Muddy Waters, page 1
© 2022 by Eric Chance Stone
Published by Lost and Found Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-959020-00-4
First Edition
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Find the Music Here
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Thank You
About the Author
Muddy Waters Synopsis Music CD Coming Soon
ericstone.gumroad.com/l/MuddyWatersMusic
Chapter One
An eerie, thick fog wafted over the brown dead corn field as the car slowed down. The crackling of dead grass and gravel under the tires was the only sound in the stagnant air. Tyler stepped out of the car and slung a black Fender Strat over his shoulder. He walked to the center of the crossroads and looked up at the blue moon. It was five minutes to midnight on October thirty-first. It was the first full moon on Halloween in seventy-five years. He couldn’t believe he was really doing this.
Tyler had just returned from a gig in Fort Walton Beach, Florida, where he was booed off the stage. The echoes of the people’s laughter rang in his ears and tortured his mind. He was determined to never let that happen again, and he had only one chance to make it happen.
“Hello? I’m here,” said Tyler, looking around.
This was the same spot where Robert Johnson, a famous blues musician, had sold his soul to the devil in exchange for fame, fortune, and talent. Robert had definitely gotten the talent and later the fame, but he’d died far too young at the hands of a jealous husband before he had the fortune.
Tyler wanted to be a famous musician, too. A respected one. He was willing to try anything, but now that he was here, unease curled in his stomach. Every little sound around him was amplified, and he looked over his shoulder and all around him, in anticipation and fear.
He glanced down at his watch. The second hand struck midnight.
A silhouette of a man stepped into view. He was wearing a long trench coat and had a briefcase in his right hand. He moved toward Tyler in a manner that almost seemed as if he were floating. A cloud of fog and mist surrounded the man as he approached.
“What is your desire, young man?”
“I want to be the best blues guitarist in the world and get a record deal.”
The man looked at Tyler without speaking. He opened the briefcase and pulled out a single piece of yellowed paper. He closed the briefcase, put the paper on top of it, and held it in front of Tyler with a quill pen dripping red ink. Tyler took the pen in his hand and looked down at the paper. The contract appeared to be written in blood, and the wording was hard to understand. Most of it was too small to read or in a language he’d never seen before.
“What am I signing here, exactly?” He squinted his eyes. “I can’t understand the details.”
“You want to be a famous guitar picker, don’t you? It’s just a contract between you and I, so you can achieve that dream,” said the man.
This can’t be real, thought Tyler. But he was so desperate, he decided to give it a shot.
He quickly signed the paper and handed it back to the man. The man began to laugh. He laughed from deep within, and his laughter echoed over the cornfields. It gave Tyler the creeps. Suddenly, a gust of wind from behind the man hit Tyler’s face, and a heavy fog engulfed the man. Tyler could no longer see him. The wind died down, and the man was gone.
Tyler walked back toward his car. Did it work? His hands were itching to find out. He leaned against the hood, slung his Strat forward, and plugged it into his battery-powered pig-nose amp that was hanging from his hip. He played a simple blues riff, but it seemed different. His fingers seemed to know where to go without thinking. He went into a minor pentatonic scale he had played a thousand times, but his speed was much faster than he had ever been able to play it before. He tried a Dorian scale that he had played a few times, and his fingers played the notes as if they already had muscle memory. He slid into the Dorian-Mixolydian-Hybrid scale, then into the Lydian dominant, followed by the Locrian scale, and back to the standard blues scale with ease.
“What the fuck?” he said out loud.
He hadn’t even played some of these scales before, but now he could play them without effort or even thinking. He pulled out his phone and played along to a backing track of a Joe Bonamassa song that he’d always tried but failed to play well. He played the entire song note for note with more finesse and taste than Joe himself. He played a few more notes and looked at his fingers in amazement. He began to laugh with excitement. He felt as if he had won the lotto.
The moon began to fade away behind a dark cloud. Out of nowhere, a hot pain shot through Tyler’s back. His eyes got blurry and he passed out.
Deputy Sheriff Ron Dalton drove down Highway 8 toward Dockery Farms, a route he had driven many times before on patrol. For some reason, he took a right at the old dirt and gravel road toward Lead Bayou, past the True Life Church and cemetery. When he got to the next intersection in the road, he spotted a car sitting off to the side.
Many people believed this was the true crossroads where Robert Johnson had supposedly sold his soul to the devil. Others claimed it was where Highway 61 and Highway 49 met. There was a huge memorial sign at that location claiming to be the exact spot. No one agreed on the exact location or if it even actually happened. It was mostly folklore and a tourist draw.
Deputy Dalton pulled off to the side behind the empty car. He assumed whoever had parked here was fishing over at Lead Bayou. As he approached the car, he realized it was still running. Dew covered the car’s roof, and it was obvious it had been here overnight. He checked for clues around the car that might lead him to the vehicle’s owner. A gray nylon guitar pick was sitting in the gravel beside the front tire. He picked it up—Dunlop. He put it in a clear evidence bag and tucked it into his pocket. He looked for footprints and there seemed to be two sets. There were none heading toward Lead Bayou, so whoever’s car it was, they weren’t fishing. He reached into the car and turned off the ignition.
“Hello? Is there anyone here?” he called out.
He waited, but only silence answered. He walked back to his cruiser and repeated the same thing over his external PA mic on his radio. Nothing. He decided to run the plates. An uneasy feeling stirred in his gut, a feeling that something bad might’ve happened here the night before.
“Dispatch, this is Deputy Ron Dalton, Car C2442. I need to run plates on an abandoned auto. Are you receiving?”
“Ten-four, Ron, this is Dawn at dispatch. Please give me the plate.”
“It’s a Harrison County plate, AGF-257.”
“Stand by, Ron.”
A few minutes passed, and the dispatcher got back on the radio.
“That car belongs to Tyler Raynes of Biloxi. Come back.”
“Tyler Raynes? Any relation to Jack Raynes who owns that big casino down there?”
“Please hold. Let me text you his driver’s license.”
Deputy Dalton’s phone pinged, and he looked at the photo. He did a quick Google search and confirmed that this Tyler was indeed the son of Jack Raynes, owner of the Red Ruby Casino in Biloxi.
“Dawn, I’m gonna need a tow truck and forensics unit out at Highway 8, by the old Dockery Plantation. Take the first right on the dirt road toward Lead Bayou. Wait, let me just share my location to your cell. It’ll be easier.”
“Ten-four, Ron. Standing by.”
Ron shared his Google Maps location and waited.
About an hour passed by, and he saw the lights of a tow truck kicking up dust in his rearview mirror. He stepped out of the cool air-conditioning and waved the driver over to the front of the car. The forensics unit arrived a few minutes later. Ron had already taped off the area. A man with a white coat stepped out of the forensics van.
“Hi, Ron, what you got?”
“I’m not sure, James. I found this car left running, no owner in sight. I have a gut feeling some foul play went down here last night.”
James Watson opened his forensics bag and put on some vinyl gloves. He took several photos of the area, including any tire tracks and footprints nearby.
“Do you find this odd, Ron?” asked James.
“What?”
“Follow me. You see these tracks leading to and from the car?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Look at the other set of footprints facing these tracks.”
“Yeah, it looks like two people were facing each other. That’s not odd,” said Ron.
“Not by itself, but look at the other prints. There are only three steps, and they start in the center of the road. No tire tracks, and no footprints coming from the side of the road. There are no more going in the other direction. How did the person facing the other man leave? It’s as if he was here and then gone with no exiting prints. I can’t wrap my head around it.”
“I see what you mean. That is odd. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation for it.”
“Yeah, maybe he’s a Martian who dropped down from outer space.” James chuckled.
James continued his forensics dance and got prints off of the car. He only found one set of prints, and they most likely belonged to the owner.
“Do you need me anymore?” asked Ron. “I want to head back to the station and contact the father.”
“Nah, go ahead. I’ll let you know if I find anything interesting.”
“Oh, hang on.” Ron reached into his pocket and handed James the guitar pick he’d found. “I almost forgot. I found this near the driver’s side front tire.”
“Okay, I’ll log it into evidence.”
Deputy Ron headed to his cruiser and started his trip back to the Sheriff’s Department in Bolivar County. He often worked in the Sunflower County jurisdiction under a concurrent agreement. It was a short drive. Ron went inside to his desk and searched for Tyler’s father’s contact info. He was unlisted, so he called the Red Ruby Casino. After going through several automated messages, he finally got a human.
“Reservations, how may I help you?”
“Hi, this is Deputy Ron Dalton of the Bolivar County Sheriff’s Department. I’m trying to reach the owner, Jack Raynes. It’s an urgent matter. Can you patch me through?”
“Please hold, Mr. Dalton.”
After a long pause of some elevator music, she came back on the line.
“Mr. Dalton, I’m going to patch you through to the GM, Don Jacobs.”
Another pause came on the line.
“Hello, this is Donald Jacobs. I understand you are trying to contact the owner, Jack Raynes? What is this is about, exactly? Jack is a very busy man.”
“It’s a private matter, Mr. Jacobs, and it involves his son.”
“Okay, I will take down your info and personally give it to Jack. I’m sure he will return your call as soon as he’s out of his meeting.”
Ron gave Donald his cell number and the landline number of his desk.
“I’ll run this up to him now,” said Don. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Nah, just make sure he understands this is urgent.”
“Will do. Thank you.”
Ron returned to his computer to check the social media of Tyler Raynes. He had a fairly large following on Facebook and Instagram. Luckily, most of his posts were public, so anyone could see them. Ron scrolled his Facebook page to October twentieth and saw he had played a gig in Fort Walton Beach, Florida, at a place called The Green Door Music Hall. He read a few of the comments people had left. Some were obviously from friends who praised his musical prowess, but there were actually more negative comments than positive ones. He read them out loud to himself under his breath.
Tune that fucking guitar!
Get some lessons, you need them.
Decent song selection, but please, for the love of God, don’t ever butcher an Eric Clapton song again.
He scanned the Instagram posts and the comments were all similar. Then he saw a video Tyler had posted of a Keb’ Mo’ cover song. He put on his headphones and turned up the volume on his computer. He winced as the song started. Now he understood what everyone was talking about. Tyler was trying so hard to sound good, but he just didn’t. He was struggling with chords and his vocals were off-key. The poor kid had all the desire in the world but not a whole lot of natural talent.
Ron’s cell phone rang, and he looked down to see a 228 area code. It was probably Tyler’s dad from Biloxi.
Damn, that was fast!
“Hello, this is Deputy Ron Dalton.”
“Deputy Dalton, this is Jack Raynes. I’m returning your call.”
“Hi, Mr. Raynes. I have some information about your son, and I hope you can help.”
“Call me Jack. What did he do now? How much is bail?”
“Uh, it’s not like that, Jack. This morning, we found his car abandoned and left running over near Dockery Farms on a side road. He was nowhere to be found. When’s the last time you spoke to him?”
“Let me think… I believe it was October twenty-fifth. He had gone over to Fort Walton the week before to play some little bar, and he was telling me about it. He was kinda depressed and wanted to borrow some money for guitar lessons. I’m not stupid; guitar lessons were an excuse for drug money. He had gotten into coke a while back. We sent him to rehab and he was clean for a while, but I think he fell off the wagon again. He would disappear for days at a time. I was getting pretty fed up about it. I assumed when you called, he was arrested for possession again. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since that day, but it’s not that unusual. Do you think something bad happened to him?”
“I have no idea at this time, but I’m treating it as a kidnapping. Since you haven’t heard from him since October twenty-fifth, I’m going to list him as a missing person. Do you know if he had any ties to anyone over in Fort Walton?”
“I know he had a friend in Destin he crashed with sometimes when he’d play over there. I can’t remember his name, but if you look on Facebook, you can figure it out. He’s the guy with the sleeve tattoos and bleach blond hair. I think he’s a drummer or something. Maybe he has some info for you. Did my number show up on your phone?” asked Jack.
“Yeah, I’ll go ahead and store it. And please, if you can think of anything else that might help us track down his whereabouts, don’t hesitate to call me any hour of the day.”
“I will. I’ll have my daughter ask some of his friends. I’m willing to bet he got on a bender and was high as hell and left with someone to score more coke. He probably didn’t even know he left his car running. He’s been a bit of a disappointment to us all lately.” Jack sighed. “Don’t get me wrong, I love my son and he has so much potential, but all he wants to do is play that damn guitar and he ain’t that good. I tried to bring him in to the family business—I let him play at the casino twice a week with his little blues band, and his friends came and spent money, so it was a wash for me. But it didn’t last long ’cause his heart wasn’t in it. He started talking about wanting to fly out to California to take lessons from the same guy who taught Keb’ Mo’. He’s been obsessed with Robert Johnson and the Delta blues. I was a guitar player myself in my younger days and steeped in the blues. The problem with Tyler is he lacks motivation, and I’m always afraid any money I give him’ll end up getting used for drugs. It’s a vicious cycle.”
“Thank you, Jack. I will keep you posted on our end. The car has been brought to impound, and forensics will go over it in great detail. We are a small department with limited resources, but I’ll call down to Okaloosa County and see if they have anything that will help. I’ll let you go now. Gotta get back to work.”
“Me too, Deputy Dalton.”
“Call me Ron, Jack.”
“Okay, Ron it is. Goodbye for now.”
“Bye.”
After hanging up, Ron called the Okaloosa County Sheriff’s Department for any info they had on Tyler Raynes. Turned out he had been arrested for possession of cocaine and released on bond back in May. He pleaded out of the case and was given probation. He had moved his probation visits to Harrison County and had no outstanding warrants. He was about to be released from probation in November. His next scheduled visit was November twenty-third, and his last was on October twenty-sixth, which he showed up for.
Ron faxed the missing person info to Okaloosa and then called the probation officer down in Biloxi. He left a voicemail and went back to his computer to send an email to the probation officer. He was still on call, and dispatch sent out a 10-16 over the radio—a domestic disturbance.
“Dawn, this is Deputy Dalton. I’ll take that 10-16. What’s the address?”
“It’s the Gillard Farm.”
