Dead End Road

by Lori Whitwam

  She stepped into the alley under the darkening sky. As she walked across the alley and into the parking lot, rounding the corner of one of the ATF vehicles, she caught sight of her Jeep and was startled to find a figure crouched near the driver’s side door. It took her a moment to recognize Pam the Groupie, who was busy keying her car.

  “Oh, this is the last fucking straw,” Abby growled to herself.

  Intent on her task, Pam didn’t see her coming, and in half a dozen swift steps Abby reached her and gave her a solid hip-check. The vandal sprawled to her knees, and Abby quickly knelt on her and pinned her arms. Looking over her shoulder at her beloved Jeep, she saw a jagged “B” carved into the door. She dug her knee into Pam’s back.

  “A ‘B’? As in ‘bitch’? You were scraping ‘bitch’ into my car?”

  “Get…off…me,” Pam grunted.

  Abby wished she could let go of one of her prisoner’s arms long enough to grab a fistful of blonde hair and rap her head against the pavement a few times. “Enormous mistake,” she said through clenched teeth.

  Pam arched her back in an attempt to throw Abby off, but failed and sagged back to the ground. “You are a bitch, and you don’t deserve Seth!” She twisted her head back and forth, trying to look at Abby or possibly bite her. “Stay away from him! You need to disappear just like the other one did!”

  For an instant, Abby almost lost her grip on Pam’s arms. What she’d just said sounded threatening, elevating the girl from slightly obsessive fan to flat-out psychotic. Fortunately, she had an idea what to do with her.

  “Oh, Christ, what now?”

  Abby turned her head at the sound of the exasperated question to find Seth standing by the ATF Suburban.

  “Darlin’, is this going to keep us from getting home any time soon?” he asked.

  “Nope. Would you run inside and get Sammy, please? Miss Pam here was vandalizing my car and seems to have threatened me. And you should probably hurry, because she’s going to lose feeling in her arms soon, and I have the urge to do unpleasant things to her hair.” Abby tightened her grip.

  “You whore! You attacked me!”

  “Seth? Sammy. Now. Please?”

  Seth rushed to get Sammy, while Abby kept the squirming Pam pinned firmly to the ground. She was hissing and spitting like a cat, and Abby had never much cared for cats.

  Sammy arrived a few minutes later and looked more amused than concerned. If he could read all the vengeful thoughts in Abby’s mind, he might have felt differently. She explained what she’d witnessed, but did not yet release Pam.

  “She attacked me!” Pam wailed. “I didn’t do anything!”

  “Yeah, like I carved that ‘B’ into my own car, and those aren’t your keys right there on the ground. Not to mention the part about me ‘disappearing.’ Kinda sounds like a threat to me, Pammy. Not smart.” She couldn’t resist digging her short—but sharp—fingernails into the girl’s upper arm, but only a little. She congratulated herself on her restraint. “But there’s more to the story, Sammy.”

  “Oh, really? Do tell.” He unhitched his handcuffs from his utility belt, a fact of which Abby highly approved.

  “You might recall one of the potential suspects Special Agent Kincaid mentioned regarding the bomb was the ‘crazed fan.’ And it would seem we have one of those right here. She approached Seth in the park yesterday, was waiting outside the club door last night, harassed me during the show because I was with Seth, and now she’s vandalizing my Jeep and threatening me. Seems to me she needs to have a chat with Kincaid’s men.”

  Sammy smiled, and for a moment Abby thought he almost looked dangerous. “I think you’re exactly right.” He approached, and Abby reluctantly relinquished her grip on Pam’s arms so Sammy could apply the handcuffs.

  “Bomb? What bomb? What are you people talking about?” Pam screamed.

  There were crumbs of asphalt sticking to the girl’s cheek, which made Abby happier than it probably should have. Seth leaned on the Jeep, smirking. She couldn’t resist smirking back. Sammy disappeared inside, hustling the protesting groupie along beside him.

  Abby stared at the gouge in her door. She ran her fingers over it, wincing at how deep it was. When she looked at her hand, she saw flecks of royal blue paint clinging to her fingertips. “I cannot believe this.”

  Seth laughed. “Oh, man, you took her down and I missed it!”

  “It was her third strike. At least. I have a pretty high rage threshold, but she crossed it.”

  “You did kind of assault her.”

  “Do you see Sammy arresting me? He won’t even give me a ticket.” She paused to consider. “Usually.”

  “But do you really think she had anything to do with the bomb? Did you have to turn her over to the ATF?”

  “No, I don’t think she had anything to do with the bomb. But I do think she needs to learn some manners.”

  “That’ll do the trick.”

  Abby wiped her hands on her jeans and picked up her purse from where she’d dropped it before charging Pam. She took Seth’s arm and they started down the sidewalk toward the Shamrock. “What did Joey have to say?”

  “Pretty much what you’d expect. Keep my head down, watch my back, and stay out of trouble. And don’t mess things up with you.” He gave her hip a little bump with his own.

  Abby grinned. “Think you can handle all that?”

  “Absolutely. He also said Caroline wants you to call her.”

  “I’ll call later. If I’m not distracted.”

  “You’ll definitely be distracted, darlin’.”

  “I’ll call her tomorrow.”

  “Better plan. I might be tired by then.”

  Through the window of the bar, Abby spotted Mouse, Marshall, and Trent. They had dragged two tables into the alcove along the back wall, where a folk singer sometimes put a portable stage for Wednesday night happy hour. The manager wouldn’t like it, but one look at Trent and he probably decided to make an exception. She noticed an abundance of plates and glasses already spread out. She nudged Seth. “You ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  Chapter Ten

  Seth

  Seth tried to gather his thoughts before going into the bar. He looked at the green neon sign in the plate glass window to the left of the door. “The Pickled Shamrock?” He’d seen some unusual bar names, but this one was near the top of the list.

  “We usually just call it the Shamrock.” she said. “It used to be the End Zone. It’s still a sports bar, though, heavy on the hockey and football.”

  “I might need a t-shirt.”

  “They have them. But you’re stalling, aren’t you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Do you want to get out of here any time today, or stand outside and discuss whimsical bar names?”

  “You’re right. Let’s go.” He reached for the door and held it open as Abby stepped inside.

  Being Saturday afternoon, the bar was crowded with groups of people watching a Twins game on the flat-screen televisions positioned strategically around the room. The home team was playing the hated Chicago White Sox, and the cacophony of cheers, jeers, and barstool commentating made it hard to hear normal conversation. The morning round of local league games was over, and the team from Molson’s Honda-Isuzu was already half-sloshed and loudly recapping every pitch of their win over Olssen’s Nursery. While there were several women, the customers were mostly male, young, and boisterous. There were plenty of Twins caps and University of Minnesota shirts in evidence and pitchers of beer on nearly every table. Framed jerseys and sports memorabilia adorned the walls. A pool table in one corner made Seth’s stomach clench at the thought of his custom cue, and the case that had probably held the bomb meant to kill him.

  They wound their way toward the tables his friends had set up. Marshall saw them coming and stood, intercepting Seth before he reached the table. “Man, what the hell took you so long?”

  Before he could answer, he was dragged into
a back-pounding guy hug, which was repeated with Mouse and Trent. He thought Trent might have bruised a few of his ribs. “We’d have been here fifteen minutes ago, but Abby had to apprehend a vandal.” He slid into a chair along the wall, and Abby sat beside him.

  Marshall took the space on Seth’s other side, while Trent and Mouse sat across from them.

  “Abby did what?” Marshall asked, adjusting the black bandanna covering his shaved head.

  Seth told them what had transpired in Dash’s parking lot, and soon had them nearly falling out of their seats with laughter.

  “Whoa!” Marsh exclaimed. “Wise move, man, staying out of the line of fire of a chick fight. Good way to get your balls racked.”

  “Wasn’t much fighting involved. By the time I got there, Abby had her pinned and was threatening to remove most of her hair.” He grinned. “Actually, it was kind of hot.”

  “I’d had about all I could handle for one day,” Abby said, blushing.

  “Well, I sure don’t blame you,” Trent said. He turned to Seth. “And we, my man, have a lot to talk about. But before we start, you need a drink.” He indicated the dozen or so full-to-the-brim shot glasses clustered in the center of the table. Everyone took a shot, downed it, then focused on Seth, waiting for him to fill them in.

  Seth shook off the sharp bite of tequila. “Guys, I don’t know what to say. But the first thing is if y’all start cracking jokes about a ‘big bang,’ or anything ‘going off prematurely,’ I will smoke you where you’re standin’, got it?”

  Marshall’s dark eyes widened in feigned innocence. “Would we do that?” He licked some hot wing sauce from his fingers. “Besides, we’ve been shooting those cracks back and forth all day, and we’re getting kind of tired of ’em.”

  “Good to know,” Seth said. All the humor left his voice as he continued. “It’s so fucked up, somebody hating me so much, and I have no idea why. I got this text message, sent from Kevin Merinar’s phone. He works for Dash, but nobody’s seen him today. It said I got lucky, they knew how to hurt me now before they make me pay, and third time’s a charm.”

  “Third time’s a charm? What’s that shit mean?” asked Mouse. He grabbed a gob of cheese-dripping nachos from the centrally located platter and dropped it on the plate in front of him.

  “Took me a minute, but it looks like I was right about there being something wrong with how sick I was on Wednesday night.” Seth waved to catch the server’s attention, and received a nod of acknowledgment.

  Marshall slapped the table, rattling the glasses and drawing curious glances from several people nearby. “No wonder they nabbed the bottle under your bunk. You think somebody messed with it.”

  “I’m sure of it,” Seth said. “Nothing else makes sense. When whatever shit they gave me didn’t do the trick, they moved on to Plan B.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the server, whose nametag identified her as Chanda. They consulted briefly, and a few minutes later a tray arrived bearing two pitchers of beer and five frosty glasses, as well as a replenishment of the tequila. Chanda departed, blonde ponytail bouncing.

  Mouse did the honors, filling all five glasses with ice-cold beer. He tossed his long, graying dark hair behind his shoulders and gave Seth a pointed look. “So, what are they saying, Caldwell? They think it was one of us, don’t they?” He didn’t sound happy.

  Seth took a long swallow from his glass. “Yeah, they do. I told ’em y’all are my brothers, my family, but they’re set on the idea it had to be somebody on the inside.” He tried not to allow any trace of suspicion to cross his face. He’d sooner die than hurt these guys, and had to believe the same was true of them.

  Trent’s huge hand tightened on his glass, and Seth hoped he didn’t crush it. “Bullshit, man, total bullshit.”

  “I know, Trent. I don’t believe it, either. They’re saying the bomb was planted in my bag sometime during the show, though, and whoever did it knew an awful lot about our schedules and how we run things.”

  “Gotta be another answer,” Marshall said.

  “They’re looking at some other options too,” Seth said. “Including the girl Abby assaulted in the parking lot, though she says it was mostly to teach her some manners.” He wrapped his arm around Abby’s shoulders and kissed her cheek.

  “She keeps popping up everywhere,” Abby said. “At least I know she’ll be busy for the next couple of hours.” She wiped a bit of melted cheese from the corner of her mouth, and Seth wished he’d noticed it first, because he was in the mood to lick it off.

  “They’re also going to talk to the guys who left the crew last year, and they want to check out Stacy and Purcell. They all know enough about us to plan something. A couple of ’em might hold a big enough grudge to want to try.”

  Trent leaned forward, setting his still-intact glass on the table. “Purcell, huh?”

  “Yeah. Why? You know something?” Seth asked.

  “Maybe,” Trent answered. “Hadn’t given it any thought, since it never came to anything, but security told me before the Cincinnati show he was outside and had to be escorted off the premises.”

  Pretty damned interesting. Had anybody seen the disgruntled songwriter in Chicago or here in Emporia? Seth made a mental note to ask Kincaid when he talked to him again.

  “What about Stacy?” Marsh asked. He cut a look in Abby’s direction, then looked at Seth, one eyebrow raised inquisitively.

  Seth correctly interpreted the expression. “It’s okay. She knows about Stacy.” Abby’s eyes narrowed, but she remained silent. “She doesn’t seem inclined to like her much.”

  Marsh snorted. “Nobody does. The chick is bugfuck crazy. I couldn’t see her pulling it off herself, but she’d sure be able to twist some guy into doing it for her.”

  “I told Kincaid the same thing.” Seth refilled his glass, looking at Abby to see how she was holding up. Her posture seemed tense, and he rubbed her thigh soothingly. The knot in his stomach loosened when she smiled at him in return.

  Trent’s phone vibrated on the table, and he looked at the display. “It’s Cassie,” he said, referring to his fifteen-year-old daughter. “I best go outside and take this. She has a softball tournament on Monday, and final practice was today.” He rose and headed out the back door to the bar’s patio.

  When the big man had gone, Marshall and Mouse exchanged glances. Marshall turned to Seth. “Look, man, we need to talk. Just us.”

  Seth drained his beer, certain he wouldn’t enjoy the conversation, but recognizing its necessity.

  Marshall lowered his eyes for a moment, before directing his gaze around the table. “Mouse and I were talking.”

  “Yeah? About what, exactly?” Seth noticed the tension in his friend’s shoulders mirrored his own, and forced himself to relax. He looked around the room just as the Twins’ pitcher threw a strike and ended the inning, bringing a deafening round of cheers from the fans. Given their location and the fact the other patrons were paying exclusive attention to the game and ingesting as much beer as possible, he decided they could speak with relative privacy, as long as they kept it brief.

  Marshall hesitated, and Mouse stepped in. “Look, Seth, I know you don’t want to think it was one of our guys. Shit, I don’t, either.” He put down his shot of tequila, untouched. “But it’s possible, you know?”

  “I know.” The thought sickened him, but he’d be a fool not to consider it.

  “They’re pretty sure the bomb was put in your bag during the show, right?” Marsh asked, as he reached for Mouse’s untouched drink.

  “That’s what they tell me. The person wouldn’t want to give me time to find it, and knew I’d be asleep in the bunk in the morning.” He felt Abby clutch his hand under the table.

  “That makes it easier, then,” Mouse said, nodding.

  “How?” Abby asked. Seth wondered the same thing. He doubted anything about this mess could be called “easy.”

  Marshall counted out four fingers. “You, me, Pete,
and Joey were onstage the whole time.” He extended his thumb, bringing the total count to five. “And Mouse never leaves the sound board during a show. That’d be against the Malcolm Thibaudeau creed.”

  Seth cracked a smile at the use of Mouse’s given name, and Mouse reached over to bend Marshall’s thumb back, until the bandanna-wearing band member yanked his hand away. “I’d say you’re right.”

  “So that leaves Danny, Andy, ’Berto, and Trent,” Marsh clarified. “Trent was standing off stage left almost the whole show, but not every minute. ’Berto was backstage during the instrument changes, but other than that, he could’ve been anywhere. Andy’s all over the place, being the gofer. Danny’s usually in the light booth, but he turns it over to the house technician for a break or two, since we do such long sets.”

  Seth knew all this, but hadn’t thought about it in much detail. They were silent for a few minutes as Seth sorted through the information.

  “I get what you’re saying, guys. I hate it like all hell, but I get it. We need to know who left the building, when, and why. And we need to find out where this Merinar guy is too, and what happened to his phone. Dash says he might be sleeping it off somewhere, but thinks he’ll show up to work tomorrow morning.”

  Marshall pulled off his bandana and dragged it across his face before he repositioned it on his head. “Man, I know you want to beat feet out of here and get back to Abby’s. I sure would. But let’s find out what we need to know first, okay?”

  Seth nodded. Marshall might be a clown most of the time, but when the chips were down, you could always count on him. “Okay. It’s making me fucking insane to even think this way, but if we can’t rule ’em out a hundred percent, we can’t be so blind we miss something big.”

  Abby’s fingers twined tightly through his, and he was grateful for this reminder he had more reason than ever to stay alive.

  Abby took a sip from a sweating glass of ice water. A Twins batter got a hit, and she had to wait for the din to subside before she could speak. “When everybody gets here, we need to walk through the evening. Without making it like an interrogation, let everyone talk about where they were, who they were with, what they saw, stuff like that.”