In the Dead of Night

by Aiden James

  “Do you mean they tried to cripple him?”

  “Yes…and in so doing they may have killed him anyway.”

  More sobs, and I shared her anguish. Nick might be a self-serving prick, but he certainly never deserved something terrible like this to happen.

  “What makes you certain it’s related to the other attacks going on? There wasn’t a gun or knife involved this time, I take it.”

  “There were no guns,” she said, pausing to study me. I realized, suddenly, that my poor word choice made it look like I didn’t fully believe her stated intuition. “I’m not sure about any knives. The fig tree in his foyer was encircled by a ring of ashes that is being analyzed this afternoon.”

  That was evidence solid enough for me.

  “Ed told Jackie since any of us could be next, we’re likely going to be under twenty-four hour protection like we were the summer before last. He hopes to have that arranged by tonight. It just depends on how soon his superiors can get Williamson County to cooperate. They didn’t offer much help the last time we were quarantined, so we could all be at serious risk regardless.”

  “So, you think these assholes will strike again, despite the fact we’ve reached the end of our Civil War ghost tour, huh?”

  “Yes, I do,” she said, and her deepening sadness was profound. “They’re not done. They will try to kill someone again...I’m certain of it.”

  Body language in a marriage can say so much, and the way she pulled her arms closer to her chest told me that she was terrified we wouldn’t be able to prevent or avoid the next attack. It was a very real threat that our entire little family in Arrington could soon end up in a morgue. If the killers wanted to come after any of us, a cop driving by every hour wouldn’t deter them. I shuddered and tried to focus on finding a better solution.

  “Why do you think they went after Nick? He’s a far cry from being a ghost hunter.”

  “That’s what doesn’t make any sense,” she said, slowly shaking her head. “Unless….”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless his attack is part of a bigger plan the killer has for all of us…and I do mean anyone who has been investigating haunted sites connected to the Civil War. The feeling that comes to me the strongest is that we are dealing with someone very cunning and whose intelligence is extremely high. I’m more certain than ever that this person is a male, somewhere between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five—and probably closer to the younger age in that range. However, his cunning nature makes him seem older.”

  “So, you think it’s just one guy now, and that he has been acting alone?”

  I’ll admit that it didn’t sound like a logical assumption to me. My wife’s gifts are usually quite sharp, and she pulls incredibly accurate information from beyond her physical senses. How that works, I really have no idea. It’s eerie to witness her give names and places to Ed and others, when she should have no clues about any of it. But here lately, Fiona’s been sputtering along as if she needs a metaphysical tune-up. In other words, her impressions might not be on the money this time.

  “No, he’s not acting alone…and you can quit silently debating about my accuracy, thank you very much!” Anger simmered in those brilliant green irises of hers. “There’s three of them…but I can’t see anyone clearly. They’ve always worked together and have known each other for a long time…they could be blood related.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry about that, Fiona. I didn’t mean to question—”

  “Yes, you did, Jimmy. But, maybe I deserved it for not stating what I’ve been thinking lately. I’ve been watching these guys in my mind since Pauline was killed…. I can’t get close enough to see their physical appearance, but they always work together…always, and yet they can be separated by several miles at a time.”

  “You make it sound as if they have some psychic connection to each other. That’d be pretty weird,” I said, before realizing it likely came across as condescending. “I’m sorry—that’s not what I meant.”

  “The words, you did, but not the way you said them,” she said, wearing a knowing smirk that at least lifted a portion of her sadness. “You really need to work on your approach, hon’.”

  “I know…I’ll keep working on it. But hell, at least I realized it without you having to say something first.”

  I offered her a loving smile that was completely genuine.

  “True…but you’re going to have to trust me on this. Listen to what I’m trying to say…and remember it as best you can, because—”

  “You might not be able to remember any of what you’re telling me now, later on,” I said, inadvertently interrupting her in my eagerness to show better support. I had become a cluster fuck of social imperfections during the past several minutes. “Right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  True. When my wife taps into that greater consciousness and begins to rattle off details, often she won’t recall any of it afterward. That’s why she uses audio recordings for the readings she does for her clients.

  Suddenly, Becky knocked on the door, letting us know that the owner, Blake Davis, had just arrived. Of all the days to frigging show up, it would be this one. We rarely see the man, maybe once every few months if at that.

  “Can you wait until later to tell me what else you’re picking up?”

  “Obviously, I’m going to have to do it that way,” she said, reaching for the make-up bag in her purse. “Just cover for me out there for five minutes, and let Blake know that I’m excited to see the new designs for the snack bar.”

  “The one we have is getting a facelift?”

  “Don’t you still think it needs one?”

  “Well, yeah…but I’m surprised Mr. Davis is ready to do it so soon after I suggested it.”

  “He likes you, Jimmy…sometimes even more than I do.”

  Fiona smiled after making her little joke, and blew me a kiss. She silently mouthed ‘I love you’ as I exited her office. Setting up interference for her while she finished composing herself would prove to be an easy assignment. But I truly wished I could’ve learned the rest of what she wanted to tell me. A dire situation was about to get worse.

  ***

  We didn’t get a chance to talk about her earlier psychic impression until late that Monday night. By then, we had already learned what Metro’s police detectives had discovered in their investigation of Nick Rhodes’ sprawling mini-mansion. Apparently, articles found on the property indicated that the assailants who ambushed him had been studying his habits for a few days prior to the attack, and possibly for a full week. They had gathered enough information to sneak inside the home virtually undetected. There were no signs of forced entry, and the video surveillance feeds had all been cut and removed from inside the house.

  Once they attacked Nick in his the bedroom, there was nothing he could do to defend himself, and he was beaten to within an inch of his life. He was found unconscious by his housekeeper when she showed up around 7:00 a.m. She immediately called an ambulance, but by then he had gone untreated for his injuries for more than eight hours. The St. Thomas physicians working to save his life were not optimistic he would ever awaken from his coma.

  The trickle down effect from the attack soon led to a tidal wave of panic by the station. We had already lost the rest of our shows until January that morning, but that moratorium was extended until the first of February by early afternoon. And, a memo calling for a longer hiatus and suspension of our recent contracts until spring, or longer, was now sitting on Ron Powers’ desk for review.

  This whole situation seriously and royally sucked!

  As for Fiona, and her detailed descriptions of this trio of miscreants she was honing in on in her office that afternoon? Other than remembering it was ‘three males working together as a team’, she couldn’t recall anything else from that segment of our conversation. Sounds nutty, I know. But that’s how it truly is when she gets information from beyond the five physical senses.

  It didn�
�t get any better on Tuesday, when Nick’s condition worsened and his mother called for a Catholic priest to be present. Jackie and Tom offered to stay at the hospital to relieve Lisa in keeping Mrs. Valerie Rhodes company, since she’s the only living relative Nick has. She had flown in from Connecticut with a longtime female friend, and it was undetermined how long she could stay in Nashville.

  Following work on Tuesday, Fiona and I sat in the waiting room with Mrs. Rhodes and Lisa, who also arrived after her workday at the station ended. Fortunately for us, Joanna, Fiona’s mom, and her brother, Gerard, didn’t mind staying with us in Arrington for a few days to care for Alex and Ryan in our absence.

  One might think that after such a trying week I wouldn’t have the energy to get together with my Quagmire mates. On the contrary, I needed the distraction very badly. Despite the potential dangers to my person, I finally talked Fiona into letting me join my band buddies Wednesday night for a couple of hours. By then, Ed had gained the approval from his superiors to approach Williamson County for assistance in providing security for nearly all of us—except Tom, whose Metro cop hourly visitations would continue until the perpetrators were captured. Williamson County agreed to help out, but could only provide a Sheriff’s deputy to drive by every few hours. Ed wanted us all to stay in our houses until further notice. But, without a better guard to ensure our safety, none of us agreed to adhere to his request.

  Was I afraid of getting gunned down in the parking area adjacent to the old warehouse we rent a rehearsal room from? Not really. To be perfectly honest, I believed I would endure another visitation from Angie long before someone sought to perform target practice on my person. At least while away from any Civil War ghost hunting activities.

  “Man, you’re life is one screwed up affair, ain’t it?” said Melvin, soon after I stepped into our Madison rehearsal hall Wednesday night. It’s hard to read the big guy, but he smiled and warmly grabbed my shoulder after saying this. “Seriously, Jimmy, me and the guys were just now talking about it all. If some deranged psychopath was hunting me, I’d probably be too afraid to venture out of my apartment in Antioch. You’ve got some pretty big cojonés, man, and I respect you for it.”

  As big as Melvin Schoels is, I found it hard to believe the man could be frightened of King Kong or even Arnold holding two Ak-47s along with an announcement he was back in business—much less a trio of psychopaths that were too chickenshit to reveal their identities to the public at large.

  “It’s really screwed up, man,” I agreed, trying to keep my smile on the weak side. “But, we’ve got an important show in January, and since everyone is going out of town next week, we need all the rehearsal time we can squeeze in this week.”

  “Not so fast, Jimmy,” said Ricky, suddenly appearing from behind the stage. “Michael wants us to get back into the studio in January instead, and hit the second festival in February, down in Atlanta.”

  “Huh? I thought he said we had to start all over again?”

  “He said that, all right—I remember,” Max chimed in, as he emerged from where Ricky had been a moment before. Apparently they were fixing a short in the light system that had finally become annoying during last week’s practice. Then again, the distinct aroma of marijuana wafted toward me as Max approached. It had been there faintly when Ricky appeared, but now it was distinct and getting stronger by the moment. “But, Michael and his contacts in L.A.—the ones who passed on us last year? Well, they have a new outlook about our latest musical direction.”

  “Are you sure y’all aren’t just high on a sweet strain of sativa, and you’ve just now dreamed this horseshit up?” I said, while setting my coat over the captain’s chair in front of the mixing console. “I’ve really had a bad week, y’all, and I’m in no mood for this nonsense.”

  “We’re as serious as shit, man.”

  Dave? It sounded like he was also behind the stage, and a moment later he came out holding the joint that the guys had apparently all been sharing. Everyone, that is, except for Melvin and me.

  “So, what did they say about our musical direction?”

  I could hardly wait to hear the usual Michael Dickenson BS stream that unfortunately would die within a month or so. Just like old times, we’d be excited and flying high one moment, and ready to slit our wrists from disappointment in the next. I didn’t need it—especially not now.

  “They think our latest music might be much more marketable than when Chris was here,” said Ricky, while the other two potheads nodded in agreement. “Michael said they’re talking about a six-figure budget and an advance big enough to support us for two years, instead of the one year deal we had with Chris.”

  “That’s a huge turnaround from when Mike talked to us back in October,” I said, trying to wrap my mind around this amazing news. If it proved accurate, I planned on immediately phoning Fiona to tell her. She could use some very good news after the emotionally draining week we’d endured thus far. “What changed their mind—or, do any of you know?”

  They all looked at each other—and by then, Melvin had removed his bass from its case and climbed onto stage. It was like the big fella was feeling left out of our moment of sweet reverie—despite the enormous role he had already filled as part of our latest lineup.

  “Dragging the River, man,” said Max, wearing a disbelieving smirk. “Yeah, that’s right…your song about some ghost boy has them all going ga-ga over it.”

  “It’s actually a pretty damn good tune, Jimmy,” said Dave, regarding Max evenly. Marijuana doesn’t make everybody a happy camper, I guess. “It’s got a fresh feel that nobody’s doing right now.”

  “Maybe never,” added Ricky, grabbing his Telecaster to start things off that night. He climbed onto the stage and motioned for Max and Dave to join him in getting ready to play. “Mongo’s right…there ain’t nothin’ else like it. And, now they want us to come up with more songs to go with it. So, I’m only going home to Atlanta for a few days at Christmas instead of taking all of next week off. Think you can make time to start hammering out some new tunes with me when I get back, Jimmy?”

  “Sure,” I said shaking my head at how surreal this seemed.

  I had been begging Ricky to help me hash out some new ideas for months, and he had repeatedly made excuses or found other ways to blow me off. It must’ve been some serious enthusiasm on Mike’s part to reignite Ricky’s passion for songwriting. It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t received a copy of the rough mix of Dragging the River from when we laid it out last week.

  “Was it the version of the song we knocked out last Wednesday that Mike heard?”

  “Yes,” said Ricky. “The four of us got together Sunday afternoon and cleaned up our parts, and while we were working on it, Michael dropped by. Once he heard what we had so far, he hung out with us until we finished the final mix.”

  “But, how could you do that with just my scratch vocals to work with?”

  I was genuinely confused. We had never shown our manager anything other than our most polished tunes. I felt a wave of horror sweep through me as I pictured the inevitable mistakes on a first take.

  “You nailed the tune, James.”

  This time it was Melvin who spoke. He had just lit a fresh joint that Max had handed to him. He took a hit and motioned for me to take the next one.

  “Not yet,” said Max, intercepting his precious dope from making it to my mouth as I joined them on stage. “Jimmy boy needs to hear what we did to his song. So, get back down there, relax in the chair and have a listen. Everything’s cued up.”

  Dave laid his drumsticks next to his seat, and the other three slid down next to their amps. I smiled at the thought that a band photo in this relaxed, doped-up state might be a cool thing to try for an album shot. Especially Dave’s expression as he made fun of Melvin for still wearing his sunglasses that were fogging up from the doobie’s smoke drifting in as he took a couple of extra hits before delivering the savory weed to Dave.

  “Are you gonn
a play the damned tune or would you prefer for one of us to do it for you?” asked Max, in irritation. His stoner side is a bit worse than his normal loveliness.

  “No, I’ll play it.”

  Once Dave’s standard count off resounded through our ultra-sweet system, an impressive revision of the song we worked on last Wednesday night filled the room. The ‘nightclub mix’ quality didn’t surprise me since we’ve created some impressive demos before from our rehearsal hall. But for a moment I didn’t recognize the emotionally charged voice belting out the lyrics at some points of the song and gracefully relating the kid’s sense of loss at others. After dealing with Chris’s incredible vocal talent, I never expected something coming from my vocal pipes sounding better than him.

  But on this song it did.

  What would it mean to our prospects if I could duplicate that effort for our other songs we had decided to keep, and the new ones to come? I started to genuinely smile, and then all at once the emotional torrent from everything going on fell upon me.

  “What’s wrong, man?”

  Ricky was the first to arrive as I slid out of the command chair and onto the floor. I was sobbing like a baby and couldn’t stop. The roller-coaster ebb and flow of feelings that ranged from joyful elation to profound despair was more than I could handle. I prepared for Max’s ridicule, or even disappointment from our new guy, Melvin, or the stalwarts who always stood in my corner, Ricky and Dave.

  But when I regained enough composure to look around me, I saw them all hovering nearby. No one laughed at me.

  Even after the song had ended and I joined them onstage to run through the eight tunes we were keeping from our past incarnation as Quagmire, I didn’t receive a single taunt for my second emotional breakdown in their presence within a week of the first one. And, yes, we voted to change our name that night.

  Say goodbye to Quagmire, and hello to Black Dauphine, in honor of the band’s first trip to New Orleans last February. It was during Mardi Gras, and Bourbon street was full of decadent life. Meanwhile, Dauphine was totally dark. One street pulsed with energy and the other felt dead and dangerous. The perfect outlook for a Nashville rock n’ roll band. At least we think so.