The Devil of Echo Lake (32 page)

“No kidding. Well, they’re still paying for the full week they had booked.”

Jake shrugged.

“I’ll call Trevor in the morning,” Eddie said, stepping back from the door and removing his keys.

“G’night, Eddie. Merry Christmas.”

Eddie nodded and gave his best effort at a smile. It was weary, but it looked almost affectionate. “Merry Christmas, Jake.”

Eddie walked back to his jeep, stopping to reach into Jake’s car and turn off the still idling engine. “Save you some gas,” he said with a wave. Jake closed the door and latched it.

“That was close,” Billy said.

Jake turned to face him, his heart racing, the pain in his arm momentarily eclipsed by emotion. He said, “You know this is insane, right? Destroying your work, risking my job, attacking me… I can’t believe I just told you to gag Rachel.”

“That was a good idea, dude.”

“Shut. Up
.”

“Man, the shit she’s into, I’m sure it wasn’t the first time.”

“That doesn’t make it okay!”

Billy put his hands up and stopped talking.

Jake took a moment to breathe, then said, “I just basically told my boss everything is okay and the project is done. Man, I am so far from right in the head.” He took a good hard look at Billy and said, “What are you going to do?”

Billy sat down on the couch, craned his head back and looked at the ceiling. He said, “I’m gonna finish erasing the tapes. It’ll take a while. Then I guess I’ll let Rachel go. Seems she’s on his side. She’ll go right to him when I cut her loose and then the shit will hit the fan.”

“That’s your plan?”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Great plan. Totally self-destructive.”

Billy nodded and couldn’t keep from smiling.

Jake even chuckled. “Well then, I’m going home,” he said. “It’s clear I’m not talking you out of anything.” He picked his jacket up and carefully slid his wounded arm into the sleeve.

Billy said, “Jake, that’s not really all. There’s one more thing I need to do tonight. But I can’t do it alone.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re right. I do need to deliver an album by the deadline.”

“Billy, there’s no way.”

“A solo acoustic album. We’ll still have a few hours before dawn. You want to produce it? Make a lot of money,” Billy said with a grin.

Jake stared at Billy. Then he said, “Tune your guitar. I’ll try not to bleed on the console.”

Jake brewed coffee, lit candles and set up two mics. Billy erased the remaining tapes. It would be the kind of session that was about one thing only: capturing the truth of the moment. No click track, no edits, no overdubs. Just a songwriter and his guitar in the big wooden room. As the hands on the clock and the reels on the tape machine turned, Jake felt the conviction growing within him that whatever Billy had destroyed earlier that night, it was no great loss because
this
incandescent revelation the singer was pouring into his mics was the real thing. They worked until the salmon-tinged light of dawn appeared, smudged across the cloudy horizon. Soon after, Jake drove down the snow-packed country road with the new master tapes in the trunk of his car.

Twenty-three

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.