1Very Last Gig

(August 10-13, 2017)

13: The Night Has a Thousand Eyes

"He's doing something," Wendy murmured.

"Guy in the jacket?" Dipper asked.

"Mm-hmm. Don't look at him, Mabes! His phone must've gone off. He's talking now and looking our way."

"How can you even tell?" Mabel asked. "You're not looking at him."

Wendy shrugged. "When you log off a forest, you develop your peripheral vision better than most folks. Always want to see if a tree's coming down on you!"

"Is he still on the phone?"

"Yep. Keeps sneaking glances over here, too."

"Let's go," Teek said decisively.

"Yeah, OK," said Mabel, getting to her feet. She's nervous, Dipper thought. Flames of Glory was about to come onstage, and that was one of her favorite bands. He touched Wendy's arm. —Have your axe ready just in case.

Always ready, Dip. Let's go. Aloud, she said, "Teek, you and Mabel go first. Me and Dip will follow along and guard the rear."

Mabel, tight-lipped, nodded. As they took the three steps down from the grandstand. Dipper glanced left. "He's walking this way," he said. "Fast."

"Sir!" Teek said loudly to the security guard. Flames had slipped into the lead-in riffs for its first number, and the four of them were loud. "The guy in the blue jacket coming this way—he's up to something."

"Got it," Bonnar said. "You guys know where the office is?"

"Yeah," Dipper said.

"Go there. Wait. I'll take care of him. Sir! Talk to you for a minute!" It wasn't a question.

They didn't wait, but walked fast out the gate, turning left and heading back toward the RV lot and the office. Stan opened the door the moment Teek tapped on it. "Something happen?" he rumbled. "Don't just stand there with your faces hanging out. Come on in."

He held the door for Teek, the last one in. His desk held stacks of money, neatly arranged by denomination. Then Stan, holding a baseball bat in his left hand, peered out the door into the night. "Seems quiet. What's up?"

"Creepy guy," Mabel said. "He's been staring at us all night."

"Pretty sure he's been following us since we got here," Wendy said. "The dude in jeans and a denim jacket. Kinda a weird-looking face. His eyes aren't right, and he's real thin."

Stan's phone rang, a generic chime, not a personal ringtone, and he took it from inside his jacket. "Yeah? He is, huh? For the festival? Oh, a band? Go ahead and get his info. If you can, get a picture of his ID. Yeah, thanks. Nah, but he's worryin' my niece. Right. Good job." He turned off the phone. "That was one of the security guys. He braced the fella in the jacket. Mr. Creepy he's a roadie workin' for Peach Mood and a couple other bands, freelance. He says he was comin' over to help clear the stage after the last set, which is comin' up in like half an hour. My guy's gonna check his credentials."

"We need to get Mabel home," Dipper said. "I don't think walking is a good idea, and Soos will probably have a full tram—"

Stan fished in his pants pocket. "Here's the keys to the Stanleymobile. No, Pumpkin, let Wendy drive—" he pulled the keyring back from Mabel's extended hand.

Wendy waved the offer off. "Let Dipper drive. That lets me have a little more freedom. Got my axe."

"I like the way you think," Stan said, tossing the keys to Dipper.

Dipper glanced sideways at his sister. Yeah, she's scared. She's not even putting up a fight to drive Grunkle Stan's car.

But she did say, "Teek, go ahead and show him the photo."

Teek took out his phone. "This really heavy guy is over in the top tier of seats, left side. We don't know if this is the Bratsman guy, but he's closest to Mabel's description."

Stan looked at the picture. "Got a beard on him like a Manotaur. Dunno. I never saw the real Bratsman but once. Can you like print this out for me?"

Teek emailed the file to Stan's computer and then sized the photo down to a four-by-six and printed it out. It came out faded—the printer's color ink might be low, or, more likely, the cheap paper Stan bought might not take a good impression.

However, "Three more copies," Stan said. Teek obliged.

As Stan stared at one of the photos, he said, "I'll see what I can find out about this guy. From what I see here, I can make a pretty good guess at which seat he's in, but up there's general admission, so I can't tag a name to him. But me and my Security guys'll get on it. Car's right out back, parked with the hood toward the exit. You guys cut out before the traffic gets bad, and don't take any chances. Got that?"

"No chances," Dipper said. "Got it."

"Call me soon as you get there. Park the car in the employees' lot. You don't have to come back tonight, Dipper. I got somebody I can catch a ride home with."

Stan sounded casual—but he was gently striking the baseball bat into his right palm.

He's worried, too.

Driving the classic El Diablo was a bit like driving a truck. And it was a straight shift, so Dipper had a little bit of trouble getting the hang of it, making it jerk a little when he engaged the clutch, but he took it slow out of the parking lot. Only three or four other vehicles crunched over the gravel on the way out—not too bad.

Despite the light of the waning moon, the night was heavy and dark. When he made the turn onto the road to the Shack, Dipper had to brake for a deer that was ambling up the hill and that, with seeming resentment, finally moved off the pavement.

A few of the concert attendees who had taken advantage of the Shack's low parking ratels had left, leaving maybe ten or twelve empty slots, but Dipper went around back, past the EMPLOYEE PARKING ONLY sign, and pulled in next to Soos' pickup.

All the outside lights were on. When they piled out of the car, Dipper saw Wendy draw her axe. Even at this distance he could faintly hear the beat of music coming from Woodstick. Wendy didn't let him listen for long. "Hustle!" she said.

Tripper, whining, met them just inside the door. He stared up at Mabel, and then his tail wagged, more in relief than enthusiasm. She reached down to scratch his ears. "I'm OK," she said.

Dipper took his phone out and called Grunkle Stan. "We're home safe," he said. "OK. See you in the morning."

"Well—guess you better go," Mabel told her boyfriend.

"I'm staying over," Teek said.

"That's sweet, but you don't have to," Mabel said. "I'm all right now."

"Here's what we'll do," Wendy said. "Mabel, you and me will sleep up in Dipper's room tonight."

"I'll sleep there, too," Dipper said. "I've got my sleeping bag and air mattress. I'll sleep right behind the door."

"Got another sleeping bag?" Teek asked. "I'll take the other side of the door."

"Your Mom—" Mabel begin.

"Mom and Dad will be fine with it," Teek said. "I'll text and tell them I'm too tired to drive, that you guys invited me to stay over, and that she can check with Soos to make sure there's nothing wrong. Tomorrow morning I'll run home to shower and pick up a change of clothes."

"Love you," Mabel said.

A few minutes later they heard the sound of the tram rumbling in. Mabel looked out the bay window. "Guess people are leaving early," she said. "It's not even midnight yet, but the tram's full."

"Is the creep in it?" Wendy asked, peering over her shoulder.

"Don't see him."

Teek ran downstairs and as the concert goers milled around—"Now, where did we park?"—he had a quick conversation with Soos. Before Soos set off for the concert venue again—this time with an empty tram—Teek was back.

"It's cool with Soos," he said. "I told him I'd sleep upstairs. Didn't say everyone else is gonna do that, too."

"Better try to get some sleep," Wendy said. "Nearly midnight, and we have to work tomorrow until noon. Tomorrow's the biggest night at Woodstick—if we even want to go back."

Mabel stuck out her chin. "Yeah, we're going back! Because if we don't, we're just letting old Bratsman push us around. He can't do that to us!"

For the first time in hours, Dipper relaxed, just a little.

Now, that sounded like the old Mabel.

Midnight Friday. In two days, Sev'ral Timez had, as they say, an appointment in Samarra. Forty-eight hours until they danced with the Reaper. Two thousand, eight hundred and eighty minutes until they faced the final curtain.

They still didn't know that. They hung around backstage, greeting other musicians they knew. Not just other guy groups, but a regular assortment—the Banjo Brigade, two guys who did amazing things with twenty-four strings. It didn't matter that they were from so far back in the sticks that the only Gravity Falls fan who turned out to cheer them was Fiddleford McGucket. So what? They loved their music, and the guys in Sev'ral Timez understood and honored that.

Or the A Capellatones, a girl's harmony group that could make anything sound good. Seriously. They could rock an old romantic ballad or turn a dirge into a hilarious party. And they had dropped hints before that, given the chance, they just might like to go out for dinner and a show with Sev'ral Timez. The boys just couldn't scrape up enough nerve among the five of them to ask, that was the problem.

Nobody disliked the Sev'ral Timez guys—they were so upbeat, so friendly. True, they didn't have a huge number of fans among the death-metal or extreme musicians, but even they would happily jam with the boys.

In short, so far they had enjoyed Woodstick and were looking forward to their turns on stage. But midnight is Cinderella time, and Tad Strange, as he always did, tucked them in and made sure nothing was bothering them.

"Just a little down, yo, because of the whole retirement deal, Tad," Chubby Z. admitted.

"Yeah, we're all having like second thoughts about this leaving the circuit biz, beef," added Creggy G. "Mr. S., straight up now, is this the best for us? I mean, our sales are solid."

"I think it's always better to go out on top," Tad said. "Always leave them wanting more. And besides, this isn't the last time you boys will perform. In every episode of the show, you'll have a new song. And shooting's only from October through May. Next August, if you want to play Woodstick again—say the word."

"Heavy," said Greggy C. "I don't know, guys—would we be like too rusty and junk to give a decent performance?"

"Chill, homies," Leggy P. said. "Music is like in our blood, brazos! It's like riding a bike."

"I wish we could ride bikes," Deep Chris admitted. "We had like zero childhoods, road dawg."

"Think about it," Tad told them all. "There's plenty of time. Let's see how the first season of the show goes before we make up our minds. Everybody comfortable?"

"Straight sleepy, Mr. S!" Chubby Z. said. "Good night, our main man!"

"Get plenty of rest," Tad advised. "And tomorrow and Saturday, knock it out of the park."

"That," said Creggy G., "is a baseball reference, yo!"

"Goodnight, team," Tad said, smiling. He slipped out of their RV, locking the door. He looked around, and yes—there stood Stanley Pines.

"Everything OK?" he asked Tad.

"Seems to be. When are you going home, Stanley? It's getting late."

That it was. The only sounds from the stage now were those of roadies clearing off amps and instruments and stands.

"My brother's swingin' by to pick me up," Stan said.

"Oh, gracious, I could give you a lift home," said Tad.

"Nah, me and Ford got it worked out. I'm just waitin' here until the night-shift guard comes round. I'm having him keep a close eye on your boys."

"Thank you. I don't understand why they'd let an unpleasant man like Mr. Bratsman go free."

"Meh," said Stan, "join the club. I ain't understood anything about anything for years. Goodnight."

"You, too."

Tad left him, and Stan stood listening to night sounds for a little while. Then he heard the crunch of boots on gravel and swept his flashlight in that direction.

The guard shielded his eyes. "Who's there?"

"Me, Stanley Pines," he said. "It's Taunton, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. The shift supervisor said to see you."

"Yeah. You're on until eight, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"I want you should stay right in this general area. See this big trailer behind me? This is the one you gotta watch close. And I mean, you knock off for coffee or a snack or a bathroom break, call one of your buddies to take your place until you get back, get me?"

"You're expecting trouble."

"Nope. Just trying to keep it from happening," Stan said.

And at that moment, he heard Stanford's voice: "Stanley? Are you out here?"

He waved the flashlight. "On my way, Ford." To Taunton, he said, "Nothing happens to these guys between now and Monday morning, there's an extra hundred in it for you."

The guard all but saluted. "I'll keep them safe, Mr. Pines."

"Good man."

In fact, Taunton wasn't particularly a good man. He had a minor problem with alcohol—but never when he was on duty. He'd lost his temper and swatted his wife a couple of times—but he'd always apologized and had never hurt her, never bruised her, never injured her beyond a minor stinging pop on the rump. He could be grouchy, and he wished he earned more money, and he realized that being on the poor side of rich was as much his own fault as anything.

Yet he wept at sappy songs. And he scrounged up some money every week to go to a charity that sent doctors to all the hellholes all over the globe to try to help little sick kids. True, his buck or three wouldn't go far, but nothing goes amiss in the world. So all in all, Mr. Taunton was not that bad, if not all that good.

And he did want that extra hundred, so—

He kept an extra-careful watch.

And in a motel room a few miles outside the Valley—shabby room, with the door to the adjoining shabby room standing open—Ergman Bratsman peeled off the fake beard, grumbling and growling. "You had one job to do!"

"I'm sorry," Wilmer said. "I coulda followed her, but the guard stopped me—"

"I'm surrounded by incompetents," Bratsman complained. "Look, I've got protection, you understand? I have a guarantee that I'm going to get my boys back. And pay back Mabel Pines for landing me in that stinking prison for so long."

"It wasn't so bad," said Wilmer, who had visited Bratsman at the medium-security joint. That much was true. The prisoners had a library, access to classes if they wanted them, a basketball court, a weight room, even a pool. They had comfortable beds in decent-sized cells, the guards were not inclined to hammer on them, and outside of not being able to leave the premises, it didn't look like such a rough existence.

All Wilmer had to compare were four or five thirty-day bumps in city and county jails from New Orleans to Texas to Oklahoma to Nevada. Those places, they were dumps. Bare concrete platform with a lousy blanket on it to sleep on. Rats the size of housecats. One had once come up out of the toilet in the cell he'd shared with two other guys. Out of the toilet! And the food they got as often as not had bugs in it, either dead or alive.

Those were rough jails.

But to hear Bratsman tell it, his prison was something designed by the Spanish Inquisition. Taco Tuesdays, yeah, but no Foie Gras Fridays! They had a gym, so what? They still made you get out of bed at seven in the morning and turned out the lights in your cell at ten PM! How could a successful guy used to the finer things in life even survive?

Patting cold cream onto his jowls and then toweling it off, Bratsman said, "You want to keep your job, you remember: Bring Mabel Pines to me."

"I don't want to get involved with anything—you know. Nothing major," Wilmer said.

"You get her and leave her to me. That's all you need to worry about." Bratsman gave him the sour look that was the closest he ever came to smiling. "Or better I should say, get her and leave her to me and if you don't—that's the one thing that should worry you plenty, and for the rest of your life. But it wouldn't last long, Wilmer. Understand?"

"Uh, yeah, I do."

As if to make sure, Bratsman glared at him. "It wouldn't last long," he repeated.