Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol Page 16

  Well, at least the Freedom sound track was finally finished.

  I flew back to New York where my friend and physician, Dr. Jack Shea, gave me a full checkup and rebandaged my nose, but with no splint this time. The bruises were healing nicely, and the blood that had settled beneath my eyes was clearing.

  Although we were due back on the Rowdy tour in Indianapolis the following night, Dr. Shea recommended that my nose needed at least two more weeks to heal properly, possibly more. He didn’t believe my head was ready for the noise or acrobatics of a night onstage with DeathStroke.

  When Gray and Tina received the report from Dr. Shea, the remaining twelve shows of the Rowdy tour were cancelled. Our management, promoters, and fans were furious, and the boys in the band went ballistic, accusing me of jeopardizing their future success. Although I was sorry about the strain between us, I was not disappointed that the tour was cancelled.

  After a quick, tension-filled flight to Nashville with the DeathStroke entourage for a TV interview, I crashed after returning to my Manhattan high-rise. Waking several hours later, I sat in the corner of the living room, where two enormous picture windows converged to overlook Central Park and the city skyline. Night was falling.

  Before I had time to instinctively pour myself a gin and tonic, I threw on a Yankees cap and a dark wool coat, grabbed my black shoulder bag, and headed out the door. I didn’t know where I was going exactly but knew I didn’t want to be left to my own devices. It had been several days since I had taken a drink, and I was curious to see if I could keep the streak going.

  It was a Thursday night, and the city was alive in anticipation of the weekend.

  I walked for a long time without being recognized, because it was dark and I had flipped my coat collar high around my neck and face. The chilly air made steam rise from the manhole covers along the city sidewalks. Later, the homeless would lay on those sewer covers in hopes that the steam would warm them through the night.

  Deciding a cup of hot coffee would taste good, I headed for an old favorite, Bean’s coffee shop. As I hustled down the sidewalk toward Bean’s, I approached a black man in a wheelchair. He wore several layers of tattered sweatshirts and gloves with no fingers. His black ski cap, turned upside down next to him in the wheelchair, held an assortment of bills and change. He had a mangy beard, a graying afro, and no legs.

  As I approached him, I pulled out my wallet, found a hundred-dollar bill, folded it several times, and dropped it in his hat. Without looking at my gift, he grabbed my hand in both of his. The gloves felt threadbare, almost damp; his fingers, like sandpaper.

  “Whatever you do for the least of these,” he looked up at me with the whitest eyes I had ever seen, “you do for Me… Thank you, brother. God be with you this night.”

  As I began to back up, his hands gripped mine tightly, blatantly, and his shining brown eyes locked in on me. “In this world, you will have trouble—perhaps even tonight. But take courage; I have overcome the world.”

  Instead of looking around to see who might be watching, and making a concerted effort not to be embarrassed by the man, I let go of his hand and stared.

  He had no legs.

  Do you understand what I’m saying?

  NO LEGS.

  Only dirty, frayed, brown corduroys—cut off like shorts and flapping in the mean New York wind.

  He was thin, practically toothless, and probably slept in a box.

  Yet…he was happier than I, more content than a millionaire.

  I turned, thrust my hands into my pockets, and continued down the sidewalk. There was a card in my hand, the size of a business card. He must have handed it to me.

  Ducking into Bean’s, I shook off the cold and put a finger to my lips so Mrs. Fagan would keep my presence a secret.

  “Long time no see, stranger,” she said quietly, with a sparkle in her gray eyes.

  “Too long.” I approached the counter. “It’s good to be back.”

  “What on earth happened?” She pointed to her nose with a pained expression.

  “You didn’t hear?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” I said, “maybe the whole world doesn’t know after all.”

  “The usual?”

  “Sounds good.” I took off my coat and walked toward an empty table and two chairs by the window.

  Placing the coat on the back of the chair, I reached into its pocket and pulled out the card the legless man had slipped me. It was white with black type and looked like a Bible passage. I put it back and went to the counter for my coffee.

  “This one’s on the house.” Mrs. Fagan handed me a white mug, steam swirling.

  “Get out of here,” I said, opening my wallet. “I know I still owe you.”

  She mouthed a thank you as I handed her a large bill and headed back to my table.

  Then I saw her.

  In the backseat of a yellow cab that crept past the storefront. She stared in at me with those black marble eyes.

  Instinctively, my free arm shot up.

  “Endora…” I started to yell.

  The cab kept going as I clacked my coffee cup down on the nearest empty table, dodged several clusters of people, and ran to the door and out into the night. By then, the rear of the cab was getting smaller in the distance, steam churning from its dangling muffler.

  The sidewalk and streets were wet. It had begun to drizzle.

  Opening the heavy glass door to Bean’s, I noticed several patrons staring at me now, talking among themselves.

  Mrs. Fagan called me over with the tilt of her head as she was drying some mugs. “That’s a good way to blow your cover,” she said softly. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” I looked back out at the street. “I thought I saw someone I knew, someone from out of town.”

  With a gray towel in her hand, Mrs. Fagan propped herself up on her tiptoes for a moment and looked out over the counter toward the half-full café.

  “That’s not your phone ringing by any chance, is it?”

  “Probably.” I ignored my coffee mug and zigzagged back to the table with my head lowered.

  Retrieving the phone from my satchel, I sat down and gave an out-of-breath, “Hello?”

  “Hello, Everett? It’s Karen…”

  I looked out the window, turning my back to the café in hopes that the people inside would stop gawking.

  “You’re not supposed to call me,” I said, glad to hear from her.

  “Gee, I didn’t figure anyone would be tapping my phone.”

  “Have you gotten any more calls?” I peered out the window, thinking I must have been mistaken about seeing Endora.

  “No, but I did get a package today. That’s why I called. It’s a little on the weird side.”

  Mrs. Fagan appeared with a fresh cup of the house blend. I nodded thanks. “Why? What is it?”

  “Are you ready for this?” she said. “Black roses.”

  “What?”

  “On the doorstep when I got home from work. A dozen black roses.”

  “What the heck?”

  “You know what the black rose means, Everett?” There she was—again! This time, across the street in the third-story window of an office tower. Wearing the same black overcoat she had on in the cab. Arms crossed, looking right at me.

  “Everett? Are you there?”

  I turned back into the room, rubbed my eyes and stared at an empty table, then a chair, then at Mrs. Fagan grinding espresso beans. Okay, everything is okay. I’m hallucinating or something. She is not in New York. Your mind is playing tricks.

  I turned back to the window and Endora was gone.

  Just like I thought.

  “Everett?”

  “I’m here,” I said, thinking that if this was what it was like to be off drugs, I didn’t want any part of it. “I’m sorry. Um, I haven’t had a drink in a few days, and I’m dealing with some…some stuff. Never mind that. What’s this about black roses?”

  “They mean death.”<
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  “What?”

  “Death.”

  “And someone delivered you a dozen of them?”

  “Yep.”

  “Endora knows about the roses,” I mumbled. “She’s got to be behind this. I can’t get in touch with her. I’ve been trying ever since you told me about the phone call. And now I’m sitting here thinking I see her outside where I am.”

  “Where are you?”

  “New York. A coffee joint.”

  “She wouldn’t be there, would she?”

  “No. She wouldn’t. She hates the cold. She’s just been on my mind a lot since you got that call. It’s weird she hasn’t been around. That’s just not like her.”

  “That’s good,” Karen said.

  “Yeah, probably. I’ve just depended on her for so long… She found some of your letters. She was furious.”

  “The letters I wrote you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “See, that’s what I mean about being dangerous,” Karen said. “Why would she be mad about my letters? They’re good!”

  “She thinks you’re going to ruin me,” I said with a laugh, still searching the city outside the window.

  “She’s afraid you’re going to become a Christian. That’s what she’s afraid of.”

  I finally sipped my coffee.

  “You’ve got to be careful, Everett. This is a dangerous thing for you. I really believe with your popularity there’s a war going on. Endora may have Satanic powers. That stuff is real…”

  There!

  In the breezeway, half a block away, above the street, gazing down at me with her arms crossed, like some kind of wizard.

  “There she is! I gotta go!” I shot to my feet. “Don’t write or call. I’ll be in touch. I see Endora!”

  “I’ll pray!” I heard her say as I snapped the phone shut, threw my coat on, grabbed my bag, and took off.

  Endora calmly watched me from above as I dodged pedestrians, splashed through puddles, and ran toward the breezeway. She was expressionless.

  Looking up at her one last time, I gauged which building to enter and plunged through a set of heavy revolving doors. In the center of the giant silver and glass atrium filled with plants and trees, I saw an escalator that I was certain would take me up to the breezeway where she stood.

  Dashing up the moving stairs two and three at a time, I arrived at the top, turned back toward the breezeway, and stood frozen, staring down the long, empty corridor.

  Looking in all directions and not spotting her, I sprinted across the breezeway and searched the area on the other side.

  Not a trace.

  Dejectedly, I walked back out onto the crosswalk and stood where I was sure I had seen Endora standing only seconds ago. I looked down on the sidewalk toward Bean’s coffee shop. Was I losing my mind?

  Leave me alone.

  Then as I stood there on that empty breezeway, spotlights shining down, night engulfing me, I was directed to go to the rooftop. She was telling me she was up there.

  I had to confront her, had to protect the only pure and innocent thing in my life: Karen Bayliss.

  Damp and chilled from the rain, I went back the way I had come and found the elevators near the top of the escalator. A heavy, blond female security guard eating a Baby Ruth looked at me from behind her desk.

  “Everett Lester?” she inquired wide-eyed, with her mouth full.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, doing my best to hide the confusion and rage.

  “I can’t believe it! I’m a huge fan of yours.”

  “You’re kidding,” I managed. “Wow. Small world. Listen, I’m just heading upstairs for an appointment, is that okay?”

  “Hmm.” She rolled her eyes and talked way too slowly. “I’m not supposed to let anyone up who hasn’t been called in by someone upstairs. Who are you here to see? I’ll call up…”

  “Oh. This is kind of a secret business meeting, if you know what I mean.” I tried to manage a laugh. “Listen, will you let me up if I set you up with an autograph and some CDs?”

  She looked both ways and smiled shyly. “I think we can arrange that.”

  I left the girl an autograph and Jeff Hall’s phone number and assured her he would send her a nice package of goodies. Then I headed for the elevator and pushed the biggest number I could find: fifty-seven.

  After wandering the quiet halls on the top floor, I went through a white door and entered what looked like a boiler room. Then I found some concrete steps that had once been blocked off by chains, which now dangled at each side of the steps. Making my way to the top, there was only one way to go—through a big rust-colored metal door. I had to bang hard against it with my hip, and it flew open into the howling wind.

  Heading out onto the dark, wet rooftop, lit only by the surrounding city lights, I yelled into the wind, “Where are you?”

  Turning all around, I finally saw her some fifty feet from me, seated atop a large silver box, and looking the other way—out over the city.

  “What’s your game, Endora?” I yelled loudly through the rain.

  She acted as if she didn’t hear me, so I walked toward her, running a hand along the wet concrete ledge, trying to get used to the height. The sky spun slightly, and I felt light-headed. Never did like heights.

  Coming up behind her, I was still a good four feet beneath Endora, because she was perched on top of this shiny piece of exhaust equipment, steam billowing into the sky beside her.

  “What’s going on, Endora?” I yelled with no patience left, the rain coming steady now, wind gusting. “Who’s messing with Karen Bayliss?”

  Without turning around, she yelled, “You’ll have to come closer, near the edge, Everett. I can’t hear you.”

  When I got closer to the very corner of the building and turned to look up into her face, I noticed the fingers of her left hand were pressed hard into her forehead. Her eyes were closed.

  “Who called Karen Bayliss and threatened her to leave me alone?”

  Ignoring me, she raised her other hand to her temple and lowered her head in meditation.

  Then it struck me.

  She was dry as a bone.

  “Who sent the black roses?” I shouted.

  No response.

  Infuriated, I reached up to grab her arm, but my hand swept through air. Nothing was there!

  I let out a gasp.

  But…she was there.

  “If you hurt Karen…I’ll destroy you!”

  The rain came harder.

  Ever so slightly, with her fingers still pressed into her forehead, her hands and arms began to shake. “You’ve had enough of this world, haven’t you, Everett?”

  Slowly, I reached up to touch her again.

  Nothing.

  “You’re all alone, Everett,” she moaned. “I’m not even here. You’ve lost touch with reality. It’s time to call it quits.”

  My hands dropped to the ledge at my waist, and I looked out over the massive buildings and thousands upon thousands of sparkling lights all around me.

  “Sit on the ledge,” she said. “Look below.”

  The cold rain soaked the seat of my pants as I did what she instructed.

  “Now…if you are a Christian, throw yourself over the edge, because the Bible says, ‘He shall give His angels charge over you.’”

  A shiver ran through me from head to toe, and my hands found the pockets of my drenched wool coat.

  “If, on the other hand, you are not a Christian, throw yourself down, for you will find the contentment you’ve been seeking…on the Other Side!”

  I leaned the upper half of my body out over the ledge, looking straight down at the slivers of street below.

  Maybe there will be contentment in the fall. Maybe this is where I will find my peace.

  “Either way,” she sneered, “you are not meant for this world, Everett. You’re no good to Satan anymore. And you’ll never be any good to God. You know that…”

  I felt the card in my pocket.

>   “Go ahead!” She nodded, glaring at me now with the outstretched arm of someone presenting a performer. “Do something right for a change. Push off. Make your father proud, for once…”

  When I pulled the card out of my pocket, a thousand screams pierced my ears, the likes of which I had never heard before.

  I dropped my head to read, silently:

  When tempted by Satan, repeat the words of your Savior, Jesus Christ.

  Then I began to read aloud the words the legless angel had given me, getting louder with each word, for all the demons to hear:

  “Go, Satan! For it is written, ‘You shall worship the Lord your God, and serve Him only.’ Then the devil left Him; and behold, angels came and began to minister to Him.”

  Slowly turning back over the ledge, I let my body drop onto the rooftop.

  Lying motionless for a moment on the cold, wet concrete, I lifted my head.

  She was gone.

  And I felt the presence of God’s angels all around me.

  18

  IT WAS PAST LIGHTS-OUT and I had a difficult time sleeping. My friend the guard, Donald Chambers, walked past my locked cell and whispered, “I thought you’d be asleep by now. Pretty tough day.” He referred to the damaging testimony of the medical examiner, Dr. Leonard Morris.

  “Were you there?”

  “Yeah, near the back. Standing room only.”

  “I suppose it couldn’t have been much worse,” I said.

  “It will be better tomorrow.”

  After taking several steps, he stopped again. “Remember that inmate I told you about a couple weeks ago? The one who died after Zaney predicted he would?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It wasn’t suicide,” he whispered. “They found a bruise at the base of his neck, definitely caused by pressure from the killer’s hand.”

  “Zaney.”

  “Had to be.”

  “Boone is trying to have him subpoenaed as a witness at my trial, since he knew Endora,” I said. “We’ve got to get the judge’s approval first.”

  “I’m afraid he’ll flat-out lie, even if you do get him to the stand.”