Torn (7 page)

“I've been wanting to show it to you, but you seemed so out of it, the timing didn't feel right. I've got it here,” she said. She stepped a few cars down to her parents' white Lexus, popped the trunk, and pulled out her camcorder. All four gathered around the tiny color LCD viewscreen. Devin and Cody sneered at each other when they accidentally touched.

The picture was easy enough to see. There was Devin on his stool, picking at the strings of the Ovation. Karston was leaning against the wall behind him. At first it didn't seem like anything was strange, but then he noticed some tiny, swirling spots, first near the guitar's fretboard, then near his mouth, then around his head, and
Karston's, too. They were small. Unless you were looking for something, you'd never see them.

“See?” Cheryl said.

“Isn't that cool?” Cody said, grinning again.

But One Word Ben shook his head and said, “Dust.”

Devin nodded. “Yeah, I saw it on one of those
Ghost Hunters
shows. Dust gets in the lens and a bunch of loser geeks think it's spirit orbs or something.”

Cody turned to him, annoyed. “Don't ruin it! Don't tell anyone that! This is great for us! We can play the song at Tunnel Vision!”

Cheryl looked at Devin, waiting for his judgment.

Devin shrugged. “But it's dust.”

Just dust. As in ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Only this dust swirled, spun, and seemed to dance in tune to the music.

Big and brown, the featureless walls and huge windows covered with protective metal grids made Argus High School look more like a three-story factory than it did an educational institute. It had one of the lowest percentages of graduates who went on to college in the state, and an even lower percentage of students who graduated, period. It was shaped, appropriately enough, like a big
L
.

The first thing Devin noticed upon his return to its hallowed halls were posters on the walls.

Though Devin had never officially said he wanted back in the band, he'd never said no, either. A strange enthusiasm about the ghost song and the big club date had taken over his band-mates, even Cheryl, so he, as usual, had shut up and gone along
for the ride. It wasn't so bad, he realized now. The posters were pretty cool—respectful but edgy. The art he recognized as Cheryl's, but it seemed like some of the phrasing had to be Cody's. And maybe it
would
be for Karston, in a way.

The second thing he noticed as he walked down the crowded halls toward homeroom was that people were stopping their conversations to gawk at him. They weren't pitying looks, exactly. There was something else in their eyes: a respectful curiosity. The stares were familiar, but Devin couldn't quite place them until he realized they were the same kind of looks he'd gotten when he'd left the stage at Tunnel Vision. It felt…good, but he didn't quite want it to.

Fear of another attack from the Slits was a vague tingle at best. After the meth bust, Nick and Jake turned state witness, which led to ten more arrests. There were still no charges for the murder, though. Devin had been asked to look at a lineup, and while one short muscular hood had looked hauntingly familiar, he couldn't quite square him with what he'd seen leaping about his kitchen. He gave the police a maybe, but in his own mind, Devin was now convinced the shadows had played tricks on him. A Slit had
killed Karston. It had to be.

In any case, the gang had been effectively gutted both by the police and a storm of publicity. Their colors hadn't been seen on the streets in days. Devin knew that it wasn't because Karston had been killed; it was because Karston had been killed in Meadowcrest Farms. Knowing that made him sick.

Down the hall, by the entrance to the gym, he spotted Cheryl, wearing cute green shorts and a T-shirt. She was using an open stapler to put up more posters. Happy to see her, he sped up, about to call her name, when he suddenly felt a tap on his shoulder.

He turned to see a few guys and some girls staring at him. One of the boys, a gangly sort with long hair, a faded jacket, and a noticeable slump, nodded at Devin, then toward one of the posters on the wall.

“You're in that band? You're in Torn?” he said with a bit of a slur.

Devin nodded. They all smiled slightly and nodded back in tandem, saying things like “Cool” and “All right.” The wave of approval from people he didn't know at all was strong and strange. Devin started to feel really good about it in spite of his
reservations. In fact, it was probably the first time he'd felt good since Karston died.

What should he say to them? Cody was good at this kind of thing, but he was home these days. “So, you coming to the show?” he asked, hoping it didn't sound too lame.

The nodding became more enthusiastic.

“Yeah.”

“You bet.”

“You guys rock.”

Well, that was easy.

He tried to keep cool, but a small smile curled his lips. Before he could say anything else though, another hand found his shoulder and gently pulled him around.

“See?” Cheryl said. “You're famous now.”

“Right,” Devin said.

“No. Enjoy it,” she said. She kissed him. “But don't forget the rest of us mortals.”

With that, she wandered off down the halls, the tops and bottoms of the posters in her hand rising and falling as she went, earning her own respectful stares.

Devin turned back to his small group, his smile now full blown.

“And did you write that song on the site? About the angels?”

“Yeah, it's mine.”

Except for that chorus Cody added…

“And you're gonna sing it at the show?”

“That's the idea. Well, Cody will sing it.”

“The guy who got kicked out. Yeah, that's what I meant.” But then the gangly kid took a nervous step closer and whispered, “So are all the rumors true, man?”

You mean about the ghosts on the video? I'll have to be careful about that one—Cody wants our “legend” to build. Maybe it's not such a bad idea.

“What rumors do you mean?” Devin said, trying to seem innocent.

“You know,” the kid said with a knowing smirk. “That you killed that loser Karston just to get his bass.”

 

That afternoon, Devin and Cheryl sat at “their” place, a huge rock just outside town, watching white clouds roll and billow in the blue sky. The rock was atop a low hill that sat at the edge of an abandoned development. Construction had stopped due to bankruptcy. The roads there were
dirt, leading to various holes in the ground that had been dug out by backhoes for concrete foundations that were never poured, and then left to collapse or fill with rainwater. At their backs, new McMansion rooftops peeked through thinner woods that sat along the dirt road, but ahead of them, the forest began.

Cheryl tried to comfort him, hugging him steadily. “It's just a stupid rumor,” she said.

“Yeah? Later in the day some other kids said they heard we'd sacrificed Karston to a demon in exchange for a killer song. It's all just too weird.”

“There've been so many hits on the site, the server crashed again,” she said, nudging him.

“It's not because the song's any good—it's because Karston died,” Devin answered. “Is this how you want to make it big?”

“But the song
is
good. It's great. The rest is just an accident. You've got to believe in it, Devin. I do.”

He said nothing.

Finally, she shrugged. “Maybe you should think about something else. At least the police unsealed the crime scene and let you back into your house.”

Devin wanted to laugh at the irony. “We were better off at the hotel. Mom swears she can still
see Karston's blood on the kitchen tiles, and she's got enough tranquilizers in her to stop a bull elephant. It's like a freaking scene from
Macbeth
. I try to convince her it's just the stains from the filet mignon that we…that I…” Devin paused. “Christ, Cheryl, it could've been you.”

She pulled him close again. “No. You would have protected me.”

Would he? Would he have done any better a job if it had been Cheryl?

“How's your dad?”

“He's been great, attentive, supportive. Even took time from work just to be with us. I didn't know he had it in him. And then last night, he even told me I shouldn't give up on the band because of…”

Instead of finishing his sentence, Devin stared off. Nothing had been normal since the killing. His time with Cheryl now was supposed to be a normal thing, and it wasn't turning out normal at all.

“So what'd you tell him?” Cheryl asked. He'd nearly forgotten she was there.

“About what?”

“Torn. You've never actually said you want the group to go on. Do you?”

“I don't know. I don't even want to decide.”

Nothing new about that, though, is there?

He looked at her, her skin shining in the sun, face placid.

“What about you?” he asked. “What do you want? Even with all these sick rumors, do you really think we should still have the band?”

She looked at him a moment, as if the answer should be obvious. He'd always suspected, hoped really, that she'd just joined to be with him, but they'd never actually talked about it. If that was it, here was her chance to get out. And maybe his, too. Maybe they could go to law school together.

“Well…isn't that really the kind of thing you have to decide for yourself?” she said slowly.

“Yeah, I guess, but…I just need to think about it,” he said. “How are your parents dealing?” he asked, changing the subject.

She stood up on the uneven rock and stretched her lean form. Devin watched it against the white and blue. He wanted to grab her, but figured it wouldn't be right, like they should still be in mourning or something.

“They're upset, but they'll get over it. I'm there if you need me,” she said. “But we should probably start rehearsing soon if we're going to do anything.”

If you need me.
Maybe she
was
only in Torn to be with him.

Wouldn't that be something?

“Did you hear?” Cheryl asked.

“Now what?”

“Cody got Karston's bass. He talked Allen Bates into being our manager and Mr. Bates bought it from Karston's mom,” she explained.

Sure, Devin thought. Why not? Another icon added to the growing local legend. Haunted song. Haunted bass. Haunted band.

When the time finally came, Tunnel Vision was packed. It wasn't just full. It wasn't just standing room only. It was packed. From his view behind the stage's brand-new curtain, Devin could see all the way to the twin exits at the back of the tunnel. Even so, all he could make out of the mob was a sea of arms, torsos, and heads pushed together so tightly he couldn't figure out which appendage belonged to which body. He did catch flashes of blue uniforms and caps.

“The police are here, too,” Devin said. They'd seen three squad cars parked outside when they arrived. That was most, if not all, of the city's small force.

“Yeah.” He heard Cody chortle behind him. “We've got a
police
presence, because Torn is too freaking cool.”

Devin shook his head. “It's not because Torn is all that, Cody. It's the murder. Remember, we're only famous because Karston died.”

“Now, maybe,” Cody said. “But soon it's gonna be the music.”

Cheryl sat behind her drum kit. She stretched up her long arms, folded them behind her head, and bent forward, getting her muscles ready for the gig. “Bates said we're way over the safety limit, and they're spilling out into the parking lot,” she said. “They're afraid of a riot.”

Devin's mind went to a story his mother kept telling him about a fire in a rock club years ago where ninety-six people died.

Cody eyed him. “Terrified or jazzed?”

Devin thought about it a second. He was still furious at Cody for his behavior at the funeral parlor, but if they were going to play together, he might as well talk to the guy. “Both,” he said.

Cody blew some air between his lips. “Fence hugger.” He twisted his head toward the others. “You guys?”

Cheryl also said, “Both.” There seemed something strange in the way she looked at Cody.

One Word Ben, strapping on Karston's bass, nodded his agreement. “Both.”

Cody chuckled. “Well, I guess we are really Torn, then.”

Do you ever shut up, Cody?

“Two minutes,” someone shouted.

Devin moved back from the curtain and sat on the stool they'd brought from the garage. That was Cody's idea, too. He figured people would recognize it from the video. Half the crowd out there had video cameras, hoping to catch the little orbs when they played. The other half had probably shown up to see the kids they thought were killers.

The whole thing made Devin queasy: the fact that the show was advertised as a memorial, the fact that it would be the first time they played “Lying to the Angels” live. The question remained: Was this really how he wanted to become famous?

But he knew, in the end, as Cheryl had hinted and Cody had said, all the accidental notoriety could only provide a boost. In the end it would be the song. His song. Well, his and Cody's, now that
the so-called chorus had been worked in.

Freaking Cody, fixing his song.

And, technically, it was his and Cody's and his grandmother's. Devin caught an image of Namana sitting by his bedside, stroking his head as she sang, warning him to be good, be good, be good, with a stuffed toy lying beside him on the pillow. As he lifted the Ovation, now fitted with pickups, he eyed Cody, wondering if his anger showed. “Respectful, right?”

Cody made his face somber to the extreme. “You know it.”

Cody strode to his spot behind the central mike, stretched, and yawned like a carefree dog; then he stood straight, looking…respectful.

How does he do that?
Devin wondered.
Does he not feel? Is part of his brain just missing?

A rush of sound enveloped them. Devin saw the curtain rope scrape against the pulley, but couldn't hear it. The applause was too loud. The thick cloth rose and there they were, exposed to wave upon wave of approval.

They ripped through a few songs: “Face,” “If It Doesn't Kill You,” and the cover of “Hey Bulldog” that Cody had been dying to play. With One Word
Ben on bass they were tighter than ever, and they had more than enough numbers for a full twenty-minute set.

Playing without Karston was like having lead weights removed from his hands and head, a feeling that made Devin feel sick and even angrier at Cody for being right.

Through it all, through every song, the crowd kept chanting, “‘Lying to the Angels,' ‘Lying to the Angels'!”

They were planning to do another few numbers first, but the chanting had grown too loud. Finally, Cody put his head down theatrically, then raised a single finger to quiet the crowd. After a moment, it actually worked. When the sound dropped enough, he spoke softly, somberly, into the mike, saying only, “For Karston.”

The space was flooded with sound: a torrent of slamming hands mixed with wild shrieks. It got so loud, the cops in back shifted nervously. All the while, Cody just stood there, the picture of sadness, holding his head down, letting the tip of his white hair touch the mike. Cheryl and Ben were like zombies, expressionless. Devin figured he looked the same, but also knew their dull shock
would be mistaken for something deeper, like mourning.

They all waited for the new round of applause to die down. Devin had no real sense of time, but he'd have sworn it went on for five minutes. And what were they cheering for? Not Karston, whom none of them had really known. Was it all just for the creepy haunted song? Was it for death in general?

Some in the crowd finally realized Torn wasn't going to play until they stopped, so loud shushing mixed with the roar. As the shushing rose, the roar quieted. For a second, only the shushing was left, like a host of strange hissing insects. Then it, too, faded.

The whole crowd, the whole huge crowd crammed into the converted train tunnel, fell completely, totally silent.

Cody gave a nearly imperceptible nod of his head. Cheryl clicked her sticks four times. Devin started finger picking.

It was the most complicated thing he'd ever played in public. It started on an E minor. On the second measure, Ben came in on Karston's bass.

As Devin stayed on the E minor, Ben walked
down to D-sharp, D, C-sharp. Together, they hit a C and a G, right on time.
Funny,
Devin thought,
we could never play this song “for Karston” if Karston were playing.
Cody came in with his raspy, deep voice:

It was amazing. It wasn't quite the melody as Devin had written it—Cody was improvising as usual—but it was low and mournful, and the wildness in Cody's voice sounded like it was being held back by thick chains of sadness.

Devin joined in on the verses. He was sort of a control track for Cody's total improv, reminding himself how the song had actually been written.

After the second verse, Cheryl slammed out a hard steady beat and Cody went wild with his shrieking chorus:

If the crowd had been excited before, now it went insane, hooting, hollering, and throbbing as if everyone had been twisted together into one giant, monster thing. Devin couldn't hear himself play or sing. He had no idea if he was on tempo, but it really didn't matter. The moment had blown past the song.

This was usually where Devin would pull back into himself, watch himself watch himself, but not this time. Whatever had grabbed the crowd grabbed Devin, too, mixing with his anger at, and awe for, Cody. He played hard, frantically. It felt as if all his frustration, fear, and rage were flooding out his fingertips and his throat, out into the speakers and the world, calling out into the void, hoping something would answer, but not knowing, or caring, what it would be.

When Torn finished “Lying to the Angels,” the crowd started roaring again. Devin thought it was
a more subdued, thoughtful sound, as if the song had moved them, but then realized they might just be tired of cheering.

What he didn't kid himself about was the slew of foul language that came from somewhere in the back. Scanning for the source, he thought he saw some fists and arms flying. In seconds, a swarm of blue swept toward the spot, shoving people out of the way and into one another as it went.

Cody saw it, too. “Be cool, people,” he said into the mike, but the only effect of his announcement was that the people jammed in front now tried to turn around to see what was going on. Near the stage they were so tightly packed, some couldn't even manage that. For the moment, their frustration expressed itself as a pained wriggling, but Devin feared it could quickly turn ugly.

The angry shouts continued, with more voices joining. The police, frustrated at being unable to get through, grabbed some of the people in the crowd. The people, probably not even realizing who was grabbing them, fought back. More fists flew.

The group up front looked ready to panic. It seemed everyone was.

“Wow, this is turning into a riot,” Cody said.

“Let's play,” Devin said, hoping a song would distract at least most of the crowd. Cody, who actually looked a little frightened himself for a change, nodded. Devin turned up his volume and slammed the first chord of “Chili Bone Finger” on the Ovation. Nothing came out. The power to their amps had been cut.

As the shouting grew louder, Devin looked around the stage, perplexed. He saw Allen Bates frantically waving them toward the back room. One Word Ben was already unplugged and heading offstage, Cheryl following. Cody looked at Devin, shrugged, unplugged his guitar, and walked off. Devin couldn't do anything but follow.

The sounds behind them grew louder and more chaotic. Bates raised his voice. “It's a mess. We're being shut down. They've got more squad cars coming. Don't worry, everyone will be all right, but I want you guys out of here. Come on.”

Devin and Ben laid down their guitars, but Cody refused to let go of his Les Paul as they followed Bates through the back. He pointed down a flight of stone steps that led into a small dank tunnel.

“You want us to go down there?” Devin said.
Alone?

“Where's it go?” Cheryl asked.

“It's an access tunnel to the children's furniture store, built back when it used to be a warehouse,” Bates said. He was in a hurry, casting nervous glances back over his shoulder as his cell phone vibrated and chimed. He grimly ignored it, fished out a key, and handed it to Devin.

“Your folks dropped you off with your equipment, right?”

Devin nodded. It had been meant as a big show of support. They were all supposed to go out for steak dinner afterward, a treat from his father.

“I'll make sure they get out of the club and I'll have them pick you up in the parking lot out in back of the store,” Bates said. “Until they show up, pretend you're the Beatles and try not to be seen.” The phone chirped and buzzed again. Bates looked back and forth nervously. “You'll be fine. No one knows about the tunnel. I've got to get back before they destroy the place.”

He whirled, but before he could leave, Cody called to him. “So, Allen! Still want us back next week?”

Bates gave him a weird grin. “Ha. Yeah. If I can afford the insurance.” Then he vanished toward the noise, flipping open his phone as he went.

As a group, they shrugged and walked down the steps. The air felt cold after the heat of the lights and the crowd. The sounds, now above them, seemed far away. After using the key on a big green fire door, they climbed another set of steps and emerged into the quiet furniture store on its main floor, facing the display windows.

The scene was surreal. All around them were cribs, bassinets, and mock children's bedrooms. Red and blue lights flashed through the windows, casting strange shadows and giving the walls eerie, alternating colors. Looking outside, they again saw the three police cars at the front entrance to Tunnel Vision. Quite a presence for the small local force, but Devin guessed they were probably curious about the song, too.

Then again, it was way too few police to handle the crowd that was already on the street. It looked like it was the mess Bates had described—People were flooding out, walking in the middle of the avenue. They looked dazed and tired, but at least they were leaving and no one seemed hurt.

Devin didn't know what to think. Cheryl was clearly upset. One Word Ben looked ashen.

Cody was ecstatic.

“This is great! Amazing! We'll hit all the local papers. Maybe the story will even go national. We could have a record contract by the end of the week!”

“And if people die in a stampede?” Devin said in disgust as he flipped open his cell. “Don't you ever quit?”

Cody's Les Paul, still strapped to him, wobbled as he pivoted toward Devin. “Will you cut it out? Can't you just enjoy something for a change?”

“Which part am I supposed to enjoy? The riot? The fight with the Slits? Karston's murder at my house? You know, some of those people think
I
killed Karston.”

There was an anger in his voice that threatened to rise into rage.

Cody shrugged. “Well, our fight with the Slits was pretty cool, wasn't it? You felt good after that, didn't you? It's like your ass is always half empty!”

“Do you mean my glass?”

“Whatever.”

Devin exhaled and punched “1” on his speed
dial, trying to crush the phone with his thumb as if it were Cody's face. Bates was on the case, but their parents had all agreed to sit together at the show, and Devin promised to call if there were any change in plans. This counted as a change in plans.