by Bill Myers
Scott looked at her, then shrugged, as if to say that that was just her opinion. But Becka could tell by the way he clammed up that he was thinking things over.
“Scott!” Mom shouted the instant he stopped drying his hair and let the towel fall around his neck. “Your hair . . . It’s . . . it’s yellow!”
Becka put her hand to her mouth in surprise, but a laugh still escaped. “I’d say it’s kind of green too.”
Scott groaned. “Oh no!” Apparently the Kool-Aid wasn’t as easy to wash out as he had thought.
Mom sprang into action. “Get your shirt on. We’re going to the beauty parlor in the lobby to ask their advice.”
“Mom . . . ,” Scott complained. “That beauty parlor’s for girls!”
“Sorry, Scott,” Mom said as she handed him the shirt. “We’ve got no other choice!”
With another loud groan, Scott slipped on his shirt, resigned to his fate.
As soon as they left, Becka noticed the little Z blinking on Scott’s computer. Maybe Z was emailing her back. She crossed to the keyboard quickly.
9
With fingers flying across the keyboard, Becka carefully explained to Z what had happened with Mike. She then asked him to clarify his last message about the baby and the bathwater.
Z’s reply was swift.
Many Christians think that members of a band like the Scream are not worth loving.
Becka quickly typed:
The guys in the band aren’t bad. They’re just confused. Mike is cool though.
Z’s response again was swift.
So why are you throwing him out with the bathwater?
Becka suddenly felt guilty and didn’t like it. She quickly shot back:
I told him to quit the band. It’s not my fault if he doesn’t listen.
Besides, he wanted TO GO OUT WITH ME. What about Ryan?
Z replied:
Are you angry at Mike or at yourself?
As Becka thought about that question, the memory of the evening she spent at Zuma Beach with Mike replayed itself in her mind. She slowly typed:
I shouldn’t have let my guard down around him. I think I was caught up in how I felt.
Z’s next words gave Becka a sense of relief.
Wisdom is often gained at a price. You have learned. Forgive yourself and move on. Just because Mike is not the person who should be your boyfriend doesn’t mean he can’t be a boy who is also a friend.
Becka nodded as she read Z’s reply, before quickly explaining her growing fears for Scott. Z replied:
You and Scott are doing what most Christians do when confronted with a culture or group activity that’s new to them. They either want nothing to do with it or the people who participate in it (as in your case) or they get so involved that they get caught up in it (like Scott).
Becka typed:
What do I do about Scotty?
Z replied:
Scott’s clothes and hair are not the problem. The question is, is he compromising his beliefs?
Becka quickly typed:
How will I know?
Z answered:
Start by asking him. This evening will be your last chance to reach Mike. Be careful of Doland. And remember Ephesians 6:11: “Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes.” Z
Becka signed off, her mind in a whirl. What could she do to help Mike? She had already told him that he should quit the band. What else could she say? She understood why it was hard for him to leave, but the more she recognized the growing evil, the more the pluses of leaving outweighed those of staying, no matter how popular the band was.
And then she heard it — a light scratching or rubbing sound that seemed to come from the bedroom she shared with Mom. She went into the room and turned on the light. Just as suddenly, the sound stopped.
It probably came from the next room, she thought. I’ll bet even in the best hotels you sometimes hear people laughing or making noise in the next room.
Becka waited half a minute before she shut off the light and returned to the main room of the suite. As she flopped on the sofa, her mind drifted back to Mike. Maybe he didn’t need to be told that he should give up the band. Instead of hearing what he should do, maybe he just needed to be reminded of God’s great love for him.
Being a pastor’s son didn’t always mean having a perfect understanding of God’s love. Sometimes pastors were so busy meeting other people’s needs that their families ended up paying the price. Perhaps Mike did not receive all of the attention he needed. Maybe Mike had forgotten just how loved he was.
Scratch . . . scratch . . . scratch.
There it was again. The sound was coming from their bedroom. But as soon as Becka switched on the light, the sound stopped. This is ridiculous, she thought. But, ridiculous or not, the sound was driving her nuts . . . and making her a little afraid too.
She decided to play a trick of her own. Once again she shut off the light and walked out of the room. Only this time, she tiptoed back in without turning on the light.
Scratch . . . scratch . . . scratch. Sure enough, the sound started again. Scratch . . . scratch . . . scratch. As she listened closely, she suddenly realized where the sound was coming from. It came from the door that connected their suite to the next one! Someone in the next room was trying to pick the lock!
Heart pounding, Becka made a dive for the phone to call the manager, then changed her mind and tiptoed toward the door leading out of the room. All she could think about was getting out of there! But before she could leave the room, she heard the lock click open.
Someone was coming inside!
She looked around, then quickly ducked into the closet, keeping the door open a crack. She suddenly wished that she and Mom had packed more clothes for better camouflage.
As she peered through the crack, she could see two men moving about the room. One was thin and scraggly looking with a mean face. The other was big, burly, and bald, with a small black beard. They quickly moved through the bedroom toward the main room of the suite. As they passed the closet, Becka could see that the burly man carried a large potato sack and the scraggly guy had some rope.
A cold wave of fear washed over her as she realized that they searched for her. They were planning to kidnap her!
Jesus, help me! she prayed.
“She ain’t here,” the scraggly guy called.
“Must have snuck out,” the other grunted. “You think she heard us?”
“Maybe. We’d better get out of here in case she ran to get help.”
“Let’s go,” the big man agreed. “We’ll come back for her tonight when they’re all asleep.”
Becka heard the men go back through the connecting door and relock it. She waited for what felt like hours but could only have been minutes, praying and trying to calm herself. Finally, she opened the closet door and stepped out.
A sudden flash of light blinded her, while a deep voice shouted, “Get her!”
They had faked her out!
Becka tried to run, but big, meaty hands grabbed her. Another pair of hands slapped a large piece of tape over her mouth.
“Get that bag over her!” the deep voice commanded.
Becka felt the coarse potato sack burn her face as it dropped over her head. Then she felt ropes tied around her hands and the bag.
“Got her,” the second voice said. “Doland said to take her to the warehouse.”
“Right,” the deep voice agreed. “We’ll fry her there the same time Doland fries that drummer onstage.”
Please help me, Jesus! Becka prayed frantically.
As rough hands grabbed her, she kicked and wriggled but could only move in short hops. She suddenly felt herself hoisted onto someone’s shoulder.
Please, Jesus, please!
Just then, she heard the hall door open. Scott’s voice called, “Wait’ll you see this, Beck!”
She wanted to shout, but her mouth was sealed tight. She felt herself carri
ed toward the connecting door.
“Beck, where are you?”
Suddenly the light came on in the bedroom. She heard Scott shout and the big man’s voice yell, “Run!”
The next thing she knew she was dropped like . . . well, like a sack of potatoes. She heard the swift pounding of footsteps.
Moments later, a very frightened Scott pulled the bag from her face. “Beck, you all right?”
Becka nodded as Scott carefully removed the tape from her mouth. “We’ve gotta call the cops!” he exclaimed.
When the tape was gone, she gasped for air. “We’ve got . . . we’ve got to warn Mike! I heard them say Doland is planning on killing him.”
“What? Say you’re kidding me, Beck!”
Becka shook her head. As soon as Scott untied her, she tried to call Mike, but there was no answer from his room.
“Wait!” Scott said, looking at his watch. “He wouldn’t be in his room now. He’s at the broadcast party.”
“Do you know where it is? We’ve gotta warn him!”
“Yeah. Jackie gave me the address . . . but . . . we’ll have to take a cab. Mom’s downstairs having her hair done. We need to call the cops too, to get after those guys that left!”
“There’s no time to get Mom or the police!” Becka snapped.
“Leave her a note and let’s get outta here!”
Mike stared at the other band members, trying to block out the sound of the party all around them.
“What about ‘Army of the Night’?” Jackie suggested. “Are we doing the rap part or not?”
“We’ve gotta do the rap part,” Doland insisted. “The fans really get into that.”
“Yeah,” Mike replied. “When we did that in Houston, we almost had a riot on our hands.”
“A riot? Come on!” Doland mocked. “A couple of chairs get thrown and you call that a riot?”
“Some fans got hurt,” Mike replied. “Our fans.”
Doland threw up his hands. “Nobody got hurt bad — ”
“One girl had to get seventeen stitches in her forehead. I’d call that bad enough.”
Doland fidgeted, barely able to contain his anger. “Oh, you’re such a defender of the people now, aren’t you, Mikey? Next thing you know, you’ll be running for office, man.”
Mike shook his head in disgust. He’d had it. “I’m outta here!” He started to leave but turned back. “I just want to know one thing, Doland.”
“What’s that?”
“Is there anyone or anything left in this world that you care about . . . besides yourself?”
Mike turned and walked away, barely missing Doland’s sly smile. As the door closed, Doland turned to the others and grinned. “Now the party really begins.”
Fifteen minutes later, Scott and Becka’s cab arrived at the party site.
“Twenty-two dollars?” Becka gulped.
The cabdriver nodded. “This is L.A., miss. There ain’t no place easy to get to.”
Becka nodded but didn’t completely understand. “Here . . . I’m sorry, I’ve only got fifty cents left for a tip.”
The cabdriver sneered. “Well, ain’t this my lucky day.”
They headed up the walk and rang the bell. Billy Phelps opened the door. “Hey, dudes. C’mon in.”
“Do you know where Mike is?” Becka asked.
Billy scratched his head. “He just left. He and Doland had another argument, so he took off. Doland and the guys left right after that.”
“Oh no!” Becka said. “We’ve gotta talk to him!”
Billy shrugged. “Try the hotel.”
“I . . . I don’t have enough money for a cab.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Billy said. “The other limo is parked in back. Just tell the driver I said it was okay. He’ll take you.”
Becka smiled. “Thanks, Billy. Let’s go, Scotty!”
Scott hesitated. “I’d kinda like to stay here, if it’s okay, Beck.”
She turned to him, not believing her ears. “After all that happened — you want to stay here?”
Scott shrugged, not able to fully explain why he wanted to stay. He glanced around and lowered his voice to avoid Billy’s hearing. “You don’t know for certain that those guys were connected with the band.”
“I heard them use Doland’s name!”
“You probably thought you heard them use his name. After all, you were inside that sack getting thrown all around.”
“Scotty, who else would’ve put those guys up to it?!”
“Scott can ride with us to the gig,” Billy suddenly said, trying to be helpful. “That way he can help us check everything out.”
“C’mon, Beck,” Scott pleaded. “This is my last chance to ride with the biggest band in the country . . .”
Becka wasn’t sure what to do. But she knew she had to get to the hotel as fast as she could. “You say Doland’s already left?”
Billy nodded.
That gave her some comfort.
“Don’t worry, big sis,” Billy said with a grin. “I’ll take care of your little bro.”
Becka slowly nodded. “Okay . . . but be careful.” She ran toward the limo.
As soon as Becka was out of sight, Billy turned to Scott. “So, you want a beer?”
“Uh . . . yeah, sure.” Guilt washed over him the minute the words were out of his mouth, but he just clenched his teeth. So what if he was underage? So what if he hated the taste of beer? What he hated even worse was looking like he didn’t fit in. Besides, one little beer couldn’t hurt, could it?
A few seconds later, Billy had shoved a brew into his hand and headed off, leaving Scott to wander the party, pretending to sip his beer and trying not to look like a geek. He failed in both departments.
It didn’t take long to notice that the people at the party were even stranger than the ones at the party after the concert. Nearly all of them were dressed in black. Several had symbols painted on their faces. As Scott walked around, he realized lots of drugs were being passed around.
Scott managed to avoid the occasional joint that was passed through the crowd, but it became clearer by the second that staying had been a mistake. Seeing the plastic skulls, daggers, and pentagrams all over the place didn’t help matters either.
He knew that he was taking a risk even being here. But after all he’d been through in the past year, he still sometimes questioned whether having faith in God was worth it. Sometimes having faith was like asking for trouble.
He tried convincing himself to be more open-minded, to pretend that the skulls and daggers were just decorations — like a perpetual Halloween party. That might have worked too, if he hadn’t spotted people in the corner chanting some kind of gobbledygook and others in the kitchen burning black candles and joining hands in a séance.
So much for open-mindedness. He was in way over his head.
Scott searched for Billy to get a ride home. He found him kissing a girl in another room. He felt embarrassed having to interrupt. “Hey, Billy . . .”
“Not now, sport,” Billy said without looking up. “Come back later.”
Scott backed out of the room, unsure of how he was going to get out of there. He decided to see if the limo had returned. But as soon as he stepped into the backyard, he sensed that something else was wrong. His head began to hurt slightly, the way it had in past demonic encounters. He spotted Jackie and Grant standing with about a dozen others near a small bonfire and headed toward them.
As he approached, he nearly ran into Doland, who headed up the driveway carrying a small cat. The rocker turned and glared at him but said nothing. Instead, he continued past him and walked to the center of the small circle of people.
Scott watched, swallowing back his fear as Doland raised the squirming cat over his head and pointed it toward the fire. The poor animal was in a panic. It wriggled wildly, desperately trying to get away.
“So, almighty one,” Doland called out, “give to us portions of your power as we offer this sacrifice t
o you.”
Sacrifice! Doland was about to sacrifice that poor cat to the devil. Before he could think about it, Scott shouted, “Stop! What do you think you’re doing?!”
The group turned and stared at him. But it was Doland’s gaze that frightened him the most. In the glow of the fire, the singer’s eyes seemed to shine. As his body began to shake, he looked like a wild man . . . like someone losing control of his will . . . like someone who had just opened himself up to another spirit.
Realizing he’d used up all of his courage with that first shout, Scott silently prayed, Dear Jesus, please help me. I’ve . . . I’ve really been stupid. I’m in way over my head. Forgive me for not praying sooner. Please step in here with your power.
Doland shook more violently. Moments later, Scott’s prayer seemed to have an effect on Doland. He suddenly stopped shaking and took a step toward Scott.
“You want this cat, freak?” Doland yelled, holding the wriggling animal above his head.
Scott nodded. He wanted to speak but didn’t trust his voice.
Doland’s smile twisted across his face as he suddenly hurled the cat at Scott. He managed to get his hands up to prevent his face from being scratched, but his arms weren’t so lucky. The cat’s claws tore into him, drawing blood from three deep cuts.
Scott yelped in pain. Even so, he was glad to see the cat land safely on the lawn and bolt into the night. He slowly backed away from Doland.
Doland continued glaring at him but didn’t come after him. “That’s right!” Doland shouted. “Better get out of here, loser! . . . Get out while you still can!”
Becka’s limo pulled into the big, circular driveway in front of the hotel. She looked up in time to see Mike getting into a cab that started to pull away. She leaped from the limo and chased the cab down the drive, shouting and waving her hands. “Stop! Wait a minute! Mike! Stop!”
