Dylan Mercer's Arc

Chapter 6 of 6

Dylan stood on the tavern porch with the note in one hand and the tape in the other. Two days of road stretched past the ridge. The booker left at first light. On foot he'd arrive to find her gone. He had a way in and no way there. Then he heard an engine wake in the lot below, low and heavy, the sound rolling off the walls. A black muscle car idled by the steps. The window rolled down. Dewey Mallard leaned out, white feathers ruffled, one wing draped over the wheel. Dylan knew him. Stillwater Drift. The slacker swan who fronted the band everyone said had a relic backstage. Rivals, more or less. Dylan's stomach tightened. "You lost?" Dewey said. "You've been standing there talking to yourself for a minute." "I need to reach a booker past the ridge by dawn," Dylan said. "I've got the tape. I've got the introduction. I've got no wheels." Dewey looked at the note, then at the tape. "Two days of road," he said. "This thing does it in one night if nobody sleeps." He tapped the wheel. "Honestly, I'm headed that way. But I don't drive rivals for free." Before Dylan could answer, the passenger door opened. Jay Bird climbed out, red hair catching the neon, a small notebook shut in his fist. Dylan had heard the name. The man who tracked lost songs and wrote down every crack in them. Jay Bird didn't look at Dylan. He looked at the tape. "Play a bar of it," Jay Bird said. Dylan hesitated, then hummed the bridge. Four notes. Jay Bird's eyes stayed flat. He opened the notebook, wrote one line, and closed it. "Clean," he said. "No stolen turns. It's yours." He turned to Dewey. "Drive him. He earned the ride." Dewey shrugged. "Jay says drive, I drive." He jerked his head at the back seat. "Get in before I change my mind." Dylan opened the door. "Why help me? We're not exactly friends." "You're not competition tonight," Dewey said. "Tonight you're a guy with a real song and no car. I know that guy." He put the car in gear. Jay Bird slid into the front and faced the road, silent. The engine roared. Dylan gripped the seat as the lot fell behind them. The ridge rose black against the last light. Wind tore through the window. Dylan held the note and the tape flat against his chest so neither could blow away. They drove all night. No sleep, no stopping. Dewey talked in short bursts and let the silence fill the rest. Jay Bird never spoke again. When the sky went gray at the edge, the car crested the ridge and dropped toward a low inn where a wagon stood loaded, ready to leave. Dewey braked hard in the yard. "First light," he said. "You made it." Dylan stepped out onto the dawn-cold ground. The booker was here. His ride was leaving. Now he had to make her listen before that wagon rolled.