, waiting for a sociopath to come and kill him?
Twigs snapped in the underbrush.
Billy looked up and saw Trevor Rail in a black trench coat and muck-covered boots marching out of the naked trees, gun in hand, eyes ablaze. An unexpected wave of calm washed over Billy. The waiting was over. He took a cigarette from the velvet pick compartment of the guitar case, lit it and took a drag. His calm deepened.
“Are these the master tapes, or is this just some dickless stunt?” Rail asked.
Billy blew smoke in his direction by way of reply.
“Are these the masters? Answer me!” Rail yelled.
Billy just looked at him.
Rail did a little pirouette with his hands held aloft, the stainless steel gun barrel shining on high, and his trench coat fanning out at the bottom. He laughed at the sky and said, “Of course. Of course they are.”
Billy thought, A drama queen to the bitter end. Then he said, “Don’t worry, Trevor. The weather can’t hurt them.”
“Why, pray tell, is that?”
“’Cause I already erased most of them. Only, I didn’t have time to finish. This one here at the end might still have ‘Language of Love’ on it. That’s the hit single, right?” Billy drew on the cigarette, then reached down and touched its glowing orange tip to the tape. It ignited immediately, shriveling in a line of flame that ran through the trees like a mythical salamander, disappearing in an instant as the fuel was consumed.
Rail aimed the gun at Billy’s heart. He said, “You’re insane, Billy. I’ve always known that. So why can’t you be crazy enough to kill yourself? You’re so fucking close. Why do I have to do it for you?”
Billy only shook his head and tossed the butt into the snow. Balancing the guitar on his knee, he pulled the platinum ring off his finger, held it up to his eye for a second to look at Rail’s puzzled face through it, then flicked it off of his thumb like a coin into a wishing well. It spun through the air in a little arc, catching the light, and vanished with a plunk into the pool, lost between the chunks of floating ice.
It took a few seconds for the incomprehension on Rail’s face to morph into rage. Even after all of the rebellion, he still did not expect Billy to be so bold as to think he could break their contract that easily.
Rail slipped out of his coat, letting it fall to the ground around him so that he appeared to be standing in his own black pool. Still holding the gun, he tugged up the sleeve of his red silk shirt to bare his left arm. The gesture was aggressive, determined, radiant with grim resolve. He walked to the pool slowly, each step a threat, each step a testament to the seriousness of the violation.
He knelt beside the water and looked at Billy. He said, “I thought I could work with you. I thought I could make you great, but you don’t have it in you. I enjoyed scaring the hell out of your father the night he died at his shop. I thought just maybe you’d get a good song out of it. But no. Because you don’t give a fuck about anyone after all. Well, you’re married to the music, Billy, and you’re going to die with that ring on your hand. You’re going to wear it in your coffin and it will hang on your finger-bone when the flesh has rotted off.”
Rail reached into the water. Something shifted in his face when his hand kept going deeper, past the point where he had expected to find the bottom of a shallow puddle lined with dead leaves. He reached in deeper, submerging his shirt to the shoulder. Billy marveled at the man’s determination when the freezing cold water reached his armpit but Rail seemed not to register such a trifling discomfort. His jaw was set, his eyes locked on Billy. His other hand pressed the gun against the ground for leverage.
Suddenly Rail’s body jerked, seized from below the surface of the pool with enough force to slap his chest and face into the water. When his head struck the surface, he squeezed the gun, firing a shot at Billy. He bobbed up from the water, wet strands of hair plastered across his brow like a web work of black roots through which his eyes beamed pure terror.
He was wrenched forward again, harder this time and fell face-first into the pool, submerged up to the waist, his legs kicking and scrambling at the muddy ground, trying to dig in, to find purchase, to anchor his body. He dropped the gun and scratched at the ground, took hold of a thick root. Pulling on it, he wrested his upper body from the water. As he did so, the root ripped out of the frozen ground but did not snap. He muscled into it. Slowly his face withdrew from the dark liquid followed by a grotesque mirror image: the face of the horned god, locked with him in a bloody kiss.
Pan emerged from below, third eye blazing electric blue, ripe lips drawn back revealing yellow fangs that were pierced through Rail’s bottom lip, peeling it away from the man's gums. Pan's tongue writhed in the space between them, catching the stream of blood that flowed from Rail's mouth.
Rail screamed through torn lips—a high, distorted shriek braided of equal parts pain and panic. He let go of the root, and pounded his hands against the ground. He found the gun, squeezed the grip, shoved the barrel against the creature’s head—only inches from his own—and pulled the trigger. His arm recoiled with kickback. A spray of gray matter, bone fragments and blood-clotted fur erupted from the other side of the creature’s head. The force of the shot tore the fangs from Rail’s lip, shredding it to ribbons. Thick blood poured from his ragged mouth, gushing over his chin.
Pan, however, did not bleed from the bullet hole. He merely reached into the cavity with an earth-encrusted claw and plucked a piece of brain tissue from the smoldering wound as if he were clearing wax from his ear. He flicked it away, let out a seismic peal of laughter, then licked the blood from Rail’s chin with his thick, purple-veined tongue, reaching behind the man’s head as he did so and raking his claws through the dense black hair like a ravenous lover.
Rail’s scream hit a new pitch, fraying his vocal cords with the last reserves of air from the bottom of his lungs. Pan shifted his weight, pulling his prey back down into the water. But before Rail’s face touched the surface again, he put the gun to his own head and fired it. Blood spattered the gnarled trunk of the ancient rowan tree.
As Trevor Rail’s limp body collapsed with a splash into the shallow pool, Pan morphed into a twisting cloud of black smoke, which hovered in the air for a moment, and then scattered on the wind.
Billy Moon stirred from his awestruck paralysis. He looked down at the Les Paul in his lap and the .357 slug that had broken his D string and bored into the dense mahogany between the two pickups.
He laid the guitar in its case and buckled the latches. He stared at the blood spray on the tree at the edge of the pool. Following the gray trunk up toward the sky, he caught a glimpse of sunlight flaring out from a hollow where the bark bulged as if a bees’ nest had altered the growth in that place. He went to it, stepping around the body of Trevor Rail, and saw that the hole in the tree contained a blown-glass sphere on a nest of dead leaves and feathers. He reached in and took it in his hand, felt the weight of the thick, bubbled glass—the witchball, in which the ashes of Olivia Heron swirled and settled like flakes in a snow globe.
Billy had never cared for sports as a child, but that hadn’t stopped his father from making a dogged effort to teach him how to throw a ball. Spying a stand of tall, thick oaks not far off, he said, “This one’s for you, Dad.” He wound up and let the ball fly with all the speed and power he could muster. It shattered against the rough bark with a loud crack, dust coating the tree at the point of impact and billowing out in a little cloud. The ashes drifted toward the ground, then were lifted on an updraft of gentle wind. The forest sighed.