Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol (26 page)

“Being a parent,” he spit, “is too big for any man—or woman.” His voice began to quiver now. “David’s been an accident waiting to happen for years.”

“Eddie, do you realize how badly Dad
abused us
—physically and mentally? It wasn’t right! You had no example to go by. Zilch. It’s not your fault!”

We walked slowly in silence. Eddie sniffed back the emotion.

“This life, Ev,” he whispered. “It’s a bear.”

“We’ve been underdogs since we came into this world. The odds have been stacked against us since day one. I know how you feel. It’s tough to get your head on straight when you don’t know what straight is.”

“Ev,” he said, not looking at me. “I may have a gambling problem.”

Obviously, the days when Eddie masked himself with a joyous facade were gone. Maybe that was a good thing.

“What? Gambling? Like…on what?”

He kept walking, looking down at the floor. “Mostly Atlantic City. You know, cards, craps, the machines. And when I travel…Harrah’s, the casino boats.”

“You need to get help, Eddie, that’s all. I’ll pay your debts. I’ll pay for the treatment to get you cleaned up. You can kick it.”

He stopped walking. So did I. He turned to look at me and did so deeply. “You’ve changed.”

I didn’t say anything.

“When have we ever had a conversation like this?”

“I love you, dude.”

That’s when he broke down. There on the fifth floor of White Plains Hospital Center. To his knees. Hand on my shoulder. Brothers.

“I just want one more chance,” he sobbed. “With David…one more chance.”

Boy, did Eddie and I get some looks when we reappeared down at David’s ICU station. Everyone knew Eddie was at the end of his rope, even before his son’s catastrophe, so all eyes naturally searched him to see how he was coping. Then there was me, the long-lost black sheep who had somehow hit the big-time. Quite a spectacle, the two of us.

Eddie went over and hugged Mary and caressed his sleeping daughter’s soft, pretty cheek. He and Sheila glanced at each other but didn’t speak. Wesley remained where he was, head down in the darkness.

I checked with Sheila’s brother, Bill, for the latest report on David. The prognosis was not favorable. In fact, the doctors said he might not have long. If he died, would he go to Endora’s Other Side or Karen’s heaven?

Before I hunkered down with Eddie and Sheila for what appeared to be a long night ahead, I grabbed my shoulder bag and took a walk.

Finding a quiet, dimly lit area in another portion of the ICU corridor, I sat down and found my phone. It was approaching midnight, so that made it just before 11 p.m. in Topeka.

I had been longing to call Karen. So much had happened since the night we last spoke, when I dashed out of Bean’s coffee shop to pursue Endora’s ghost. I was anxious to tell Karen, firsthand, about my stay at Jerry’s and all he and Mary had done for me. She needed to know about David, too—so she could pray.

I dialed the number, hoping she was still awake. Her phone rang three times, four, five… I thought about hanging up.

“Hello,” she said in a soft, groggy tone.

“I am so sorry to wake you,” I whispered. “It’s Everett.”

“Oh, hi,” she said, perking up slightly. “It’s good to hear your voice. Where are you?”

“I’m back in New York.”

“I was so glad you went to be with Mary and Jerry. Are you doing okay?”

“They were incredible,” I said. “And I’m doing good, better than I’ve been in a long time. Listen, though, I’ll tell you more about that in a minute. There’s been a bad accident in my family.”

“Oh, no…”

“It’s my brother’s son David. He’s seventeen. He was in a really bad wreck today.”

“Wait a minute…oh my gosh. Everett,
I smell smoke!”

“What?”

Her phone dropped. “Oh my gosh!” came her shout from a distance.
“Oh my gosh! FIRE!”

Her scream terrified me.

My mouth dropped open, my eyes darted. “Karen!” I yelled into the phone.
“Karen!”

I stood up, but…what could I
do?
My mind went in a thousand directions.

I listened hard. Several more slight screams. Then footsteps.

“Gotta call 911!” she gasped.
“Place is burning!”

The line went dead.

Just then, Sheila’s brother came dashing around the curve in the quiet corridor.

“Everett, come quick,” Bill said, his face cloaked in panic. “David’s not good. This may be the end.”

20

THE MOMENTS THAT FOLLOWED
were surreal, like I was outside my own body, watching from someone else’s point of view.

My oldest brother, Howard, had arrived from Ohio with our ailing mother, Doris. They were locked arm in arm with Mary a few feet from David’s bed. I fell into their arms when I entered the white, antiseptic-smelling room.

Eddie and Sheila were bawling, smothering their boy, one on each side of the bed, clutching his hands, stroking his thick hair. Wesley stood alone behind them, his arms crossed, jaw locked shut, staring wide-eyed at what was left of his brother. My mother could barely look at her grandson; she was coughing, mumbling, and beginning to say things that made no sense. Madison was too young to be in the room.

The severe trauma David had suffered and the vast amount of blood he lost proved to be too much for his frail body to bear. His life was indeed but a vapor that appeared for a little while—and vanished.

The steady beep we had grown accustomed to that day, the beep that subconsciously gave us hope, became a steady, cold, fatal buzz.

More commotion. Nurses and doctors zipping about. And the official pronouncement: David Anthony Lester was dead.

When he realized his brother was gone, Wesley burst out of the death chamber.

Then came the weeping, the cursing, the grief.

I had never been so close to death, and never wanted to be again.

The Lester family embraced as we never had before. Surrounding David’s bed, we cried, we swayed, we squeezed one another tightly. And Mary prayed. The bond of family, the ties that bind.

I felt guilty that my thoughts were divided.

There lay my brother’s dead son. And yet, at that very moment, a fire burned in Topeka.

She’s okay. She’s awake. She’s called 911. She will get out of there.

I couldn’t leave my family.

Oh, please, God…take care of Karen. Please.

Sure enough, Donald Chambers and his wife, Della, were seated in the fourth row of courtroom B-3 as Brian continued to present his case for my defense. I was able to smile and acknowledge Della before today’s proceedings, and Donald told me later that that one brief gesture won her heart; she would be praying against the odds for an innocent verdict the rest of the way.

Boone’s work today was nothing earth-shattering, but he wasn’t at fault. After all, we were facing a substantial amount of extremely incriminating evidence. Namely, a .45 caliber Glock, registered in my name, with my fingerprints—the very gun used to kill L.A. psychic Madam Endora Crystal. And to make matters worse, I argued with the victim and even threatened her life in front of other people—many others, many times.

Boone presented a fairly nice dog and pony show, calling several solid character witnesses to the stand. However, it didn’t escape anyone’s notice that he had no follow-up questions for the Miami-Dade police, crime scene investigators, or the medical examiner, Leonard Morris.

We were, in fact, still buying time to scrape together more detailed research about hypnotism, telekinesis, and the possible part they may have played in Endora’s murder. We were also waiting on the edges of our seats for Judge Sprockett to decide whether or not he would subpoena Zane Bender as a witness for the defense.

When I returned to the detention center a few minutes ago, I was pleasantly surprised to find one of my favorite acoustic guitars leaning up in the far corner of my cell, with a note slipped beneath the strings at the neck.

Everett,

I know this has been a long time coming. Sorry it took so long. Now you can make the new music you’ve been telling me about. I look forward to hearing it. Enjoy!

Your friend,

Brian Boone

P.S. Excellent news! Judge Sprockett has approved the subpoena for Zane Bender! We will have him on the witness stand tomorrow. Everett, I am convinced his appearance before the court will be most damaging to the prosecution and beneficial to your defense. Possibly, the one key witness we’ve been waiting for.

Rest well and keep the faith.

Slowly, I picked up the guitar, almost as if I’d never held one before, examining every inch of this tool that made me famous, rich…miserable.

Setting the instrument on my bunk, I slid to my knees, sifting through a stack of paperwork below. Finding a group of folded song sheets, I sat back on the bunk and searched for the tune I scribbled just a few days ago. My fingers played the notes softly, as I tried out the words.

I led you down a dead-end street,

I didn’t care if you would die,

I took your money and I stole your heart,

I pushed you out when you—

A tiny flash of light caught my eye, over at the front edge of my cell, but I looked and it was gone.

I picked up the song where I left off.

The light flickered once more.

Quickly, I looked again.

It was a match. Held by a mallet fist. The fist shook out the flame.

“Smell smoke, Lester?” came Zaney’s high, breaking voice from around the corner. “That smoke you smell,
boy?
”

I stood, set the Gibson down gently, and crept toward the voice.

“Boo!”
Zaney jumped out from around the corner.

I staggered back, and he roared with laughter, then turned suddenly somber.

“I smelled smoke,” he whispered, grabbing the bars between us. “That night…in Kansas. When your pretty was all alone…I watched her.”

I lunged through the bars, getting hold of a piece of his orange jumpsuit. Jerking with all my might, I slammed him against the cold bars between us.

I had his jumpsuit inside my cell, pinching, pulling, with both hands, smashing his chest and face against steel.

“Remember, Lester?” he squirmed with a sweaty, pained smirk. “When pretty Karen’s house went up in flames? I was there!”

I cringed as I tried to improve my grip, but his hands slithered in like tentacles, one clawing my face, another gouging the back of my neck.

I moved quickly to dodge his paws, then one of his hands squeezed my neck and tried to slam my head against the bars, but he didn’t have the leverage. His arms were too fat; they could only make it through up to his elbows.

I thought about yelling for guards. Chambers must be near. But I resisted, realizing I had to hold out to hear more of his confession.

“I used gas, you know,” he cackled uncomfortably. “I watched her squirm in that inferno, watched her from my truck as long as I could.”

Taking his jumpsuit with my right hand now, I reached through the bars with my left to get his hair or whatever I could grab. Wrapping my forearm around his wet neck, I muscled his big head toward me, up against the bars.

“Did Endora hire you?” I gasped, tightening my grip in short jerks.

Suddenly, he shifted all of his weight against my arm, the one sticking through the bars. It bent backward, and I screamed, losing my grip on his jumpsuit.

Realizing he’d snap my arm, I socked through the bars again with my free hand, trying to force him off me. But his heavy frame wouldn’t budge. Instead, he grabbed my free arm as well.

“Whoops.” He ripped both my arms toward him as hard as he could.

I turned my head away, but my shoulders and sternum crashed into the bars. The impact dropped me to my knees, but he still clenched my wrists with his powerful fists.

“Karen Bayliss is the one,” he growled, yanking me up against the bars. “She’s the wench who caused all this…
all of it!”

Get through this…he’ll be in court tomorrow.

“You’re gonna die, Lester,” he whispered. “Whether it’s in here or outside, you
will
die.” He jerked me against the bars again. “And your—”

Crack!

Donald thumped Zaney from behind with his billy club, square in the middle of the back. My body dropped limply to the floor of my cell.

“You won’t learn, will you, Zaney?” Chambers shoved him with his boot. “Not to mess around on my watch? And playing with matches…” He shook his head and clicked his tongue three times. “This is going to get you a nice little vacation in solitary. That is, as soon as you get back from testifying at your buddy’s trial tomorrow.”

“What’s he doing out?” I managed.

“He had mop-up,” Chambers said. “Somebody took his eyes off him.”