Mike held his breath. Though he’d been there for this recording, in his mind’s eye he watched Killy fall apart, having to take breaks to compose himself. Mike’s heart broke all over again.
“What truth is that?” Caleb prodded.
Killy’s sigh came through the airwaves loud and clear. “While folks around the rodeo know me as Killy Amos, Harland Amos’s boy, rock fans know me by another name.”
The dramatic pause Caleb suggested gave listeners time to speculate. “What name is that?”
Again, Caleb had signaled for a pause. Mike could almost hear the deep breath Killian had drawn in before speaking. He clutched Killy’s hand tighter. “Killian Desmond, lead singer for Trickster.”
Caleb gave an exaggerated gasp. “Trickster? But… but the tour bus drove off a mountainside, killing the whole band.”
At this point Killian had called for a break, but the podcast continued on without interruption. “That’s what the papers believed, and what I believed too at the time.” The Killy on the radio gave a nervous laugh. “In fact, I didn’t realize I still lived for about two weeks. By then my bandmates had been buried. I didn’t even get to attend their funerals.”
The recording didn’t cut off quickly enough to hide Killy’s sob. Anyone listening would hear the anguish in his voice, and know there’d been more. A few seconds later—approximately an hour at the time—Killian continued. “I wasn’t in a very good state of mind. I mean, I’d recently lost my mother, I lost my brother.”
Another pause. “I took to the road, playing pickup gigs because I couldn’t leave the music entirely. Hit the rodeo with my dad, Harland Amos. Then the lure of the music pulled me back in.”
They included small talk, nothing earth-shattering, just enough to whet appetites for more.
“What message do you have for our listeners?” Caleb asked, the question agreed on beforehand by Killian.
“That I’m alive. Hey, y’all. And I’m back.”
“By back, do you mean you’re picking up where you left off with Trickster?”
“I can’t tell all my secrets in one shot, can I?” Mike easily imagined Killian’s faked laugh.
“I suppose not. Tune in for next week’s podcast, folks, when Killian Desmond is once again my guest, sharing his plans for the future.”
Throughout the entire podcast, Killian had clung to Mike’s hand. Whatever he needed, Mike freely gave. Killy let go, switching the radio off and then dashing at his cheeks with his hand.
“You did good, Killian.” What else could Mike say to reassure him?
Killy let out a half-hearted chuckle. “I’ve done better, but I’m a bit rusty.”
Pandemonium likely broke out now, reporters scrambling to confirm Killy’s continued existence, seeing how they could cash in on the facts.
Killy didn’t say much as they drove into L.A. Thank God he sat behind the wheel. Mike had never seen so much traffic, so many people. Very few cars were as old as his, and expensive vehicles, while a novelty back home, were the norm here.
Home. Where was that?
The more they drove the more inadequate he felt. Men strolled the sidewalk in designer jeans, and any holes were artfully ripped, without the touch of “I got ‘em stuck on barbed wire” realism.
This was Killian’s world?
They’d both stopped singing, working on song lyrics, and in the back of Mike’s head, an old lady organist played funeral music.
At long last they climbed a winding road, elegant mansions on either side of the street, some peeking up over brick walls. Whoa! His whole town wasn’t worth the price of the last home they’d passed.
They turned off the street. Killy leaned out the window, punched a few buttons, and the gate swung back. He drove inside, not a bit impressed by the glass and stucco creation in front of them. They bypassed what looked to be an enormous garage and pulled up to the front steps.
“We’re, here,” Killy said. He stared out the window at the late model Mercedes. “Oh, fuck.”
25
Gus was the last person Killy wanted to see two minutes after coming home for the first time in three years. “Just what the hell did you think you were doing with that podcast? If you’d simply told me you were ready to make a comeback, I’d have set up a press conference. Instead, you make your big revelation to a nobody!” Gus paced back and forth in the living room, anger giving the impression of a much larger individual than his 5’5” 120-pound self.
Killy so did not need this shit. “I’m Killian Desmond. I chose to reveal myself to an old friend. You got a problem with that?”
