by Sam Cameron
She shook her head. “Danny. The deal hasn’t changed. You agreed to it in front of Judge Hensel.”
“A lot of other things changed.” He couldn’t keep the resentment out of his voice. “Why not that? I didn’t ask to be dragged out of California or go to some stupid private school.”
She crossed her arms. “Isn’t today progress report day, young man?”
Danny said, “That’s not what we’re talking about!”
The doorbell rang. Mom glanced toward the front of the house. “That’s Amanda with the press schedule. We’ll talk about this later. Leave your grades on the table.”
She went to answer the door. Danny yanked the report from his backpack, slapped it on the kitchen island, and stalked upstairs with Comet close at heel. He shut his bedroom door louder than he was supposed to. From his window, he could see Roger Rat’s brand new truck, mocking him from the driveway. Roger already owned a Mercedes S550, which cost a lot more than a brand-new pickup. MUZKBUX, indeed.
He glanced at the wall and the framed picture of himself, his dad, and his brother Mickey. In the photo, Danny was just a little kid. Both Mickey and Danny were wearing baseball gloves. The photo had been taken at Giants Stadium just a week before the accident.
Before Dad and Mickey were killed in a senseless car accident.
Comet, sitting on the bed, tilted his head and made a soft noise in his throat.
“I know.” Danny scratched the dog’s ear. “But who wants a stupid hillbilly truck, anyway?”
Chapter Six
Kevin’s father was standing on the flat roof of Richie Venezuela’s garage, peering into the night. His hands were jammed into his pockets, and he didn’t seem to notice the chill air. Down below, traffic snaked through the prosperous suburban streets. Nashville, the city of dreams, was a golden glow in the low northern clouds.
Kevin didn’t see what was so fascinating about cities. He preferred the open road under a blazing Midwest sky. October nights in Tennessee were colder than he’d thought, and he shivered in the cold wind.
“The reports are ready,” he said from behind his father. “Everything we scanned in the Piedmont Prep parking lot cross-referenced against the parking permit records.”
“Okay,” he said.
He sounded preoccupied. Thinking about the Ruins out there, no doubt. Kevin was sure that was all he thought about, day and night.
“And there’s some dinner,” he added. Mexican fast food, which he and Gear loved and Mrs. Morris pretended to hate.
Kevin heard footsteps behind them and turned to see Mrs. Morris coming up the stairs. The older woman had changed into jeans and a football sweatshirt and bright white sneakers. Free of makeup, her black hair pulled back with a beaded headband, she could have been twenty years old, Kevin’s older sister. But unlike Kevin, she was glamorous and brilliant and could have any boyfriend she wanted.
“What’s he doing?” Mrs. Morris asked.
“Brooding,” Kevin said.
Mrs. Morris joined Ford out on the roof. Kevin retreated a few feet, fully intending to give them their privacy, but curiosity made him linger.
“See something fascinating?” Mrs. Morris asked.
“It’s out there somewhere,” Ford said, his eyes still on the city.
Mrs. Morris didn’t seem impressed by that announcement. “So we suspect.”
“This isn’t going to be Dallas all over again,” he said. “I promise you that.”
Kevin felt his cheeks turn red.
“People make mistakes,” Mrs. Morris said. “You have to let it go.”
Ford shook his head.
Kevin fled down the stairs. He didn’t need to hear more about how disappointed his dad was in him. It was his fault that King #5 had escaped Dallas. His fault it was here in Nashville, and more people could die.
He grabbed his jacket and helmet and climbed on his Kawasaki.
“Where are you going?” Gear asked. “We’ve got tacos!”
“I’m not hungry,” Kevin said and drove off.
His dad’s blame hurt Kevin, but the blame he placed on himself hurt much, much worse.
Chapter Seven
Dinner was excruciating.
It was bad enough that Danny had to endure Mom and Roger Rat’s disapproval of his English grade in addition to Roger gloating over his new truck, but Rachel’s unexpected presence made things even worse. She wasn’t supposed to be over this weekend, but her mother was dating some new guy, and so custody weekends had become a lot more flexible.
Rachel, annoyingly enough, had all A’s on her progress report.
“It’s not hard if you do your homework and pay attention in class instead of writing songs,” she said.
Mom gave Danny a sharp look. “Are you writing music in class?”
“No.” Danny gulped at some soda. “Only when it’s boring.”
Roger was sawing through his steak with a knife. He was tall and slim and Mom called him handsome, but Danny thought his nose was too wide and his forehead too high. Roger said, “Maybe we should think about no guitar until your grades come up.”
Danny almost dropped his glass. “What?”
Quickly, Mom said, “We’d have to talk about that.”
Talk about that. Danny knew what those words meant. He’d heard them enough over the last year. Roger said something his mother didn’t agree with, and so they’d have a fight about it, and Roger would win.
But Roger wasn’t going to win this one. Danny was never, ever going to give up the guitar. He’d run away first, hitchhike to California, live on the streets.
Lots of musicians came from the streets, right?
He gave his mother a sharp look.
Mom repeated, “We’ll talk about it,” and Danny stabbed at his Caesar salad.
After dinner, Mom and Roger put the new truck in the garage and went off in the Mercedes to a publicity party for Country Harvest. Danny went up to his room. He tried texting Eric, but there was no answer. He tried calling Laura, but she didn’t pick up her cell phone. She’d updated her Facebook, though. There was a picture of a shopping bag and the headline “NEW BOOTS!”
Nothing about him, though.
“Looks like it’s you and me,” he said to Comet, sprawled in a nap on Danny’s pillow.
Twenty minutes later, Junior’s yellow Porsche pulled into the driveway.
“So what I don’t need,” Danny said.
The phone rang. One check of the caller ID and he picked up immediately.
“It’s the birthday boy!” Morgan shouted. He sounded like he was on a train or bus. “How old are you now, buckaroo?”
An ache of homesickness struck Danny just under the ribs. He flopped down in his chair. “Twenty-five. Send me a gift, jerk.”
Morgan laughed. “Yeah, I’ve got one right here for you. I’m working. Got a job.”
“A job doing what?”
“You’ll never believe. City Hall!”
“You’re working at San Francisco City Hall?” Danny said. “How can that be?”
“Juvenile intervention diversion program. That means rotten kids like me working in office jobs so we can see the other side of life. How’s life in hillbilly country? Full of rednecks?”
“Full of rich kids who don’t know anything about cars,” Danny answered. “And singers who don’t know how to sing.”
They talked for a half hour, mostly about music and the friends Danny’d had to leave behind, nothing about who Morgan might be dating or sleeping with. Which was okay, actually, because every reminder that Morgan was straight was another kind of ache. All the handsome ones were straight. After hanging up, Danny gave up on his book report and headed over to the garage. When he went downstairs, Junior and Rachel were sitting at the kitchen island. Junior was eating out of a salad bowl filled with Cheerios.
“Seriously, how much does one of those bugs cost?” Junior asked.
Danny squinted at him. “What?”
“Those cars. Titanium carbon brakes.
Whatever you were talking about today.”
Junior’s capacity for mangling information was amazing. Danny said, “A million or two. The tires alone are fifty thousand dollars.”
“I could get one,” Junior said confidently. “My dad would buy me one.”
Rachel’s hand was on Junior’s sleeve, her fingers tapping on his skin. “If you had one, would you let me drive it?”
“Sure.” Junior kissed her and got milk on her lips.
Danny rolled his eyes and grabbed a soda from the refrigerator.
“So, seriously, how come you can’t drive?” Junior asked.
“I don’t want to,” Danny said.
“No, really, the whole story,” Junior turned to Rachel. “What is it? Loves cars, doesn’t want to drive? I’m not that dumb.”
Rachel’s gaze slid past Junior to Danny. He saw gloating in her expression and figured this was it. By Monday morning, everyone in school would know about his criminal mastermind past.
“You know what they say,” she replied scornfully. “Those who can, do. Those who can’t just end up talking about cars they’re never going to be able to afford. Come on, Junior. We’re going to be late for the movies.”
On her way out the door, as Junior’s Porsche idled outside, Rachel said, “Don’t wait up.”
Danny replied, “I won’t.” He jammed his hands in his pockets. “And, you know, thanks. For not telling Junior.”
“Whatever. Just don’t go joyriding around in my dad’s new truck just because he left the keys in the kitchen. He knows that it’s only got twenty-seven miles on the odometer.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Danny protested.
She gave him a squinty look and left.
Danny checked the kitchen. The ignition key to MUZKBUX was hanging by the door on a brand-new leather monogram key ring.
He touched the key. The metal was cold against his fingers, and he imagined himself sliding it into the ignition.
Chapter Eight
“No,” Danny said to himself. He didn’t need to drive Roger Rat’s truck, wasn’t even going to think about it.
He left the key in place. With Comet trotting behind him, he headed out the kitchen door, through the mudroom and into the two-story, three-bay garage. Back in San Francisco, no one had ginormous garages. Danny knew some homeless families that would happily move into this one. He ignored MUZKBUX and his mother’s Volvo 680 and went up the carpeted stairs to the loft.
Lots of junk up there, including Christmas decorations and some of their furniture from California, but Danny was slowly turning the place into his own music studio. As a studio, it needed a lot of work. He hadn’t figured out a good place to set up the electronic keyboard, and the drums were still disassembled from the move. But the walls were insulated, there was a window overlooking the driveway, and there was plenty of room to buy more guitars.
So far, he owned only two. One was a Gibson electric guitar he’d bought with his own money and the other was a worn, inexpensive acoustic guitar that had been his father’s. If Danny squeezed his eyes closed, he could remember Dad sitting with the instrument across his knee, playing in the corner of the living room. Mom had said he wanted to play in coffee shops and fairs, but never had the time.
Danny took the Gibson down from its rack on the wall, set it across his knee, and studied the lyrics he’d started to write about Mrs. Morris. He was trying very hard not to think about MUZKBUX, gleaming and all alone in the garage below.
Your hair so black and fine. . .
His fingers picked out the first new notes. It was going to start slow, build to a crescendo, before ending poignantly. A rock ’n’ roll ballad. He paused, looking out the window. A dark car cruised slowly down the street. Maybe a lost pizza delivery guy. Pizza sounded good. He was beginning to regret not eating more at dinner.
Beauty to last until the end of time . . .
In the garage below, MUZKBUX flashed its headlights.
Danny had his back to the stairs and didn’t see the light. Comet did, though. The dog padded toward the staircase and barked.
“Hush,” Danny said. “I’m working.”
Comet sat with his head on his paws, watching alertly.
In the bushes outside, a small remote-controlled beach buggy was also watching. 2KEWLE was its name. It was only six inches long and four inches tall, with a lithium polymer rechargeable battery and DC motor. Following Junior’s Porsche here had meant swerving around storm drains, avoiding dogs and cars, and crossing streets full of hazardous traffic.
The trip was worth the danger, though. 2KEWLE knew exactly what had been in the Porsche and was now in Roger Rat’s new truck.
Danny’s song for Mrs. Morris drifted from the open windows above.
2KEWLE rolled forward a little, listening.
In the garage, MUZKBUX flashed his lights again. King #5 had jumped into the truck from Junior’s Porsche, hoping for some adventure. Not music. He decided it was time to leave. A small arc of zoron energy arced out of its headlights and hit the garage door switch.
With a rumble, the doors began to open.
Danny stopped playing his guitar. He hadn’t heard Roger and Mom returning, but who else would be opening the garage doors? He crossed to the top of the stairs and peered into the darkness.
“Hello?” he asked. “Who’s down there?”
Comet barreled down the stairs. Danny followed, reaching out for the light. When he reached the bottom, he saw MUZKBUX and the Volvo parked exactly where they had been. The garage doors were open for no good reason at all. The street outside was quiet but for the wind pushing autumn leaves around.
All was quiet and normal.
No, wait—something was in the bushes. Small and harmless, but definitely out of place.
“Where’d you come from?” Danny asked. He picked up the toy. With its bright blue exterior and rollover bar, it reminded him of Los Angeles beach buggies. It had a battery compartment but no serial number or other identifying information, other than a tiny license plate that read 2KEWLE.
“Someone must have lost it,” Danny said to Comet, who had followed him outside. “It’s just a toy.”
A bright green spark zapped from the buggy into Danny’s hands.
“Ow!” he yelped.
He dropped the toy back into the bushes and inspected his hands. No burns on his palms or fingers, but they tingled.
“Stupid thing,” he said.
Down on the ground, 2KEWLE’s headlights lit up. His engine turned on and he rolled toward MUZKBUX. Danny watched in amazement. He shivered in the cold air and turned to glare at the dark trees, house, and yard.
“Okay, whoever’s out there, this isn’t funny. Come out here.”
Nobody stepped forward. Danny figured the buggy was radio controlled. Maybe it belonged to a neighbor who had lost it and was trying to get it back home. Didn’t they need to see it in order to know how to steer it? He also had no idea how far a range the transmitters had.
He followed 2KEWLE inside the garage. The buggy had gone dark again, no sign of life.
“Okay, fine,” Danny said. He wasn’t about to pick it up and get zapped again. Instead, he found a cardboard box, turned it upside down, and put it over the vehicle. “You can just stay there for tonight.”
He should have shut the garage doors and gone back upstairs to his guitar, but Roger’s truck was just sitting there, gleaming in the light. A fine piece of machinery, even if Roger was never going to truly appreciate it. Danny ran his hands over the hood. Smooth and cool. He opened the driver’s door. Without the key, he couldn’t do much, but the seat was comfortable and his hands fit naturally on the steering wheel.
Comet started barking like crazy.
“What is it, boy?” Danny asked.
From under the cardboard box, 2KEWLE beeped his horn urgently.
Roger’s truck roared to life.
Danny jerked back from the wheel. The dashboard lit up and the radio blasted out Moon Seni
or’s latest hit. When the truck started rolling backward, Danny tried the brake, but the pedal was like mush under his foot.
“Oh, no,” Danny said. “Stop! What are you doing? Stop!”
He tried opening the door, but it wouldn’t open. Instead, the truck backed out of the garage, picked up speed, and gunned down the street with Danny as its prisoner.
Chapter Nine
“Stop!” Danny yelled again. He banged his hands against the steering wheel. “What are you doing?”
MUZKBUX reached the end of the street and ran the stop light.
Danny tried everything. He poked at the ignition, pulled on the emergency brake, jammed the gear stick to neutral. Nothing made any difference. He couldn’t open the door or even roll down the window, which was just crazy. Surely, no combination of electrical misfires or ignition malfunctions could make that happen.
No matter what happened, he was so going to get blamed. He just knew it.
“I need reinforcements,” Danny said. He groped for his cell phone, but he’d left it in the studio. He had no way to call for help.
More traffic now, cars and SUVs passing him in the dark. Danny slid the seat belt on. He put both hands on the wheel and pretended he had control. He didn’t want to look like an idiot, after all. But now they were approaching a four-way stop sign, and he didn’t think MUZKBUX was going to stop at all.
“Stop sign!” he said. “Slow down!”
The truck sped up. Danny squeezed his eyes shut and braced for impact. Brakes squealed and someone blasted their horn angrily, but there was no crunch of metal or sickening thump of impact.
“You are so going to get me killed,” he told MUZKBUX. “Where’s a cop when you need one?”
The truck swerved onto Crescent Avenue, nearly hitting a rider on a Japanese motorcycle. Another angry horn blasted through the air. Danny threw his hands up helplessly as MUZKBUX gunned for downtown. The motorcycle followed, and within seconds was pulling up beside Danny’s door.
“It’s not my fault!” Danny yelled.
The rider held up something—a cell phone?—and a beam of blue light blasted skyward.