Storms (19 page)

“Gone forever from Fleetwood Mac's backstage, I think. Come on, we gotta get you up on that stage before Lindsey fires my ass.”

Walking up onto the metal stairs, I stood where Lindsey could see me and smiled as he blew me a kiss. He then turned toward J.C. and gave him
a cold, dead-eyed stare. Looking sheepish, J.C. quickly beat a hasty retreat down the stairs and back through the curtains.

As I sat on one of the chairs at the side of the stage I wondered idly what Lindsey was going to say to J.C. after the show.
I've never really seen him angry, but if he'd looked at me the way he just did at J.C., I'd be more than a little worried. Actually, I'd be downright scared!
I thought to myself in surprise. There was definitely a sense of menace in Lindsey's glare and I winced as I watched him break a string on his guitar during “World Turning”, curse at Ray Lindsey, and almost throw the guitar at him. He was pissed off all right. I decided to remain on stage. I didn't want to do anything that would distract him from the show. As I watched and listened to Lindsey play like he was possessed by a demon, I knew that that night's show was one of the best the band had ever played.

And just maybe a little of Lindsey's power was fuelled by his anger over an English rocker trying to make off with his girl. Just for the night, of course.

I was so caught up in the music that I jumped in shock when I felt a hand wrapping around my wrist, pulling me to my feet. The hand belonged to J.C. and the look of dark intensity on his face made me follow him without question down the stairs and through the curtains into the hallway. I knew that something was very, very wrong.

“J.C., what is it? What happened? Is someone hurt?” I stammered.

“Carol, hon, the police just called. It's bad news, I'm afraid: your house has been robbed”, he said bluntly.

I looked at him in horror. My mind flashed mental pictures of Lindsey's guitars, Bob's drums, recording equipment … the new TV that I'd bought from my Producer's Workshop salary … Lindsey's prized record collection.

“Oh my God. What did the police say, J.C.? Did they catch them inside the house? I don't understand how they knew to call here … is everything stolen? How bad is it?” I looked down at my hands and saw that they were shaking. I'd never had anything like this happen to me, and I felt sick inside.

“Look, sweetie, I don't know for sure … but I think it's bad. All the police would tell me is that they've dusted for prints and they need Lindsey to call them immediately after the show. I guess one of the neighbors reported someone breaking into your house, called the cops, and they came out. They told me that they saw Lindsey's publicity photos lying around, knew that Fleetwood Mac was playing the Forum tonight, and I guess they put
two and two together and knew to call here. I mean, who doesn't know where Lindsey is tonight?”

J.C. gently put his arm around my waist and led me into the dressing room. “Let me get you a drink, Carol”, he said as he poured a splash of Myers's into a glass and added Pepsi to it. “After what happened with Rod Stewart tonight, I don't want to be the one to break the news to Lindsey. You tell me what you want me to do, hon. I can have security go out and find Aguirre or let Richard know … but I don't want to fuck with the show and Lindsey really shouldn't be told until he's offstage. It's your call, though.”

“No! Don't tell Lindsey! It'll ruin the show if he finds out before they're offstage!” I said sharply. “I'll tell him. He's going to be really upset and I should be the one to tell him.” I felt totally sick just thinking about it. “He has guitars there that he absolutely loves. Why did this have to happen tonight? This is one of the biggest nights of his career. Oh, J.C., why does shit like this happen? It's not just that our things have probably been stolen, it's just the thought that someone could do that to us, you know?”

For me, the show was already over. The shocking news that I'd just been given filled me with a sense of dread—I just wanted Lindsey. I needed him to be offstage and with me. I felt completely upset and I didn't want to be the one in charge. But for now, I was. For now, I'd let Richard, Bob, and Lindsey enjoy the rest of the evening. After all, the damage was already done. The robbery had driven our night of Hollywood glamour into the seamy dark world of Hollywood crime—and Lindsey's starry evening was now tainted. It had become a night for sordid memories.

There would be no after-party celebration for Lindsey and me. We had the LAPD waiting for our call and God knows what waiting for us at our house on Putney. I swallowed the drink that J.C. had handed to me and felt the rum burning my throat. Even though I rarely drank, I downed this one in thirty seconds. If ever there was a time when a stiff drink was needed, this was definitely one of them. With my eyes still tearing from the rum, I reached for another bottle cap of blow.

I had a feeling I was going to need to have my edges blurred before I walked into our house. Leaning my head on my hand, I sat and waited for the end of the show, staring forlornly at the floor. As soon as I heard the
closing chords of “Blue Letter”, I mixed Lindsey a drink. Like me, he was going to need it.

Fleetwood Mac burst through the doors of the dressing room like a tornado. Dripping with sweat, red-faced and triumphant, their bodies gave off so much heat that you could almost see the steam rising from their stage clothes. After a five-minute standing ovation they'd given two encores. When a show didn't go well, the band only played “Gold Dust Woman” and then left the stage in a pissed-off mood. Tonight they'd added “Blue Letter” and that meant that Fleetwood Mac considered the show a success.

As I looked at Lindsey's smiling face, I died a little inside, feeling as though it were my fault that I had such bad news to tell him. My mind knew this wasn't true, but my stomach didn't. I felt completely nauseous and walked into the bathroom to take some deep breaths. I decided to wait for Richard and Bob to come backstage before I told him. Squaring my shoulders, I went back out into the dressing room and watched the band congratulate each other on the show.

Stevie was absolutely glowing as she talked excitedly to Mick, leaning down to whisper something into his ear that made his already flushed face turn crimson. He looked up at her adoringly and gently touched her cheek.
Uh-oh, they're at it again
, I thought idly as I looked around quickly for Jenny. I was glad to see that she had her back turned to them—it was obvious to anyone watching that sparks were flying between Mick and Stevie. On any other night I'd watch this encounter with sharp eyes and my usual sense of watching a soap opera within a soap opera, but tonight it seemed absolutely trivial to me. The weight on my shoulders was almost unbearable as I stood there knowing that I was about to deliver news to Lindsey that would shatter his night.

Bob, Richard, and Ken came bursting through the door, yelling Indian war cries, lighting joints, and grinning from ear to ear. Grateful to have Lindsey distracted for a few minutes, I hung in the background, wanting to give him as much time as I could to enjoy the evening's brilliant success.

J.C. moved up behind me and whispered into my ear, “Sweetie, you have to go tell him. The cops are waiting to hear from you guys. I have a limo ready to leave at the loading dock. I'll go get Lindsey for you and bring him to the tuning room. Meet us there.” He squeezed my shoulder,
gave me a look that said “Be strong” and moved across to where Lindsey was standing.

I slipped quietly out of the now-packed dressing room and headed for the tuning room. Minutes later Lindsey walked through the door, a troubled look on his face.

“What's wrong, Carol? J.C. said you needed to talk to me right away. Are you OK? Did that bastard Stewart do anything to you? I'm going to kick J.C.'s ass as soon as I have five minutes alone with him!”

“Oh, Lindsey, I don't know how to tell you this, so I'm going to just say it. Our house was robbed tonight. The LAPD needs us to go straight home and call them.” I could feel my eyes filling with tears as I looked as his shocked face. “I'm so sorry, baby. I can't believe it, either …”

“Fuck!”‘
Lindsey screamed. “You're fuckin' kidding me, right?” As the tears started to slip down my face, he pulled me close and stroked my hair. “It's OK, baby. Let me get changed and we'll go home. Don't cry. Whatever's happened, we'll fix it. Go get Richard and Bob—tell them what's up—they need to come with us”, he said grimly.

Walking back into the dressing room, I made Lindsey a new drink—hoping that the alcohol would help numb the shock. On my way out I grabbed Richard and whispered into his ear the horrible news about the Putney house, asking him to bring Bob and meet Lindsey and me at the loading dock in five minutes. Looking as though someone had just slapped him across the face, he nodded, grabbed Bob by the arm, and pulled him out of the room. I left right behind them, stopping at the tuning room to find Lindsey dressed, depressed, and angry. As I handed him his drink he tried to smile at me but it came out more a grimace. Putting my arm around him, I leaned against him as we walked silently to the waiting limousine.

When the car pulled up in front of the house, we all looked at each other in dismay. On the ride there we'd tried not to talk about what might be waiting for us at home. None of us wanted to think about it—as though pretending it hadn't happened would make it go away. The sight of a pitchblack house brought reality crashing down on us and we all stared at one another without speaking. The driver opened the door to let us out of the car and we reluctantly climbed out. Holding on to Lindsey's hand, I hud
dled close to him, trying to find a little shelter before we walked through the front door.

The usually untidy living room was now in complete shambles. The first thing I saw was a pillowcase filled with lumpy objects lying abandoned just to the right of the door. My hand tightened on Lindsey's arm as we stepped farther into the entry hall. The house was dark and shadowy. Our living room lamps were knocked off their tables onto the floor, the broken glass from their lightbulbs glittering in the dim light coming from the streetlamps that were filtering in through the picture window. Scanning the room, I could make out empty guitar stands, electrical cords flung haphazardly across the couch, and an empty table where my Sony TV used to sit. All that I seemed to see was the emptiness that I knew should have been filled with amps, precious Les Paul and Gibson guitars, and recording equipment. Bob's drums were still sitting in the dining room, but that appeared to be the only piece of equipment left in the house.

Lindsey kept muttering, “Fuck, fuck, fuck …” as he made his way across the living room. He flipped the light switch in the hall and it felt as though someone had sucked all of the air out of the room. It was a total disaster. It was also sickeningly obvious that whoever did this had no qualms about not only stealing everything but also trashing the place as much as possible.

Lindsey grabbed my hand and we slowly entered our bedroom. The sheets had been stripped off the bed, and probably used to carry out whatever was stolen. The drawers to the bureau were open and clothes and lingerie were tossed onto the floor, lying on top of books that had been thrown out of the bookcase, their pages scattered across the floor. The nausea I'd felt backstage returned with a vengeance and it was all I could do to keep from throwing up. Sinking down onto the bare mattress, I stared at my underclothes lying on the floor, at the pillowcase left abandoned in the doorway, and I knew that I had never felt so violated or so angry.

It wasn't the material value of our stolen possessions that made me feel the way I did: it was the realization that a stranger had come into our home and completely violated our personal space and belongings. I knew then and there that I would never feel comfortable in that house again. And if I felt that way after living there only a few months, I could only imagine how
bad it was for Lindsey, Richard, and Bob. I felt like crying, but for Lindsey's sake I blinked back the tears and took a deep breath. I wanted to be strong for him—it was his big night that had been ruined, his beloved guitars that were stolen, his special belongings and memories that no amount of money could ever replace.

While Lindsey was talking to Bob and Richard, I went to the hall cupboard to pull out clean sheets for our bed. Weariness swept over me, and it was all I could do to stay on my feet. Summoning my last bit of energy, I made up the bed, closed the door to our bedroom, and slowly took off my shimmering skirt and delicate blouse.

Feeling as though I were in a parallel universe, I climbed into bed and curled up on my side to wait for Lindsey to join me. Exhaustion took over and I started to slip into the nether land of sleep.
Coming home tonight was really scary
, I thought drowsily.
I hope I never have to feel this way again. I want to move into our new house. It's a fairy-tale house, and nothing bad can happen to us there.

There had been warning signs. We knew that something was terribly wrong with Lindsey. Over the summer he began to experience bizarre episodes of disorientation, nausea, and shortness of breath. Striking without warning and lasting between fifteen and thirty minutes, they left him pale, weak, and shaky. They were severe enough to send us rushing to our family doctor, who scheduled a myriad of tests for him. Blood tests, brain scans, X-rays—all were done by the leading medical specialists in Los Angeles. And none of the tests or any of the specialists we consulted could find anything wrong with Lindsey. Yet the attacks kept happening. We began to refer to them as “flashes” and tried to cope as best we could. Despite the doctors telling us that nothing was wrong, I didn't believe them. I knew something was wrong. And it terrified me.

As I packed to go back on the road with Lindsey for the next leg of the
Rumours
tour, I tried not to think about what would happen if he had one of his flashes while performing. The thought of thousands of eyes staring at him on stage as he was helplessly locked in one of his trance-like episodes made me feel powerless. We hadn't told any of the other band members about Lindsey's “problem”—after all, the doctors had given him a clean bill of health.
Maybe the flashes will just go away
, I thought hopefully.
They came from out of nowhere, so maybe they'll just stop. He's going to do just fine … stop worrying … he's going to be fine.