Just Beyond the Curve (11 page)

In fact the notes were slurred, fretted out and the
timing was so bad off that only Danny Floyd could hear, understand
and appreciate the complication that he heard in his mind, but
couldn’t bring forth from the neck of the Ovation.

When he wound to a stop, his fingers buzzed as if
with magic, he smiled with satisfaction. He stood and placed the
guitar back onto the stand, not realizing that it was slightly out
of tune and any professional would have heard it instantly and
cringed.

Danny didn’t have to get dressed. He was still
wearing the clothes he had been wearing when he had been released
from jail. He didn’t bother brushing his teeth or combing his hair.
His main concern was that he had his bag of crack rocks, his pipe
and his lighter. And of course his trusty Colt .45 automatic. He
shoved the pistol down in his waist band and the dope, pipe and
lighter into his pocket, then headed for the door.

He stepped out into the garage and looked at his
father’s red and white ‘65 Corvette Stingray, and his mother’s
brand new Acura Legend. He smiled, guess they’re mine now. They
won’t be needing them where they are. Hell has no highways! He
laughed loudly, went to his pickup and got in.

He looked in the mirror at himself and smiled
largely. He punched a button on the remote garage door opener and
waited for the door to open. He backed out and closed the door,
then drove off down the street, his mind set on his mission.

He turned the volume up on the radio and listened to
his favorite recording, himself singing ‘
Friends In Low
Places’
, a song made famous by
Garth Brooks
in the early
‘90s. Danny’s version wouldn’t have been played on the radio if it
were the last recording on earth. Unless the show was a comedy
benefit. If that were the case Danny would have been in the running
for first place. He sang along perfectly with the rendition.

At a red light a cop turned in behind him. He tensed
and drove extra carefully. After six blocks the cop turned off and
Danny breathed a sigh of relief. His heart beat heavily in his
temples and he breathed shallowly, his mouth dry and hungry for
more of the mellowing smoke. He drove into a shopping center
parking lot and fed the dragon.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

When Danny had been out of jail for a week, John
brought Judy and lil Billy home from the hospital in Austin. The
house in Wimberley had been finished the week before and they were
moved in and settled comfortably. John drove his Dodge Ram Turbo
slowly down the driveway and stopped in front of the house. He got
out, seeing Billy slam out the front door of the house like a
tornado. He was screaming and yelling excitedly in his eagerness to
see the baby.

“Let me see ‘im! Let me see ‘im!” he demanded, nearly
jumping up and down in his eagerness, as John helped Judy out of
the truck.

“Let’s get him and his momma inside first, Billy,”
John suggested, closing the door of the pickup and starting slowly
for the house.

“Momma told me I was his uncle!” Billy informed
them.

“Don’t see how you could be his aunt,” John teased
playfully.

“That’s mean, John!” Billy laughed, knowing John was
teasing him.

“Even if he was a she you’d still be her uncle,” John
laughed, helping Judy up the steps and onto the wide porch.

“That’s right uncle Billy,” Judy agreed. “Meet your
nephew, Billy John Travis.”

“I know his name, Judy,” Billy said opening the front
door. “I ain’t no moron, ya know!”

Judy laughed over her shoulder. She sat on the sofa
and when Billy was kneeling in front of her she folded the blanket
off lil Billy’s face and Billy stared at his nephew’s tiny sleeping
face.

“He’s so tiny,” Billy whispered, awed by the miracle
of the infant. “I can’t wait ‘till he’s big enough to play with!”
he added, thoughtfully.

“That’ll be a while, yet,” John said thoughtfully.
“I’m sure glad to be away from that hospital. Lot of sick folks
there!”

Billy looked at John and then back at his name sake.
He stared silently still in wonder at the child with a face the
size of a softball.

“John you may as well go back to the studio, there
isn’t much you can do around here. If I need anything I can get
Billy or Momma to get it for me,” Judy said, realizing John was
anxious to get back to the studio and the recording of his latest
song.

“If you’re sure,” John replied.

“I am.” she smiled.

“Well, I’ll be back later, then,” he said.

The drive to Austin was slow and easy. He arrived at
the studio and found the band practicing as they seemed to always
be doing. He had no idea that at that very time Danny Floyd was
leaving his house bent on his mission of destruction.

Once the music started and John got captivated by it
he forgot about everything else except the music and the practice
of perfecting it. In the mixing room Sandra and Toby worked the
mixing board making it perfect.

*****

When Danny came out of his drug induced stupor he
looked around at the darkened parking lot. It was then he realized
he may have missed his chance to complete his mission. He started
the engine and turned on the headlights. The dash board clock
informed him digitally that it was ten minutes until eight o’clock.
He backed out of the parking place and left the parking lot.

Half an hour later he eased over to the curb and
parked. He killed the headlights and engine, then sat waiting.
Across the street he saw lights in the front window and knew that
he was not too late. He fingered the .45 at his waist and
smiled.

*****

In the studio John laid the Fender in its red velvet
lined case and closed the lid. He listened to his musicians as they
stowed their instruments and prepared to leave for the night. They
planned to be back by noon the following day to wrap up the
recording session, then they’d be off for two weeks before they
were scheduled to start promoting their latest attempt to charm the
nation and the world.

“Well, boys,” John said walking toward the door of
the sound room, “I’m going to Wimberley. I’ll see ya’ll
tomorrow.”

“Hold up, Hoss,” Jake Strum, a tall, slim,
black-haired and slightly cross-eyed, thirty year old drummer said.
“We’ll walk with ya.”

John laughed and waited for them to catch up. They
walked across the reception area and began filing out the door onto
the sidewalk. They were surprised to see it was already dark.

“We gotta quit working so many hours, John,” Dempsy
Monk, the bass player said, glancing across the street and seeing a
pickup door open and a young man step out.

“I hear ya,” John laughed, following him out and onto
the sidewalk.

Across the street Danny stood beside the front fender
of his pickup with the .45 in his sweaty hand. Tears slid down his
cheek. Still, he remained angry and serious as he started across
the street to the group of emerging musicians.

“John Travis,” he said, stepping up on the sidewalk
and coming up behind the group. “Meet your maker!” he added,
raising the .45.

When John turned around to see who had called him, he
saw Danny’s face and smiled. He was just getting ready to say he
was glad Danny was out of jail when an awesomely, unbelievable
force slammed into his upper chest and sent him stumbling back.

The .45 roared again in Danny’s hand. He grinned when
the slug slammed ‘
the great John Travis
’ back a step. Then,
he squeezed the trigger again, then again. He was tackled by
several of the band members and wrestled none too gently to the
sidewalk.

When Danny was on the ground and under his own gun,
Jake ran over and knelt beside John. He saw the blood all over
John’s chest and heard him gasping for breath. He heard the gurgle
in John’s chest and throat and knew he had been hit hard. “Hold on
John,” he said calmly. “I’ll call an ambulance. You’ll be fine.
Just lay still, Old Son!” Jake was moving for the front door of the
studio as he stopped speaking.

It seemed forever before the ambulance and cops
arrived. They immediately took Danny into custody and began asking
their hundred questions in twenty different ways before they were
satisfied that Danny had been the only one involved in the shooting
of the world famous singer.

Danny glared and smiled in satisfaction with his
night’s work as the cop car drove away down the street with him
handcuffed in the back seat.

“Guess one of us ought to call Judy and tell her
John’s been shot,” Jake said, watching the cop car drive away. In
the distance he heard the warbling of the ambulance’s siren fading
into the night as John was rushed away to the hospital.

“I sure don’t want that duty, Jake,” Dempsey Monk
said. “Hell, I can hardly breath as it is. My heart’s still caught
in my throat! That damn kid bragged about killing a cop yesterday!
Can you believe it? And his parents, too. The day before! Damn, I’m
just sick, Jake. I can’t do it, man!”

“I’ll call her, Demps,” Jake assured him, gripping
his friend’s shoulder firmly. “You and Ross get to the hospital and
wait for me there,” Jake said, talking about Ross Adams, the forty
year old, most amazing rhythm guitarist Jake had ever heard. Ross
was big, a six foot six, two hundred and forty pound, black haired,
blue eyed devil that had slapped Danny so hard he’d blacked the
boy’s eye, split his lip and knocked a tooth out with one slap. He
had then slammed one of his mighty fists into the boy’s side and
they had all heard the ribs break with a loud snap. Danny had
curled up into a fetal position and fought for his breath. He
didn’t have the strength to try and fight his way free and make an
escape.

When Dempsey and Ross disappeared down the street on
their way to the hospital Jake walked back into the studio and made
the call he dreaded more than the call that would inform him that
his wife had finally given up the fight and slipped into death.
Leona was dying of cancer and had slipped into a coma over six
months earlier. It was just a matter of time until the call came.
He’d go up and see her at the hospital, he decided, lifting the
phone from the cradle. He wondered why bad things happened to good
people. Where was God?

*****

Judy was jerked out of her sleep by the insistent
ringing of the phone. She reached for it, thinking John was calling
to say he was going to be late.

“‘lo?” she answered with a smile, then her smile
dropped as she listened. Her eyes opened wide, she dropped the
phone and began to cry and scream as gut retching agony filled
her.

“Momma!” she screamed fighting her way out of the bed
and onto her feet. “Momma!” she screamed again, fighting her way
into her night coat. Then lil Billy began to scream his protest at
being awakened. “Momma!” Judy shrieked, racing for the door, not
hearing lil Billy.

In the hallway Misty appeared in her doorway as Judy
slammed out of her bedroom, then Billy appeared in his in time to
hear Misty asked, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Danny Floyd shot John at the studio!” she yelled,
her face crumbling, her whole body beginning to shake with terror.
“He’s hurt real bad, Momma!”

Misty seemed to collapse with the news. Billy began
to cry. He ran to Judy and held her around the waist. He thought,
absurdly, that she was losing weight, since having the baby. Then
Misty was squeezing his head into Judy’s breasts and her own.

“Why?” Misty demanded.

“Is he dead?” Billy cried miserably.

“I don’t know,” Judy replied to both questions. “We
have to get to him!” she added, her panic beginning to overpower
her reasoning.

“Let’s just calm down,” Misty cautioned her. “If he’s
gonna live, he’ll be alive when we get there. Now, let’s get
dressed, get the baby and get to Austin without killing ourselves.
Hurry now! Let’s get busy!”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Janice Reeves stood five feet three inches tall. She
weighed an even ninety pounds. Her hair was the color of burnished
copper and hung to her waist. Her eyes were emerald green and
large, and her lips were beautifully sculpted, as if by Di Vinci
himself. She stood at the kitchen sink and stared out the window as
her father’s pickup came rolling down the dusty driveway. She
rinsed the plate she had been washing and wondered where he had
been so early on a Friday morning. It was unlike him.

When he came through the back door he wore a look of
utter disappointment. “Is everything okay?” Janice asked, seeing
the sadness in her father’s face.

“Some damn lunatic shot and maybe killed John Travis
in front of his studio last night!” he declared in absolute
disbelief. He shook his head and sipped the steaming coffee Janice
had just placed in front of him.

“Oh Lord!” she moaned, slumping into a chair beside
her father and burying her face in her hands. “Why would anyone
want to do such a terrible thing?” she asked incredulously. “He’s
such a sweet man, from what I’ve seen and heard, anyway.”

“The world is full of crazies, ‘Punkin,” Jim replied.
“Man up the Wagon Wheel wants ya to sing some tonight. Says he
likes what he heard on the tape. Told ‘im he was a wise man!”

Janice looked at the big man who had more faith in
her than anyone else in the world, including herself. He had been
both her mother and father since she was old enough to remember
anything. He was her world and she would do anything for him that
he asked.

“You’re sure?” she asked looking at him as if
searching for the joke on his face. She saw nothing. “You’re not
playing, are you? You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack! I told ‘im you’d be there. So,
save the stage for the next superstar outta Austin!” he replied,
smiling.

“You have a lot of faith in me, Daddy,” she said
skeptically.

“Punkin, you can do anything you set your mind on.
There’s currently an opening for a superstar in the country music
field. You can fill it while John Travis decides whether he wants
to live or die up there in that Austin hospital.”