Mike sat on the edge of the bandstand, savoring the peace and quiet.
Babbitt wouldn’t be banging on the door for at least two months—their intractable landlord had been sufficiently impressed with the wad of bills that Mike had shoved into his hand that he had quickly forgiven Mike for banging on his door. Mike had taken the hundred dollars left over and stuck it into the rainy day jar.
Now, as Peter was out grocery shopping and Micky and Davy still slept on, Mike just sat and enjoyed the silence.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had any amount of quiet time for himself. He was always managing the group—arranging gigs, keeping an eye on money, and all the other little details that the head of a household had to wrangle with. It was a job that he didn’t mind—most of the time he enjoyed it. The guys trusted him, looked up to him as a sort of big brother/father hybrid, and though he wouldn’t readily admit it, he felt a flush of pride every time one of the others looked to him to make decisions.
But sometimes when things got to be too much, Mike would find himself wishing for a simpler life, perhaps one where he could relinquish responsibility to someone else for a while. His reverie was broken by Peter, who returned juggling three grocery bags.
Well, back to reality . . .
When the groceries had been put away Mike retrieved the car keys from Peter. “Pete, I’m gonna run up to the music store for some strings, okay? I’ll be back in a little while.”
“Okay, Mike, but wouldn’t it be easier to drive?” Peter said, smiling sunnily.
“I—” Mike stopped, shooting Peter an unamused glance, which immediately softened when he saw that Peter was only kidding.
“Have fun,” Peter said as the door opened.
Mike looked over his shoulder. “I’ll try, shotgun,” he said. Then he was gone.
~*~
As usual Mike couldn’t resist lingering over the guitars. His eyes rested in particular on his favorite; a glossy black Gibson six-string. He’d even secretly named it—Black Beauty. Every time he saw it he swore to himself that one day he’d have it.
After a few minutes of surreptitious drooling he headed for the strings, snagging his preferred brand of electric twelve-string strings. As Mike left the store, tucking the strings into his back pocket, he saw several people milling around the Monkeemobile.
It was Will and the Rebels.
He approached cautiously; the car was parked behind the store and the area was deserted. If something happened there would be no one around to help. Though Mike had been involved in fights before, he didn’t like five to one odds no matter what the situation was.
Relax, Mike, he told himself. They might harrass you but they’re not going to hurt you.
As he drew closer, however, he began to doubt that assumption. The way that they moved slightly—as if they were trying to subtly surround him—made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “What do you want, Will?”
“Oh, Mr. Nesmith makes more demands!” Will scoffed, closing the gap between himself and Mike. “Just what makes you so special that you can tell people what to do?”
“I’m not tellin’ you to do anything,” Mike replied, anger sharpening his voice. “But when I come out here and you’re standin’ around my car I think I have a right to know.”
Will’s eyes narrowed dangerously. The tone of Mike’s voice grated on his nerves, nerves which were already stretched too thin. He cocked his fist and let it fly, striking Mike in the side of the face.
Mike reeled backward, clutching the side of the Monkeemobile to keep himself upright. He could barely comprehend what had happened; Will Fredricks was certainly hot-tempered and pompous, but he wasn’t violent . . . was he?
Mike had no time to debate that notion as Will struck him again, his knuckles digging into Mike’s side. Mike roared and lashed out, grabbing Will’s shoulders and trying to throw the shorter man to the ground. Even though Will was four inches shorter he weighed about forty pounds more than Mike—he didn’t budge.
The Rebels closed ranks, seizing Mike’s arms and dragging him away from their leader. Mike caught one last glimpse of Will’s rage-contorted face before his vision became a dark field of flailing arms and legs that pummeled him from all sides. He curled into a protective ball as he hit the pavement, crying out for them to stop, but the words fell on deaf ears and were quickly beaten from him.
When Will finally called off his compatriots Mike lay in a semi-conscious heap, blood streaming from his nose, split lip, and temple. His breathing came in short, quick gasps as his bruised sides and abdomen struggled to take in air.
“Get him up,” Will said.
As Mike was hauled upright he managed to clear the haze of pain enough to groan, “You’ll never get away with this.”
“Oh yes I will, Mike,” Will growled. “You are through being a thorn in my side.” As Will nodded to one of his compatriots Mike felt something hard smash into the back of his skull, then he knew only blackness.
~*~
“Micky, have you heard from Mike?”
Micky was lounging on the couch, immersed in a car magazine. He lifted his gaze at the frightened tone of Peter’s voice. “No, why?”
“Well, he left for the music store three hours ago. He should have been back by now.”
The worry on Peter’s face transferred itself to Micky. “Man, it isn’t like Mike to be gone for so long without telling anyone.” He stood up, his magazine forgotten.
“What do we do?” Peter said.
Micky’s expression turned determined. “Go out and get Davy in here. We’re going to go looking for him.” He watched as Peter ran for the back door and headed out to the beach. Worry began to eat its way into his spine. Mike was the responsible one—if he was going to be gone longer than he planned he always let them know. This means something’s wrong, Micky thought, trying to keep his emotions in check. Come on, Dolenz, get a grip. He probably got lost or something and we’ll find him at the music store mooning over some guitar or he’ll be in the park, just sitting . . .
He reached for the phone and dialed a number from memory. After only four rings a female voice answered. “Hi, Ella? This is Micky. Listen, we need your help . . . it’s Mike. He’s missing.”
~*~
Will Fredricks turned his battered blue pickup onto a deserted dirt road. He and the rest of the Rebels had driven north from Malibu, quickly leaving civilization behind as they passed through Bakersfield and skirted the edge of the Sequoia National Forest. Will had finally settled on a deserted stretch of farmland near Lake Success. He drove along the road until the vehicle was completely swallowed up by darkness, then twisted around and shouted out the open back window. “Throw him out!”
Two of his cohorts gave him startled looks, but didn’t argue. Mike lay in the pickup bed, still unconscious as they hauled him up and tossed him over the edge. Will glanced at the right sideview mirror and saw Mike’s body hit the ground and tumble into the darkness.
“And that’s it for Mr. Nesmith,” Will murmured to himself as the truck disappeared around a bend in the road, leaving Mike behind in the blackness.
~*~
“I’d like to report a missing person.” Micky spoke the ominous words into the phone, trying to keep his heart from hammering its way out of his chest.
Ella and the Monkees had spent the better part of four hours searching for Mike, using her car so that they could cover more ground. Their first stop had been the music store; the proprietor who had been locking the front door as they arrived informed them that yes, Mike had been there earlier, but had left long before the sun went down. When they checked the back parking lot the Monkeemobile was nowhere to be found.
Their search had taken them from the beach to the park to almost every club in LA—no one had seen a lanky Texan wearing a green wool hat driving a red GTO. They returned to the Pad tired and worried. Peter in particular seemed to move in a daze, as if unable to comprehend what was happening. Micky was very glad that Ella was with them—she was the one who sat with Peter, holding him and quietly reassuring him that everything was going to be fine and Mike would be found unharmed. Micky was beginning to doubt that, but it was good that she was helping to keep them all calm.
“Yes . . . his name’s Mike Nesmith. Um, since about two o’clock this afternoon. But—what do you mean, twenty-four hours? But you don’t understand, he’s never been gone this long without calling—yes, yeah, I see. All right, I’ll call back tomorrow. Thank you, bye.”
“What did the police say?” Davy asked.
“They can’t do anything until Mike’s been missing for twenty-four hours, so we have to wait until tomorrow,” Micky said, sagging against the staircase.
“But what if something happened to ‘im! What if ‘e’s hurt, out there somewhere with no one to help him!”
“What do you suggest we do, Davy?” Ella asked softly. She looked up from stroking Peter’s hair and fixed Davy with a firm yet compassionate gaze. “We’ve already searched everywhere he could be—without knowing where he is it would be like searching for a needle in several thousand haystacks.”
“We can’t just sit here and do nothing!” Davy protested.
“Yes we can,” Micky said, a surprising note of command in his voice. “We’re going to get some sleep if we can, then tomorrow we let the police try to find him and see if they have more luck than we did.”
On to Chapter Three
Back to Chapter One
Back to Post Adolescent Monster main page
