Blues Highway Blues (A Crossroads Thriller Book 1) Read online

  He walked into the place and knew at once he’d finally solved his mystery.

  There were six guys in the band: a drummer, a bassist, a keyboard player, two guitarists, and a singer. On stage they shared the kind of easy camaraderie that’s sometimes formed when a band goes out on the road.

  “Thank you for coming out tonight,” the vocalist called out to the crowd in an all-too-familiar voice. There were maybe fifty people still left in the place, which, considering it was a Monday in February, seemed to Daniel like a fairly strong showing.

  “Before we go tonight, I’d like to introduce you to the members of the band. On drums, Ryan Helms.” There was a smattering of applause and a few whistles. “London Haynes on the bass.” The crowd responded with more of the same. “We got Kevin Connor on keyboards. On guitars, our twin diesel engine: Jake Robertson. And Zack Erickson.”

  As soon as the name was announced, Daniel clapped so hard and whistled so loudly that it took a moment or two before the vocalist could complete the band’s introduction with, “And I’m Joe Vigilatura. We’re the Dockery Plantation and tonight were going to leave you with this. This is ‘The End of the Road.’”

  The other guitarist began to strum that same, simple chord progression on a twelve-string acoustic as Zack wove in a soft, haunting melody on Daniel’s ES-335. Then the singer joined in.

  Put the past behind you

  Set your burden down

  There’s nothing to remind you

  It’s all over now

  Take your first steps forward

  You’ve paid all the debts you owed

  It’s your life to run

  Run it to the end of the road

  With a sudden punch, the drums and bass and keyboards joined in for the chorus.

  To the end of the road, till you’re late for the sky

  Run as fast as you can, till you take off and fly

  And if you soar with the angels, or crash to the ground

  You can count on me to always be around

  I’ll get you back on your feet, and carry the load

  I’ll be by your side, to the end of the road

  When the show was over, the rest of Dockery Plantation went to the bar for a round of beers on the house. All but one. Zack Erickson knew he had unfinished business to take care of.

  Daniel was seated at a table in the far corner of the Tavern and Zack moved slowly toward him, unsure what the reception would be like. He made a point of keeping his back straight, trying to conceal from his bandmates (and his father) that the twenty steps from the stage to the table had transferred him from bold rock guitarist to penitent boy. “Dad.”

  Relief. Fury. Joy. Frustration. Feelings that didn’t have names and others that Daniel had never experienced before. He rose from his seat silently, struggling to maintain the emotional New Orleans levee that threatened to break at any moment.

  They stood face-to-face, neither one sure what to say to the other, what to do.

  And then Daniel wrapped his arms around his son, not so much hugging him as taking hold of him and hanging on like his son was the only fixed, deeply rooted piece in his life that could keep his head above the rushing flood waters as those levee walls betrayed him and gave way.

  “It’s all right, Dad.” Zack patted Daniel’s back like he was the parent, but nervously looked around the thinning crowd to see if his bandmates or anyone else at the bar had noticed what was happening between them. “It’s all right.”

  Daniel pulled himself away. “No.” He ran his sleeve across his eyes, too exhausted and emotionally spent to be embarrassed by his tears. “No, Zack, it’s not.”

  Afraid his legs might simply give way, Daniel took his seat. He started to say something, then stopped, tried to start again, and found he had no means to express all of the thoughts and emotions that were running around his overloaded brain demanding expression.

  Anger was the most persistent. He wanted to yell, wanted to rage at the immature and ill-conceived antics that had dragged him, kicking and screaming, through hell.

  There was profound sadness too. Whatever his son’s motivations, it pained him that the bond between them was not strong enough or had been so deteriorated over the past few years.

  He was awash with pride for his boy for having conceived of and executed such a sophisticated plot, one that demonstrated such admirable musical tastes. There was something melancholic in the realization that his boy was no longer a boy. And there was joyous relief that his son was alive and sitting there in front of him.

  So much that needed to be said, but all that came out was: “What the fuck?”

  Though he’d clearly become a man, Zack took the same boyish breath he used to draw before explaining the unforeseeable series of events that had resulted in a shattered flat-screen or the family dog sporting a Mohawk.

  He had explanations ready, of course. Since he’d first conceived his plan, he’d worked on explanations. At every step of the journey, he’d honed his story so he could meet his father’s inevitable questions with answers that were razor-sharp and succinct.

  At the last minute, however, he decided to just tell the truth. “I was afraid.”

  “Afraid?” Daniel had anticipated an amusing variety of alibis, but fear had not been among them. “Afraid of what?”

  Zack took another breath, but not his juvenile, carnival-barker-playing-three-card-monte preparatory breath. This was a desperate attempt to keep his own emotions from overflowing their banks. When he could, he answered, “Of losing you.”

  The words hit Daniel with a physical force more terrible than anything Moog could have ever dished out, and he brought his hand to his mouth to keep from losing his breath. “Zack.”

  “When you tried to kill yourself—” He wished he hadn’t begun, but it was out now and Zack could not stop. “When you did that. Something inside me died.”

  Daniel wanted to offer explanations of his own but said nothing, knowing his son wasn’t finished with him yet.

  “And even after you came home, even after they said you were all right. You just weren’t—” Zack paused, searching for the words to say, “You just weren’t you.”

  “And you thought by robbing me—”

  “I didn’t rob you,” Zack snapped. “The fucking money is still here.” He did a quick accounting in his head. There had been expenses. “Most of it.”

  Daniel shook his head, overwhelmed by the weight of everything that had happened—and was still left to happen. “What were you thinking, Zack?”

  “I was thinking that the only thing you ever loved—” Zack hadn’t wanted to bring her up, but there she was. “Besides Mom—”

  “I love you.” Daniel had never really understood the depth of those words until saying them to his son like that.

  “Besides me and Mom.” Zack was willing to spot him. “The only other thing you loved was music. But somewhere, somehow you lost that.”

  Daniel winced. “There was a lot going on for me.”

  His son had heard it before and ignored it this time too.

  “The night they took you away,” Zack continued, “I stayed at the house alone. I don’t know, I just wanted you near. And I found all these old albums, these old records you’d had when you were my age. I realized these were what had inspired you to pick up a guitar. You know, to create something. They were what had made you feel alive. And I just thought that if I made you rediscover the music, if I could give that back to you…then maybe you could be alive. Again.”

  Daniel knew exactly which box of records Zack was talking about, but the dark irony was that he’d never listened to one of them. The old man from whom Daniel had bought his ES-335 from back when he still thought he might have a shot at the rock-and-roll dream had given him the records. The old man had told him he was wasting his time and his money on such a guitar until he learned the music behind it. Three weeks later “Driving You Out of My Mind” hit. The guitar went up on the wall as a decoration and the bo
x of records went in storage.

  Daniel was moved that his son had thought of the scheme. And crushed his son felt he’d had to.

  Zack struggled to continue. “And maybe I could be alive again too.”

  “Oh, Zack.” Daniel closed his eyes and shook his head at the tragic irony. How could he tell his son that this well-intentioned (though misguided) attempt to save his life was the reason he was going to lose it. “You have no idea.”

  “And you did, didn’t you?” Zack interrupted enthusiastically, sensing they might just be turning a corner. “You found something out there on the road.”

  Daniel knew the reason for his son’s optimism. “You haven’t seen the news recently, have you?”

  “No. We’ve just been on tour the last couple days.” He started to explain then realized he didn’t have to. “Well, you’ve been right behind us so you know—”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “But you feel better now, don’t you?”

  Daniel considered the question, making sure to keep his hand with its missing finger hidden in his coat pocket. “There were complications.”

  And then in a moment of what Jung—or Sting—would call synchronicity, the barroom door opened wide and Daniel’s two complications stepped inside.

  “Oh, Jesus no,” Daniel cried beneath his breath as he slouched in his seat to avoid being seen.

  “Dad, what’s wrong?”

  “Where is the money?”

  “I’ve got it, Dad.” His tone suggested there was no “big deal” to any of this.

  “Where?” Daniel shouted in a whisper.

  “Those two Marshall amps don’t actually work,” Zack said, pointing to two unused guitar amps. “What I didn’t spend setting all of this up is stashed inside.”

  “Listen to me.” Daniel’s voice was low and to-the-point, like they were in a huddle and he was drawing up the last-minute game winner for a Thanksgiving Day touch football game. “I want you to take one of those amps and I want you to get as far away from here as you can. Drop the Erickson. Pick up something like Flea or Bono or something.”

  “Dad, what are you—”

  “For once in your life, just listen to me.” He nervously checked the two at the door. They hadn’t noticed him yet, but time was running out. “I’m going to take one of the amps—”

  “I don’t want the money, Dad.” It was important to Zack that his father understood. “The money’s not what this was about.”

  “It was always going to be yours, that was what I was saving the money for. But I need some of it now.”

  “Sure.”

  “Now take that amp and pack up your band and go.” He tried to gauge his voice to convey urgency without conveying the panic he felt rising within. “Right now. Get out of Dodge.”

  “Dad?”

  “I need you to do this for me, Zack.” He looked over and saw Moog and Rabidoso talking to the girl behind the bar. “Go. Now.”

  Zack got to his feet, nodding his consent but still not understanding.

  Daniel looked up at his son. “I’m proud of you. And I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  The young man turned and started away. It was only then that it dawned on Daniel that he was saying good-bye to his son. Forever.

  “And, Zack.”

  His son turned.

  “I fucked up my whole life.” Zack started to say something in his father’s defense, but Daniel stopped him. “I’ve never done anything that really matters.” He needed his son to know. “Nothing but you. People have built pyramids. And painted masterpieces. They recorded Exile on Main Street. So many people have done so many amazing things. But I look at you, at the man you’ve become, and I realize I had a small part in something so much greater than any of that.” There was more he wanted to say, but no more words. Or time. “Thanks.”

  Zack smiled, “Sure thing.”

  He’d run out of time, but Daniel realized there was just one more thing he needed to say. “And, Zack.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You know how I told you that music wasn’t any kind of life, that rock was dead?” His son nodded. “Maybe I just didn’t know where to take the pulse.” Zack smiled. Daniel smiled too. “You keep rockin’ it as hard as you can. And don’t you ever let them make you stop.”

  “Count on it.” With that his son turned and joined his bandmates at the bar.

  Daniel watched him go.

  And now he was ready. Daniel got up, walked over to the band’s equipment, and casually picked up one of the amps Zack had indicated was stuffed full of cash.

  He turned to go but found the way blocked by a side-by-side refrigerator in an overcoat. “Hello, Daniel.”

  “Moog.” He wasn’t surprised they’d managed to follow him there, but he had to know. “How’d you find me?”

  Moog understood and was happy to oblige. “The pack of cigarettes I put in your pocket when I gave you that coat—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Personal tracker,” the big man answered matter-of-factly. “I tracked you all the way here.”

  Daniel grinned and shook his head. How many times had he thought to throw those things out? “When they warn cigarettes’ll kill you, you never think of it like that.”

  “You shouldn’t have run, Daniel.” Moog’s voice was low and quiet.

  “Yeah, you shouldn’t have run, you little shit,” Rabidoso chimed in.

  “No,” Daniel insisted. “It was the right thing to do.” He held up the amp. “You didn’t want to go back to Vegas empty-handed, did you?”

  “That don’t matter now,” Rabidoso hissed.

  “Really?” Daniel taunted. “Because I got your money.”

  “Where?” Moog wanted to know.

  “Right here.” Daniel held the amp up as high as he could.

  Rabidoso looked over at the band gathered at the bar and started toward them.

  “Hey,” Daniel called out to stop him. “It was just a practical joke played on me by a band I used to manage.”

  “That so?” Rabidoso turned, more interested now in getting the lie out of him.

  Moog looked over at the band skeptically.

  Rabidoso’s gaze was more predatory. “I think we should kill them all just for the trouble they caused us.”

  “No.” Daniel snapped it like an order, then realized his mistake and looked to Moog. “I think about the only thing you guys could do to bring more attention to Filat is shoot up a bar in Seattle and kill some innocent kids. That’d really help you guys out.” He could tell Moog saw the sense in what he was saying. “Besides, I have the money. And you have me. What do you need with any of them?”

  Moog’s verdict was quick. “He’s right.” And beyond appeal.

  “What do you mean he’s right? You’re telling me those kids ran us all around this goddamn country, cost us ten days, and we’re just going to let them—”

  “I’m telling you we got what we came for. Now let’s go.” Moog pointed toward the exit sign at the back of the building and herded both men toward it.

  “Don’t you push me, man,” Rabidoso started.

  “Push you?” Moog stopped. “I’ll put your ass right through that goddamn door if you don’t open it and get to steppin’. ”

  Wanting the pair out of the bar as quickly as possible, Daniel walked quickly to the door, opened it himself, and took a step out into the alley behind the tavern. “Guys, let’s just get going.”

  Moog prodded the little man through the door and then followed. Holding the door open, Daniel turned over his shoulder and took one last look at his son. Then he let the door slam shut. Everything would be all right now—everything that mattered.

  “Man, I’m telling you, this is bullshit,” Rabidoso continued out in the alley.

  Moog wasn’t having any of it. “Will you just shut up on that now!”

  “There’s no practical joke here.” Rabidoso walked up to Daniel. “You know what I think? I think I kille
d the wrong puta back in California. I think that’s why you never tried to avenge your own son. I think somehow you called your son from Vegas and told him to get your money out of the house.”

  Daniel was worried. Not only had Moog not told Rabidoso to shut up, but he seemed genuinely interested in what the petite psycho was saying.

  “I think you just ran us around and around until you thought you could get free,” Rabidoso continued. “Then you came here to pick up some money so you could go deep underground. I think your son’s still in that bar. And I think that Mr. P. would love to see the look on your face when I throw the little fuck over his balcony railing. I think that’s an offering that would make all of this up to Mr. P.”

  Moog thought about it. And then rejected it. “None of that’s got nothing to do with the job we were hired to do.”

  “I’m not asking your permission, Gigantor.” Rabidoso’s 9mm was already in his hand. “I’m going in there and getting that little puta and I’m giving him to Mr. P. as gift. And if he doesn’t want him, then I’m offering him to Santa Muerte.” Rabidoso turned to go back in through the exit door.

  Daniel brought the cash-filled amp down on Rabidoso’s head with such force that the little man crumbled to the pavement.

  He raised the amp high above his head, prepared to deliver the coup de grace, but a sharp click drew Daniel’s attention. He turned to find Moog had drawn his Desert Eagle and had it pointed straight at him. “I hate the little fucker too, but that was a seriously bad mistake.”

  Before he could explain, Daniel felt the cold chromed steel of Rabidoso’s pistol against the back of his neck. “I’m going to kill you so hard—”

  The sights of Moog’s pistol shifted from Daniel to Rabidoso. “Don’t!”

  The Mexican looked over and saw the intent in the big man’s eyes. There was, he knew, nothing to be gained in calling him on it now. He returned his pistol to its place in his jeans’ waistband and raised his empty hands for his partner to see. “Satisfied.”

  “I ain’t been satisfied since we started this mess.”

  Rabidoso just laughed. And then punched Daniel right in the throat.

  The amp fell to the pavement as Daniel’s hands instinctively came up to clutch his throat. A second later Rabidoso’s cue ball of a fist struck him hard in the nose. Blood erupted like a broken water main. And then in the right eye. The nose again.