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7: Restlessness 11:57 PM, Thursday Scott Stapp awoke from a fitful sleep. Lying alone in a hotel bed, he stared at the ceiling, at the shadowy bumps that speckled across it. He sighed. He turned onto his left side; glowing red digits greeted him. 11:58. Last time he had looked, it read 11:52. And, before that, 11:46. He rolled out of bed. Raking his fingers through his dark, shoulder-length hair, he glanced at the bed beside his. Mark Tremonti lay cuddling his blanket, a soft smile sweeping the width of his chin. He looked ten years old in slumber, and Scot had to smile. He yawned and plodded toward the door. The second floor hallway was vacant, Scott discovered, as he stepped out of his and Mark’s room. He sauntered down the hallway, toward the crimson glare of a Coke machine. He pulled a few quarters out of the pocket of his jeans and dropped them into the machine. He hit the top button. Silence. Then the machine rumbled. A soda can clattered inside, and the machine spat it out. Leaning forward, Scott retrieved it. As he straightened himself, he glanced to his left, into the second floor lobby. Against the far window stood the silhouette of a man, ringlets of smoke floating over his head. Scott approached the figure. As he drew closer, he noticed the individual’s dark T-shirt and plaid pajama pants. Recognition flashed in Scott’s eyes. "Can’t sleep either?" he asked, and the figure jumped. He crossed his arms and propped himself against the window with his elbows. The individual smiled at Scott and adjusted his glasses. "You know how it is on the road," he replied, taking in a puff of his half-spent cigarette. "It’s not a sleeping night." Scott opened his soda can and took a sip. "Hey, um, Paul? Are you, are you awake for the same reason I am?" Paul lowered his cigarette from his lips. "If you mean because of the kidnapping, yes," he spoke through a cloud of smoke. He shook his head. "I don’t know, man. It’s freaking me out. I mean, this is f***ing nuts." "I know." Scott pursed his lips. The two gazed out the window. Their eyes rested upon an illuminated tour bus and stared after the shadow pacing around inside. Paul inhaled on his cigarette and shook his head. "Poor guy. He’s been in that bus for at least an hour." "Who is that?" Scott set down his soda on a side table. Gesturing toward the window with his cigarette, Paul replied, "That’s the Chili Peppers’ bus driver." Scott turned toward Paul. He uncrossed his arms and let them dangle at his sides. "Didn’t you talk to him earlier?" Paul nodded. "What did he tell you?" Scott’s eyes met with Paul’s momentarily, before the latter lowered his gaze to the floor. "They got pulled over by the cops," Paul voiced. "They got busted for possession of drugs, except they didn’t have any..." Scott furrowed his eyebrows. "They got busted on a highway for drugs?" Paul cracked a smile. "Apparently. I know it doesn’t make any sense. But they wanted to search the bus anyway. The driver says," Paul waved his cigarette around as he spoke, "that he could have sworn the cop hit him over the head." "The cop?" "No sh**." Paul took a drag on his smoke. "He woke up he doesn’t know how many hours later. And the cops were gone." He breathed a ring of smoke. "And so was the band." "Damn," Scott’s eyes widened. "So did he call the cops?" Paul nodded. He wandered to a nearby side table and flicked ash into an ashtray there. Tiny embers glistened within it. "He came here first, hoping the Chili Peppers’d already be there. When he ran up to me, he had this insane look in his eyes. He asked me if I knew if the Chili Peppers were there. I thought he was a fan until he told me what happened." He drew the cigarette to his lips. After sucking the remainder of life from it, he discarded the cigarette butt in the ash tray. "Hey, what’s going on?" Paul and Scott turned to the doorway, where a man clad only in boxer shorts stood. His dark, tousled hair stood on end. He crossed his toned arms over his chest and squinted at the two with swollen, sleepy eyes. Paul smiled and shook his head. "It’s nothing, Ad. We just can’t sleep." Plopping himself into an arm chair, Adam replied, "I can’t either." "But weren’t you just sleeping?" "Yeah!" Adam retorted, scratching his head. "But I can’t now, not when something’s going on." Paul shook his head again. "Nothing’s going on." "Then why are you two awake?" Adam looked from Paul to Scott, who shrugged. "Can’t sleep," Scott replied. Paul approached the window. Gesturing outside, he admitted, "I’ve been watching this guy." He tapped his fingers on the glass. Adam got to his feet and looked out the window. "Who, the Chili Peppers’ driver? How long has he been out there?" "Over an hour," Scott replied, staring at the lit-up bus. "At least," Paul added. He thumped his finger on the glass. "We should go check on him then." Midsentence, Adam headed for the door. "Wait for me though. I should put some more clothes on." "Please!" Paul smirked. Moments later, Adam emerged from his room in a fuzzy white robe and black Converse sneakers. The trio plodded down the stairs, then out to the parking lot. Mike opened the bus door when Paul, Scott, and Adam were several feet away. Paul grimaced at the bus driver. "Hi!" Stepping aside, Mike admitted the three onto the tour bus. "What are you all doing here?" he asked. He eyed Adam, who grinned. "Just seeing what you’re up to!" Adam replied, his voice a bit too sunny. "Are you okay?" Slowly, Mike nodded. "Just worried about the band is all." Placing a hand on Mike’s shoulder, Adam said, "You called the police, man. You’ve done all that you can." "F*** the cops!" Mike exclaimed, startling Adam, who hopped back a step. "They won’t do jack sh**! I could only remember half the plate number. They say these people are impossible to track." "Some people, dressed as cops," Scott inquired, "just pulled you over for drugs?" "Yeah, I know!" Mike ran a hand through his jet-black hair. "I should have realised they were fakes!" "But no one was following you or anything..." Adam trailed off. He furrowed his eyebrows. Mike shook his head. "I look out for that kind of sh**! No telling what kind of loony’d tail a tour bus!" Mike glanced at three sets of concern-ridden eyes before saying, "Listen, while we’re all up, does anybody want something to eat or drink? I’m needing something sweet. I think my blood sugar’s low." Paul made eye contact with Mike. "Could I get something to drink?" "Yeah." Swiping a hand through the air, he added, "You all can come on back." Mike led them to the kitchen area of the Chili Peppers’ tour bus. Paul and Adam slid onto a bench, and Scott sat across from them. Paul’s foot hit against a solid object. "’The hell?" Paul leaned under the table and retrieved a laptop computer. "Why’s this on the floor?" Mike, who was opening the refrigerator, glanced over his shoulder. Turning back to the food, he replied, "Must have falled off the table when those sh**-faced cops stopped us." Paul slid it in front of Adam. "It’s still on," Adam observed, watching crazy trolls topple into one another on the computer screen. "Was somebody using it?" "Yeah," Mike retrieved a well-endowed grapevine from the fridge. He ate a grape before adding, "Anthony and Chad were back here. I heard them talking about something they’d read on the Internet." Scott and Adam’s eyes widened simultaneously. Paul glanced from one to the other. "What?" Adam jiggled the mouse. When windows on the desktop emerged, he smiled. "One of them was IMing!" Scott leaned across the table. "Can you get the IP address of the other user?" Paul found his bewildered expression mirrored in Mike’s face. "’The hell are you talking about?" Pointing at the computer screen with his left hand, Adam explained, "One of the Chili Peppers was writing instant messages to someone else on AOL, or someone with AIM, er, AOL instant messenger. Somebody named BASKITKAYS... how fitting. This must be the kidnapper." Mike thrust a thumb in Scott’s direction. "And what does he want you to do?" "Basically," Adam sighed, typing away on the keyboard, "find the address of the other computer, the one BASKITKAYS was using. The only way I know to do that..." His hands fell still, and Adam turned to Mike. "Is there a printer for this computer?" "Yeah." Mike opened a cabinet by the refrigerator and pulled up a portable printer. He unfolded it on the table and plugged it into place. "Pretty nifty," Paul commented, staring at the printer. It came to life and spat out the requested document. When the printer fell silent, Adam removed the page from the output tray. He smiled. "Got it!" "Great!" Paul raised an eyebrow. "But how does that help?" "The police can get a street address for the user from the server," Scott replied, and Adam shook his head. "We can do better than that." Dial tone filled the kitchen area. In loud beeps, AOL dialed up for connection. Screeching static resounded off the walls, then... "Welcome!" AOL greeted Adam. "You’ve got mail!" Adam’s fingers raced across the keyboard. "You can get street addresses right off the Internet," he stated. He fixed his eyes on the number on the printout as he typed it. "There are services that {+}{can}ca get it for you if you have the IP." He scanned the text on the screen. A smile swept across his face. "Gotcha!" "Guys," Paul sat back in his seat. "What if it’s not the kidnappers? What if it’s really just some kid?" Adam turned to his bandmate. "We can go down there!" he suggested. "We’ll see if anything’s going on, see if we see a Chili Pepper, check out car plates. And if we’re wrong, we’re wrong." Silence. Scott smirked. "Not like we were getting any sleep!" "Um," Paul voiced, gaining everybody’s attention. "I don’t think it’s a good idea to take a tour bus." Adam furrowed his eyebrows. "But what else do we have?" "Marisol’s car," Paul replied. "She drove up here to see Rob." He turned to Mike and Scott. "Marisol is Rob’s wife." The two nodded. "You think she’d mind?" "I’ll go ask her for the keys," Adam replied. He headed for the front of the bus. When Adam reached the door, Paul called out, "He, Adam?" "Yeah?" "Make sure you put on some clothes too!" |