Storms (47 page)

Lindsey and Carol Ann in Hawaii.

Our house had been broken into again. During our vacation in Hawaii, Bob came home to find business cards from LAPD detectives stuck onto our front door with a brief letter telling him that our house has been burgled. As he entered he saw chaos. Polaroids belonging to Lindsey and me lay all over the carpet in the den. Records, cassettes, and guitars had been taken off shelves and stands and also dumped onto the floor, as though someone had taken the time to examine them and then toss them wherever they pleased. Upstairs, in the master bedroom in which Lindsey and I slept, the bureau drawers were open, but unlike the robbery at the Putney house during the Forum show, everything was still lying neatly inside. The covers on our bed looked as though someone had rolled around on them—and there was one last piece of news that sent chills down our already frozen spines—because it made no sense whatsoever.

With wild eyes, Bob spoke in a hoarse voice, “Your bags of weed that were hidden in the closet were propped up against the wall, Lindsey. Just sitting there. It's totally freaky, man. I found a note Scotch-taped on the wall from the cops telling you to ‘hide your weed better next time.' Thank God they're Fleetwood Mac fans, or the shit would have hit the fan. I called the Hollywood precinct this morning and the detectives told me that they
found the weed exactly as I did. Just propped up against the wall. They were really nice about it—just said to tell you to put it away. I don't think anything has been stolen. Someone just came in and went through all of our things like a fuckin' tornado.” Bob ran his fingers through his messy hair before continuing. “The cops think it's some deranged fan—but I dunno, Lindsey. I mean—did you hear about the murder?”

Now sitting on both sides of Bob, we looked at him in shock.
“What
murder?” we said in unison.

In answer, Bob got up and threw me a copy of the
L.A. Times
from a few days before. As my eyes scanned the story, I looked at Lindsey in disbelief. In the Hollywood Hills, a wealthy record executive and his girlfriend had been attacked in their home. Men with masks had walked into their bedroom in the dead of night and taken the executive downstairs after telling the girlfriend to stay in the bedroom—or else. The story went on to say that the executive was taken to his kitchen where he was beaten, stabbed, and left for dead. The girlfriend, who survived without physical injury, had listened to his screams and cries for help, but had been too paralyzed with fear to leave the bedroom even after the house had been deathly quiet for two hours. Finally, she crept downstairs and found her lover dead.

The killers were still at large and the motive was a mystery. Nothing was stolen in the house. The article went on to say that the entire music industry had been shaken to its core at the death of this much-loved young executive—and at the senselessness of it. If the motive wasn't robbery, then it looked like a thrill killing. The article finished on an even more sinister note, reminding L.A. that the Manson killings were not exactly ancient history and speculating that this murder had been perpetrated by another crazed cult. And that had everyone in L.A. absolutely terrified. Gun sales were up and alarms were being installed across the city in the homes of those who had felt safe only a week before.

I felt sick to my stomach as I told Lindsey everything I'd just read and we both sat and looked at each other. The burglary at Putney had been bad enough, but this was the second time our house had been broken into on June Street. It was just too much for either of us to contemplate what might have happened if we'd been home the night before when the break-in happened.

Lindsey looked at Bob and quietly told him that in the morning, he was going to buy a gun. Pulling me to my feet, Lindsey slowly walked me up the stairs to our bedroom and together we stripped the bed and threw the covers and sheets out into the hall. We never, ever wanted to have them on our bed again.

Two weeks later, Lindsey picked up his gun after the designated waiting period and slid it under his side of the bed. And he promised to take both of us to a shooting range to learn how to use it safely. But as it turned out, we were not going to have time.

The next night, we were shocked awake by the screeching of our alarm. On the panel in the bedroom, I could read the word “Intruder” flashing in red as I sat terrified in the dark. Within seconds, Lindsey dragged me off the bed onto the floor as he reached for the gun lying in its wooden case. In the moonlight, the dull silver finish gleamed as he took it firmly in hand and started for the door.

“What are you doing?” I asked in a panicked whisper. “Lindsey, please! Let's just lock the door and wait for help. The police will be here soon!”

As the phone rang and I answered it, I watched Lindsey cross the room and stand beside our bedroom door. The alarm company told me that help was on the way and I told them to hurry as I saw Lindsey open the door and start down the hallway, gun in hand.
No!
I thought as I threw down the phone. As I tried to pull him back into the room, he shook his head and tried to push me back. He whispered for me to lock the door behind him, but I was not about to let him go downstairs by himself. As the story of the murdered executive flashed through my mind, I knew that I simply couldn't stay behind while Lindsey walked into danger. And I was terrified, make no mistake about it—I was not feeling brave. I only knew that if something were to happen to Lindsey and I wasn't by his side to fight for him, I would never be able to live with myself.

My hands were slippery with sweat as I clung to Lindsey's arm as we made our way to the head of the stairs. It was hard to hear anything over the screaming of the alarm, but there seemed to be muffled sounds coming from the kitchen. Just as we began our descent down the dark stairs, our front door shook under thunderous pounding and we heard the shouts of the police ordering to be let into the house. Lindsey and I ran down the
stairs, threw the door open, and stood back as six LAPD officers rushed past us with guns drawn and flashlight beams sweeping every corner of our large entryway.

As Lindsey hit the light switch, he was immediately ordered to drop the gun and identify himself as two of the officers pointed their weapons at him. In a heartbeat, the gun fell to the floor and was kicked away by a grim-faced cop. We were ordered to stay right where we were as they picked up the gun and ran toward the kitchen. The alarm company's officers arrived and within seconds our house was swarming with armed men searching every single room and corner of our two-story home.

We heard shouts coming from our backyard as the police gave chase to what we'd later learn was a man dressed in black. He got away by running through our back gate, onto the golf course directly behind our home. After thirty minutes, it was all over. The police found the window jimmied in the laundry room. God only knows what would have happened in the dark entry hall if a shot had been fired from the gun in Lindsey's hand.

Once again, help arrived just in time, and after it was finally over and all of the officers had left our home, Lindsey and I looked at each other and knew that we would never again feel safe in the house we had grown to love. Within two days, we'd put our home on the market and I was once again spending time looking at houses for us. Rentals this time—with the months of touring ahead, we didn't have time to look for a permanent home. We wanted a house that came stocked with dishes, furniture, and linens. And until we found one, we packed our suitcases and moved into the Century Plaza Hotel. I never again wanted to feel the terror and horror I felt as I walked down a dark hallway seeing only a dull silver gun glinting in Lindsey's hand.

Within a week our realtor had found us the perfect house. It was on Coldwater Canyon and the owner was offering it to us completely furnished—down to the silverware. At a costly rent of $5,000 a month, it was a two-story house with a pool, a small gym, and three bedrooms. Bob would be moving in, of course. He'd become a permanent part of our household and both Lindsey and I wanted him with us.

There was only one problem. The band was leaving for Japan in two days and someone had to stay behind to move our clothes and personal items into the new house. There was also a multitude of business matters that needed to be handled in connection with selling our home in Hancock Park, and with Lindsey touring I was the only one who could do it. It was decided that I'd stay behind with Bob while Lindsey spent the next three weeks in Japan.

I missed him after he left, but I was so busy that the first five days seemed to fly by. On top of moving into our house, I was already being booked on interviews for Elite Modeling. I was scrambling to have pictures made for headshots and arranging my portfolio under their direction. I'd also been chosen to do a photo shoot for the Eagles songbook for
The Long Run
album. A photographer friend of mine, Jim Shea, would be shooting it and I was thrilled. I told myself that between the house, Elite, and the Eagles, I was not going to have one minute of free time to get too lonely. As it turned out, I needn't have worried.

On the sixth day of the tour the phone rang at 3
A.M.
It was J.C., who told me that Lindsey hated being in Japan. The food sucked, as did the hotels, and worst of all, he had no weed to smoke. None. There were no drugs on this leg of the tour. Barely a month before, a humiliated Paul McCartney had been busted for trying to smuggle marijuana into Japan, making headlines across the world. In Japan it was a very serious offense
to be caught with any kind of illegal substance, so it was too great a risk for Fleetwood Mac to take. But, like Lindsey, the other four were not pleased. All they had was warm sake and vodka tonics and that was not quite cutting it. Bottom line: Fleetwood Mac was not a happy group of campers, J.C. said.

“They're making my life a living hell, Carol. And Lindsey's totally miserable. You have to fly out tomorrow. I'm booking the ticket for you right now. I know you're busy there, but you
have to come!
I'm begging you. I need you to fly out and that's that”, he finished in a pleading yet commanding tone.

Oh, ick. If everyone's at each other's throat, that's the last place I want to be. I hate Japan anyway. But if Lindsey needs me, I'll be on that plane
, I said to myself as I listened to J.C. breathing heavily into the mouthpiece. With a sigh I told him that I'd pack first thing in the morning and asked him to get me an afternoon flight. I'd been to Japan before meeting Lindsey and I absolutely hated the two weeks I spent there on vacation. It was a wonderful place for many people, but personally I couldn't wait to get out of there. The most vivid memory I had of Japan was walking down the street in Tokyo and having multiple vendors offer me a fried sparrow on a stick. For a bird lover to see rows of tiny, crispy,
innocent
little birds being eaten like hot dogs was enough to make me ill.

I'd spoken with Lindsey on the phone during the past five days, and I already knew that he was unhappy, but I had no idea that things were as bad as J.C. was now saying. But, knowing the band the way I did, it was fairly obvious that in a week's time they'd be murderous—the lack of drugs and nothing whatsoever to make up for it would see to that. It was a tenuous balance within Fleetwood Mac at the best of times. I couldn't even imagine how bad it could be at the
worst
of times. And a drug-free tour in Japan would definitely, for Fleetwood Mac, qualify for one of the worst.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. It was Lindsey. J.C. had speeddialed him to tell him that I was coming and he was ecstatic. He didn't want to ask me to come, he said, because he knew how busy I was with the house. But he was glad that I was on my way and he'd be at the airport to meet me in Tokyo. Two days later, after a twenty-hour flight, I was standing exhausted but happy by Lindsey's side once again. But at that night's show I found that not everyone was glad to have me back on the road.

Stevie seemed first shocked and then angry when I walked into the venue with Lindsey. Puzzled at first by her hostile attitude, I tried to rationalize that since her breakup with Mick, my new friendship with Sara—the woman who stole his heart away from her—was what had her upset with me. But I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it than that. Her reaction to me was exactly the same as when I first hit the road with Lindsey at the beginning of the
Rumours
tour. And it made me sad.
It's going to be a long two weeks
, I thought to myself with a sigh.

J.C. was right. Japan was a drag. The whole band was in a surly mood, bitching and moaning about no cocaine, no hamburgers, and just about everything to do with that leg of the tour. When a band's on the road, it's all about the hotel, room service, and, in Fleetwood Mac's case, the drugs. There's no time or energy for sightseeing, to do the things that other people do when they're in a new country. There was nothing to take Fleetwood Mac's mind off the hard work of touring. Japan was a flashback to Birmingham, England, during the
Rumours
tour, only there the audiences spoke English and responded to the band's concerts in a “normal” fashion: they yelled and screamed and applauded throughout the show.