Davy’s mind whirled. Mr. Nathanson was the one stalking them? He was the one who’d attacked Peter and Mike . . . and had gone after Micky?
“Wh . . . why?” he rasped.
Nathanson scowled and Davy shivered. In the four months since he’d started dating Stella, he’d never imagined that her kindly, sometimes eccentric father could wear such a cold, merciless look as the one he was wearing now.
“I don’t like you, Jones. You’re a Casanova, a charmer—you sweep women off their feet and then dump them when you become bored.” Nathanson began to pace back and forth like an angry panther. “My Stella deserves more than you; she deserves someone who will love her and take care of her. Forever. Not someone who will leave her when it becomes convenient to do so!”
“But how do you know?” Davy said. “Maybe I won’t leave!” His bewilderment was quickly turning to anger. “Maybe Stella and I will stay together!”
Nathanson’s scowl deepened into a snarl. “Not now you won’t!” Beside him on the floor Micky let out a groan and tried to get up; the older man’s boot smashed onto his chest, pinning him to the floor. “Stay where you are, Jones!” he hissed, stopping Davy in his tracks as he prepared to lunge.
“Why them?” Davy demanded. “Why’d you go after my friends? Why not settle this with me?”
“Because my daughter, for whatever reason, loves you. She’s my peach . . . I couldn’t hurt her like that. I figured if your friends were hurt sufficiently, you’d leave. No harm done.”
“No harm!?” Hot rage exploded deep within Davy and he clenched the knife so tightly that his fingers ached. “So . . . how exactly have I been seeing through your eyes all night?” he muttered.
Nathanson leaned a little more weight onto his left foot, dragging a groan from Micky’s chest. “One of the little advantages to being the curator of an art museum. You get to putter around with all sorts of interesting artifacts from every nation on earth. There was a tribe in Africa who believed that ingesting the petrified bark of certain scrub trees, combined with three of the herbs usually carried by the tribal medicine man, could give a person the ability to allow others to see what they see, and feel what they feel . . . it was fortunate that last month the museum received on loan the ceremonial mask and bag of a medicine man of that tribe.”
“So . . . you mean it worked?”
Nathanson grinned. “I guess so. You showed up at the museum mere moments after I made my escape. I barely avoided you when you came roaring after Nesmith, and this one . . . ” he lifted his heel and stomped on Micky’s chest again, “you ruined that.”
Davy winced at Micky’s groan. “Why? Why torture me—torture us—like this?”
Nathanson shrugged. “I was hoping it would help me drive you away. People would look at you as a freak, or at least mentally unstable. Imagine—being able to see through the eyes of someone else. Of course, as soon as I stopped performing the rituals you’d go back to normal, but . . . others wouldn’t know that. And it’s all moot at this point, anyway.”
Davy didn’t like the tone of Nathanson’s voice. “So now what?”
Nathanson’s grin disappeared, and the cold stone mask took its place. “You have to go, Jones. That’s it. I’m sorry it’s come to this.”
Davy took a step back, his grip on the knife tightening. Suddenly Micky’s hands seized Nathanson’s ankle, heaving the other man off and knocking him off balance. Micky gained his feet, grabbing Nathanson by the shoulders. Nathanson brought his knee up into Micky’s stomach; the breath left Micky’s lungs in a whoosh.
Nathanson turned and lunged for Davy as Micky fell, his legs tangling with those of the fallen drummer. Davy tried to get out of the way, but Nathanson’s hand latched onto his shoulders, and he collapsed under the weight of the heavier man. Davy felt his head crack against the floor and stars exploded behind his eyes. He heard Nathanson groan and felt his body stiffen; he forced his eyelids open, staring blearily into the whites of Nathanson’s eyes.
Something warm and wet touched his hand and he looked down. His left hand was still clutching the blade, all six inches of which were firmly embedded in Nathanson’s abdomen. Hot, sticky blood flowed over Davy’s fingers as he shoved Nathanson’s body away.
“Davy?” Micky asked, staring wide-eyed at the body. “Is he . . . ?”
Davy reached out with his other hand and touched Nathanson’s neck. “Yeah, Micky. He’s dead.”
~*~
The police investigation was short and amazingly anticlimactic. Based on the Monkees’ testimonies—and that of their physician—they concluded that it was self-defense and seemed willing to leave it at that. Alfred Nathanson had broken into the beach house with the intent to cause harm to the occupants, and during a struggle, had fallen onto the knife held by David Jones.
The museum board of trustees, wishing to avoid an unpleasant scene, quickly and quietly hushed the matter up, refusing to speak of it in public or otherwise. A thoroughly traumatized Stella was taken to live with her grandparents, who politely but firmly asked that Davy not contact her. Respecting that Stella was as much a victim as Mike or Peter, Davy acquiesced.
The others seemed to want to get back to life as usual. Davy, however, could not let it go that easily. Nathanson’s explanation was not enough to explain the terror he’d inflicted upon all of them. He didn’t want me to be with his daughter so he almost killed me and my friends. He tried to rationalize it but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
One morning when he was once again lying on the couch and staring at the ceiling, a rustle interrupted his musings and he looked down to see Mike sitting next to him on the edge of the cushions.
“Hey there, shotgun.”
“Hi, Mike. What’s on your mind?”
Mike propped his elbow on his knee, resting his chin on his knuckles. Davy winced at the sight of the bandage. “Actually, I came out here to see what’s on your mind.”
Davy sighed. “Nothing, Mike. I’m fine.”
“Well, that’s funny, Davy, ‘cause you haven’t been fine since Mr. Nathanson died.”
“How am I supposed to be fine, Mike? He could’ve killed you! He could’ve killed all of us!”
Mike nodded. “Could’ve. But didn’t. Davy, I know havin’ to see what you saw ain’t gonna be easy to get over, but you have to move on and live your life. You did the best you could, man—you watched out for us and protected us and yourself. That guy was a nut and he was gonna come after us . . . and keep comin’ until someone stopped him.”
Davy nodded. “Why’d it have to be me?”
Mike shrugged. “I don’t know. But you can’t let it eat at you and keep you from livin.’ You do that—live in fear, then Mr. Nathanson gets what he wanted. And . . . I don’t think you should give it to him.”
Davy closed his eyes against the hot sting of tears. He felt Mike’s weight lift from the couch and heard footsteps heading away from him.
Mike was right, as usual. He didn’t have to forget what happened or pretend that it didn’t, but he couldn’t let the experience keep him from his life and his friends. He finally drifted into a shallow, restless sleep, jarred from it by something touching his chest. His tambourine rested silently on his chest, the shiny silver cymblets reflecting the bright sunlight from outside. Propping himself up on his elbows, he saw his bandmates holding or sitting behind their respective instruments, gazing down at him expectantly, as if asking, “Well?”
With a hopeful grin Davy hopped off the couch and joined them.
THE END
Back to Chapter Six
Back to Non Series Main Page
Back To Mich's Universe
