by Bill Myers
Becka walked down a hall also lined with gold and platinum records. On the left was a large, airtight, wooden door. Becka started to grab the handle, then stopped when she noticed the red light glowing above the door. Several seconds later, it turned off. She quickly entered the dimly lit studio.
Mike, Jackie, and Grant stood near a long recording console just a few feet away. It looked like the equalizer section on Scott’s stereo, except it was about fifty times larger. Behind the board sat a bushy-haired guy with glasses. He turned and tweaked various knobs as he listened with the others to the playback of a vocal Doland had just recorded. Through a big picture window she could see Doland, listening to the playback from the vocal booth.
As soon as she entered, Mike smiled and nodded to her. Becka grinned back. She instinctively pulled away from the window to a spot where Doland could not see her.
“You guys are acting like a bunch of wimps about this fire-cannon thing!” Doland shouted at the rest of the band through the monitor speakers. “We’re letting the fans down. They come expecting a wild ride. That means the whole ball of wax — fireworks and pushing the envelope.”
“Sure,” Jackie spoke to him through the intercom. “But we’ve gotta have this stuff double- and triple-checked. I’m not spending my life in jail because this stupid cannon of yours takes some guy’s arm off in the tenth row.”
Becka felt her stomach tighten. They were talking about the cannon — the same one that had nearly killed Mike earlier; the same one, only smaller, that she had dreamed about. The image of Mike’s burned face and charred lips screaming in agony was so vivid that for a moment Becka actually thought she saw the scene before her. She closed her eyes, and it went away. Unfortunately, the topic of the cannon did not.
“The cannon will be fine. I told you that. Billy looked at it. It’ll be fine.”
“What was wrong with it?” Mike asked.
“It came loose, all right?” Doland griped. “That stuff happens!”
“What about the night Billy got hurt?” Mike persisted. “What was wrong with it then?”
“I don’t know!” Doland was getting more and more angry. “I’m not an expert on cannons. I just don’t want to wimp out for the big show, that’s all. We’re talking national TV here, dudes. A forty-million-plus audience. Our biggest show ever!”
“All right, all right!” Jackie raised his hands. “Let’s keep the cannon in.”
Grant, the bass player, reluctantly nodded. It was clear that Mike didn’t agree. What was equally clear was that he had just been outvoted.
That decision settled, they went back to the music.
“That last take was great, Tommy.” The bushy-haired producer behind the recording board spoke into his talk-back microphone. “But I’d like to try another one if you can. Try holding back a bit on the second chorus so that it makes more of an impact on the last chorus when you cut loose.”
“You want more on the last chorus?” Doland’s voice through the monitor speakers definitely sounded offended.
“No, no,” the producer replied. “I want the same there . . . just soften the second chorus so that the last one stands out more.”
“That’s what I said!” Doland snapped. “You want more on the last chorus! Just roll the tape, dude.”
“Okay,” the producer said, doing his best to keep the peace. “We’re rolling.”
As the song began, Mike took the opportunity to step over to Becka. “Hi,” he whispered.
She smiled. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“No, no. Doland just wants to sweeten up some of the vocals.”
“Will he mind that I’m here?”
Mike shook his head. “With the bright lighting in his booth and the dim light in here, he can’t even see you. Is everything okay?”
Becka took a breath. “Well . . . yes and no.” Here goes, she thought. “Mike, I really have gotten to like you in these past few days, and I hope we stay friends for a long time, but — ”
“Whoa!” Mike cut her off. “It’s the ‘let’s just be friends’ speech? Already? I didn’t expect that for at least another week.”
Becka smiled. “Sorry, Mike. It’s just that there’s this boy back home that I like and . . .”
“And what?”
“And . . . well, I sort of got carried away last night on the beach with the sunset and all . . . and . . . you. I was letting my emotions get the better of me.”
“Some people call that love, Becka,” Mike said.
Even in the dim light, she could see his softened expression. For a moment Becka began to weaken. But Z’s message coupled with Ryan’s strengthened her. She continued, “I suppose, but I call it . . . well, I call it losing control. I mean, I’m flattered and everything, but I know what I want now, and . . . this isn’t it.”
A slight frown crossed Mike’s face.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Becka continued. “It’s attractive, but . . . I just, I just don’t think I’m ready for a serious relationship.”
“What do you call what you have with the dude back home?”
“We’re friends,” Becka answered. “Well, actually, a little more than friends. It’s growing, but it’s at a slow pace. And that’s the way I like it.”
“Does this mean you’re not coming to the TV concert tonight?”
“I was hoping to, unless you’d prefer me not to come. I do consider you a friend, Mike. I suppose that sounds stupid, but I really do care for you that way. And . . .” She hesitated, unsure if she should go on, but knowing she had to. “I’ve been worrying about you a lot.”
“Me?” He looked surprised.
She nodded, but before she could continue, Doland started singing. Everyone suddenly grew very quiet.
The lyrics had barely started before Becka felt that all-too-familiar chill running across her shoulders.
But it was more than just his voice that caused her to react.
As Mike said, because the lights in the control room were much dimmer than in Doland’s vocal booth, there was no way that Doland could see her. Yet as he sang, his eyes seemed to focus directly upon her. Gradually they filled with more and more hatred. They bore into her . . . and definitely scared her.
The song continued to build. Now Doland seemed to be going into some sort of trance. Becka had seen similar expressions like that before — too many times during encounters with demons. If she had doubted before that Doland had turned the control of his life over to someone or something, she was sure of it now. And whatever that something was, Becka was equally sure it was not good.
A better word would be evil.
Soon Becka found herself doing what she always did when she became afraid. She silently prayed. But this time, she didn’t utter a prayer for help. Instead, she quietly worshiped as a reminder to herself of God’s great power. Thank you, Lord. Thank you for your love, for your awesome —
She had barely started, when Doland suddenly screamed. It was a hideous, terrifying sound that was more animal than human — one that hinted of deep rage and pain.
The producer scrambled to stop the tape. “Tommy! What’s wrong?”
Even stronger chills ran through Becka as Doland suddenly pointed at her. His voice was low and guttural. “Get her out of here!”
“Who?” the producer asked. “Get who out, Tommy?”
Doland glared maniacally. “Get her out now!”
Becka looked up at Mike. Her mouth was bone dry. “He means me.”
“But he can’t even see you! How could he — ?”
“Trust me, Mike. He means me. Can we talk somewhere? It’s really important that we talk.”
“Sure. Let’s go into the hall.” As soon as they stepped into the hallway, he looked down at her intently. “What happened in there? How’d he know you were there?”
Becka took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Mike . . . I think Doland’s under some kind of . . . I think the devil has a stronghold inside of him.”
>
“Whoa.” Mike held up his hand. “Doland’s weird and all, but he’s not . . . possessed. I mean, I know the guy’s a jerk, but — ”
“He went nuts just now because I was praying.”
Mike looked at her strangely. “Praying?”
Becka nodded. “I was praying when he went crazy.”
“Don’t be silly,” Mike said. “Doland didn’t know you were praying. He just doesn’t like strangers there.”
“But he couldn’t see me. You said so yourself.”
The reply caught Mike off guard. “Look, I know Doland’s weird sometimes, but — ”
“Doland is more than weird. You know that better than I do. You said he was into devil worship.” She held his gaze, and after swallowing again, said, “It’s dangerous for you here, Mike. You know the truth. You know what Doland’s about. And if you keep refusing — ”
“Look, Rebecca.” Mike cut her off. There was no missing the anger in his voice. “If you don’t want to go out with me, fine. But don’t preach to me.”
Suddenly Doland threw open the door to the studio. “What is she doing here?!”
“She’s . . . she’s my friend,” Mike said.
Doland yelled loud enough for the rest of the band to hear.
“I’m out of here until Mike’s through messing around with the chicks! I’ll be in the bar next door!”
He started toward Becka. She braced herself, but he did not touch her. Still, even as he passed, his glare was so intense that she found herself taking a step back.
Something evil was at work there. She knew it beyond the shadow of a doubt.
8
Doland stormed out of the studio, letting the door slam behind him.
Mike looked at the floor and slowly shook his head. “Well, that about does it for today. I’d say his concentration is definitely blown.” He turned to Becka. “Listen, you want a ride back to the hotel?”
“What about Scotty?”
“What about me?” Scott asked as he strolled up with Billy and Jackie.
“We’ll take him home,” Billy offered.
Becka hesitated. “Okay . . . I guess we’ll see you back at the hotel, then.”
“Sounds good to me,” Scott said. Without another word, he turned and followed Billy and Jackie out the door.
As soon as they were in the parking lot, Jackie turned to Scott and asked, “Are you coming to the broadcast party?”
“Sure,” Scott said without thinking. “Where is it?”
“House up in the hills,” Jackie replied. “Starts in a couple of hours. It’ll probably be a little wild.”
Scott knew that he shouldn’t go. Something felt wrong. He even thought about praying about that feeling. But the broadcast would begin in just a few hours. After that his job would be over. Tomorrow he would be back on the plane heading home. The band would just be a memory.
Before he could stop himself, he answered, “Sure, I’ll be there.” He tried to ignore the prickly feeling at the back of his mind that seemed to grow stronger.
In Mike’s limo on the way home, Becka said another silent prayer. It was time to bring up the subject of the band again. This time she hoped that Mike would understand. “Mike . . . I . . . I want you to know something. It’s only because I care about you that . . . that I think it’s important for you to think about leaving the band.”
Mike’s eyes flashed anger. “You sound just like my father when you say that.”
“Don’t you think your father cares about you?”
“Sure he cares about me. But he wants to control my every move too.”
“Isn’t that just because he loves you?”
“You don’t know him.”
“No, I don’t. But I do know that God still loves you.”
Mike made a face. “Please . . .”
“Mike, don’t confuse your feelings about your dad with your feelings about Jesus. Your father may have been a pastor, but he wasn’t perfect. Christ’s love is perfect. Don’t turn your back on him.”
Mike sighed. “I suppose now you’re going to tell me that Jesus wants me to quit the band too?”
“Do you think Jesus wants you to sing songs that give glory to Satan?”
Mike shook his head. “Becka, that’s just part of the show!”
As the car pulled into the hotel’s parking lot, she turned and looked him straight in the eyes. “Even you don’t believe that.”
He glanced away.
“Besides, why pretend to like the devil just to sell records? How do you think that affects your fans?”
“Look, Rebecca — ” Mike’s voice was cool and even — “I used to think you cared about me. Now I’m not so sure. I don’t know what the deal is, but — ”
“Mike — ”
He cut her off with an angry shake of his head. “Hey, if you don’t want to go out with me, that’s cool with me! That’s your business! But I’ll live my life my way! I don’t need your preaching!”
His words stung Becka. She had tried every argument she knew. Nothing had worked. She was sad, frustrated, and mad. Okay, fine! If he didn’t want to listen, if he didn’t want her help, that was his business. She threw the limo door open and stepped out. “If that’s the way you want it, Mike Parsek, then that’s the way you’ll have it!”
She slammed the door and stalked toward the hotel. She could feel his eyes on her. A moment later she heard the limo squeal off down the driveway.
When Becka returned to the suite, she snapped on the computer. A message awaited her.
“Mom,” she asked, “has Scotty seen this?”
Mom shook her head. “I don’t think so, dear. He’s been in the shower for quite a while.”
Becka nodded and clicked on the message. It was from Z.
Rebecca: Don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater. Contact me as soon as possible. Z
Becka frowned. “What does that mean?”
“What does what mean, honey?” Mom asked from across the room.
“ ‘Don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater.’ ”
Mom laughed. “Oh, that’s an old expression. Your father used to use it all the time. It means don’t lose sight of the big picture.”
Becka scowled as if she still didn’t understand.
Mom smiled. “Sometimes people get so caught up with a little problem that they lose sight of the overall good. You know, like not seeing the forest for the trees.”
Becka felt more confused than ever. “I sort of understood you until you got to the trees part. I think I’ll just wait to see what Z says.”
Mom nodded. “Sounds like a good idea.”
“I have to talk to him anyway,” Becka continued. “I’ve gotten nowhere with Mike. The big TV concert is tonight, we go home tomorrow, and not a thing has changed.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s obvious Mike should quit the band. I mean, Doland is so far gone he’s practically growing horns. But Mike just won’t see it. I’m afraid we’ve wasted Z’s money and our time. So we might as well — ”
She came to a stop as Scott emerged from the bathroom. First, there was the towel on his head, which, frankly, looked kind of stupid. Then, after he took the towel off, there was the shock of red hair sticking straight up from his forehead. Not red like a redhead — red like a fire engine.
“Scotty!” Mom half gasped, half shrieked. “Did you dye your hair?”
Scott fingered the rest of his brown locks. “Uh . . . yeah.”
“Why?”
“I figured it would look cool.” Scott tried to say it with a straight face, but Becka could tell that he was pretty mortified himself.
She did her best not to snicker, but it was a losing battle.
“What?!” Scott snapped. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing’s wrong with it,” Becka said, trying to hide her laugh with a cough, “if you’re a rooster.”
Anger struggled with humor on Scott’s face. Humor won out whe
n he glanced at his reflection in a mirror. “I guess not everybody looks good in red,” he said with a laugh.
“You march right back into the bathroom and wash that stuff out!” Mom ordered. Suddenly she looked a little scared. “It does wash out, doesn’t it?”
“It’s just Kool-Aid, Mom,” he said. “Most of it will come out in one wash . . . unless you’re a blond.”
“Then go wash that Kool-Aid out of your hair this instant.”
Scott headed back into the bathroom. This was one experiment that had obviously failed.
Becka said nothing more about Scott’s hair until after he washed it and sat drying it vigorously with a towel. “You wanted to look like a rocker, didn’t you?”
Scott stopped rubbing for a minute. “I wanted to look . . . different. Like somebody else besides plain ol’ Scott.”
Becka nodded. “I kinda went through that a few years ago.”
Scott laughed. “You mean when you got that French haircut?”
“Yeah,” Becka said, joining in the chuckle. “It did look pretty weird, didn’t it?”
Scott shrugged. “Yeah.” After another moment, he continued. “So . . . you and Mike are quits?”
“We’re friends. That’s the way it should be, don’t you think?”
“Yeah.” Scott nodded. “I mean, you can’t forget about Ryan. He’s pretty cool. But it was kinda cool to think I had a sister dating somebody famous.”
Becka smiled in spite of herself. She grew serious moments later. “Scott, I’m worried. I think the band could destroy Mike . . . By the way, I’m not sure it’s doing wonders for you.”
Scott shook his head. “You’re way off base about the band, Beck. I know Doland’s a little weird, but Jackie and Grant are okay. And Mike’s cool.”
Becka decided not to mince words. “Scott . . . Doland worships the devil. He’s a satanist.”
“No way!” Scott almost sounded hurt. “That’s just an act! It’s just so they can sell CDs!”
Becka shook her head. “It may have started out as an act, but it isn’t anymore. And even if it is, think about it. They’re pretending to like the devil just to sell more CDs. That’s pretty sleazy, don’t you think?”
