Free Night Of The Beast by Harry Shannon Page B

features glaring back at him in disapproval. Two needs grew: To work again, and to go back to that place he'd been so eager to escape from — Two Trees. Nevada sunshine, flat, open land dotted with pale blue sage.
    I will try to write a different kind of song , he thought. One that can't be twisted. Perhaps a lot of songs — who knows? But not here, not in California.
    Home. Once again, the call to return was the only clear voice in his head. Soon it captured him completely. He hadn't been back since his eighteenth birthday, more than fifteen years before. Despite the sad memories he knew he'd awaken, Peter suddenly longed to see his Uncle's redwood cabin. His old friends, his past. He needed to make peace with it.
    Los Angeles was cruel like the desert, but impossible to fathom. It was skyscrapers, crowded streets, neon lights and the stench of freeways.
    Just do it. Why not now?
    One August morning he hurriedly packed his guitar and some clothes, locked up the boring little apartment, jumped in his new car and ran like hell. He found himself swerving in and out of traffic, impatient to be out in the open.
    The Hollywood Freeway looped in dizzying circles, but in time sent him on into the arms of the pitted and bumpy San Bernadino Freeway. He passed Pomona, Hemet, the outskirts, then the state line into Nevada. He ripped North and East, enjoying the wind in his hair and the warmth on his skin.
    The desert greeted him warmly. He loved the smell of the sage and the squint-inducing brightness of the sunlight. He kept going, even turned on the radio until the California music dissolved into obnoxious static. He stopped to stretch, then took off again.
    Less than three hundred miles from Two Trees, he stopped for gasoline. The convenience store was the only building for miles. For the first time, he noticed a car directly behind him. The driver was Latino, strikingly handsome. He drove past without looking and stopped by the pay phone. At the pump, Rourke felt a strange flutter of alarm. He brushed it away. Just nerves, that's all.
    As a skinny, pock-marked kid began to scrape dead insects from his windshield, Rourke walked over towards the bubbled phone booth for a look at the far horizon. The handsome Latino was now inside the booth, gripping the receiver tightly. He seemed to be listening to someone, yet his lips were moving. Something about the man disturbed Peter, but he could not quite place it. Then it struck him: The man was reciting the lyrics to Peter's hit, "Devils Reign." What an odd coincidence.
    "Hey, mister."
    Rourke turned, only half caring. "Yeah?"
    The kid scraped some squashed gunk from the tinted glass and winked. "What's the last thing goes through a bug's mind when it hits your car on the highway?"
    Peter shook his head.
    A proud grin. "Its asshole."
    The olive-skinned man in the phone booth glanced at Rourke, but quickly looked away. He had stopped moving his lips. Another flicker? No, Jesus, take it easy .
    "Asshole, get it?"
    The kid seemed delighted with himself. He cackled and returned to work. Rourke eyed the mountains and replayed parts of his childhood on an inner screen. He sensed someone behind him and spun around.
    "That you, Peter?"
    Rourke tracked the familiar voice. The man was lean, about his own age. He wore faded jeans and a cheap red-and-white cowboy shirt. His features were partially obscured by a full beard and moustache, but the eyes gave him away. Inocent to a fault; childlike, direct and honest. Peter grinned and stepped forward, extending his hand.
    "Well I'll be damned. Robert?"
    They hugged. Robert Reiss produced a shy bark of restrained, nervous laughter. The two men looked each other over, remembering. Peter couldn't wipe the smile off his face.
    "Good to see you, Bobby."
    "Likewise."
    Two beats, then: "What brings you up this way, Pete — slumming?"
    "Escaping, I hope."
    A penetrating look. "Explain that, please."
    "Just had to get away," Rourke continued, uncomfortable.