Full Tilt (Rock Star Chronicles)

PRAISE FOR
FULL TILT

“A gritty, realistic look at the dangers of meth, Full Tilt takes readers on one serious rollercoaster ride. Hang on.” 
— Best-Selling Author Bill Myers

“I’ve been waiting impatiently for this follow-up to Dark Star and it truly delivers! I plan on reading anything this author writes.” 
— Best-Selling Author Wanda Dyson

“Once again, Mapes has defied expectations.” 
— Christian Fiction Review

“A thrill ride…5 Stars.” 
— Novel Journey

“An awesome read! I couldn’t put it down.” 
—FaithfulReader.com

“Mapes has earned a spot right up there with Ted Dekker and Dean Koontz.” 
— HollywoodJesus.com

“Full Tilt rocks!” 
— Focus on Fiction

“A superb story from a gifted storyteller.” 
— Author Mark Mynheir

“Fast-paced, intriguing, and compelling.” 
— Best-Selling Author Melody Carlson

“Creston Mapes’ first novel, Dark Star, was intense, gripping and made you 
want to tear from one page to the next. Full Tilt has the same effect, only the need to turn to the next page somehow seems infinitely more insatiable this time around!” 
— Infuze Magazine

“Compelling and hope-filled.” 
— The Road to Romance

“Touching on themes of forgiveness, redemption, love, hope and God’s healing, Full Tilt is a powerful read that shouldn’t be missed.” 
— 1340Mag.com

“A must read novel for every age.” 
— Armchair Interviews

“An exciting, heartening novel perfect for everybody, but perhaps especially for that ‘hard rocker’ in your life who is searching for something more.
” — The Bookshelf Reviews, 4 Stars!

“Fans will appreciate Creston Mapes’ latest powerhouse.”
 — BookReview.com

“My son dove into Creston’s first novel, Dark Star, and devoured it. This, from a young man who doesn’t read much! I know what book I’m getting for him next — Full Tilt!” 
—Best-Selling Author Robin Jones Gunn

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

FULL TILT

© 2006 by Creston Mapes, Inc.

Cover art by Dan Pitts /
facebook.com/danpittsdesign

Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture quotations are from:

New American Standard Bible 
© 1960, 1977, 1995 by the Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.

Other Scripture quotations are from:

The Living Bible
(TLB) © 1971. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published in the United States of America

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission.

For Patty

Since we were children, I knew you were the one.

I’m ever indebted for your love and faith during this journey.

Acknowledgements

When we’re in the book-writing mode, my family has endless patience and understanding. To Patty, Abigail, Hannah, Esther, and Creston—thanks for your love, joy, hope, and prayers. I treasure our family!

The team at Multnomah is fantastic. Julee Schwarzburg is a magnificent editor—creative and what an eye for detail! Thanks for teaching me, Julee. There’s a family hard at work behind the scenes at Multnomah to whom I’m grateful, including Chris Sundquist, Penny Whipps, Sharon Znachko, Nancy Childers, Lesley Warr, Angela Jones, Tiffany Lauer, Renee Akaka, Kevin Marks, Doug Gabbert, Don Jacobson, Chris Crosby, Darren Henry, Chad Hicks, Cheryl Reinertson, Jason Myhre, Dave Sheets, Cliff Boersma, Brian Flagler, and many others.

Several people helped with insights and details about various aspects of this story. My heartfelt thanks to Randy Powell, Rick Estes, Craig Smith, Mary Young, and Sergeant James Russo, NYPD.

We’ve enjoyed incomparable support from some very kind folks in the industry. My gratitude to Dianne Burnett, Ellie Schroder, Rick Stevens, Tony Hines, Dee Stewert, Brian Palmer, Vennessa Ng, Sheila Zbosnik, Gregg Hart, and Building 429.

Several fine writers have taken time to coach me in the business and spiritual aspects of the game. Thanks for your encouragement Robin Jones Gunn, Bill Myers, Mark Mynheir, James Scott Bell, Melanie Wells, Wanda Dyson, Kathy Herman, and Melody Carlson.

A very special thanks to all of our readers! And, for those who encourage me just by being there, thank you Steve Vibert, Bern Mapes, the Buechlers, Frank Donchess, Paul Ryden, Bill Hayden, Mindy and Bill Root, friends at CCSM and CCG, the Byrds, Bernie and Anita Mapes, Gary LaFerla, and the gang at Stein.

Full Tilt
and
Dark Star
wouldn’t be in print if it were not for my agent, Mark Sweeney, who is one of the finest gentlemen I know. And his wife’s quite special, too. Thanks, Janet.

Praise be to Jesus Christ, who’s given me the delight of my heart and deserves all the credit for these novels. May they glorify You, Lord.

“If you search for good you will find God’s favor; if you search for evil you will find his curse.”

Proverbs 11:27, TLB

1

BLACK NIGHT. FAMILIAR BACKSTREETS.
Windows down. Cold air. Cruisin’ free.

Top of the world.

This was what it was about, baby. Lit on meth and movin’ at what seemed like the speed of light.

Lords of the night.

Over to Fender’s Body Shop on autopilot. Hands drumming on the dash and seats to the beat of the night and the pulse of the blood pounding through their veins.

Down the slope.

Whoa.

Past the dimly lit customer entrance and around back of the shop the Yukon swung and jerked to a stop. One, two, three of them exited the SUV and glided through the gate that was cracked open.

Wesley Lester was last to pass through the high chain-link fence. He slowed to peer at the snow-covered wreckage way out back of the shop, much of which had sat unchanged, like an eerie sculpture, for months beneath a haze of dim yellow lights. Dozens of mangled cars and pickups, SUVs, a hearse, vans, and an old school bus sat like jagged headstones in a haunted cemetery, some piled one on top of the other.

Several hundred yards away, in the vicinity of the far lamppost, David Lester’s black Camaro lay still and sinister. Wesley’s little brother and two teenage friends had perished in that car with David at the wheel. Seventeen years old. Too dang young to die.

After having rushed to the surreal scene of the wreck in nearby White Plains a year ago, Wesley had never ventured back to reexamine the remnants of his little brother’s car—or the totaled Chrysler that carried an elderly couple from Scarsdale, also pronounced dead at the scene.

On the way toward the huge body shop, Wesley shivered at the chill of the New York winter—a feeling his little brother would never experience again. Grinding his teeth, Wesley ran several yards, bashing the already dented door of a white Beamer. Spinning away, he welcomed the sense of release, thrust his dead brother out of his jumpy mind, and followed the others.

Brubaker led the way through the employee entrance, slamming open the heavy steel door against the outside of the fabricated beige metal building. “Ah, smell that?” he said, not looking back. “Good ol’ Bondo. Be high all day if you worked in here.”

Wesley cruised in last, leaving the door wide open and purposefully taking a giant whiff of the pungent air that reeked of metal and plastic dust.

Like mice, the three figures zigzagged through a maze of half-repaired vehicles toward an area that glowed white, back in the far corner of the building.

As they drew closer to the dancing light and long shadows, hard-driving music mixed with the static sound of a welder. A dark blue ’65 Mustang sat up on a hydraulic lift, and beneath it—behind a welding hood—stood Tony Badino.

Brubaker and Wesley came to a standstill, fascinated by the sparks that rained down on Tony’s dirty, charcoal coveralls and scuffed brown work boots; the kid stopped between them, equally entranced.

Tony must have seen them but went on welding like a macho man, his brawny legs braced apart, tool belt hanging low around his lean waist, broad shoulders and triceps locked in place as he hoisted the blazing welder.

Brubaker was like a four-year-old. Constant motion. Bobbing his head, singing unintelligibly, rubbing his face and arms, and repeatedly peering back toward the door and out the dirty windows. His paranoia was enough to make anybody start seeing things. The kid in the middle watched spellbound as Tony melded metal to metal.

In the scalding flame, Wesley remembered his brother, curly haired and anxious, slapping a twenty-dollar bill into his hand for a teener—one-sixteenth of an ounce of some of the best crank Wesley had ever come across. Then he flashed back to David’s demolished Camaro hours later—what was left of the engine, parts of the car scattered along Post Road, still smoking.

Once again Wesley was slapped in the face by the fact that he was the one who had poisoned his brother’s bloodstream the day he drove to his death.

No. No. No!

It wasn’t the meth that killed his brother. It was the years of Everett Lester’s tainted music that had contaminated David’s mind. It was Everett’s empty promises and repeated letdowns that had sent David longing for the grave and a so-called better life on the Other Side. And Everett would burn for it; uncle or no uncle, he would pay. Because Wesley was hearing the voice again.

Wesley actually jerked when Tony snapped back the flame, lowered the welder in his right hand, and flipped the dark visor up with the other.

“Boys.” He eyed the dazed kid in the middle.

“This is the dude we told you about, from Yonkers,” Brubaker yelled proudly above the music, rubbing at the insides of his elbows with his wrists. “Needs an ounce.”

Tony extinguished the pilot on the welder, lowered it to the concrete floor by its cord, then walked over to the stereo and turned it off.

“Slow down, Brubaker.” Tony shook off his big, stiff gloves and removed the hood to reveal a tough face with small, pronounced features and a glistening scalp covered only by what looked like about two weeks’ worth of brown hair.

Reaching inside the front waist pocket of his coveralls, Tony pulled out a silver Zippo and a pack of Marlboros. Tapping one out, he stuffed it in the side of his little mouth and lit it with a grimy hand. As he took a long drag and snatched the cigarette away with his left hand, Wesley noticed a small tattoo of an upside-down cross on the inside of his wrist.

Tony was one creepy dude. Knew what he wanted. Had kind of a fiendish aura about him. People were naturally scared of the guy. Maybe that’s why Wesley liked running with Tony, because it was risky and unpredictable. That gave him a rush. And it didn’t hurt that Tony always had the best jenny crank on the street.

Grabbing a hanger light from the frame of the Mustang, Tony walked beneath his work, inspecting the length of the exhaust system.

“How do you know Lester and Brubaker?” He tapped the muffler, cig in hand.

“Uh…a friend introduced me to Wesley at a party,” the middle kid said.

“When?”

“Last week.”

“And Brubaker?”

“Met him a couple nights later.”

“Been tweekin’?”

“Uh…when do you mean?” The kid’s eyes darted to Bru then Wesley.

“Tonight.” Tony stopped and stared at him.

“Earlier today,” Wesley interrupted. “Couple teeners.”

Tony went back to inspecting his work. “That same stuff from the other day?”

“Yeah. Finished it off.” Wesley coughed, feeling somewhat like a raw recruit reporting for duty before some high-ranking officer.