The Devil's Beat (The Devil's Mark) Read online

  The Devil's Beat

  (Previously released as: The Devil Made Me Do It)

  By

  R. Scott VanKirk

  Art by R. Scott VanKirk

  Edited by Jessica Knauss

  Errors and Omissions by R. Scott VanKirk

  Published by

  Quantum Duck Ink

  Centennial CO 80111

  ISBN: 978-1492214335

  Copyright 2013

  Dedication

  To my Father, whose soul was not for sale.

  Special Thanks

  To all the little people with big dreams. My peeps.

  Special Note

  While I have taken every effort to write this book in grammatically correct English, if you find an error, please let me know at [email protected] so I can fix it for others. I welcome all comments and suggestions. You can visit me at my web-page to see what else I am up to at Http://www.scottvankirk.com

  Disclaimer

  No person, place, or thing you know, or think you know, is depicted in this book so you can't sue me.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  New York, New York

  Mississippi Blues

  Thriller

  The Sound of Music

  Empty Mansions

  Rescue Me

  Dead Man's Party

  Them Dry Bones

  Burning Down the House

  Southern Comfort

  Strange Brew

  Purple Haze

  Merciful Aid

  Money

  Blinded By the Light

  Magic Carpet Ride

  Nothing to wear

  Falling for You

  Sharp Dressed Man

  Welcome 2 The Party

  The Morning After

  In Your Eyes

  Making Up is Hard to Do

  Dance Macabre

  Where Did the Love Go?

  There's a Tear in My Beer

  There’s Got to be a Morning After

  Monster Mash

  The Kids are Alright

  All Apologies

  A Cask of Amontillado

  Lost My Head

  Back In Black

  Sister Morphine

  Blinded by the Light

  Hail to the Chief

  The Devil's Beat

  A Note from the Author

  Other Titles By R. Scott VanKirk

  The Devil'S Beat

  Fate’s red die is cast

  And now my course is clear

  My choice made true and fast

  Although the price is dear

  Know that my fate is Meet

  I'm dancing to the Devil's Beat

  -Maximilian Faust

  New York, New York

  Max eyed his manager in disbelief. The man had balls the size of melons. He shook the newspaper in his hand at Lucian. “Oops? Lucian, this isn't an oops! You told me the guy was obviously insane!”

  Lucian sat draped with a cat's ease over the overstuffed leather chair in Max's penthouse suite. He rolled his dark eyes. “He was, Max. Grief can do that to a weak mind, but it's not relevant, Max, I keep telling you this will all blow over, and nothing will change. Trust me, it will be all right.”

  Lucian's unflappable calm, which had gotten Max through many a crisis, now made Max want to strangle him. “Trust you? Ha. Been there, done that, got the scars in my asshole! I had to find out from the goddamned newspaper.” Max threw the heavy paper in question at Lucian. The front-page headlines screamed, “Maximilian Faust Lies, Composer Dies!”

  Lucian batted the flying paper aside. It burst apart, and its pages fluttered across the floor. “Bah, it's just a tabloid rag Max. They'll print anything.”

  Max gaped and revised his estimate upwards; he had balls the size of a planet. “It's the fricking New York Times!”

  Lucian shrugged, raised his palms helplessly, and said, “What can I say? It's fallen from its heights of glory. Only a hack rag would use a cheap and tawdry headline like that.”

  Max straightened to his full six-foot-four, closed his eyes, and ran his hand over his spiked blond hair, hoping to calm himself. “Did you or did you not steal 'Sarah's Song' from Norman Denning?”

  Lucian Black flicked a couple of imaginary pieces of dust off his pristine, black, custom-tailored William Fioravanti suit. “Max, that was a completely separate deal that didn't involve you. It doesn't matter where it came from. You were the one who made that song. Only a man with the voice of an angel could do justice to it.”

  He was more slippery than a greased water-balloon. Max had never caught him in a direct lie, but he could prevaricate with unholy skill. “So you did. You stole it and didn't pay him a dime.”

  Lucian raised his eyebrows and squeezed his lips in affront. “I never said that. I'm insulted that you think I would stoop so low.”

  Max narrowed his blue eyes and tried to express the true depths of his frustration. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Did Norman Denning kill himself because you stole the song he wrote for his dead wife?”

  “Who knows why people do what they do?”

  Max eyed the man from his jet-black hair to his custom white leather Nike sneakers. Lucian would never admit his guilt, but Max knew the truth. He wasn't called “Father of Lies” for no reason, but Max still felt betrayed. “I was a fricking idiot to trust you. Of course, that's what you count on, isn't it? Promise the world and give nothing, laugh at the stupid monkeys. You never had any intention to honor our bargain, did you?”

  Lucian's sneer contradicted his smooth baritone purr. “Max, Max, Max... this is exactly what you signed up for. You wanted fame. You got it. You wanted recognition? There is not a sniveling little zit-faced girl on the planet that wouldn't gladly spread for you. You wanted to change lives. How much more change could you ask for? I gave it all to you. I made you great, you ungrateful wretch.”

  Unfrickingbelievable. He had no conception of the magnitude of his sin. What else might Norman Denning have written if he had lived? “You expect me to be grateful for destroying a musical genius? You expect me to be grateful for helping you do it? I wanted to sing, I wanted to make music, not destroy it.”

  Lucian curled his sneer into an expression of utter contempt. “Oh, now you have the moral high ground, do you Max? You knew who you were dealing with. You knew the stakes. Don't give me this weepy ‘I'm so innocent and pure’ whine. You knew better than most who I am, and you never asked from whence your fountain of plenty sprang.”

  The truth in Lucian's words ate away at the foundations of Max's righteous anger. He tried to shore it up. “I thought you wrote those songs.”

  Lucian snorted in disbelief and then barked out a short laugh. “You little dirt worms have the most remarkable ability to lie. You can even lie to yourselves.” He snorted again, and his black eyes glittered under lowered brows. “Father of lies, indeed. If I had half your puling capability to distort and to destroy the truth, I wouldn't be in this crappy little hellhole of existence watching you animals defecate all over it. You know the truth, and you can't face it. You're lying even though you despise yourself for it. You would do anything to convince yourself that this is not your fault. Yet, your anger is only motivated by fear of retribution, not moral outrage. If you look past your attempt at self-deception, you know this is entirely your fault.”

  “You piece of shit. You can't hang this on me. You deceived me. You made me think you were my friend. You led me on, and now you've destroyed me—just like you destroyed Norman Denning. How can I live with that?”

  Lucian shook his head, and his lower lip pouted. “Max, Max, Max, I told you. I told you, and I know you heard me. Creati
vity is not one of my Gifts. I could no more have created that song than you. I was made to be a beautiful thug—Heaven's Bouncer—made to sing in a never-ending, mindless chorus of abject adoration and praise and to deal harshly with any sour notes. I was given many gifts, but I was denied the gift of creation. Of all of His children, only you, you pathetic, ignorant, filthy vermin, were given that gift, and you use it to create lies. You use it to create suffering. You use it to create hatred. You even manage to use it to create destruction.

  “You knew all this, and you chose not to know where your new bounty came from. I have not lied to you, nor have I stolen your soul. You gave it to me. Even without our contract, it would have been mine. You shat upon it and tossed it away. Do not pretend that this bargain was not exactly what you wanted. Besides, you aren't actually that broken up over some pathetic stranger's death— you're more broken up that your part in it became public knowledge.”

  Max could feel himself falling, could hear the truth in those words, but he couldn't accept it. “That's a lie.” He jabbed a finger at Lucian. “This bargain is ended. It's over. Get out of my life, and go back to Hell. I'm done with you.”

  Lucian smiled at him with evident satisfaction. It was the light and happy smile of a man whose plan was coming to fruition. It made Max want to slap the smile right off his face. “Oh, do you think it's as easy as that? Remember, as Dr. Phil says, ‘It takes two people to make a relationship.’ What he doesn't say is that it takes two people to end a relationship as well, and ours has just started. You amuse me. You remind me so much of me when I was young, when all my lovely, precious ignorance was ground to dust. No, my young protégé, we have just started. In case you've forgotten, your soul belongs to me.”

  “Our contract is null and void. You failed to deliver. You've destroyed everything you might have given me. Get out... Get out!” Lucian's lips curled comfortably back into contempt. Max's ex-agent and confidant asked, “Are you sure you can survive without me, little Maxie? Without my protection and help?” He gave Max a moment to think about it, then his features hardened. “Then so be it.”

  Lucian's face opened in exaggerated surprise. Regret tinged his voice. “Oops, you’d better get the door. It's for you.”

  That brought Max to a halt. Before he could say anything more, the chimes, announcing company, played out the haunting melody of “Sarah's Song.” Even now, “Sarah's Song” still nearly moved him to tears. Max could only dream of creating something with its depths of emotional purity and musical genius. It was

  what he had striven for all his life, yet could never manage to achieve. Now, the man behind it was dead. Dead because of Max. He'd wanted to create, but he'd only destroyed.

  Max turned and headed to the door, eager to take out his wrath and self-loathing on whoever had disregarded his “Do Not Disturb” directive. He yanked open the door and stopped in mid-shout.

  Three men in NYPD uniforms stood in the hall. The middle officer showed his ID to Max. “Maximilian Faust? I'd like to ask you to come with us. You have been implicated in the death of a Mr. Norman Denning, and we have some questions for you.”

  Max shut his mouth. Fear coursed through his body, and denial formed on his lips, but he couldn't think of anything to say. He slumped. He turned instinctively to look back at his companion for help. The man who had been there for him through thick and thin. The chair was empty except for Lucian's final comments: A soap-on-a-rope dangling from the chair's back, a pair of brilliant white Nike shoes sitting empty in front of the chair and a sign written in black marker. It said, “Run Fast, and Don't Bend Over in the Shower.” It was all capped by a yellow happy face sporting little, black horns.

  Besides the cops, Max was alone in the room. Lucian Black had abandoned him. It hurt. He'd come to believe that Lucian was his friend and the one person in the world who was always on his side.

  As the four of them were walking down the hall, one of the younger officers held up a familiar plastic case. “Mr. Faust? Do you think you could sign this CD for me?”

  Mississippi Blues

  Over two years later, the publicity had died down and Max had been found innocent of any wrongdoing. He sat in his little Honda, hiding from the intense Mississippi heat while looking at the sad building in front of him. Going through his lists of assets, he had come across this place. It was in a no-name town in Mississippi, and from New York, it had seemed the perfect refuge. Life in New York had become unbearable. Everywhere he turned, people recognized him, people saw the man who'd killed the music. He couldn't take the accusing stares or the secret whispers any more. He couldn't bear the guilt. He needed a place where he could forget his past, his crushed dreams, and just live his life in peace till he died—and probably went to hell.

  The place was trashed. A curse escaped Max as he tried to bleed off the frustration that had been building with every dead end he had hit and u-turn he had taken while trying to find the place. He was obviously the brunt of another joke by Lucian. The once-magnificent antebellum mansion had been badly damaged by Hurricane Mark. Its flood waters had inundated this whole area. While the waters had long since retreated, the dirt, mold, peeled paint, and warped wood remained. Two feet up, a greenish, brownish stain marked the high waterline. Debris was piled everywhere.

  I should have stayed in New York.

  Max considered his options. From the outside, it didn't look like the house was habitable. Just thinking about the amount of money and effort it would take to restore the old building made him feel tired, but he didn't have anywhere else to go. Everything he had ever wanted was gone—irretrievably. I deserve this, he reminded himself. The jury had acquitted Max, but Max hadn't. No amount of contrition would expiate his sins. He tried to flush out his frustration with a deep, slow breath. Might as well take a closer look. Maybe the inside won't be so bad.

  Max hopped from the car onto the gravel ring-drive. Immediately, thick heat and eau-de-swamp assaulted him. Even through the high haze, the sun glared down at him mercilessly. Sweat broke out all over his body, and he was quickly as waterlogged as the old house. It didn't seem possible to Max that you could have a drought in a state where the air carried so much water. Yet, Max had heard it was the worst in a hundred years. Of course, the northeast was in the process of being drowned, and new floods were anticipated as the water made its way south through the Mississippi basin.

  Ignoring the kudzu-laden fountain behind him, he faced the towering house while ineffectively swatting at the bobbing and weaving swarm of mosquitoes courting him. Up close, the house didn't look quite square, and its siding was trying to escape.

  The loneliness of the setting struck a chord within him, specifically C diminished 7. He started humming it and then followed the music where it wanted to go. It started out sad and isolated and then turned sinister with a bass… He caught himself, stopped, and shook his head. That was all behind him now.

  He eyed the distant porch roof and the questionable wooden columns supporting it and tried to decide if there was a danger of it falling on top of him. He reminded himself that he didn't care, and walked up to the massive front door, eying the roof nervously. Just because he officially didn't care if he died, didn't mean that the thought of massive amounts of pain wasn't daunting.

  The ornately carved front door didn't budge when he pushed on it. He went to the large window to his left and peered inside. The dirt covering the glass, the darkness inside, and the glare of the sun defeated his attempts to see into the building. One of the bottommost panes, losing the battle with entropy, was extensively cracked. With no hesitation, Max pulled a branch from one of the copious piles of debris and used it to shatter the remaining glass and clear out the broken shards.

  Breaking the pane was cathartic. Not for the first time, he wondered how to capture it in a song. He caught and discarded the thought and briefly considered breaking more. Filling the air with the delicious crashing, tinkling sound was extremely tempting. He curbed his impulse. It would just be
more work for himself, in the unlikely event that he decided to keep the house and stay here. Max put his hands on the window frame and poked his head into the dark hole. A sharp pain in his left hand caused him to jerk back and smack his head on the top of the frame. He yelled, fell back, and slapped his hands to his head. Immediately, a new pain pierced through both his hand and his scalp as he drove a tenacious shard of glass deeper into both.

  A hurried examination showed him that bright red blood covered his palm and oozed out around the small glass shard embedded there. His touch on the glass sent shooting pains up his arm.

  Life just kept dicking with him. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Max spun around, jumping and stomping his feet.

  He kicked the house. “Ow! Jesus fucking...” The stomach-churning pain that only a stubbed toe can give gleefully had it's way with him.

  He tried to grab his injured foot with his good hand, and he fell onto his butt and then onto his side. He pushed himself back to a sitting position, and doing so, buried the silicon dagger a little deeper into his palm. He jerked his hand back and fell over sideways again.

  Anger provided a temporary anesthetic as Max went after the offending shard. After several attempts and loud curses, he managed to pull it out of his hand and threw it away. Both his hands were now sticky with blood. His face twisted in a snarl. He grabbed the stick lying next to him on the hot, dusty ground, leapt to his feet, and proceeded to break every pane of glass left in the window. It felt good to let the anger have its way. It burned pure and strong, driving away the gray with its short-lived flare.

  A flying shard of glass hit his face. He reflexively dropped his branch and brought his hand to the cut. It stung and his hand came away sporting more fresh blood. Just a little higher and it would have been his eye. Max forced himself to back off and took a deep breath, then two, then three.

  He stood up and inspected his various wounds. Between them, his head was the bloodiest, his hand the deepest, and his foot hurt the worst. When he was done, Max grimaced with disgust at the mixture of blood and dirt on his hands. Without thinking, he wiped his hands off on his shirt. His shirt got nasty without cleaning his hands.