Dark Muse (2 page)

“Funny.” They had no idea what hell Muddy had
stumbled into last night. Running on two or three hours of sleep,
the nightmare still pulled him deeper. “Where’s Poe?”

“We thought she might be with you,” Otis, the
diminutive drummer said, smiling.

“Why the heck would she be with me?” Muddy
snapped, now worried.

Everyone in the band knew about his silent
crush on Polly, but he hoped she didn’t—yet.

Still, what mattered now was what happened
last night.

“Sorry, man.”

He plopped down into one of the padded
chairs, already depressed. “We gotta talk guys.”

“You’re breaking up with us?” Otis was always
the first one to joke, alluding to his condition.

The others cut the tension with laughter,
despite the ticked off expression that was carved into his face. As
they continued, the door edged open, allowing a tall, slender
female with raven colored, mid-length hair to enter. Everyone knew
about his crush on Poe—except her—or did she? She never let on if
she had an inkling of suspicion. With a name like Polly, she
preferred the more goth tone of “Poe.” Obviously, “Edgar” and “Poe”
would’ve sounded a little too cute—or not. Plus, there was the fact
that
she
thought he wanted to date Chelsea, the ditzy
cheerleader who once called him “Special Ed.”

“Dude, what’s wrong?” Otis asked. “You look
like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Muddy’s lips moved, but a phantom force held
the sounds within his throat. If they only knew how true it
was--and that was only
half
of it!

“Are you okay?” Poe moved closer to him,
close enough to tell that she could actually see him and not just a
vague, fuzzy silhouette. She wasn’t totally blind, but in the legal
sense, she qualified. “Was it your mom again?” For a moment, he
allowed himself to stare. He didn’t like to since she wasn’t aware,
yet she always was. Her pale blue eyes appeared to gaze through
people, to a place where maybe she would be happy. They shone
bright but much older than her sixteen years should allow. However,
when she smiled, as she usually did when singing, every fiber of
her being lit up like a million candles at midnight. She sat in the
chair next to him, showing more grace than someone without sight
should have, but this was just one more reason she would live
forever in his heart.

“Zack’s gone,” he blurted, arms hung low at
his seat. “I mean, really, gone.
Gone.
”

They hit him with a barrage of questions, but
the storm in his belly stopped Muddy from saying a word. Even just
looking at his burger nearly caused him to vomit all over his
friends. He ached to empty his guts, spilling the horrors he'd
lived the previous night. Yet as much as they pried and he tried,
the words just wouldn’t materialize.

Muddy waited, but knew the darkness he sensed
was coming would greet them all too soon.

* * * *

They met again later in the music room for
practice. Otis, the diminutive drummer, sauntered in,
sticks-a-spinning, followed closely by a heaving Corey, hands full
of skinny wooden reeds. “Am I last, again?”

“As always,” Poe cracked. The ham loved to
entertain a full audience whenever possible.

Muddy felt the spotlight shine mercilessly on
him, something he hated.

This time, he told them everything, from the
suspicions that grew when his brother first began skipping
rehearsals with his own band and locking himself in his darkened
room, to the crackle and spit of the lightning at the
crossroads.

Muddy’s flesh turned to goose bumps as he
recalled the music Zack played, the song that would haunt him till
he felt his last breath decrescendo into oblivion.

Otis shook. “Man, that blows. But what the
heck are the crossroads? I haven’t heard that word since that
Britney Spears movie bombed.”

“Hey, cut the crap,” Poe said. “No jokes. Not
now.”

“No, seriously,” Otis replied, “this is
stranger than that bubblegum moron’s success story.” He held his
head in his hands as his eyes never fully closed.

Sometimes they forgot his fragilities, the
vulnerable kid that hid behind his cool persona, a porcelain egg
existing beneath a thin veneer of steel. His own story made Muddy's
problems seem trivial.

“Isn’t that a show on VH1?” Corey asked,
sounding serious. “They have that country-rock thing happening
there? I saw Faith Hill and Kid Rock there once.”

Muddy felt his blood begin to pump liquid
heat through his body, throbbing like an untuned bass drum. He
couldn't unscramble his thoughts with everyone yapping like
that.

“Just shut up!”

They did, shocked into silence. He
never
yelled, even during rehearsal, or when Poe’s dad
did...what he sometimes did. Muddy preferred to simmer, a seething
kettle on the edge, but never blowing his lid.

He managed to get through describing last
night and when he was done, they all just sat there in awe,
staring. Whether it was due to his explosion, or the wild story, he
didn’t know, nor did he care.

Poe broke the silence first. “So, let’s go
find Zack and bring him back.”

“From where?” Muddy’s voice cracked with
pain. “Where did he go? Where do we look? Who do we talk to? This
is crazy; this is
all
we need at school.”

Poe still had her hand on his arm. “Let’s ask
Satch,” she said, referring to their music teacher by his nickname.
“Satch has been all over the country. He knows tons of weird stuff
with music. I’d bet my left eye he’s heard of the crossroads. And
I'll bet the other one that he can help,” she said with a wink.

“So, what do you want to do, Muddy?” Poe
rarely used his nickname, the name Edgar preferred, instead of
sticking with his given name. It meant she cared about his
plight.

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.