Page 89 of Dead Rockstar

“I thought you had lost your fucking final marble,” she said. “I really did. I was ready to ship you off to the funny farm.”

“I wish you had,” I said. “While I still had a chance to get away from all of you.”

I'd expected some huge monstrosity covered by dark trees, with peeling paint and haunted, dark windows, like a smaller version of Hill House, or something out of a southern gothic mystery, but Guthrie’s two-story home was the same cracker box house with a garage underneath, high, reinforced porch and palm trees in the yard as every other beach house on Jekyll. I parked the truck under one of the trees and got out, not bothering to take a moment to collect myself or even think about my game plan. I was too angry, too eager to see this man, look him in the face and tell him exactly what I thought of him.

Sloan led the way up the creaking steps to the top of the porch. I followed, looking around, memorizing my surroundings. The shades on the windows were drawn, but I could see a dim light peeking out. The sounds of a football game were coming from the house, and I could hear voices. A scraggly, skinny black cat with one white patch on his chest darted out of our way as we reached the front door and scurried off the porch.

“That's Tito,” Sloan said, and then lightly rapped her knuckles on the front door, which had recently been painted white – I could still see the streaks of gray underneath.

“Who?” a curt voice on the other side of the door asked.

“Me,” answered Sloan in a voice unlike her own. It seemed her rudeness was in place here.

“Come in.”

She pushed the door open and turned to me with an “after you” gesture. I was suddenly without desire to go inside, after everything I'd done to facilitate this meeting, but I squared my shoulders and went in anyway.

I was standing in a small living room, filled with blue-suede couches that were faded and worn and covered with cat hair – from the scraggly beast I'd seen outside, no doubt – and two men sat on the biggest one, facing the TV, both holding Xbox controllers. The football game I'd heard outside was not an actual game, but rather a video game. One of the men playing was Lee, his light-blond hair shoved under his usual baseball cap. The other one, with a large stick-on bandage covering the bridge of his nose, was Tess. When I entered the room, Lee put down his controller and turned to me with a large smile. Tess did not acknowledge my arrival. For the first time, I felt no pain in his presence.

“Hi, Stormy,” Lee said, his voice welcoming but his eyes giving away his wariness. He had warned me to stay away, and I had ignored him. I found myself smiling at him, genuinely glad to see him despite the circumstances. I opened my mouth to speak to him, then the man standing near my right shoulder, half hidden in the hallway, caught my eye. I turned and looked at him, my chest filling with dread.

So this was Guthrie. I squared my shoulders and evaluated the man. He was short, shorter than I'd imagined, though that shouldn't be a surprise since Lee wasn't that tall, either. I guessed his height at maybe 5'10, 5'11 on a good day, since I myself was 5'9” and we were practically eye to eye. He was balding just at the top of his head, but what hair he did possess was a ruddy golden-red, much like his sister's, with a brushing of white at his temples. His beard was also reddish, but his eyes were that same icy blue as Lee's, and he had that same smattering of freckles all over his face, just as I’d suspected. His eyes were a disconcerting shade. In certain lights, it was almost as if the eyes had no color at all, devoid completely of emotion and feeling. I'd only seen it in glimpses with Lee, who was always amiable and charming, even in the most stressful of situations, but with Guthrie, it seemed to be his natural state. Those eyes had no feeling as they looked me over, and despite the warm smile his mouth was making and the jovial, familiar way that he extended his hand to shake mine, I knew without a doubt that this was a very, very bad man. He might look a little like his son, or an aging, genial Opie Taylor, but he was not a nice man, a good man. I shook his hand and suppressed the shudder that went through my body when his skin touched mine.

“So you're Stormy Spooner,” he said with friendly grin. “Finally, I get to lay eyes on the woman who has entranced everybody I know.”

What utter horseshit. I smiled benignly. “But you've seen me before, haven't you? Just across the road, on the beach? Remember? The day of the storm?” He shook his head, feigning confusion, never losing his smile. “The infamous Guthrie. I can't say I know your last name.”

“And I can't say that I want to tell you,” he said with a laugh. “I prefer just Guthrie. Or Gus, if you want.” He had a lisp. When he said “Gus” it sounded like “Guth.” Now it made sense, though I wondered how anyone – Sloan, Phillip, Lee, or anyone else- had felt comfortable enough to tease this man with a nickname. Everything about him – his posture, his eyes, his very aura – was oozing with malignity. And yet, I wasn't afraid. Not anymore, when I had nothing else to lose.

I looked him over with cool eyes. “I met your wife,” I said.

“I apologize.” He laughed again. “She's not a very warm person. And I heard that she made things a bit difficult for you.” When I didn't respond, he put a hand on my arm, to try and disarm me. My skin tingled where he touched me, and it wasn't a pleasant feeling.

“Can I sit?” I asked coolly, gesturing to the couch where Lee and Tess were perched, and he nodded.

“Of course you can. I know you must be tired. I heard you drove all the way from Boston yesterday.” He leaned past me to embrace Sloan quickly and gave her a kiss on the cheek. I clenched my fists; I wanted him to keep his hands off her, though she made no indication that she was uncomfortable. “Hi, darling. Can I get you both a drink? I've got beer, wine, water, tea...”

“Did you want a tea, Storm?” Sloan asked me, a wide smile on her face. “I can make a pot.”

“No, thanks,” I said, walking over to the love seat and sitting down so I was catty-corner to Lee and Tess. I wanted to keep my eye on the door at all times. “I'm good.”

“I'll take a beer,” Tess said, tearing his eyes from the video game, but he still didn't look at me. He was trying his hardest not to from the looks of it. I stared at him warily; any love or desire I’d felt for him had finally shuffled off to die. What I was looking at was a coward - a shrunken, dejected, shell of the man he used to be. I pitied him.

Sloan ignored his request and so did Guthrie, who had sauntered over and took a seat beside me. Sloan sat in the corner in a burgundy colored easy chair with a blue afghan. She curled her legs up under her, obviously familiar with this house, comfortable here, but she looked so miserable and frightened that I couldn't bear to look at her. She was going to make me lose my nerve.

Guthrie took no more notice of her than he had of Tess. He only had eyes for me, it seemed. “I'm glad to finally meet you, Stormy. But I must say, I’m surprised you reached out to me. After all this time, trying to see you under cover of darkness, you come right out into the light. What brings you here? What can I do for you?”

I took a deep breath. Now or never. Might as well lay it all out there. I was sick of these people. I wanted to go home and sleep for two weeks.

“I have a proposition for you.”

“You do?” Guthrie didn't look surprised.

“Yes.” I steeled myself and dived in. “I think I know what you want from me.”

He smiled. “And what’s that?”

“Access to me, my power...whatever you want to call it,” I said. “You want to see what I can do – paired with you.” I looked him square in the eye. “And I'm prepared to give you that.”

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