A Harmony for Steve

Chapter 1-3

He lay atop his perfectly made bed fully clothed in dress shoes and socks, khaki dress slacks, and a white button-down short-sleeved shirt with a light blue tie and a cross tie pin. His mouse brown hair gripped his skull like a winter watch cap, parted with a geometrically straight part on the left-hand side and combed tightly down then secured in place with a few oily splashes of hair tonic. His skin looked nearly as pale as his white shirt and did nothing to highlight his unremarkable brown eyes.

Anyone looking at Charles Galton would immediately label him as a likely intelligent young man with a sweet temperament and a sunny disposition. He dressed well. He rarely spoke out of turn or offered an unkind word. He had never had a girlfriend. He resided in a Christian home, had been baptized at the age of eleven, and was active in his youth group. He made straight As in a private Christian high school and actively participated in Computer Club. In a few years, he would obtain a degree sufficient to begin a lifetime of work as an accountant or an engineer.

In the upper-middle-class suburban home surrounding him, his bedroom looked exceptionally well ordered, uncluttered, and organized. Most young men in the middle of their sophomore year in high school had some trophies or keepsakes on display and the posters of fast cars or popular sports figures of a few short years before began to make way for posters of beautiful women usually adorned in bikinis. Charles had neither trophies nor posters in his room and never had. Besides the bed, the single bedside table sporting a simple lamp, and the five-drawer chest of drawers, only a bookcase and a small desk broke up the space. No one looking at the picturesque upper-middle-class suburban home, or catching a glimpse of Charles Galton himself engaged in any public activity, would ever guess the nature of his dark secret.

Lying perfectly still in the very center of his bed, Charles closed his eyes and allowed himself to silently pray a quick prayer to his master. “Oh, Lucifer, bringer of light, make my hand steady and quick that I may serve you well tonight.”

The fact that he had inadvertently prayed a little rhyme pleased him and he hoped it also pleased his master. The harsh strains of the acid rock band blaring in his ears made his prayer to Satan feel even more delicious. He opened his eyes and spotted his mother standing in the doorway of his room. He hit pause on his MP3 player and sat up with a warm and welcoming smile.

“Hey, Charlie Brown,” his mother greeted. The nickname made him want to set her on fire and burn her alive, but his warm smile never faltered. “I called for you a few times.”

Charles’ lips twitched, and he kept himself from sneering. “Sorry, mommy. I guess the music was too loud.”

She clucked at him like a sick chicken. “You know better, Charlie. You’ll hurt your ears. Anyway, Frankie D is downstairs. You ready?”

He carefully moved to the edge of the bed and then stood up very smoothly but without revealing any of his newly discovered power. One day she would realize how powerful he was, but he had to deceive her until that day. “All set, mommy.”

He picked up his carefully packed backpack, and they went downstairs to find Francis Dawkins, aka Frankie D, standing in their entryway speaking with his father about tomorrow’s trip to see Harmony Harper playing at the children’s benefit. Oh, absolutely standing because sitting down would be imposing. Sitting down would be taking advantage of your hospitality, Mr. and Mrs. Galton. I’ll just be a moment and thank you so very much I just couldn’t possibly impose.

“There are going to be all kinds of secular groups there, too, of course. But Harmony Harper is worth a tank of gas, I think. We don’t have to hang around for any of the more objectionable groups, you know.”

Francis Dawkins was the kind of youth minister that passed every kind of parental inspection. He always wore a tie, and he always carried a little black New Testament. He smelled clean, like vanilla and drugstore aftershave. His clothes smelled like dryer sheets and the creases in his slacks could slice carrots. He was perfectly polite at all times and at all costs. He was youthful, single, always had a clean joke, and kept his thick beard shaved so close that his chin almost looked blue. He had warm hazel eyes and a ready smile that conveyed habitual kindness. Charles wanted to be Francis Dawkins when he grew up.

“Well, there he is. Hey there, Charles. How are ya?” The right hand, the hand not crating around the little black New Testament, shot out as if spring-loaded, as if activated by the smile of greeting like some kind of zany switchblade knife.

“Hey, Pastor Frank. I’m good.” He shook hands, and their mutual smiles grew perhaps a bit secretive or even furtive when each of them pressed their fingers into each other’s palms in a certain way. Charles knew his parents would never catch on to the secret handshake and the fact that they could do it right there in plain sight made his heart race.

His dad spoke. “What’s the agenda?”

Francis replied, “Cookout and bonfire at the church tonight then we’ll have the lock-in. At ten in the morning, we’ll load into the church van and drive to the concert. It should be terrific.”

His father patted him on the shoulder. Charles managed not to shudder in absolute disgust and revulsion. “He’s a good boy and works so hard in school. He deserves a treat like this. Have a good time, son.” Charles imagined chopping his father’s fingers off one by one unless the oaf took them off his shoulder. How had this creature lent him half of his DNA? Perhaps he was really adopted.

His mother appeared from the den. “Speaking of Harmony Harper, have you had a chance to listen to her latest CD?” She shoved a brand-new CD case under Pastor Frank’s nose. It was purple, like all of Harmony Harper’s CDs, and still had the cellophane wrapper on the outside. “I was picking up my prescription this afternoon when they were delivered to the drugstore. Lucky I got it, really. The news is saying that she sold out in record time today. This is the one with the song with that little sick girl.”

Francis Dawkins made his face look beatific, forming his mouth into the shape of an angelic smile. “That is fantastic, Mrs. Galton. Is this copy for Charles?”

She beamed and nodded. “I know how much my Charlie Brown loves her voice. He’s always listening to her songs.”

Charles tasted bile in the back of his throat but kept his smile intact. Instead of saying how much he wanted to hurt this woman, he managed, “I love you so much, mommy. Thank you. Can I take it with me?”

Francis nodded as if the answer should be obvious. “You better take it with you, man! That will be great! Maybe you can get her to sign it at the concert tomorrow!”

Burning pain between his fingertips jolted Steven Slayer to awareness. Cursing, he dropped the cigarette butt on the floor and shook his hand. He must have zoned out holding it. Gratefully, the burn was far from where he held his pick. It would not do for the lead singer and guitarist of Abaddon to find himself unable to strum his Stratocaster because of a party foul. With blurry eyes, he found the burnt-up butt and ground it beneath the heel of his boot without any consideration for the terra cotta tile floor beneath his heel.

Everywhere he looked, Steve saw intoxicated people—sitting on couches, leaning against walls, lounging on cushions on the floor. Where had they all come from? The loud music and smoky air made his stomach turn. He had to get out. Standing, he stumbled over the body of a woman on the floor at his feet, crashing into the glass coffee table and falling to the ground as glass and bottles and pills went flying. Somehow, he managed to turn his body and land hip-first instead of hand-first, saving his golden tickets from getting slashed to ribbons by the glass, making sure he would live to play his guitar another day.

Someone must have found it amusing because he heard drunken laughter coming from the low couch covered in bodies. Clumsily, Steve got to his feet and stumbled through the house, pausing in the game room when he saw the circle of girls sitting on his pool table passing around a large bong. Some part of his brain tried to work through the haze of whatever drug he’d last consumed and tell them to get off his forty-thousand-dollar hand carved rosewood table, but his heavy tongue wouldn’t form the words. Instead, he pushed through the double doors and stumbled out onto the patio.

A man sitting near a fire pit strummed a guitar. How that person thought he could be overheard from the loud banging Abaddon music coming through the house speakers puzzled Steve’s intoxicated brain.

The fresh air brought a moment of clarity. Away. Steve had to get away from this house full of people. He fell off the patio and onto the sand. Now on his hands and knees, he thought if he could just get to the water, a dunk into the cold waters of the Pacific Ocean ought to clear his head.

He fell twice more trying to get to the surf. The farther away from the house he got, the more he could hear the sound of the waves hitting the beach and the fainter the music became. Planning to strip as he walked, he kicked off his leather boots. When he reached to rip off his shirt, Steve realized he wasn’t wearing one. When had he taken off his shirt?

He half stumbled, half fell into the water and let the next wave carry him away.