The Killing Song and Terror Next Door (Two-in-one Collection)

By A. J. Payler

Two complete novels by the author of Bank Error in Your Favor and Lost in the Red in one convenient volume!

 

THE KILLING SONG

Would you risk everything for one shot at immortality?

1996, the American Midwest: Zach Coleman is beginning to suspect the nineties aren't all they're cracked up to be. His fledgling private investigation career is sinking fast, his band just broke up, and even his boring day job isn't paying off.

But when a chance audition with a long-lost, legendary rock star leads to the opportunity of a lifetime, will Zach turn his back on everything he's known and pray both his worlds don't burn down around his ears?

A thrilling tale few will ever forget, this twist-filled narrative vividly resuscitates the smoke-saturated culture of the late nineties, smashes it up against the ruins of sixties radicalism, and gleefully deconstructs the remains into a thing of terrifying beauty.

TERROR NEXT DOOR

Quarantined. Isolated. Paranoid. TRAPPED.

Stuck at home with nowhere to run, Kevin Tamura isn't holding up well under quarantine.

Exhausted from overwork and lack of sleep, his sanity slips as society crumbles.

But what will he do to protect himself when the greatest terror of all might be hiding right next door?

From the mind of A. J. Payler, author of Lost In the Red and The Killing Song, comes a story of a man pushed to the edge in a world that's ready to break.

Suffused with gripping tension, the explosive TERROR NEXT DOOR is a thrilling suspense novel no reader will ever forget.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. J. Payler
• Release date: Mar 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224259489

Book preview

The Killing Song and Terror Next Door

About the Book

THE KILLING SONG

---

Would you risk everything for one shot at immortality?

---

1996, the American Midwest: Zach Coleman is beginning to suspect the nineties aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. His fledgling private investigation career is sinking fast, his band just broke up, and even his boring day job isn’t paying off.

But when a chance audition with a long-lost, legendary rock star leads to the opportunity of a lifetime, will Zach turn his back on everything he’s known and pray both his worlds don’t burn down around his ears?

A thrilling tale few will ever forget, this twist-filled narrative vividly resuscitates the smoke-saturated culture of the late nineties, smashes it up against the ruins of sixties radicalism, and gleefully deconstructs the remains into a thing of terrifying beauty.

TERROR NEXT DOOR

---

Quarantined. Isolated. Paranoid. TRAPPED.

---

Stuck at home with nowhere to run, Kevin Tamura isn’t holding up well under quarantine.

Exhausted from overwork and lack of sleep, his sanity slips as society crumbles.

But what will he do to protect himself when the greatest terror of all might be hiding right next door?

From the mind of A. J. Payler, author of Lost In the Red and The Killing Song, comes a story of a man pushed to the edge in a world that's ready to break.

Suffused with gripping tension, the explosive TERROR NEXT DOOR is a thrilling suspense novel no reader will ever forget.

Other Books by A. J. Payler

https://books2read.com/terrornextdoor book linkhttps://books2read.com/bankerror

Bank Error In Your Favor

What would you do if enough money to solve all your problems fell in your lap?

Shane and Jewel have been hanging onto the edges of life by their fingernails for so long, they can't remember any other way of living. When enough money to solve all their problems drops out of the sky, it seems like a windfall from heaven—but it might be the worst thing that could ever have happened.

Can love survive when money comes between lovers? Caught between the criminal underground and the law, Shane and Jewel race towards freedom despite a parade of bizarre characters, secret plans, and hidden agendas standing between them and the life they so desperately need. And worst of all, their greatest enemy of all might be looking back at them from the mirror—or right by their side.

https://books2read.com/bankerror

https://books2read.com/lostinthered book linkhttps://books2read.com/lostinthered QR code

Lost In the Red

Out of their element—& trapped beyond time!

Carson Adkins had no doubt he was born unlucky, especially after his college folded one semester before graduation—but he never expected to find himself caught deep in the heart of an uncharted land sheltered against the passage of time for decades!

Compelled to struggle for survival against terrifying odds and unfamiliar threats, Carson finds himself in a world he never expected, where every encounter forces him to confront deadly opponents and difficult truths.

When the alluring Delilah Munson joins his journey, Carson believes he may finally have discovered something worth fighting for—but as he soon discovers, this opaque backwoods jewel has her own agenda, not to mention the will to carry it out.

Torn between two worlds, can the fragile yet ever-growing attraction between a rural princess and a modern man far from home possibly survive in the face of a cataclysmic conflict far beyond the bounds of anything either could ever have imagined?

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https://books2read.com/lostinthered

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Copyright © 2016, 2021, 2024 by A. J. Payler

All rights reserved. The moral right of the author has been asserted. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No generative large machine learning models (AI) were used at any point in the composition of this work.

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Cover images by duha127 (Andrey Bayda) & barbaliss (Elena Barbakova), Dusan Kostic/Dollar Photo Club

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Cover and book design: A. J. Payler

The Killing Song and Terror Next Door

(2-in-1 Collection)

A. J. Payler

Author Jet Press

Contents

The Killing Song

Prologue

1. Book One

2. Book Two

3. Book Three

Epilogue

Terror Next Door

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Also by A. J. Payler

About A. J. Payler

The Killing Song

Prologue

MONDAY, OCTOBER 16, 1995, 2:05 AM BETHLEHEM, INDIANA

---

Carl’s breath beat hot in his chest, his heart a tight glowing coal, his lungs burning despite the fresh moonlight air rushing past his face. He scrambled gracelessly across an untended field, lurching awkwardly as obstacles leapt into his path. A discarded piece of wood could easily mean a sprained ankle, an unluckily placed rabbit hole a broken leg.

Muststayalertcan’tmissanything.

The unfamiliarity of the field and the nighttime stillness deranged his senses beyond any reasonable frame of mind. For a moment Carl would think he was safe—that no one was chasing him, that the only sounds besides the rushing wind were his own footsteps and breathing—then within the same second he was just as certain someone was directly behind him, hand inches from his shoulder, shotgun muzzle aimed at his back. Had he been running for seconds, minutes, hours? It was impossible to know.

Finally, Carl dared to slow minutely and shoot a quick glance over his shoulder: no one. All was quiet.

Deciding to risk a more exhaustive look, he braked to a slow trot twenty yards shy of the treeline and dove behind a fallen tree trunk. In the distance, the chittering static buzz of locusts filled the air in a swell. As it died down, Carl could faintly distinguish an eighteen-wheeler passing on the highway.

Damn, he thought. Probably could have flagged that one down. During the twenty years Carl had been in law enforcement, Americans had become significantly more skittish about picking up hitchhikers, and not having his badge to wave as reassurance would make it that much harder. Then again, who the hell trusts cops either, anymore?

Carl couldn’t help smirking bitterly to himself—a mistake, he immediately realized, as his freshly split lip twinged with pain. He winced at the coppery taste on his tongue, but managed to keep from making even the slightest sound. As he’d landed, Carl had automatically modulated his breathing the way he’d been taught at Quantico Academy; even considering the nocturnal quietude of the surroundings, it would be all but impossible for anyone to hear him. He’d also started counting seconds as soon as he hit the ground, attempting to reassert some objective timeframe: one paranoia, two paranoia, three paranoia…

Sixty paranoia. One minute.

One-twenty paranoia. Two minutes.

Three hundred paranoia. Five minutes. Still not a sound.

Tentatively, Carl raised his head above the log and surveyed his surroundings, taking special care to note anything that might indicate the glint of moonlight reflecting off a metal gun barrel or glass scope.

Nothing.

Carl counted off another five minutes, during which he heard only wind, insects, his pulse pounding in his ears, and his own measured breaths. As he hit six hundred, he gingerly rose to his feet and stepped toward the road—but the moment his foot touched the ground, a high-powered flashlight beam blinded him and he knew the game was over.

I was wondering how long you were going to lie there in the dirt looking the wrong way, guy. Considered shooting you in the back just to end the suspense, but I was enjoying myself too much. The look on your face might have been worth it, though.

The flashlight snapped off with a click. As the stars cleared from his vision, Carl saw a rifle barrel pointed directly at his chest. The gun’s handler leaned against a trunk at the edge of the treeline, as casually as if waiting for a bus. He clipped the flashlight to his belt, placed a cigarette between his lips, lit it, and grinned. Plus, I was dying for a smoke.

Without taking his eyes from Carl or moving the end of the barrel as much as a millimeter, the man reached his free hand around the side of the tree and tossed a shovel at Carl’s feet. It landed with a loud clang; despite his training, Carl flinched. The man inhaled deeply on his cigarette and dipped the gun barrel down toward the shovel.

Pick it up, he instructed, smoke curling from his nostrils. Carl remained motionless; the man smiled. Go on, pick it up. Don’t go getting any ideas about trying to whack me with it though. Trust me, you’d regret it.

Carl believed him. He still didn’t move.

The man sighed. Look, this is getting tiresome. I’m a busy guy, I have better things to do than stand around in a field playing hide and seek with you. No matter what, this is going to end the same way, and I’d prefer it be earlier than later.

He took a drag from his cigarette.

So here’s the deal, Carl—and yes, I know your name is Carl Bailey. You and I both know who sent me after you and that he’s not going to let you leave knowing what you know. We’re clear on those facts, yes?

Carl nodded.

Okay. Here’s something else that I know and you don’t know that I know: Carl F. Bailey lives at 1300 Ironwood Drive, Morgantown, West Virginia, with his wife Kristen and his two daughters Margaux, ten, and Natalie, eight. It’s a modest two-bedroom house in a decent part of town with several years left on the mortgage, but all in all a nice place for a couple of cute little blond girls to grow up. Or not, as the case may be.

Carl’s posture stiffened, his neck suddenly aching. The man took another drag, and for the first time since Kristen first told him she was pregnant, Carl wished he had a cigarette too.

The man continued: So, yeah, while I’ll admit there is a remote possibility that you could somehow crack me one with that shovel, disarm me, get to the road, flag down a ride, find a pay phone…jeez, this really is starting to sound like a stretch, isn’t it? The point is, sure, you could theoretically get away from me, though it’s fairly fucking unlikely. You’d have to have, like, super ninja skills or some other comic-book bullshit going for you, but it could happen.

Another drag from the cigarette.

But here’s the kicker: if you don’t do exactly as I say, if I suspect you’re even thinking about trying any of that hero cop bullshit on me, I don’t make a certain phone call in one hour. And if I don’t make that call, neither those cute little blond girls nor their mother will get any older than they are today.

Another drag.

You know I have the resources to make this happen. And if you’ve learned anything about this place and me while you’ve been here, you should know perfectly well I’m not bluffing. But hell, even if I was, what are you going to do either way?

Another drag.

So please give me some credit, Carl. I assume you’ve been able to learn enough during the course of your investigation to know what I’m saying is true. I also hope you’ve figured out by now that I am not the kind of man who likes to fuck around and waste his time.

Another drag.

So Carl, do me, yourself, and your family a favor and pick up the goddamned shovel.

Carl’s shoulders slumped in resignation. He thought of beautiful Kristen, of sweet Margaux, of little Natalie, and for some reason, of the downstairs fireplace he was supposed to have cleaned out last time he was at home. Kristen hated doing the job and Carl had promised to do it as soon as he had a chance, but he hadn’t gotten around to it before being sent back out on assignment. It would have to be done before the fireplace was lit that winter, though. He hoped Kristen would remember to check.

Carl picked up the shovel.

The man nodded.

Good.

The man dropped his cigarette butt on the ground, ground it out, and lit another.

Now dig.

Book One

FRIDAY, MARCH 22, 1996, 8:05 AM BETHLEHEM, INDIANA

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Zach Coleman rubbed his eyes, attempting to dispel the stars flooding them. As his vision cleared and the moon face of the preternaturally perky human resources assistant came back into focus, she rotated the camera in her hands and placed it a half-inch from Zach’s nose. He jolted backwards, nearly hitting his head on the wall.

There you go! Isn’t that a nice picture?

Zach didn’t really care what the photo on his new company ID would look like, but he obliged her and squinted at the camera’s tiny display. It didn’t look like a nice picture to him, although his mother probably wouldn’t have agreed: his tie appeared to be choking him, he had used so much hair gel his head looked lacquered, and his attempt at a charming grin had come out more of a forced grimace.

He stifled a sigh and simply nodded. Sure, that’s good.

All righty then, we’ll get that laminated right up for you. It’ll only take a few minutes—it’s digital, you know. In the meantime, I bet you can’t wait to see where you’ll be working.

She pivoted on her heel and trotted from the room like a hypercaffeinated wind-up doll. Trailing behind, Zach just managed to catch up with her as she arrived at a beige cubicle distinguished only by a computer, a telephone, and a desk upon which sat a thick manila folder and two pens.

She snatched up the folder and wheeled around to face Zach, shoving sheaves of paper into his hands quicker than he could accept them. Okay then. This here is your company orientation packet, with your employee manual, company style guide, 401K plan, non-disclosure agreement, zero-tolerance sexual harassment and drug abuse policies, background check authorization, computer usage policy, direct deposit authorization, W4 and other tax forms, and insurance information including medical, vision, and dental.

Zach held what he estimated to be two hundred sheets of paper. She swooped up a pen off the desk and handed it to him. Here you go. Just get those filled out as soon as you can, and I’ll be right back with your brand spanking new ID card.

Before Zach could mumble a half-hearted Thanks for your help, she had already wheeled around, exited the cubicle, executed a sharp ninety-degree right turn, and trotted away down the hall.

As her steps receded, the hum of fluorescent lighting, the whir of computer fans, and the hiss of the ventilation system filled Zach’s ears. While she’d been talking he hadn’t noticed it at all, but suddenly it seemed deafening. He winced and sank into the uncomfortable office chair, his stack of papers in his lap.

Is she gone? A face decorated with a number of piercings loomed over the cubicle wall, grinning down at Zach.

Um, yeah, I think so. Zach swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. I, umm, I…

A lanky arm extended downward. Pleased to meet you. They call me Dan—good thing it’s my name.

Zach shook Dan’s hand once and released it. Um, Zach Coleman. I’m, uh, new here, I guess.

Dan folded his arms atop the partition and set his chin on his forearm. Yeah, I kind of figured. So what brings you to the cube fields of ÉtoileTech?

I guess I’m supposed to be an assistant technical writer? Honestly, all I know is what was in the job description.

Dan cleared his throat and cocked his head at Zach. Let me guess: you were hired around a month ago, right?

Zach cocked his head, mirroring Dan. Yeah…

I remember Roger mentioning you a while back. Here’s the deal: Jason, the guy you were hired to be an assistant to? He was let go some time ago. From what I could gather, management basically just figured they could get by with one senior tech writer rather than two. So, they let Jason go and decided Roger would take over Jason’s responsibilities. Then Roger decided if they were going to double his responsibilities and not give him any more money for it, they might as well go ahead and bring you on. That way, he can farm out more work to the junior tech writers, meaning me and you.

Okay. So where’s Roger’s office?

Dan pointed to his right. Right over there. He’s not in it though. Hasn’t been for about six days.

Don’t tell me they fired the only remaining senior writer?

No, actually he’s in the hospital recovering from triple-bypass surgery. He had some kind of stomach pain out of the blue and then the next day they’re cracking open his ribcage. Pretty gnarly, huh?

Yeesh. Zach felt nauseous.

Yeah, I know. I really gotta quit smoking before that shit catches up with me.

So if no senior tech writers are here, who am I supposed to report to?

Dan shrugged. Beats me, man. Nobody’s told me shit.

Well then, do you have any idea what I’m supposed to work on?

You got me. I guess you have this stack of crap for Krissie, but after that? Not a clue.

Zach scratched the base of his neck. Uh…

Look Zach, don’t sweat it. This is a pretty small company, so trust me when I tell you no one really gives a shit except the guys at the very top and maybe the kiss-ass HR and PR people, because it could all fall apart tomorrow. The engineer geeks are all off in the lab where no one ever sees them, but I’ll bet ninety percent of them are just jerking around most of the day too. So here’s what I recommend: get cracking on that paperwork before Krissie gets back with your ID card, get your company email account set up, and unless you find specific instructions in there telling you what else to do—which I highly doubt—just dick around until lunch.

Um, okay. Thanks, Dan. Zach idly flipped through the pages in his lap, trying to bring the conversation to a close.

All right, well, good to meet you, dude. Welcome aboard and all that good shit. I’ll be right on the other side of this thing, so just yell or bang on the partition if you need anything. I might not hear you right away since I’m wearing these headphones ninety-nine percent of the time I’m here, but just keep a-knocking. I’ll catch on sooner or later.

Okay Dan, thanks again. I appreciate it. And uh, if there’s anything I can do to help you out, let me know.

Dan’s look told Zach he considered that an extremely remote possibility at best. Uh, will do, man. Will do. Talk to you later. Dan replaced his headphones over his multiply-pierced ears and sank from Zach’s field of vision. In other circumstances, Zach would have found the tinny leakage from Dan’s overloud headphones annoying, but compared to the inhuman background fluorescent buzz it was almost comforting.

And here we go. Isn’t that just spiffy? Startled, Zach whipped around in his chair to find Krissie holding his new ID card. He examined it rotely: somehow, his picture looked even less comfortable wedged in beneath the ÉtoileTech logo. Also, his name had been misspelled ‘Zack’ with a ‘k’.

Um, looks great. Thanks.

All righty then, Zach. Did you get those papers filled out for me?

Zach looked down at the stack. The first page was still on top, and he had only gotten as far as filling out his name.

Um, not quite yet.

Krissie’s eyes flashed with annoyance, but her plastered-on smile didn’t falter.

Well, if you could finish those up when you have a chance I’d surely appreciate it.

Again, before Zach had a chance to respond she had already pivoted on her heels and trotted away. Zach sighed and turned back to the stack of paperwork. Somehow, it looked about twice as thick.

Hours later, Zach stared at the floor as the last chord of the song faded, biting his lip and pondering whether he should bother trying to express himself. Before he’d arrived at a decision, Darien took it out of his hands.

So what do you think, Zach?

Zach swallowed hard. I think you barely played anything. Did you even listen to the demo?

Sure I did. I just figured I’d give you lots of space to do your thing.

Zach snatched the printed chord sheet from the top of Darien’s amplifier. Look, just admit you didn’t bother to put in any effort. I’m not stupid.

Hey man, I work during the week, okay? For me, playing music is supposed to be a relaxing thing.

Really, you’re so busy that you can’t even find a half hour to bother to learn how the songs go? That’s crap. Zach stuffed his guitar cable into his gig bag. I’m done with this horseshit. Have fun playing your big debut next week without a singer or second guitar.

What’s your fucking problem, man?

Behind his kit, Bradley set his drumsticks aside. Hey, guys, let’s not blow this out of proportion. Let’s chill out, have another beer, and talk this through.

Darien glared at him. Whose side are you on, anyway?

I’m not trying to pick sides here, Darien. But…I mean, look, Zach, I’ll admit that wasn’t a great start, but it was the first time we ever played that one. It’ll get better. What’s the big deal?

Without looking up, Zach stuck his distortion pedal into his bag and zipped it closed. Look, guys, it’s nothing personal, really it’s not, but I’ve been feeling like this band is a waste of time for me. It’s been, what, three months now of twice-a-week practices? When one of you doesn’t cancel at the last minute, that is. And every single time, the whole first hour goes to waste while this guy over here fumbles through shit he should’ve had down weeks ago. I mean, shit, you’ve got the demos, you have chord sheets, what more could you need? It’s just…super fucking lame.

Bradley coughed. Well look, Zach, I’m sorry if we’re not professional enough for you, but we were pretty clear from the start this was just supposed to be a hobby-type thing.

Hobby or not, I thought at the very least by the time we played a show maybe everyone in the band would know the material.

The drummer and bass player exchanged looks. Dude, it’s a Monday night at Friendly’s. There’s barely going to be anyone there anyway. What did you think was going to happen?

Oh, I know what would have happened: we’d have embarrassed ourselves stupid by showing up with a band where the fucking guitar player doesn’t know how half the songs go.

All right, you asshole, that’s enough. Darien stepped forward and jabbed a finger at Zach. Who do you think you are?

Who am I? I’m the guy who spent my time learning your songs and coming up with complementary parts, and I expect the same from you. Otherwise what’s the fucking point of playing in a band?

Um…to have fun?

Yeah, well, you go and have a ball. Tell Myrna I’m sorry I’ll be missing her set. Zach slung his guitar over his shoulder. And while you’re at it, tell her I’m sorry her husband is a useless dickwad.

Oh that’s it, motherfucker! Darien swung his guitar at Zach. Zach deflected it and flung his mostly-empty beer bottle in retaliation, missing Darien’s head by a foot. The bottle thumped against the wall and tumbled to the floor, spilling remnants of backwash onto the already-stained carpet.

Bradley rose from behind his drum kit. Hey, hey, calm the fuck down right fucking now. This is still my house, you motherfuckers.

No wonder you can’t play for shit, Darien: it’s a guitar, not a baseball bat.

Oh, fuck you. You’re so out of the band, it’s not even funny.

You think you’re kicking me out? You dumb asshole, where have you been for the past ten minutes?

Guys, come on, cut the crap. Zach, if you’re going to go, just go.

Fine, I will. He snatched up his gig bag and pushed through the door without looking back. Sorry about the mess.

As he stepped out onto Bradley’s porch, the cool evening air brushed Zach’s cheeks and he felt his exasperation ebbing. Relieved but empty, he shoved his equipment into his car and sank into the driver’s seat. With his first day at a new job behind him and the burden of the band’s inaugural performance lifted from his shoulders, he’d hoped his mind would be more at ease. Instead, he clutched the wheel in a death grip, his knuckles white the entire six miles to Jess’s place.

On arrival, Zach yelped with pleasure at the rare sight of a free parking spot directly across from Jess’s house. Finally, something goes right today! Despite the chill in the air, her front door hung open, the rumble of hip-hop music and the aroma of marijuana smoke emanating from within. Mounting the steps, Zach stepped tentatively over the threshold and cleared his throat. Yo! Anyone home?

Back here, a muffled voice muttered. He proceeded through the living area to the back bedroom, where Jess lay supine, eyes closed and music blaring.

She cracked a single eyelid just enough to confirm her visitor’s identity. Running low again so soon, Coleman?

Seems like I’m running low on everything these days. Money, patience, time.

She grimaced with reddened eyes. I can’t help you with any of those, Coleman. Do you want some weed or don’t you?

Of course I do.

The usual, I presume?

Of course.

Rolling her eyes, she pulled a metal box from beneath her bed. Christ, you know you’re just going to be back here bugging me again next week. Look, I’ve even got an extra half-ounce on hand—I’ll knock ten bucks off the usual price. You get more weed, you save money, and I don’t have to see your face again until March blows away.

Sorry, Jess. I’d love to, really I would, but I just don’t have the scratch.

No chance of that new band you joined getting signed any time soon?

Don’t think so. If it did, I wouldn’t have quit. Which reminds me, forget about that gig Monday I told you about.

Wasn’t planning on going anyway. What about that private investigation business you started up awhile back? Wasn’t that supposed to be the ‘ultimate day job,’ in your words?

He waved his hand dismissively. Every month the internet gets bigger and I get fewer calls. Haven’t had a paying client in longer than I can think of. At this rate, I might as well be working at a press clipping agency. I already had to take a day job out at ÉtoileTech. If things keep up this way I might not even bother to renew my license next year.

He handed Jess a trio of folded twenty-dollar bills; Jess handed him a rolled baggie. She pocketed the money and peered at Zach from beneath lidded eyes. Look, Coleman, if you’re really that short of cash, I might have a little job for you. Strictly off the books and under the table in every way. In fact, don’t even tell anyone I made you this offer, whether you turn it down or not.

If it’s within my power, I don’t think I have that choice. What’s the job?

Well, look: band or no, you still have your equipment, right? You haven’t pawned it all and decided to light out for the coast or anything, have you?

Not yet, anyway. Why?

She handed him a tattered piece of paper. He read aloud: Guitarist needed for rock band. Must have onstage experience, own equipment, reliable transportation, immediate availability. No egos. Contact New Regenesis Nature Conservancy ASAP to set up audition. He turned it over, wondering if he had missed something. I don’t get it.

That’s the job.

He tossed the paper back at her. Why are you so interested in my musical aspirations all of a sudden? I thought you didn’t want whatever-this-is to get too involved.

I’m not, and I don’t. She put a pipe fashioned from of a section of deer horn to her lips, took a massive drag, held it for thirty seconds, exhaled a cloud of smoke and held the pipe out to Zach. All I need you to do is call the number on the flyer—or email, I don’t give a shit—get the audition, go in, then come back and tell me about it.

That’s it? And if I do that you’ll give me….what?

What’s it worth to you?

Zach considered his outlook: with the band off his plate, his day job was the only thing on his schedule for the foreseeable future.

How about you give me that sixty bucks back and we’ll call it even?

Nice try. Tell you what: you get this done before next Friday and I’ll give you your choice of either this sixty bucks or this half-ounce of weed. Whichever you decide will be of more use to you.

If you really want the lowdown on this band that bad, why don’t you borrow a guitar and go check it out yourself? I’ll lend you mine.

Ha fucking ha.

No, really, Jess. It’s obvious you’re not giving me even half the real story. I mean, yeah, I’m desperate, but not desperate enough to jump off the high dive without looking first. He passed the pipe back to her. Half-ounce or no, I’m going to need a little more background.

She shook her head vigorously. Not a chance, guitar boy. Too many people see exactly what they expect to and no more, even when what they don’t see is getting ready to bite them in the ass. I want you going in there with fresh eyes.

Yeah, well, right now I’m not expecting anything, so I can’t very well have any preconceived notions, can I?

And that’s the way I’d like to keep it.

Maybe. But current appearances aside, I like to think I have some standards, Zach said. And I don’t walk into auditions unprepared, even if I’m being sent in under duplicitous circumstances.

Oh, for—it’s not even a real audition, you drama queen. Save the musical pretensions for your solo project.

It’s a real audition to them, isn’t it? Whoever these people are, if they’ve played in a band before they’ll sniff out any wannabes and posers long before it gets to that stage. That’s kind of how the whole audition thing works. If you want me to get through this thing, they have to believe I want it—and right now, I don’t.

Jess sighed long and low, then took a hit from the pipe that burned up the last of the bud and tapped the ashes into a bedside plastic cup. Fine. But once I tell you why I want you to go out there, you have to promise me you’ll still go.

What kind of deal is that? Now I have to know before I’ll agree to anything.

Look, it’s… Jess breathed deeply. I don’t necessarily know anything is going on for sure. That’s why I didn’t want to say anything: if you get out there and you really think everything’s on the up-and-up, then that’s what I want you to report. And as God is my witness, in my heart of hearts I really, truly hope you come back here in a week and tell me exactly that.

Methinks thou dost protest too much.

Maybe. But only because the sinking feeling in my gut keeps getting worse.

So why send me into the heart of the storm?

It’s all I can do. That place is locked up tight three hundred and sixty-four days a year: if you’re not wanted there, you’re not getting in.

What about the other day? Or two, in a leap year?

On the summer solstice they have an open house type of deal. It’s a big sop to the town—a show of friendliness and display of generosity—but you can bet they clean up the place real nice for visitors and keep a close eye on everyone coming in and out of those gates.

Oh, I get it now; no wonder you want them eradicated. Friendliness and generosity? That’s like your kryptonite.

Watch it.

Sorry. But you gotta admit, this all sounds a little paranoid at best. I mean, I never went in much for that hippie gumbo myself, but I thought those New Regenesis folks were just supposed to be harmless kooks?

That’s part of what raised my suspicions. What kind of people work that hard at making sure others think of them as innocuous eccentrics? Real weirdos think they’re one hundred percent normal and it’s the world that’s crazy, while the truly harmless generally try not to broadcast signals of their vulnerability. But in my experience, a guy who smiles and tells you he’s ‘just a little quirky’? He’s likely to slide a knife between your ribs and keep on smiling as he pulls it out.

Jesus, Jess. Are you sure the only problem here isn’t your bleak view of humanity?

Honestly? No, Zach, I’m not. She rubbed her eyelids with the back of her hand. That’s why I need you on this one. Small town or no, this job wears on me. It gets harder every day to keep my sunny side up. Long story short, I want to believe they’re all just a bunch of sweet, harmless hippie types, I really want to—it’s just that something buried way down deep won’t let me. But if I gin up a reason to go in there half-cocked based on nothing more than a gutful of suspicion and unresolved issues and it turns out I was wrong? Then I just became the bitch who took down Woodstock with a flamethrower, and no one’s looking for another Waco here.

So what if you’re wrong?

She shook her head, reloaded the deer horn, and handed it to Zach. I’m not wrong, Coleman, I just can’t prove it. That’s where you come in.

Zach took another hit and considered his options. He doubted Jess would willingly send him into the jaws of destruction—but he also sensed she still wasn’t telling the full truth. Still, he couldn’t ignore the reality of his current situation: his bank account was swiftly running dry, his ÉtoileTech paychecks wouldn’t start flowing for a few weeks, and he’d just spent a substantial portion of his remaining cash on marijuana he knew would be but a memory by the time next Friday rolled around.

Plus, there was the steely tone in Jess’s voice. Sure, she liked to play the untouchable hardass, and they had the stinging tone of their banter to maintain, but something was really bothering her. And whether or not she chose to share what that was, if something tripped her radar there was most likely a very good reason for it.

He exhaled and gulped for air, studiously avoiding her gaze as she took the pipe from him. Fuck, Zach coughed. Fine. I’ll try for an audition.

Jess brightened. You will?

Sure, why the fuck not. But I want that half-ounce whether they ask me out there or not. After all, it’s not on me if they don’t think I’m their type.

Okay, fair enough. Win, lose, or draw, you make the call and I’ll hold up my end.

Great. Now that that’s settled, can we finally move on to another topic of discussion?

What’s the matter, baby, are the ins and out of my daily life too much for you to keep up with?

Nah. Just had more than enough drama for one day already. I’m more tired of it than you can imagine. He lay back on the bed and ran his fingers through his hair. I don’t know. This last band, even though I knew it wasn’t worth my time from day one, I still went ahead week after week, practice after practice, hoping and praying it’d somehow turn into something special. But deep down, I knew it’d never happen—and lo and behold, here it is all these months later and I’m right. What a fucking waste of time, just like all the other stupid fucking bands I’ve played in.

Oh, stop hanging your head like you’re in a bad TV movie. Boo hoo, you’re not the only one in the world whose life didn’t turn out exactly the way they wanted.

Well shit, sorry for sharing. Or for being human.

I hope you’re not looking for me to talk you out of something here, Coleman. I mean, don’t mistake whatever this is for something it’s not. I think I’ve always been clear I don’t have room in my life for complications.

Fuck, Jess, don’t you think I know? I’m just, I don’t know. I just need a little human compassion.

Sorry, hon, you’re barking up the wrong tree. From where I’m standing, the only thing standing in your way is you. You always knew making it in music was a long shot at best. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have put in the time and effort to get that PI license. Just your bad luck you pick an industry the electronic superhighway is crushing the life out of, but hey, big whoop. You’re not even thirty yet, you have lots of poor career choices ahead of you.

What, like law enforcement?

Hey, someone’s got to do it. It may not be cool, but it has its perks.

Zach snorted. From fuzz pedals to the actual fuzz? Not seeing it.

Then you need to open your eyes, because glib remarks aren’t getting you out of this. Trust me, Zach: if you live long enough, fate will throw you enough twists and turns that you’ll look back on the nice, neat plan you made up for your life in your early twenties and wonder how you could ever have been so dumb.

I thank you for this gift of wisdom, bequeathed like the wizened old crone that you are, all of an entire half a decade older than me.

She threw a pillow at him. Yeah, well, sometimes the way you act is more like an immature teenager than a grown man, so that makes us even. She coughed. So are you going to take your shoes off and stay awhile or just keep tracking crap all over my floor?

Before Zach had a chance to answer, a crackling voice interrupted from beneath Jess’s bed: Dispatch to Chief, Dispatch to Chief. We’ve got a 510 out at the old quarry road and Hardesty needs backup.

Jess groaned and pulled a handset from beneath a wadded t-shirt. Send Jeremy. Chief out.

Hissing emptiness came down the line as the speaker paused. Uh…Officer Johnson is currently not in a position to perform this duty.

Excellent. Jess slapped her hand to her forehead. Which means he’s already drunk, before Friday night has even gotten rolling. Sighing, she wadded the ad and threw it at Zach’s chest, stripped off her sweat pants, and strode into the bathroom as Zach gaped after her. Sorry to rescind my offer, but apparently the fun never ends around here. I’ve got maybe ten minutes to wash the funk off and fix myself up into some vague semblance of authority, so if you don’t mind showing yourself out, we can pick up where we left off next week?

Well, I—

Great. The bathroom door slammed shut; Zach closed his mouth midsentence, realizing he had no idea what he’d been about to say.

As Zach entered his ÉtoileTech cubicle the following Monday, he could already hear Dan humming and tapping on the far side of the flimsy divider. Zach shot a hand above the partition, intoned Morning, pressed his computer’s power button, and plopped into his office chair; Dan waved and stilled his finger drumming in mute response.

Zach pulled the wadded piece of paper from his pocket and uncrumpled it on the desk before him. Zach stared slackjawed at the puzzling flyer, rubbing his temple. Is this a test of some sort? Is she sincere? Does it even matter? It was all too much for the morning.

Zach blinked furiously and set the paper aside, his bleary eyes scolding him for the previous evening’s indulgence. His computer finally finished booting with a chime; before he could think further, Zach opened his mail and typed:

---

To: [e-mail]

Subject: Guitarist wanted

Hey, I saw your ad looking for a guitar player. I have experience, equipment, and a vehicle. I work 9-5 M-F, but have evenings and weekends free.

Thanks,

Zach Coleman

---

He pressed ‘Send’ and tossed the flyer in the trash. Regardless whether he ever received a response, he could honestly tell Jess he’d made an effort—mission accomplished.

Still waking up, Zach stood and leaned on the edge of the fabric-covered partition separating his cubicle from Dan’s. Dan pulled his headphones from his ears and nodded at Zach.

Yo.

Kind of early for rocking out.

Yeah, I went out to a show last night and didn’t get in until about two. Feeling no pain though, double shot of java and I’ve been bouncing off the walls ever since. Might be different if I was actually expected to bust my ass here of course, but if wishes were horses and all that good shit.

And it’s never been a problem?

Dan shrugged. As if on cue, Zach’s computer emitted a chime.

Sounds like duty calls.

Guess so. Talk to you later. Dan slid his headphones back on.

Zach looked at his monitor: a reply had appeared atop his inbox. He didn’t recognize the sender’s name. Kaliyuga? What the hell was that, some anime?

---

From: [e-mail]

To: [e-mail], [e-mail]

Subject: RE: Guitarist wanted

Hi Zach, my name is Ian Hoeke and I work with Terry Robertson. I placed the ad looking for a guitarist that you responded to. Can you tell me about your previous musical experience?

---

Zach typed back:

---

Been playing 7-8 yrs I guess. Had band in college, played regular shows in local bars. Recorded about an album’s worth of material, never had CDs pressed tho. Played with other bands on and off for the last few yrs, nothing major. What else do you want to know?

---

No more than thirty seconds later, the reply appeared:

---

Would you be available for an audition Thursday at 7PM?

---

Slightly taken aback, Zach considered his options. Well, at least Jess will be happy. Something about Ian’s instant readiness to bring him in gave him his own sinking feeling, though. It was beginning to smell like the audition would end up being the type of cattle call where twenty guys line up for hours, waiting for a chance to humiliate themselves before the type of leering sadist who gets his rocks off passing judgment on the desperate. Ugh. Auditions are the fucking worst.

Still, what was there really to worry about? Worst-case scenario, all Zach had to lose was an empty weeknight staring at the television, and if he actually managed to bring back some juicy intel, maybe Jess would toss him an extra joint or some other kind of bonus. Hell, if nothing else, maybe he’d get a story out of it.

He shot back a quick, Sure, that works for me, and was unsurprised to receive a nearly instant and just as direct reply:

---

Great, Thursday at 7 it is. We’re at New Regenesis Nature Conservancy right outside town off Robertson Road; it’s pretty easy to find but I’ve attached a map with directions. Just come to the front gate and press the intercom to be buzzed in. See you then!

---

Zach stared at the screen, berating himself for lacking the presence of mind to have raised any of the suddenly-pressing issues now flooding his head. What was the music like? Was it a new group or were they filling a vacant slot? What age range were the band members? Did they play cover tunes or original songs? Would they be open to playing Zach’s songs?

Crap!

Dan’s exclamation drove Zach’s questions from his head unanswered. Everything okay?

Hmm? Oh, hold on a sec. Dan clicked his music off. Sorry, let myself get carried away. It’s nothing, just fucked up and blew a turn in this game.

You spend a lot of time playing games at work?

Gotta get through the day somehow, right?

I suppose.

Look, Zach, take it from me: the higher-ups don’t give a shit what anyone around here says or does as long as it doesn’t get in their way. Just follow my lead and you’ll be okay. I’m about ninety percent sure they don’t even have any idea what I do, but every week or so I make a point of showing my face upstairs to give a few backslaps, crack a few obvious jokes, and throw in some callbacks to good old times of the past. That’s my insurance that if and when layoffs finally do come, I’ll be at the bottom of the list.

You really think that’ll work?

Dan rolled his eyes. Shit, man, you should have seen me right after I got out of college: I used to totally bust my ass, I bought into all that shit my mom used to tell me about keeping your head down, nose to the grindstone, and all that B.S. You know what I found? When you bust ass all the time, you stress the shit out of yourself and make yourself really unpleasant to be around. And you know what? You get paid exactly the same.

You’ve got a point there.

No shit. And keeping your head down just guarantees someone else will swoop in to take all the credit for your work. Plus, if the bosses know they’re getting the maximum amount of work out of you what’s their incentive to give you more compensation? Especially when you’re just a machine to them, and an awkward, unpleasant one at that. Honestly, man, my professional life has gone from about a two to an eight or nine since I started focusing on my glad-handing social skills and doing only the bare minimum of work.

Maybe that works for you here at ÉtoileTech, but not every place runs like this.

I’ve been doing things this way for seven years, through four jobs at three different companies. You know why I switched jobs? Because each time I was offered more money and better benefits. He yawned. Just relax, man. The way shit works in the real world, it pays off way more to look like you’re working than actually doing so.

The sign didn’t look the way Zach had pictured. But then, not much about New Regenesis was as he’d expected.

A backwards ‘E’ or ‘R’ wouldn’t have been out of place on the ramshackle assemblage of clapboards nailed to an ancient tree towering hundreds of feet above Zach’s sputtering vehicle. ‘New Regenesis Nature Conservancy’ had been hand-painted carefully but imprecisely on the sign, the blurred edges of the lettering betraying many repaintings in slightly varying shades of green. The security behind it, however, was somewhat more impressive than the homey sign implied: a ten-foot chain-link fence topped with strips of razor wire surrounded the property and a forbidding security gate blocked the driveway, bracketed by rotating video cameras.

Zach put his car into ‘park’ and reached towards a red button labeled ‘Intercom’. Before he could push it, a metallic gray speaker box crackled, Hey, come on in, in an affable voice and the gate parted before his wheels. Past the gate, the pavement quickly gave way to gravel, unevenly applied to a pair of well-worn parallel ruts. Scattered kaleidoscopic rays of dusky Midwestern sunlight filtered through the dense forest on either side of the road and skittered schizophrenically across the dusty haze thrown up by the car’s wheels as it lurched down the path.

A pair of buildings loomed on Zach’s left; he braked, craning his neck from the window to take stock of his surroundings. The larger of the structures shot up three stories and seemed some sort of fusion between frontier homestead and Southern plantation mansion. A covered, screened-in porch snaked around the perimeter of the first floor, its screens dotted irregularly with unpatched holes. The second floor featured a continuous row of small, identical windows, each adorned slightly differently; Zach estimated at least twenty along the visible side of the house. Low-hanging untrimmed branches obscured much of the house’s third story, but several large windows were visible through the foliage—and now that he peered more closely, Zach could just make out a smaller, partial fourth floor set back from the other three stories, almost entirely shrouded by greenery.

It was a beautiful old building, overflowing with rough-hewn charm; up close, the care and craftsmanship that went into the place was evident. Each plank of siding mirrored the wood of the trees that still arced overhead, brushing against the upper stories and making the house seem of a piece with the surrounding woods. It was as though trees had been felled, rendered into lumber, and assembled right there on the spot—the way most houses had been built before industrialization, Zach supposed.

The second building was the polar opposite of the main house: much more functional in appearance, all corrugated aluminum and pressboard, its nearly windowless exterior unwelcoming to curious eyes. Clearly a prefabricated structure, Zach guessed it to be intended by the manufacturer for use as a barn or large garage.

The same affable voice that had granted him passage rang out from the porch, Hallo! Just pull up anywhere by the house. A shortish man wearing a plaid flannel shirt strode towards Zach’s car, his long, noticeably graying light brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. Zach guessed the man to be in his late forties or early fifties. Are you Zach?

Yep, that’s me, Zach replied. He stepped out of his car, yanked his battered guitar case from the back seat, and shook the man’s hand.

Hey, I’m Ian. I talked to you earlier? Ian squinted at Zach through round-framed silver glasses, feet ensconced within well-worn open-toed sandals. Need any help with anything?

Zach patted the side of his guitar case. No thanks, I got it.

How about we head inside and I’ll fill you in on a few things. Okay?

The two mounted the front steps, trod the creaky porch, and stepped through the house’s wide open front door. Ian nodded toward an antique-looking coat rack in the entryway. Just set your axe down here for now, and we can sit in the dining room for a few minutes. I’m just going to grab some tea. Do you want anything?

Uh, sure. Diet Coke?

Sorry, no Diet Coke. We’ve got sun tea, filtered water, juice—orange and grapefruit, I think maybe grape.

Uh, juice is good. Grape if you’ve got it, otherwise orange.

Got it. Be right back. Ian walked off.

Zach set his guitar case down beside the coat rack and proceeded into the dining room. It was much larger than he had expected: the table itself was of normal width, but stretched at least twelve yards down the length of the room, with long, rudimentary benches extending down both sides. The table and benches looked rough-hewn from local wood, likely of a kind with the trees immediately outside.

Hey, here’s your juice. You were in luck, just enough grape left for a glass. Please, sit anywhere. Zach selected a seat on the right side; Ian sat at the head of the table and turned to face Zach, fingers tented before him. Well, first of all, thanks for coming out here; I know it’s a bit out of the way. So, I mentioned earlier that I work for Terry Robertson?

Oh, right, yeah. Are you in the band, or his manager?

Ha! Sorry, didn’t mean to laugh in your face there. It’s just that the idea of anyone trying to manage Terry, well…I wouldn’t wish that job on my worst enemy. No, my role where Terry is concerned is best described as something in between a personal assistant and a business partner. Do you know of the rock band Mobius Chain?

Errr…vaguely. I know the name. Little before my time?

I’m guessing you’re in your late twenties?

Mm, somewhere in that range.

Yeah, little bit. Long story short, Terry was the main songwriter, guitarist, and singer for Mobius Chain. They scored two big regional singles off the first album and a mid-level hit off the second, but the numbers don’t tell the full story. They could have done so much more. They were one of those bands whose music was special to people who heard it at the right time, and I’m not ashamed to admit I was—I am—one of those people. But unfortunately, they released just the two albums and then broke up, never to be heard from again. No solo projects, no spinoffs, no reunions, nothing.

I guess that explains why I haven’t really heard a lot about Mobius Chain, compared to like, um, whoever.

Ian smiled, but melancholy lurked behind his expression. Well, sadly, in this country, the public generally only hears about musicians when some corporation stands to make a great deal of money from their work, or when they die. But there’s more to it than that. Unlike most people who get into the music biz, Terry had his shit together from day one. He was always the man with the plan. For one thing, he was one of the only musicians of his generation to negotiate a contract granting absolute creative control. That’s why there hasn’t ever been anything else released beyond those two albums. They can’t even release a ‘Greatest Hits’ without Terry’s say-so, and he’s never given his go-ahead for any collections, remasters, or reissues, none of that crap. He owns and controls the Mobius Chain name lock, stock, and barrel, so when Mobius Chain ended, it ended for good. Terry never let it become a joke unlike…well, whoever.

I guess that’s commendable.

I’m glad you feel that way. Not everyone agrees. At times, the other ex-members have attempted to sell the songs for commercial use, license them for soundtracks, that kind of thing. Terry won’t hear a word of it. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to.

So Terry hasn’t played with Mobius Chain for how long?

It’s been about twenty-four years, give or take, since the final date of the last Mobius Chain tour.

And he hasn’t released any solo material, any live albums, any anything since then?

That’s right. Nothing at all. Ian drained the last of his tea. "Terry hasn’t even let them rerelease the old albums. He says since they were originally conceived as vinyl records, that’s the way they should be heard. Obviously, the record label is