by Storm, Buck
TRUCK STOP JESUS BY BUCK STORM
Published by Heritage Beacon Fiction
an imprint of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas
2333 Barton Oaks Dr., Raleigh, NC, 27614
ISBN: 978-1-938499-51-7
Copyright © 2016 by Buck Storm
Cover design by Elaina Lee
Interior design by AtriTeX Technologies P Ltd
Available in print from your local bookstore, online, or from the publisher at: www.lighthousepublishingofthecarolinas.com
For more information on this book and the author visit: buckstorm.com
All rights reserved. Non-commercial interests may reproduce portions of this book without the express written permission of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, provided the text does not exceed 500 words. When reproducing text from this book, include the following credit line: “Truck Stop Jesus by Buck Storm published by Heritage Beacon Fiction. Used by permission.”
Commercial interests: No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.
Brought to you by the creative team at Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas: Eddie Jones, Ann Tatlock, Shonda Savage, Brian Cross, Paige Boggs
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Storm, Buck.
Truck Stop Jesus / Buck Storm 1st ed.
Printed in the United States of America
PRAISE FOR TRUCK STOP JESUS
Truck Stop Jesus is a winner in every sense of the word. The skillfully written suspense, quirky characters (including a plastic bobble-head Jesus who’s quite a conversationalist), a centuries-old mystery, and an unlikely romance keep the reader turning pages—chapter after chapter after chapter to the very satisfying conclusion. Rarely do I recommend that my wife put a book I’ve just read at the top of her TBR list, but I did that with Truck Stop Jesus. It’s that good.
~ Roger E. Bruner
Author of The Devil and Pastor Gus, Found in Translation, and Lost in Dreams
Truck Stop Jesus is witty, fast-paced, and highly intriguing. Buck Storm holds a unique voice that makes his storytelling lovable.
~ Alice J. Wisler
Award-winning author of Rain Song and How Sweet It Is
Authenticity is louder than a Marshall Amp stack…. Buck Storm is an authentic singer/songwriter and friend. His heart is loud and has great tone.
~ Paul Clark
Singer, songwriter and recording artist
This guy just keeps getting better! His characters spring to life with rich compelling imagery, and he effortlessly ushers the reader into the world of the story, so you never want to leave!
~ Randy Stonehill
National Recording Artist, Christian Music Hall of Fame
Truck Stop Jesus is a delightful smorgasbord of twists, turns and unexpected surprises. A literary adventure! I loved it!
~ Bruce Carroll
American CCM singer and multi Grammy and
Dove Award-winning recording artist
I predict you’ll love Truck Stop Jesus as much as I did. And it solidly confirms that Buck’s first book, The Miracle Man, was certainly no fluke or beginner’s luck. Again, the storytelling is top-notch and his eye for detail is in full evidence. In short, you’ll have a fine adventure!
~ Bob Bennett
International Award-winning CCM Recording Artist
As a songwriter and as one who loves to read, I was drawn to Buck Storm’s beautiful and vivid descriptions. Buck’s ability to tell an enthralling story and his wonderful character development kept me turning the pages. With his clever plot twists, I found myself spellbound as to what would happen next. Truck Stop Jesus!Hip hip hooray!
~ Mitch McVicker
Dove Award-winning singer/songwriter
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE: Dos Escudos
CHAPTER ONE: East of the Sun, West of the Moon
CHAPTER TWO: The Green Monster
CHAPTER THREE: Devils, Dust, and a Serious Lack of Pockets
CHAPTER FOUR: LA Normal
CHAPTER FIVE: Gato Negro
CHAPTER SIX: Esther Dash Williams Dot Com
CHAPTER SEVEN: Jesus is My Copilot
CHAPTER EIGHT: A Little Long in the Tooth for the Cage
CHAPTER NINE: Coke in a Bottle and Loud Vampires
CHAPTER TEN: The African Queen and Yesterday’s Special
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Louisville Slugger
CHAPTER TWELVE: Two Girls on Broadway … Hypothetically
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: The Beginning of the World
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: We’ll Leave the Light on For Ya
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Someone to Watch Over Me
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: The Second Most Beautiful Thing
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: God and Old Men
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: A Shift in the Stars
CHAPTER NINETEEN: Welcome to Roswell
CHAPTER TWENTY: Have a Willie Nice Day
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: The Rio Kings
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: Indians in the Hills
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: Desert, Dust, and Disco
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: Pink Cadillacs and Whitewashed Prayers
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: Kermit, Texas
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: Hallelujah, Jesus Saves
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: All Hat and No Cattle
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: Mary and Martha’s Barc-O-Lounger
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: Maybe Just a Salad
CHAPTER THIRTY: The Legality of Lone Stars
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: Satellites and Home-Made Tortillas
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: Fast Lincolns and Personal Saviors
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: Fair Winds
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: Pirates and Idiots
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: Lost Tacos
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: Dancing With the Princess of Luxembourg
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: The Life and Times of Landon Prescott
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: Good Day for a Sail
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: The Queen of the High Seas
CHAPTER FORTY: Whales
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE: The Lost Day
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO: The Problem with Walking on Water
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE: Drawing Moustaches on the Saints
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR: Dominoes and Tequila
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE: What Happens in Mexico Stays in Mexico
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX: Falling Through the Cracks
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN: Dancing in an Alternate Universe
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT: Riding Stars
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE: Play That Funky Music White Boy
CHAPTER FIFTY: Go Big or Go Home
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE: Semantics
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO: Jimmy Buffet and Pieces of Junk
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE: Three Months Later …
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR: A Shoreless Sea
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The journey to publication is a lot like life—valleys and mountaintops. Here are the people who have stuck with me no matter the altitude…
My family. You are everything, always, forever.
Jim Hart, Hartline Literary Agency.
Ann Tatlock, Managing Editor – Heritage Beacon.
All my friend
s out there in America-ville and beyond. So many miles and years—you’ve shown me there is still love and hope in this world. Thanks for the songs.
See you on the road, amigos,
Buck
For Michelle.
It’s been a heck of a road-trip. I love you.
Looking forward to many, many miles to come.
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PROLOGUE
Dos Escudos
NEW SPAIN (SOUTHERN ARIZONA), 1726
Pregnant with rain, dark clouds hid the moon and held the dawn at bay. No matter. The light would come eventually and with it the Apaches. Too late now. No escape. No way to make it to the relative safety of the mission. Joaquin de Montejo gripped his sword. It would be his last sunrise, of that there was no doubt. Of one other thing, there could be no doubt—he would die fighting. He was a conquistador. A Spaniard. But of even more importance, Montejo blood ran through his veins.
“They’ll come soon, brother.” Joaquin kept his voice low—a hoarse whisper. “We came into this world together. So shall we enter the next.”
Lucas met his gaze through bloodshot eyes. Joaquin’s twin, identical except for their attire. Priest and soldier, they must look an odd pair. When had either of them last slept? Lucas’ black robe blended into the pre-dawn ink, giving him the ghostly appearance of a disembodied head.
“No,” Lucas said. “We split up. We can’t let them take us in one place. If Ojeda gets both coins, he may piece it together. It can’t happen. For the sake of Spain—for the sake of God.”
Joaquin punched his fist into the soft bank of the arroyo. “We would have had everything, Lucas!”
Lucas shook his head. “It isn’t God’s will. Perhaps it never was.”
“How do you know Ojeda is behind the Apaches?”
“They’ve been quiet until now. They never bother the mission. We’ve traded with them. I hear Ojeda makes promises. Weapons. Whatever they want. He’s lying, of course. He gives them only trinkets, but he has a convincing way about him. You know him. No, brother, it wasn’t for us to have it.”
“Better us than that filthy heathen traitor Ojeda. He followed me here. He’s the only other that knew of the coins.”
Lucas’ face went tight. “Maybe. But stories have a way of traveling. Joaquin, he can’t get both coins. I’m going to try to make it to the mission. Perhaps they’ll follow me. You go the opposite direction, down the arroyo. We may have a chance.”
Grasping at straws, and they both knew it.
Joaquin shook his head, his helmet heavy. “No. You’ll be killed. At least, here we have my sword. I can hold them off.”
“I don’t think they’ll attack a priest. The Apaches are superstitious about such things. And you have armor their arrows won’t penetrate. Besides, you have a good chance if their attention is on me. If I can get to the mission, I can hide one of the coins there. I know places. Good places. You take the other. Escape. Then, when you can, come back. Maybe Ojeda will tire of the chase.”
“Ojeda will never tire. Not when the smell of profit is on the wind.”
“Then kill him, Joaquin. Make your escape and kill him.”
Lucas’ face reflected the gathering light. No more time. It was now or never. The two men clasped hands.
“Vaya con Dios, Lucas de Montejo, my brother. I’ll see you again—if not in this world then in the next.”
“Vaya con Dios, Joaquin.”
Joaquin slipped a dagger from his belt and pressed it into Lucas’ hand. “Take this, priest. If God is late to the fight, a good piece of Toledo steel can be a welcome friend.”
Lucas hesitated, and then nodded and took the knife. He stood and walked in the direction of the mission, his robe flapping in the wind of the gathering storm. He made it a long stone’s throw from the arroyo before a man stepped out of the brush in front of him. Even in the low light, Joaquin recognized the form.
Ojedo.
Words were passed between the men, too low to be heard from Joaquin’s position. Lucas walked on, pushing his way past Ojedo. As he did, Ojedo drew his blade.
Joaquin rose from hiding. “Lucas!”
At the sound of his name, Lucas spun, the Toledo dagger in his hand. The move came too late. Ojedo’s blade plunged through the priest’s mid-section, and Lucas went down.
“Lucas!” Joaquin called again, a sob of rage catching in his throat.
Ojedo turned toward Joaquin, then stumbled and fell himself, the Toledo dagger stuck into his neck to the hilt.
They came then, the Apaches. Out of nowhere and from every direction. How many fell beneath Joaquin’s blade and burning anger he didn’t know. An eternity of blood, pain, and exhaustion. Finally the moment came that he could raise his arm no more. The clouds opened, and the rain fell with a roar.
Still the Apaches came, and Joaquin cursed them with his dying breath.
After all, he was a Montejo.
CHAPTER ONE
East of the Sun, West of the Moon
SILVERLAKE, CALIFORNIA
AUGUST 3, 2015
Paradise Jones groaned through a mouth stuffed with bitter cotton. “Shut up, bees.”
The bees didn’t.
She tipped up her sleep mask and squinted an eye against the morning glare, looking around the room for the swarm.
It must have been a dream.
Then why did she still hear them?
Reality, in no particular hurry, wormed its way into her sleep-addled brain. Not bees—her cell phone vibrating. She pulled the mask off. A glance told her the phone wasn’t on the nightstand. Where is the stupid thing?
It stopped.
Peaceful silence filled the room. She flopped back onto her pillow and pulled the sheet over her head.
Bee-free bliss.
The bees kicked in again. Ugh. The cell had to be under the blankets somewhere. It took four vibrations, but she peeled back layers until she found it. She tapped the screen with her thumb and pushed a tangle of blonde hair out of her face. “Ash, this better be good. It’s the middle of the night. I’m asleep.”
The Boston-soaked accent on the other end of the line shot back with unapologetic directness. “It’s almost noon,” said Ashleigh Abrams. “Why can’t you wake up in the morning like normal people?”
“We went to Jack’s Grotto last night. Arnie had me out with some of the studio people. That swing band from the Valley played. I didn’t get home till after three.”
“I’m sure it was the band and not the fact that the studio people were there that kept you, right? You know you’re gonna be the next Scarlett. They must like you for the part.”
“I don’t want to get my hopes up. I’m trying not to think about it.”
“Uh huh. Good luck with that.”
“I danced with Colin Prince. They took pictures. You think that means anything?”
“Shut up! You danced with Colin Prince?”
“Well, he’s playing Rhett, and he was there with the producer. His breath smelled like he ate a dead rat sandwich.”
“Colin Prince has halitosis? I’m calling the National Enquirer.”
“Go ahead. There’s no such thing as bad press.”
“Scarlett and Rhett, together again. I’m proud of you, you know that? A remake of Gone with the Wind is about as big as it gets. You’re not gonna forget us little people, right?”
“Oh, give me a break. I don’t have the part yet.” Paradise pulled the sheet back over her head and the world shrunk to a manageable pink cocoon. A steady drone of street noise shoved its way through the bedroom window. On the other s
ide of the wall, Silverlake—up-and-coming arts pocket of Los Angeles, California—went about its business.
Silverlake. Los Angeles. California. United States. Planet Earth.
And Paradise Jones, an ant in a hole under a pink sheet. How could any living person be so small?
Her friend’s voice pushed through the tiny speaker again. “Look, Paradise, you know the scene. Retro’s kind of dying. And your whole ’40s starlet vibe is pretty out there anyway. This movie happening right now is like winning the Hollywood lottery for you. You were born for it. You’re getting cast in the lead role of the biggest remake of the century.”
“Please, don’t jinx it. Just stop talking about it.”
“What does the manager to the stars say?”
“Arnie swears I’m a shoo-in.”
“See?”
“You know how many times I’ve heard that from him?”
“Yeah, well, get over it. Fame’s gonna look good on you. And if nothing else, you got to dance with Colin Prince. That’s not what I called to talk to you about, though.”
“Wait, what do you mean my ’40s starlet thing isn’t happening?”
“Truth hurts.”
“Uh huh. It actually does.”
“You know you’re my pal. I love your starlet thing. Live in the ’40s, who cares? You are who you are, you know?”
“I know.”
“So, Paradise,” Ashleigh’s voice was hesitant, “you’re still lying down?”
“I haven’t moved. Why? What’s wrong with you?” Paradise sat up. “Are you sick or something?”
“I’m your friend, right? I need to tell you something. You need to hear this from a friend. I’m not sure how you’ll take it.”
“You’re scaring me. What’s going on? Oh, never mind anyway. Tell me something happy. It’s too early in the morning for bad news.”
There was a long pause. “It’s not happy. You’ve been asleep, right? You haven’t seen the news or anything?”
“I slept like a baby till you woke me. And you know I haven’t. I never look at the news. What’s going on? What are you afraid to say?” Now the thumping in her chest competed with the traffic noise.