by David Simms
The sound of her voice brushed away the fog in his mind for a moment. He turned to her, formed the only thought he could think of and cleared his throat.
“We find Zack.” It sounded simple falling from his lips.
But nothing was ever that easy.
* * * *
As the band sat in Mr. Satriani’s music class, waiting for the bell to end the day, Muddy imagined what the others thought. He knew that at least one of them figured he was nuttier than a squirrel’s butt in October. Hopefully, Poe wasn’t the one.
Otis nudged him with his foot. “Are you sure he’ll listen to us?” Whispering didn’t happen in the band room, so neither teen cared about their voices carrying.
“Zack was his prize student,” Muddy replied. I hope that’s enough.
Mr. Santriani helped them survive high school so far by giving the band place to hang out, a place to escape the crap from the Bentleys and Vinces and ignorant teachers who thought the group stood a step below them on Darwin’s ladder.
They waited until the rest of the class left the acoustically perfect room. It was a haven for anyone who loved music, either to perform, or to simply listen and enjoy peace from the chaos outside its door.
The bushy-haired man bustling behind the mass of piano, lyres, music stands and at least three trees worth of sheet music, was a true genius of disorganization. The music director of their high school, Mr. Satriani was always working on some symphony that never saw the light of day, never ceased to be working on some creative endeavor. Sometimes that endeavor meant their little band, with whom he spent countless hours honing their skills and even assisted in forming the chaotic, cacophonic concoction that was Poe, Corey, Otis, an occasional bassist and him.
“Hey,” Mr. Santriani crooned, dropping a few sheets of scribbled staves. “It’s the next big illegal download superstars! How are “The Accidentals” doing? Need help with a new song?”
Muddy’s mouth opened to speak, but only stale air burst forth.
Poe stepped up to the plate to save his butt, as always. “Nope, no new song. We need something a little more important.”
“Well, I guess big brother’s helping plenty on the musical end now. No need for this old guy to bring you to celebrity status. Maybe he rubbed some of his wild mojo on you, gave you a smidge of his skills. Maybe—”
“Maybe he’s friggin’ missing!” Otis said. Okay, the silence was officially broken.
If the man heard correctly, he didn’t show it. He didn’t move a muscle, nor did his face register the slightest emotion.
“Satch,” Poe yelled, calling Mr. Satriani by the nickname they'd given him. “Did you hear Muddy?”
Mr. Satriani simply picked up the papers and went about rearranging them on the piano. “I heard. Did you check the police station? Vince’s shack? How about Iron?”
Muddy felt himself tense. Zack wasn’t bad. He just wasn’t handling things well.
“We checked everywhere,” Poe said, saving Otis from a suspension.
Mr. Satriani wrinkled his face. “He wouldn’t…”
Muddy nodded. “I saw what happened.”
The man knotted his brows.
“Well, Mr. Rivers. What did you see? Where did you see Zack go?” Sometimes Mr. Satriani suffered from verbal diarrhea. Many a time, someone in the band wanted to shove Imodium down his throat.
“I don’t know,” Muddy answered, feeling the choke of the first tear. “I have no idea.”
* * * *
After listening to the watered down version of the previous night’s events, sans the disappearing act behind the invisible curtain, their teacher and mentor, whom they counted on for guidance in most of life’s endeavors, sat on the piano bench, dumbfounded.
“What do you think, Satch?” Poe asked Mr. Satriani. “There’s gotta be a plausible reason for what happened, right?”
“I just don’t know, honestly.” Mr. Satriani looked sad, as though he understood, until they asked the key question.
“Just what are the crossroads? Last night I Googled it and found some legend about musicians selling their souls at a crossroads in Memphis.”
No answer.
“Right?” Muddy tried to keep his voice from breaking.
He looked past Mr. Satriani, into the field beyond the windows.
They would’ve believed him if eye contact had been made, as Mr. Satriani was one of the few people who treated them as equals. He never even once mentioned the words “special,” “learning disabled” or worse. But this time, he spoke through them, as if his cat sat before him begging for a treat.
“So you don’t know the stories?” Muddy knew he’d lost his teacher’s attention, but for Zack, he persisted.
“No, I don’t. I’m sorry.” Mr. Satriani shoved some papers into his bag and grabbed his keys. “I have to leave now. See you tomorrow.”
“Lying mother…” Otis muttered. “Son of a friggin’ traitor.”
But the man simply ignored the accusation and moved for the door.
Poe shot out her arm and grabbed the teacher. “Satch, you do know about the crossroads. Look at me and lie to my face. Please.”
Even though she was the only female in the group, Poe had the biggest pair of stones on her and often “out-manned” them in many situations. Muddy figured that when someone had survived her kind of life, one either learned to ride the monster waves or drown in the undertow.
The teacher gently pulled away, as if he had leprosy and didn’t want to infect her.
“Please.” Her pale, silvery eyes pleaded with him.
He walked to the door. “I’m sorry,” he said as he walked out. “You’re on your own this time.” Then he was gone.
But that night, an email arrived from Satch. Three words in the subject line said it all.
I can help.
Chapter Three
Poe arrived first in the basement rehearsal room Muddy’s dad had built for them between writing novels last year. She always arrived first, as she couldn’t escape her father quickly enough. By the look on her face, the night had taken a negative turn. The clouds swimming in her beautiful gray eyes could never hide the truth from Muddy, no matter how much she tried.
“Bad night?” he asked, even though they both knew it was just small talk.
She clenched her eyes shut, as if those near sightless orbs could blink out the awful life she endured day to day. “Corey walked me over, but had to run back for his special reeds.”
A smile crept from her lips, as did Muddy’s over how the lanky kid who used to live in the dangerous neighborhood called Iron worried about how his lips might hurt if he used the wrong gauge for his sax reeds. He felt even more protective of her than Muddy did. She needed little of it once she left her house, but it made them feel better to know they were watching out for her.
“I’m okay,” she said, plopping her tall, svelte, but still awkward self on the worn sofa. “No different than yesterday.” For someone who has visually impaired, she had seen way too much for her age.
The man drank too much and took it out on her and her mother. Now it was just her. Neither of them had a mother around anymore, another bond which bound her to his heart. Except that hers hadn’t died—she’d left. Poe’s mother had abandoned the family instead of divorcing such a violent man. The band figured the police would believe a fellow officer, but Muddy couldn’t comprehend how a parent could just leave a child. How one could abuse his own daughter baffled him even more.
“He didn’t—”
“No,” she replied, cutting Muddy off. “Otis is here.” She could always hear someone way before anyone else could. They assumed her other senses took up the slack for her eyes.
If the man touched her again, he might just snap and go over there. What Muddy would do once he got there was beyond him, but his anger burned every time he thought of the man taking out his life’s shortcomings on his daughter.
He almost voiced his intentions when Otis and Corey entered an
d sat in front of them. They knew her story, but never asked. Still, they’d back up Muddy with anything he chose to do.
Muddy read the email over the phone to the other guys. None of them had thought Mr. Satriani would actually be able to help them find Zack. Now, he sent them the equivalent of a map for buried treasure—of a sort.
Muddy,
I can’t find your brother, nor do I know where he really is, but if there IS an answer, I know who has it. Go to the address below and be as open as your music. Don’t go at night, please, but go soon.
Be careful. If this guy is real, if what I hear is true that he can do, you could be in more danger than you could ever dream of—but don’t go alone. There’s power in your group.
I wish I had some to give you.
Satch
“Well what are we gonna do?” Muddy said. “Just sit here?”
Otis never pulled punches when he spoke. One of his handicaps that landed him in the special education classes at school was that his eyelids never closed fully, even when he slept. The kid always looked stoned and was a saline junkie. But never shutting his mouth?
Muddy’s fist tightened on the mouse as he tried to MapQuest the address his teacher had given them. According to three different websites, Sixty-One Mustang Drive simply didn’t exist.
“Maybe you’re spelling it wrong.”
Wrong thing to say to a dyslexic kid...
Muddy nearly broke the mouse, but held back. This one and only clue had to be the answer.
“It’s gotta be there,” Poe said. “Satch wouldn’t jerk us around. He actually cares.”
Muddy sighed, relaxing his grip. “I know. He’s one of the few who does, at least for who we really are.”
Corey finally said what they'd all thought but avoided, until now. “Do you know where Mustang Drive is?. I do, kind of. It’s smack dead in the black heart of Iron. Talk about scary.”
“It’s like Iraq, ghetto-style,” Otis said.
“More like Harlem, Detroit, D.C. and East L.A.—all rolled up into one—on acid,” Poe added.
“My old friends would kick my butt if they saw me on those streets,” Corey said, arms shivering just a bit.
“So,” Poe said, clasping her hands as she stood. “When do we go?”
“Tonight.” Muddy had to show the strength his brother would need.
“Whoa,” Corey said. “Love the hero mentality, but don’t like the stupid part. We wait until morning.”
Muddy stared at each of them, anger seething through his eyes at first, but then he relaxed.
Poe leaned in and touched his arm. “Seven too early for you? P.M.?”
They all took a collective breath. It would be early enough for sunlight, at least an hour and a half before sundown, but still hitting the danger zone.
* * * *
How does one prepare to travel into the worst part of town, somewhere that even the police tried to avoid?
Each house the band passed blinked at them, eyes hidden by the dark, but curious about the strangers who tread on their territory. The flickers of light in the windows scared the teens more than anything, mostly because the house sat in eerie silence.
Muddy hoped that no one cared about the intrusion.
But of course, they did.
The band slunk down Terminal Avenue, walking cautiously along the street. To stay on the broken concrete of the sidewalks meant walking too close to the shadows that hid between the shops, both open and shut down, the jagged hedges of clapboard houses and crowded apartment buildings.
Up ahead, a group of gang bangers, maybe eight or nine, suddenly came out of nowhere and blocked the intersection. Forming a line under the shadowy glare of the streetlights, they appeared larger and more menacing than Muddy had ever faced down before.
“Oh, crap.” Otis practically hugged Corey. “We’re dead.”
Muddy wondered how many packed weapons. He never knew a dealer in town who didn’t carry at least a blade.
One of them strode toward the band, hands deep in his pockets. When the light struck his face, Muddy’s mind didn’t know what to register, fear or relief.
“Rivers, that you?” Vinnie closed the gap between them.
“Geez,” Muddy thought, “this could be really bad or really good.”
He tried to look into Vinnie's eyes, but the broken beams of light from above split the boy’s face into many weird prisms—some smiling, some touched with evil, some indistinguishable.
“What are you doing out here, little man? You have a death wish?” His posse laughed, mostly at the band.
“Is your deadbeat brother out here, too?” His gray eyes scoped the ragtag look of the band. “As much as I like the guy, he still owes me cash.”
“We’re looking for Zack and don’t need any crap tonight.” Otis never held back.
No one could tell which rang louder, the catcalls from Vinnie’s posse, or the band’s hearts beating through their ribs.
The dealer’s eyes grew big. “Oh, really,” he said, crossing his arms instead of whipping out a knife. “And you think you’ll find Zack here?” Hopefully, he had a shred of compassion in his drug-addled veins and wouldn’t snap Otis like a dried wishbone. “‘Cause if he was here, I’d know about it.”
Muddy took the break in the tension for a shot. “So, you don’t know where he is?”
“Nope again, little Rivers. Wish I did, seeing as we have some business to discuss, but he’s also a cool guy. I look out for him when I can, but he’s changed—a lot. I’d go back home if I were you. Things get nasty around here then it gets dark.”
Poe looked at him, then at Corey and Otis. “We need to find someone here, first.” Her hand shook, holding the printed email containing the address Mr. Satriani had indicated they needed to find.
Vinnie's skinny, calloused hand jutted out. “Lemme see that,” he said, snatching it from her open hand. His beady eyes widened, then went a shade of white.
He straightened up, returning to his tall, tough image. “Your funeral.” He turned to walk away, a business deal likely in the vicinity.
“But, Rivers,” he said, a little softer, “watch your step. Death walks around here and even scares away the shadows.”
Corey spoke up for the first time. “Guys? You still up for this?” They knew he was petrified.
“I can’t see a problem,” Poe quipped.
Otis and Muddy snickered softly, nerves jangling. The most vulnerable member of the band resorted to joking when they were walking through fire, possibly heading straight to the dragon. But, how could they turn away now?
* * * *
Mustang Drive did exist. Never mind that it was in an area where no one in their right mind would live—willingly. Only a few of the buildings on the street remained intact. The rest had withered away into bad memories and dust. None could be called homes. How could anyone live there and call it home?. Sixty-one must be at the end.
A ramshackle red house stood, maybe leaned, at the far end of the street. Actually, it sort of looked like it was held up by wood and stones that had lost all its will to possess strength a couple of centuries ago. Two windows gazed out like bloodshot eyes, filthy and draped in shadow. Around the mouth, a decrepit porch yawned in a wood-warped smile that suggested it knew something they shouldn’t. On the right side of the black door, a rusted number “61” hung limp. A light within flickered, like a candle in a rotted jack-o-lantern.
“Ready, guys?”
Poe held Muddy’s hand in a vise-like grip. She knew she would need some help to walk through the landmine of junk littering the front yard, hidden beneath foot-tall weeds. Nobody would accuse her of flirting with him, not in this situation. No matter how much he wished it to be true.
“Sure, let’s kick it.”
“I’m in,” Corey said, his voice wavering more than the red house’s light.
Muddy turned to Otis, who suddenly lost his jokes.
“What?” Otis said, his voice a little higher than
usual. “I’m thinking. Okay, I’m in, too. No way am I gonna wait outside this place while you guys play detective.”
The foursome proceeded to walk up to the stairs, testing them one at a time. One by one, the planks groaned and growled. They likely hadn’t been stepped on for years. Muddy silently prayed that none of them would crash through and wind up captive in a dungeon filled with torture devices.
The wood held firmly. At the top, Poe reached forward to knock on the door before any of them could stop her. The moment her knuckles scraped the black paint, something inside the house exploded in a frenzy of barks and howls. She yanked her hand back and screamed. By the looks on the faces of the others, they'd nearly wet their pants.
“Hello?” a voice bellowed from within, overpowering the animal. Bassy and old, it seemed to surround them.
The barking, from whatever beast lurked inside, added to the question.
“Holy crap!” Otis yelled. “Who’s in there, Cujo?”
Corey stepped up to the front of the pack. His fingers found a cracked doorbell hiding in a mass of spider webs and splintered, flaking red wood. “Don’t be a wuss, little man. You don’t have a backbone here, you’re dead.”
Corey, a lanky tough kid who had spent most of his childhood ducking bullets in the projects knew more about backbones than all of them combined. They'd all had their challenges, but their enemies came from within, from genetic demons. Muddy was dyslexic and motherless. Poe, well Poe was legally blind and her father—Muddy clenched his hands so hard thinking about it his nails cut into his palms. And Otis, he was the worst of them with his brittle bones, tiny body, frizzy, colorless hair and a life expectancy that had expired five years ago. No wonder he was always so mad at the world.
Corey was physically healthy and smart, no disabilities at all. But he came from the worst section of town and the wrong crowd, along with his brother. Eventually, he'd skipped enough school to fall a year behind. It took only one gunshot to bring him back to his senses. Muddy lost a mother, but at least he’d had a chance to say goodbye.
Put all those things together and “The Accidentals” were quite a bunch. But they had friendship and music and that made most things feel okay. It was special in a good way when it came to their talent. When they played, no one made fun of them.
