We arrived at Sappho Studios just after 7:00 p.m., with the time zone change acting in our favor. A set of studio passes and a dressing room key were waiting with the gate attendant. That was evidence of more foresight than I'd ever deemed Jesse capable of, a shock I was too nervous and exhausted to fully appreciate. We all held our breath as the attendant wrote down Ghi's name, expecting a SWAT team to fall from the sky at any moment, but he was added to the list without so much as a second glance.
With relief, I relinquished the Honda to a valet. I wonder if it's still in rental circulation, and if anyone who has driven it since could feel the magnitude of what it once carried. I wonder if it still smells like baloney.
I handed out the passes at the rear of the studio, pausing with my shoulder against the door.
"Just keep your heads down and stick with me." I said.
Chaos. No matter how many potted plants and lint-free surfaces there are on set, the behind-the-scenes habitat holds nothing but chaos, and that goes for any production. Cameras and furniture rolled by, hustled between groups of backstage tourists. Everywhere, there were crew members, set managers, guest wranglers, and my own brethren, the assistants, recognizable by their darting pace, cups of coffee, and suicidal expressions. But nowhere on that vast linoleum battlefield did I see the tall physique, golden hair, or oversized sunglasses I was looking for.
I pulled aside the closest manager I could spot, showed him my pass, and asked him where Jesse Cannon would be.
"All his autographs and after-show stuff wrapped up about an hour ago," the guy said, eyeing my three companions with curiosity as they shuffled anxiously behind me. I knew he wouldn't question me about them, not in this environment. Escorting fans is part of being an assistant. As is delivering dessert, if you catch my drift. These three didn’t look like Jesse’s typical fare.
Shaking his head, the manager checked a clipboard and found our man. "He’s in 11B. Down that hall and to the right."
"Has anyone been back to see him yet?" I asked.
He thought for a minute, then nodded. "Yes, actually. A bunch of girls with a group pass, I think. They might still be back there if you—"
"Thanks!"
We left him standing there, watching us panic off into the direction of the dressing rooms.
"How come that guy looked at us like that?" Jackson asked, close behind me.
I flashed my pass at the man guarding the hallway, never breaking stride. "Probably because you’re not wearing assless chaps," I panted. There was no time to explain what that implied. We hustled to the next corridor, which was quiet and empty, and then broke into a full sprint down to 11B.
I smacked the heel of my palm against the heavy door. "Jesse!"
No answer.
"Jesse, it’s me!" I knocked several more times and waited. I pressed my ear to the door. Nothing. With a sinking, hollow feeling in my stomach, I found the key the gate attendant had given me, unlocked the door, and swung it open.
"Oh my god."
My breath halted. The sinking feeling turned into free fall.
The room was a wreck. Everything—every chair, every lamp, every item on the vanity—was overturned or thrown to the floor. The wardrobe was gutted. The television was smashed and the mirror was broken. Shards of glass and promotional photos littered the floor.
No one moved. For a moment, in my mind, this was the end of the trail. Jesse was gone. All possible conclusions were the same: these things had broken in, and they had killed him or taken him or something, and he was gone.
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't see. The room phased into one blur of color, and then it was eclipsed by a face, by arms. Corin had placed himself in front of me and grabbed my shoulders.
"Think. Is there anywhere else he could be? Or anyone else who would’ve been with him?"
My mind raced. It was perfectly reasonable to assume that Jesse had been present during the destruction of this room, but that wasn’t totally certain. I held onto that thought, struggling to think my way through other scenarios, and then—a sudden ray of hope with ten wheels.
"The bus," I gasped. "The tour bus."
"The what?"
I turned and fled the room with stupid hope, and the three of them followed in unquestioning silence. Instead of returning to the backstage area, I sought out an exit to the back lot and made a dash for it, chanting in my head a single ‘please’ with every sprinting footstep down the long corridor. An eternity of seconds later, we burst into the freezing Chicago night air to find ourselves on a vast and gated lot where—glory of glories—Jesse Cannon’s tour bus was still parked.
The bus was a big, sex-red behemoth of a thing, with iridescent trim and black-tinted windows. The tint did little to prevent the general public from guessing who might be onboard, however, since both sides of the bus featured a rather provocative image of Jesse himself, naked and stretched out on top of a piano.
Despite the circumstances, Jackson burst out laughing the second he saw it. I can’t say that I blame him.
I ran, yanking my extensive set of keys from my pocket and finding the right one just as I made it to the bus. My hands were shaking so hard that I could barely get it into the keyhole.
"Just a minute, we don't know what's in there," Corin warned from behind me. Ghi wheezed in agreement, out of breath. I ignored them. The bolt slid, the door unlocked. I didn’t knock, didn't call out first; I just pulled the door open and stepped up into the bus with the three of them following close.
It was dark inside. And warm. The heater was humming. Something moved to the left, and I jumped.
"Jesus, girl, I’ve been trying to call you for an hour."
Jesse peered out from the back room, pulling a T-shirt on. His hair was wet. I could smell the leftover eucalyptus-flavored steam of a shower. He emerged into the main space, looking first at me, then tilting his head at the three individuals behind me. Before he could formally acknowledge them, though, I moved. Correction: I propelled myself forward and threw my arms around him.
"You idiot!" I squeezed Jesse violently, smashing my face so hard into his chest that I am not sure how my words came out clearly. "Someone tore your room apart! What happened?"
He stared over my head at the others, surely as transfixed as they were, then looked back down at me.
"I don't know," he said, gently prying me off. "I didn’t go back there after the show. I’ve been in here, listening to your messages."
"Oh, thank god. Thank god," I said, gasping for air.
And then I pulled away and slugged him. Hard. It was a beautiful shot, truly beautiful—square in the eye. The thick, resonating sound of it was followed immediately by my roared declaration:
"I quit!"
And I did. Employment terminated. I was done. Out. Finished.
Jesse reeled away, stunned, and I whipped around to face the others. They stared back, speechless. Ghi recoiled as if I might hit him, too.
"Take good care of him," I said, with Jesse still gaping and grasping his face behind me. The rest of my words rushed out in a nerve-racked stream. "I won’t say a word about any of this. Consider it forgotten. Good luck with the entire thing. Goodbye."
No one said a word as I stepped around them. Before another second could pass, I tossed my keys down on the bar, stomped out the door, slammed it securely shut behind me, and started walking.
There.
One foot in front of the other. Away, away, away. My throat felt hoarse with a forming lump of emotion. My eyes burned with salt and my face flushed red. I was furious, positively furious. Because of everything that had happened to me in the past day. Because Jesse had knowingly involved me in something beyond any reasonable person’s control.
Because I now had an inkling of what could’ve happened to him. To any of them. And some dim understanding that this was only the beginning of it.
I didn’t know where to go first. A hotel room for starters, then maybe a plane ticket or another rental car. I was quite aware that almost ever
ything I owned was either on that bus or in Jesse’s L.A. beach house. It didn’t matter. I didn’t get far. I took maybe twenty steps before I saw them.
There were four. All women, standing together about fifty yards away, close to the studio door we’d run out of only moments ago. They stood in perfect stillness, watching me.
I stopped cold. Something about these women, other than the fact that they were collectively staring at me, made my blood turn to slush. Two things, actually. The first thing is hard to describe, but I could see it. Even at that distance, and under the harsh street-lamp lighting, I could tell that something about them was off. Something weird. Something wrong.
You know that house in your neighborhood that no one has lived in for awhile? It looks just like all the other houses. There’s nothing specific about it to indicate that no one lives there. Maybe a neighbor is still mowing the lawn to be nice. The shingles and gutters are still clean. It might even have curtains.
But somehow you can just tell.
That, my friends, is kind of what Hollows are like.
C H A P T E R 12
Vessel, Book I: The Advent Page 35
