Following Christopher Creed

  Justin went mute for once. He plopped down on the bed, staring off into space. His jaw bobbed a few times before he settled on "RayAnn, if you can believe this, I promise you, this is a pretty nice place. I don't know what's come over them lately."

  She zipped her bag shut, pushed on it for effect, then stood straight, hands on her hips.

  "You know what? Torey Adams would not have been at that party tonight, Justin. Your little party. Do you realize that?"

  Justin stayed quiet. Torey Adams had been really popular, in other words, and yet he wasn't this wild. He wasn't mean—

  "Are you coming?" she asked me. "I'm not missing this flight."

  I moved to my bag to pack up what few things I'd left lying around between last night and today. But I felt numb, like a person who's been kicked in the ribs but is still waiting for the pain sensations to run upstairs to the brain. RayAnn needed me right now. And I needed her. I couldn't stay without her as a guide.

  The old man in the doorway had his arms crossed and was looking out over the parking lot. I didn't know what to say to RayAnn, and my frustration was backing up, so I unloaded on the man.

  "You ought to be embarrassed, living in a town like this." I plopped my suitcase down on the mattress with a bounce, and I heard him say only, "Lately, I'd say I am..."

  Nothing further. I just shook my head in disgust. What had Adams walked back into? I thought of my lost interview with my main man, and I wanted to heave. Justin started to babble, following on my heels.

  "Mike. You don't have to leave. I can take you around. I can deliver you to the airport."

  An underage driver suffering from manic-depression— yuh- huh. And his word had been so good about his mother being painless. I walked away from him, rescuing yesterday's jeans and socks from the armchair.

  "Mike ... Say you'll stay. Don't go now. Stay with me until the funeral Monday!"

  RayAnn ignored him, full of her own power to the point where she probably didn't feel an argument was necessary. She finally noticed the side of my head. A laugh blew out her mouth as she came up close beside me.

  "Who got you?"

  I shut my eyes, trying not to swallow my own spit. I spat into a wastepaper basket I knew was near the desk. "The Mother Creed."

  "You gotta be kidding me!"

  The mattress crunched as Justin sat back down. He said, "She was just ... she was just ... she was just..."

  "She was drunk," I finished. RayAnn's eyes darted from my temple scratches to my eyes, to my scratches to my eyes. They finally stayed on my eyes.

  "Pack up," she said. "You're coming with me. I will help you pack."

  "I don't need help," I said, on autopilot. It's what I always said at Randolph when people tried to help me.

  "Fine. Just get moving. We'll miss the plane."

  RayAnn's thinking was right, but her tone was all wrong. She was out of form—shaken up, scared, and desperate—so she was doing the one thing she probably would have guessed under normal circumstances would propel me away from her. She was dictating my movements. She was telling me what to do and saying to get moving about it. You don't do that to a matraphobic who has just been scratched in the face by an evil troll mother. You don't say that to a guy who left his mom to prove that he could make it on his own.

  I didn't freak out on her—it just changed the direction of my thoughts. You don't have to see the whole staircase. Just take the next step. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

  The next step for me had to be to prove to myself that I could get around in my life without someone always telling me where the rut in the concrete was. I couldn't walk into the New York Times with another body holding car keys. I had known that for a while. Yet, I didn't know where to even begin to address my inability to drive.

  Just take the next step.

  "I think I ... need to stay," I told her. "Not for Justin. For Mike..."

  I heard Justin sigh in relief anyway, and she cast him a look that was about as hateful as a person could give.

  "For what?" she demanded.

  For my independence. For the perfect story. For a chance to interview Adams, even if it never happened. I didn't say it aloud but didn't have to.

  "You're beyond ambitious, Mike," she said, reading my mind yet again. "You're obsessed. You're choosing between a goddamn story—one that is not very uplifting, by the way—and me."

  It was a punch in the gut, hearing the truth aloud. But there was even more truth banging around here in the silence, things I had felt but had not been able to put into words before. I had to prove I could make it without her... in order to deserve her. If I went with her now, it would be like going home ... going to a woman who was smart enough and strong enough to run my show. Nobody would win until I could run my own show...

  "RayAnn, I am sorry you had to defend yourself against an angry drunk and his likenesses. But I see that you came out of it okay. I would have wagered no differently. I wouldn't confuse your innocence with weakness."

  She didn't get it. She spun her head from me, picking up her bag and dropping it to the floor with a thud. I knew she had turned to keep me from seeing her cry.

  I'd talked to Justin today about people having different needs. RayAnn needed me. I was no good to her—not yet.

  A car pulled up outside, and the motel owner said, "It's your cab."

  RayAnn cranked up the handle of her carry-on bag and flung her laptop bag over her shoulder. "If you really need a lift from the airport when you get back, if Stedman or Claudia can't bring you, then call me. If not, I won't be around."

  I held my arms out and flopped them down. She wasn't finished talking yet.

  "I've got this thing. It's called my streak of pride. I have never chased any guy before, and I'm tired of chasing you. Call me if you need a ride." She looked me in the face. I heard keys rattling and the motel owner mutter he would wait outside for Glenda and her boyfriend to show up. RayAnn had tears in her eyes but pretended she didn't, and smiled pretty big. "But somehow, I don't think you'll need me for a lift. I don't think you'll need too much of anything from anybody."

  Right person ... wrong time? A person raised more normally might have felt that the loss of her was inconceivable. I found myself in a place that was thorny, but because I was so used to being there, it bore out certain twisted sensations of comfort. It's a place called alone.

  I could have insisted on a kiss goodbye or could have built myself up for her final memory by explaining myself better. But I let her walk off in a blaze of glory while I stood at the door, watching her get in the cab and drive away.

  I was scared shitless.

  TWENTY-TWO

  JUSTIN THOUGHT HIS COUSINS would be at Brownie's, and he wanted to go with me so he could pay a visit to Mack and Ozone while I hoped and prayed to talk to Torey Adams. It created challenges for me if Justin's cousins weren't there. I remembered my deal with Bo. If Justin was with me, Adams might be more likely to approach but there was less chance of it being a good interview. Justin could mess this up by failing to be quiet, and his speech seemed to be getting more zippy by the minute. He had walked Lanz without asking me while I was sorting out papers I wanted to take, and he put Lanz in the back of his mom's car, talking to the dog the whole time about cats, rabbits, and his own personal problems. His voice floated in the open door and unnerved me further, but I needed a ride. And we had decided jointly that if his cousins weren't there he would hang around outside or nap in his mother's car. He kept saying he was really tired, but I just couldn't see it.

  I left with him, in a somber mood, missing RayAnn more than I ever dreamed possible. And it was more than just having a stable person to drive me around. It was her mentally clicking with me, our ability to communicate without words that made everything go smoothly.

  He blathered the whole ride to Brownie's about how I should interview Mack and Ozone just to get a decent picture in my mind of the boons. It was as if this whole thing between me and RayAnn had not just happened, or a
s if she were just some annoying babe we had managed to get rid of. Manics refuse to see the downside, I'd read, and I had no choice but to hope for the best.

  Justin turned the talk back to his mom as we pulled into a half-full parking lot.

  "She's very responsible, actually. All day long, she's great. She's gotten quieter since Chris left, though people'd never know that. You ever seen a house as immaculate as ours? Anyway, she has to act out in public still; I don't know what's up with that except pride runs big in my family. At night she gets quieter, gets withdrawn unless something digs her out of it, and she eventually passes out. My life has been a nightly ritual for the past year or so. Honest."

  He pulled into a parking space, swiping dangerously close to a souped-up old car beside us. Lanz staggered sideways in the back seat. To say I did not have a good feeling about Justin chauffeuring us around is an understatement. Grabbing the door handle numbly, I merely said, "It'll get worse before it gets better, if she doesn't get some help."

  "I know, I know."

  "You see Bo's car?"

  "Not yet."

  I sighed, feeling exhausted from all this. "You're going in the back door to look for your cousins."

  "I don't see Ozone's truck either. I'll just crash out here."

  I couldn't picture him being tired enough to sleep. But I went inside, taking the place in frame by frame. There was a long bar, which could probably seat thirty people on three sides, but maybe only ten people were sitting there. Light from a second room shone through, and I could hear billiard balls cracking and a few voices. I could see why Bo might have suggested that Adams meet him here. I took it from the drive up Route 9 that it was a lot closer to Conovertown than Steepleton. It was less than half filled, and with people who would not have known Adams and would not have any interest in his music. Country was blaring out of the jukebox.

  There were a couple of booths, and by the window I found one where a little lamp shed extra light. It was perfect, and I slid into it. Leaving home at a young age creates a few stray bits of courage, and I had never minded eating alone. I brought my recorder out, put the earpiece in, pulled out a looseleaf notebook, and rewound to my earliest interviews in Steepleton. The first contained the Mother Creed's obnoxious outbursts, which I managed to float through, and I tried making notes on Tiny Hughes's initial comments about the copycat disappearances.

  A waitress came, and I ordered a burger, fries, and an iced tea. Diet Coke would have reminded me too much of RayAnn. Looking suitably busy and preoccupied was not difficult, as suddenly I was working with a double physical challenge. I had to transcribe my favorite quotes with a pen, which was a lot slower than typing, and in the light of the booth lamp, everything looked blurry. I hoped to God that that devil woman had not done something to my eyes, and it was hard to concentrate.

  I finally saw Bo and Adams come in, and even though this bar was not a place where he would be easily recognized, it was hard to miss Adams. He was surprisingly tall, possibly six one, which meant he was one of those bizarre people who grow at least four inches after their junior year in high school. The Steepleton football pics on the website floated to the front of my mind, in which he was nowhere near close to the tallest. Now he was an inch taller than Bo. I only recognized him from the ponytail. He had on a bright red ski jacket and shades.

  He and Bo went around to the other side of the bar, and I simply looked down at my papers again. It was something else I had to get over, the feeling of being more comfortable around papers than people. I often did this at college when I was lonely—went out to a bar with a stack of paperwork or my laptop or a book. But in a college town there were many others who did the same. Here, I would have stuck out like a sore thumb if the place had been more crowded.

  Give the guy some breathing room, my instincts said, and I forced myself not to look. I heard Bo order a couple of drafts, and when I finally scratched my head and did a fake stretch, I saw Bo pulling darts out of the bull's-eye on a target. Adams still had his red jacket on, which enabled me to pick up on him quickly.

  Bo was good on his word. He whispered beside Adams's head, and Adams turned suddenly and studied me. I ducked my head to look as though I were writing. I was actually scribbling and looking back at him, something my shades allowed me to do.

  Adams mumbled something to him, and they started playing darts. Shit. My burger came, and I studied some web printouts, pretending to read, watching their dart game kind of acridly. I knew this was often a journalist's life—being an outsider, assuming the bystander role on the sidelines. In some ways it suited me perfectly, but at the moment my awkward past backed up on me.

  I didn't completely give up, because I noticed Adams look over at me every now and again. He probably wished I would disappear, not bother his conscience: Hey, we all have to make a living, Mr. Rock Star.

  Finally, out of the blue, he turned and stared dead at me. I laid my pen down, decided to be brazen, and just stared back. His shades versus my shades. It was a long, "shady" moment, making me think of Todd Stedman. My roommate was in the artist's track at school, and he could stop what he was doing at a moment's notice and just stare as a thought took hold of him. Adams had written on ChristopherCreed.com about doing that himself. I could only guess where his thoughts were taking him, but he stared long enough that I started to feel luck coming my way. Richardson nudged him and gave him a handful of darts, and he turned back.

  He missed the entire board with his first throw. Let his almost-famous conscience get to him, I thought, glancing down at my papers, imagining a lightning tree and pretend ing I had my hand on it. Stupid image, but ... when I looked again, Adams had turned. He came my way slowly.

  He fell into the booth across from me, not saying anything at first. I had a mouthful of food. I groped for the napkin, which he handed to me, and I wiped my lips and chin, taking my time downing it with iced tea, enjoying my victory with as much aplomb as I could muster.

  "Mike Mavic," I said, holding out my hand, which he shook. "Thanks for coming over."

  He finally laughed awkwardly. "Sorry. I hear you're a friend of Justin's and a writer. It's just that you caught me in an awkward period. Professionally, that is. It took me a while to figure out what I could and couldn't say to you."

  I just sat back, watching him talk as if I were such an utter stranger—which I was, but it seemed weird. I knew his life so intimately well. I felt a little let down by his formality.

  "My agent has this game plan ... it's not so uncommon, but it's all new to me. He wants my first interview to be Rolling Stone. That's coming in August. But the magazine wants an exclusive, and it will only be published if nothing else appears in print first."

  I found my voice. "Okay ... that's interesting. I'm kind of new to this myself."

  "And this is not a time in my life to have things coming out in print about, um, Chris Creed and me. It's just so... dark. It was a part of my life I'm really looking to lose now. There are still some stray characters in this town who think I helped kill the guy."

  I hadn't heard that version of things since my arrival here, but considering it was the Rumor of Steepleton High School four-plus years ago, I gathered I simply hadn't banged into the few remaining gossip-monger morons.

  "I don't need that rumor to start appearing like crazy on the Internet, just before ... you know. I don't want to sound selfish or overly ambitious or anything like that. I mean ... if Chris needed me, there isn't anything I wouldn't do. But obviously, he's known where to find me, at least on-line, so he must be doing okay. Therefore I'd like to launch my album without ... that part of my life holding me back from a great future. I hope you understand." He sounded sincere, and sincerely apologetic. Nice guy.

  "I understand. Totally." I really didn't know where to go with this, as I hadn't thought of the complications. It led to more silence. He finally lifted his glasses, stuck them in his jacket pocket, and glanced nervously before locking in with me again.

  He had s
ome combination of pain and peace in his gaze that wasn't there in his younger, Creed-writing days. He looked worldlier than he did in the pictures mired in my brain.

  "For Justin, I'll take a risk," he said, smiling awkwardly. "You just have to promise to let Rolling Stone come out before you quote me directly on anything about my career. As for Chris, well ... only use what you think would help him, okay?"

  I don't write stories to help—or hurt—anyone. He didn't understand newspeople very well. I flipped over my pad and laid my pencil on top, folding my hands as the only hint of the letdown I felt. First the Mother Creed attacks me, then RayAnn leaves me, then Torey Adams gives me fifteen reasons why I should not interview him, all of which I should have thought of myself.

  I was about to fold the interview, then proceed outside to throw up.

  But he dropped a hand on top of my wrist and said with a good deal of mysterious encouragement, "You look like a trustworthy guy."

  I watched his hand, thinking of how it had warmed up a few stadiums of ten thousand people already. And now it was resting on my wrist, in a hick bar in a hick town. I don't know why I fixated on that, except that doing so was easier than dealing with all these writing parameters.

  "Let's go over this again," I said, my will to succeed returning. He smiled. He wanted me to succeed. Nice, nice guy. "I can't quote you ... on anything, it seems. At least, not until August. Then, I can quote you about your music, but not about Chris. Or ... you don't want to be quoted about Chris, unless you think it will help him"

  "Well, yeah. I guess that's it." He laughed awkwardly.

  I felt myself nodding. I would find the passages through once I got settled in back at the newspaper.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I HANDED MY PLATE TO THE WAITRESS as she flew past, and picked up my pen, saying, "You said I look trustworthy. As I'm visually impaired, I hold to certain beliefs, such as that you can read a person's conscience without him giving you his life history. It's ... some sort of energy."