The deeper into New Jersey we roll, the harder the snow seems to be falling. From what I can see through the window of this low-riding car, there must be at least four centimeters on the ground by now.  Though this state apparently has a reputation for being somewhat unimpressive, to say the least, Julia and Danny reside in one of the more scenic little villages that's not too far off the beaten path.  We're very close by this point; the landscape has shifted from the metropolitan considerably, giving way to a handsome blend of quaint suburbs and snow-swathed countryside.  Not much has changed since Veronica's and my last visit to the States- and that was over three years ago, very shortly after they had gotten settled. 

Needless to say, however, thoughts of the surroundings themselves are furthest from my mind as I glance impatiently at my wristwatch. "How much farther, Mr. Barnes?" I ask.

At first, he doesn't hear me.  He's off in his own little world, tapping his thumbs quietly against the steering wheel to the rhythm of the Hues Corporation. 

I try again, louder.  "Mr. Barnes?" 

But he still doesn't notice, and instead keeps quietly rocking on with his bad self, "Don't rock the boat, ba-by/ Don't tip the boat o-ver-"

"Rudy!"

The driver's head snaps my way at last.  "Sorry, John, I did hear you, I was just a bit engrossed at the moment."

"With the song?"

"Partially," is as in-depth as he chooses to go.  "What were you wanting to ask?"

"How much longer till we reach the house?"

"Another five minutes, at most."

"Lovely.  You made excellent time."

Rudy gives me a tight, uncomfortable smile and faces the road.  "I don't always."

Naturally, I wait for him to explain, but he never does.  Numerous times now, he's made some sort of cryptic statement and then left me hanging suspended in mid-air, wondering what the devil he could possibly mean.  Very curious.  It's not often I meet a man who's even quieter than me- and even less often does it happen that I basically surrender my life to a seemingly complete stranger in the first place, on the off chance he does not have any ulterior motives for helping me escape.  Until I reach my destination, therefore, I'm holding off on telling my wife and kids that this is what's going on.  She worries about me enough as is.

All this for a word with a man who might be my old friend come back from the dead, I say to myself.  It sounds ridiculous, really, when it's put into such plain words.  But miracles do happen, I know; I've come this far, I can't abandon the search now, when I'm so close.

But, God, I hope I'm not too late.

Anxiety rising up within, once again I check my phone for any texts from Julia.  But just like the other thirteen times I've looked in the past hour, there's still no reply.  I wonder if my text has even reached her at all.  There have been occasions when I attempt to contact her while she's visiting Stuart in that special building of his, but I never manage to get through; apparently phone service is very poor within its walls.  Perhaps that's by design.

Then my insides pull even more taut.  Supposing that's the reason I haven't heard from her?  Is he being sent back at this very moment?  Could he be drifting back to that wild party even now as I ask myself all these rhetorical questions?  The thought makes me whimper with fright.

Which, of all things, Rudy hears loud and clear.  "Are you all right, John?"

"Not really, no," I admit. 

"What's wrong?"

I shrug, put my phone away.  "Just a little worried- wondering what they're up to, I suppose."

"God only knows," he hums thoughtfully- before he reaches over to turn up the music, eyes twinkling.  "Is this song all right, or shall I change it?"

Although I told Rudy that I'm no great fan of BJ Thomas, "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head" is indeed a charmingly carefree little tune, and one that works miracles for bundles of raw nerves.  In this case, I will gladly make an exception. 

"Leave it there," I murmur, stifling a yawn. As alert as I may tell myself I feel in this moment, it has been a very long, stressful day, and I'm well past knackered.

"Thank you," he says.  "Such a great movie."

"What is?"

His mouth twitches in a nostalgic smile.  "The one this song comes from."

I've got a feeling he means that second Spider-Man film from twenty years ago.  I am hardly in the mood to discuss superhero films at the moment, but still I hear myself ask, if only to be polite, "Which one?"

"Why, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.  Remember that one?"

"Yes, yes, I do," I nod, frowning.  "How would you know about that film, though?  That came out I think in the sixties, or something-"

"It did.  1969, to be exact." He sighs, shaking his head.  "That was a crazy year, but not half so crazy as the one before it- or after.  God, the madness."

"It was quite wild," I agree. 

"Wild and frightening."  He pauses a moment, lets the words swish around in his mouth a bit before he utters them.  "I remember standing in line to see that movie and being flanked by protesters on either side of the street."

"Iraq War?"

"No.  Vietnam." 

 I realize this man is talking as though he himself lived through that era and witnessed it all firsthand, even though that was around sixty years ago and he doesn't look much older than Julia herself. My mouth goes dry while a mad thought sears through my mind- though all things considered, it really doesn't seem all that crazy. Since July of 1977, no explanation has seemed too far-fetched in my eyes.  Certainly not when it comes to the Samuels- or Freddie himself.

But just in case I'm barking up the wrong tree after all, I still play the skeptic, still act as though I'm only humoring him for now.  "Oh, right.  I should have known, how silly of me.  Do go on."

"They were still there when I came back out that evening, but in a bigger crowd than before," he continues.  "When I tried walking through the crowd to get home, they sort of closed in around me, started chanting loudly in my face- I don't really know why they picked me for that sort of display, maybe I just have that authority figure air about me."

In spite of myself, I'm interested.  "What did you do?"

"I couldn't do anything.  I was there on a training assignment, and while in training you aren't allowed to engage- well, anyway.  Suffice it to say, I just bit my tongue and carried on."

"Right.  And, uh- the film you saw, the Butch Cassidy thing- you saw that in the cinema?"

"I did.  Really great picture.  Only complaint is the absolute lack of chemistry between Ross and Redford.  She and Dustin Hoffman had a much better rapport I think.  Saw that one in theaters, too."

His opinions of critically acclaimed sixties films mean very little to me, but I still feel compelled to ask, to remedy my confusion if nothing else, "Was it- some anniversary showing?"

"Oh, no.  Saw it the weekend it was released."

I nod, stomach churning.  "In 1969."

"No, The Graduate came out in 1967.  I still have the ticket stubs for both.  I'd gladly show you, but they're at home with Clarence."

I'm too perplexed to ask, or care, who Clarence is.  But somehow the name in conjunction with this man's face is enough to spark recognition.  Not much, mind you, but when compounded with him saying we had met a whole fifty years ago, it's finally got me thinking.  Yes, as a matter of fact, I remember someone very like this Rudy here, back in those days.  He didn't dwell among us long- not even a year's time, I think- but he was there just the same.  A big, brawny fellow, he was, and quiet.  A good five or six inches taller than Brian, as I recall.  And yet he somehow always managed to stay invisible, unnoticed, save for when he was serving as Freddie's stalwart bodyguard.

My mouth goes dry.  Is my memory playing tricks, or was his name Rudy as well?

I try my hardest to disregard the coincidences.  The man's just pulling my leg, I tell myself.  He's having a bit of fun with me- and cheap, tasteless fun at that.  This Rudy is far too young to be that Rudy, and there's practically no chance this Rudy ever met Freddie in the first place.

But, then again...

Heart pounding a little faster, I look him over.  "Tell me, Rudy- how is it you know Rick?"

"I used to work for him," he answers. 

"Oh, really?  How long?"

"Seven months.  I was his driver."

"And you're still in contact with him?  How nice."

"Well, it had been quite some time since we'd really communicated, you know- and it's been a much longer time since I worked for him."

"How long ago?"

"About fifty years."

I gulp.  There's that damned number again.  Somehow I don't immediately pass it off as some joke or wild exaggeration this time.  "Then- that would mean you worked for him in the 1970s.  Wouldn't it?"

"From December of '76 to July of '77," he replies, as calmly as you please.  "Started out as his bodyguard first, then when he bought his first Rolls, I became his chauffeur."

"Just how old are you again?"

"Thirty-five."

"Thirty-five, but we met fifty years ago, and you were kicking around cinemas in 1960s."  When he offers no explanation or comment, I spur him further, "That doesn't add up, does it?"

"I never said it should."

My voice sharpens to hide the shiver beneath it.  "Mr. Barnes, are you putting me on?  Because if you are-"

"I don't lie, John.  It's bad for the heart, both ways.  You asked me a question, and I answered you."  His deep-set eyes never waver from the road. 

"Look me in the eye and say so, then."

So challenged, Rudy turns and looks at me straight on. "I'm telling you the truth, John. I swear."

He's got a very honest face, if perhaps a somewhat blank one in the bargain. Not to say this makes his word enough for me, but it does help a little.

"Incidentally," he says, turning back to the road, "I remember the first time I met Paul, he reminded me a lot of Sundance- assuming, of course, it was after the Kid had been shot to death, left decomposing in the desert for about a week, and then brought back to life through some kind of satanic ritu-"

"Paul who?" I murmur, dreading the answer as soon as I ask this.

"Prenter, naturally."  God, he's so bloody casual about it. "Don't you see it? Same blond hair, same hard eyes, not much to say, even the same sort of off-color mustache.  And a real jerk at that, as I recall, to anyone who wasn't Freddie-"

This is getting too frightening. I slam my hands against my thighs.  "Right, that's it.  Stop the car."

Rudy doesn't offer any resistance whatsoever.  Perhaps that's because we've finally arrived at Julia's neighborhood; I recognize the name of the street. But he stops just the same, and here we are, idling at the stop sign while the world turns a deeper shade of alien before my very eyes.

And he asks me, "Is something wrong?"

"Who are you, Rudy?" I exclaim wearily. "Who are you really?"

"Just a friend," he says.

"Just a friend, my arse!  There's the most peculiar set-up happening here- has been happening, for fifty years, the way you tell it!  What's this all about?  What's going on?" 

He shakes his head sadly.  "I'm not at liberty to say."

"Oh, you're not, eh?"

"No.  I'm not."  Rudy's voice, though firm, sounds distant repeating this, as though he's barely paying attention.  He stares out the window a few seconds, squinting hard.  Before I can make any more useless demands about this or that, he proceeds to shut off the car, extinguishing the lights inside and out. 

We sit in silent darkness for far longer than necessary, till I speak up at last, "What are you doing?"

"I'm waiting for you to get out of the car," he replies.

"What?"

"This is as far as I go.  Do you know which one is Julia's?"

"I think so.  But-"

"Well, just in case, head to the house just before the one with the van out in front."

I peer through the windshield- which is near impossible now that the wipers are still, letting snow accumulate thickly upon the glass.  "What van?"

"It's there. Trust me."

"Why can't you pull up a little further, though?"  As Rudy opens his mouth to answer, I cut him off, a bit more impatiently than I perhaps have a right to, "Or are you not at liberty to say that as well?"

"As it so happens, I am."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I murmur meekly. If I could liquefy right this moment and drain through the cracks in the door, I would. I really don't prefer to seem rude about anything, and right now I feel like a bit of a jerk.

"If I move any closer," he answers ominously, "they'll see me."

"Who will?"

Here he actually cracks a smile.  "Now, that, as a matter of fact, I am not-"

"Fine, never mind then.  Let me get my things."

Rudy wastes no time.  In one swift motion he raises both the front passenger doors and slides out to help me get my rolling suitcase.  As I too clamber out, I see him stuffing something into the front pocket.

"What's that?" I ask.

"Something Rick left in the back seat.  Just a spiral notebook, nothing too earth-shattering." He pulls it out again and shows me. Appeased, I let him shove the notebook back inside, zipping it up afterward.

"Now, I'm only saying this to hear myself say it," Rudy says in a lowered voice, "but I would very simply put it to you, that you might be wise not to share Rick's location with the others."

"Others?"

"You know. Brian and Roger."

I don't immediately respond.  For deep down inside myself, suddenly I can feel the faintest inkling of remorse simmering away. 

Now that I'm a breath away from coming face-to-face with Rick, I almost wish I had told the other two where he is.  I'm not a selfish person by nature; I don't want to stifle the man, nor do I wish to monopolize him, certainly not when he is loved by so many, and there are so few of us remaining who actually knew him well enough to call him a friend.  And as much as I still find it a strain to even stand next to those gentlemen, I know they have missed him too.

Then again, his and the Samuels' securities are in the iron lung as it is, what with the Jim Beach mishap and all the social media hounds sniffing around for any clues to his whereabouts.  What's more, after the events of this afternoon, I seriously doubt I could let myself trust Brian and Roger to keep a secret of this magnitude.  Even if they managed to technically keep silent, someone else close to them might leak the information.

And that's not even going into how chummy Brian and Stuart looked at the restaurant...

"Can you do that, John?" Rudy asks again.

"Oh, of course," I nod, more readily this time.  "That goes without saying."

He goes on, "The same policy might be smart as far as your family's concerned, too, until you're home again."

"Not even my wife?"

"I'll let you make up your own mind about that."  Rudy folds his arms, looks at me approvingly.  "All set?"

I blink against the freezing gust that's just blown into my face.  "First- Rudy, tell me truthfully, all jokes and things aside: did you really meet Paul?"

"Meet him?" Rudy's voice rises, grows louder.  "Meet him?  Why, I carted that damn Uriah Heep of his all over the place!"

My flesh goes utterly numb.  There's no jest in his voice, or in his eyes.  Oh, Good Lord...

But I don't really get the chance to let it sink in as much as I would prefer. Rudy just keeps going; I guess I've struck a nerve.  "I actually had to protect him, same as I did Freddie himself!  Can you imagine?  That slime, that putrid slime of a human being!  God, the things he made me do, the errands he had me run for that scumbag-"

"Okay, okay, it's all right, easy now."

I must say, I'm truly impressed.  I don't remember Freddie's first driver speaking with such ardor, ever. All it takes is a question about that rat, and he's off and running.  I suppose we all have our hot buttons.  Luckily, unlike his former boss, Rudy's not one of those people who takes forever to cool down.  In a matter of seconds, he's back to business, straight face and all.

"I'm all right," he grumbles.  "It's just- sometimes my job is extremely difficult, and it's not often I really get the chance to let it rip."

I nod, then, unable to take it any longer, I ask yet again, "Rudy, is Rick- is he really-"

"John, it doesn't matter how many times you ask that question, you have to see the man for yourself before you can accept it fully," Rudy sighs.  "Till then, just hope.  Believe, if you want, but for now, hope will do."

"All right," I concede, doing a much better job at concealing my emotions this time around, even though I'm still shaken beyond words.  "Thank you for taking me this far, anyway."

"My pleasure.  Oh!  By the way," he halts me once more,.  "I would respectfully request one more thing."

"Certainly."

"Please don't tell him that you know who I am."

I squint.  "Hasn't he recognized you?"

"No.  I have gone to great lengths to ensure as much.  He'll find out tomorrow."

That gives me pause.  Tomorrow?  "But- I was under the impression he's going back tonight, or something."

Rudy's lips curve ironically.  "Right," is all he says. 

He's already shutting the door and waving goodbye before I can ask him what he means.  I grab the door handle, try to open it, but he's already locked everything up.  Oddly, the car doesn't move, instead just sits there quietly, headlights out, the cabin pitch dark.  I don't know what he's waiting for now, but it's too cold for me to just stand around here and find out.

So I move forward, the porch lamps of houses up and down the street my only lights.  It's rather hard to look casual at present- most people don't typically go for strolls around nine in the evening, dragging pieces of luggage through the snow- but I'm trying. 

The nearer I approach, I discover that a big white van is indeed parked near the mailbox of the house I could have sworn belonged to Julia.  Those infamous steps up to that notorious second-story entrance (whoever designed their little house must have been pissed off his head twenty-four hours a day)- how could anyone forget their first trek up those beauties?

But Rudy did say, go to the house just before the one with the van, I remind myself.  And this place has its share of tricky-looking steps too, not to mention everything looks different in the dark.  Maybe I'm simply imagining things, all this Freddie pandemonium is driving me out of my wits.

Still, I shrug.  It's worth a shot- after all, Rudy's been right so far, I suppose- and big, nondescript white vans never inspire confidence anyway.  Thus, as per his instruction, I step up to the front door of the neighboring house, and ring the bell.

And I don't think it will come as any surprise that it's neither Julia nor Danny who greets me with a polite, confused smile and a forced "Hi there, can I help you?"

My face blanches.  "Oh, dear.  Wrong house.  Sorry."

Too late I recognize the curly-haired bloke before me. His image, albeit somewhat more airbrushed than what stands before me now, was plastered all over the walls of the classic rock radio station where Brian and Roger were interviewed this afternoon. Wes Adams, the Mid-Day DJ, a full-fledged member of the press, has caught me unawares- and without even trying!

Oh, shit, I'm behind enemy lines. Damn you, Rudy! Shame on you, to gaslight an old man this way-

"Wait a second."  The man's eyes widen.  "Aren't you-"

"Yes, sort of, um- yes," I stammer nervously, taking a few slow steps backward. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm, um, expected elsewhere-"

Before I can finish, he starts pumping my hand up and down so hard he nearly works it off my wrist, drawing me further inside.  "Well!  I sure wasn't expecting this tonight!" he chirps pleasantly.  "I'm Wes.  Come on in, it's freezing out there!"

Mr. Wes Adams draws me into the front room, slamming the door against the wind and snow.  Quickly he has me shuffle out of my coat, which he hangs up on the rack- or at least tries to, unsuccessfully at first, till about the fourth time, the coat catches on the hook and stays.  I almost smile. The poor man is practically tripping over himself, trying to see to it that I'm as comfortable as can be, as soon as can be. 

"Look at that stuff come down," he murmurs, before turning to me and all but bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet in excitement.  "Hot damn, what an honor this is!  John Deacon in the flesh!  Sorry about the mess in here, it doesn't usually look like this I promise.  Uh, um- go ahead and have a seat if you want, can I get you a drink?"

"I really shouldn't," I murmur shyly.  "You see, I was trying to find Ms. Samuels' house, they're expecting me, I think."

"Oh, yeah, they live next door- but I doubt anyone's home yet.  I'm pretty sure they're still at Danny's rehearsal, or something."

I bite back another yawn.  "Then when do you suppose they'll return?"

"Maybe another hour or so."

"Was Rick with them, do you know?"

"Not that I saw.  Couldn't really say.  I wasn't exactly watching them leave, after all.  But you're welcome to stay here and wait till your godson and all come back."

"That sounds like a perfect idea, actually.  Thank you."  I cough.  "Now, how do you know he's my-"

"My daughter, Lauren." He points at the small framed picture sitting on the coffee table.  "She brought that over this morning, absolutely thrilled that she has a rock star's godson for a best friend- and a rock star lookalike for a neighbor."

When in doubt, play it cool.  "Oh, really?  A lookalike?"

"Yeah, you know.  The Freddie Mercury clone. I figured that's why you're here at all: you've come to see Rick.  Have you?"

I struggle to look even more oblivious.  'What's Rick got to do with it?"

Wes rolls his eyes.  "Have you turned on the news lately?"

"No, I've been sort of busy, actually."  And in this particular moment, the news is completely inconsequential to me- and it must be to Wes as well, who currently has the television tuned in to Home Alone 2.  "Wes, listen.  I don't know much about you, but-"

His face falls a little.  "You mean, Julia's never mentioned me?"

"I mean- yes!  Of course, she does," I lie shamelessly.  "But that's hardly important right now.  I know you're a radio personality and all that, but I need you to please do me a favor and not say a word about knowing I'm in the neighborhood.  Not on the radio, not on Facebook, nothing.  Please?"

Wes nods.  "You have my word- Deacy."

I can't help but bristle at the name; it's only a handful of people I let call me Deacy anymore, and this fellow is not one of them.  "I just want them all to stay safe, no press lights and such."

"Absolutely. You're the only one who knows he's here, as far as I know.  Besides me, of course."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive," he nods.  "I figured if he was going to go out of his way to give a bogus mailing address, he probably doesn't want anyone to know where he lives- and I can totally respect that.  I haven't said a word, not even to Joe and the other guys- and they've picked my brain about it quite a bit since the other d-"

Without warning a symphony of car horns drowns out his voice.  On instinct, I move toward the window, peer through the drawn blinds.  I can hear shouting now, rumbling under the strident honks- but I still can't really see anything.

That's when I see Rudy's car pull into view, sidling right up to the van.  All the lights are shining at full power, his music blaring at the loudest setting.  A few more seconds of this goes on, till to my wide, wondering eyes, he pokes his head out the window, screams something I can't understand.  Whatever it is, it must be magical.  Like a charm, the van suddenly sputters to life, and all four doors open simultaneously.  But no sooner are the doors pushing completely ajar when the yellow car skids on down the road, moving as fast as possible through the ice-slush. Doors closing again, the van too lurches into motion, hot on the trail of Rudy's car as they both disappear from sight.

I squint tiredly through the snow, too sleepy to be curious, too emotionally drained to be anxious.  Wait.  What just happened?  What are you up to now, Rudy? What are you, at all, Rudy? What's your game?  Where does it end- if it does?

Not that I care, of course.  All that matter is that I see him, even if only for a minute- and I don't mean Rudy, either.  I don't have to tell you, I don't think.  You all know me well enough by this point, know how much I've missed him even as many years as have passed, and I don't want to bore with another long soliloquy about it all.  Suffice it too say, all I want in the world right now, is the chance to embrace him like a long-lost friend, look him in the eyes- thoroughly convince myself that for this single brief, shining moment, Freddie really and truly is back.

"Did you still want that drink, John?" Wes calls.

"More than ever," I yawn.  "Thank you."

I have been asked to make myself at home, and so I shall.  I settle comfortably in his big leather chair while one of his big German shepherd dogs comes and rests his long nose right on top of my thigh. They are not the barking type, thank God- which is more than I can say for Danny's own little canine.

Once more, for good measure, I check my phone- and see that Julia has still neglected to answer.  Very well.  I could wait.  I shake my head quietly, and shut my eyes for a minute or two of rest. 

I don't remember ever actually sipping the cocktail.  I think I was fast asleep before I ever got the chance to taste it, my last thought being what on Earth she and he might be up to in that particular instant...