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
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
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