The Devil of Echo Lake (35 page)

A yellow convertible sports car cruises through the fog. Flint is driving. He will later tell the police that Billy Moon called from the back seat for him to pull over
—
he wants to take a piss off the most beautiful bridge in the world because you only live once. The bass player in the passenger seat will confirm this quote verbatim. “His exact words, dude.” Was Mr. Moon drunk? the police will ask. Maybe. Yeah, probably a little drunk. They are driving him home after a session at an undisclosed Bay area studio where they have been writing and recording an album. The A&R guy has asked Billy’s band mates to escort him.

There are no other cars on the bridge, and it does look beautiful lit up in the mist. Why not take a moment to enjoy the view? It’s quiet up here, and it looks like Billy really does have to piss; he’s bouncing up and down in the backseat, rocking the little car around. As soon as the car comes to a full stop, Billy jumps out and climbs the railing. His friends shout at him to get down. He holds a thick metal cable and leans out over the bay like a pirate in the rigging, moisture beading in his long black hair. A wave of fog sweeps over him and when it clears, he’s gone.

They call his name. They tell him to quit fucking around. It’s not funny. There is no reply. Flint calls 911. He passes a breathalyzer. He can’t say if Billy fell or jumped.

Was he depressed lately? Sometimes, sure. But that’s just Billy. Besides, he hated the record they were making.

Both of the musicians agree to drug tests. Remarkably, they come back clean. The police stop short of polygraphs because the two have no motive for pushing the singer, and their stories match perfectly in private interviews. The victim has a history of mental instability.

The body is never recovered.

Epilogue

The postcard appeared in Jake and Ally’s mailbox one morning in early March, among the bills and equipment catalogs. Jake removed the rubber band from the bundle, plucked the one friendly looking item from the financial jetsam that had washed up on his little island this fine morning, and examined the image on the card. It was a photograph of a Himalayan mountain goat perched on a craggy cliff. Jake flipped it over. The postmark was smudged, but the stamp said NEPAL. The few lines of handwriting were in a slanting scrawl that reminded him of lyric sheets he had once handled.

Dear Jake,

The Greek isles were beautiful. Nepal is truly awesome. Next stop, India, where I plan to stay a while. Found your address at an internet café in Kathmandu. Hope you are well. You can put it out now. Buy a nice house. Burn this.

B

The End