Johnson frowned. “Question is, how do you know about the labs? Did your friend John here tell you?”
John walked back toward them. “It’s the reason we’re here, Mr. Johnson. We’re pretty sure Abraham’s great-grandson Silas is running the labs now, and we need to find him. But Abraham screwed with my head, and there are lots of things I don’t remember. Like the location of the labs.”
“You don’t wanna go back there,” Johnson warned.
John shrugged. “You’re right. But I don’t have a choice.”
Link jumped out of his seat. “Silas might have my girl, sir. We think he’s keepin’ her in or near his creepy labs. I know you’re probably gonna tell us it’s dangerous and we shouldn’t go and we’re gonna die, and all that kinda stuff, but I’m still goin’ either way. If there’s any chance she’s alive, I gotta find her. And if you help me, I’ll give you anythin’ you want.”
Johnson rose from the chair and took out his wallet. He opened it and pulled out a faded photograph of a girl with a mane of wild blond hair. “I was in love with a Caster girl myself once. I should’ve stayed back home with her and settled for bein’ a first-rate harmonica player and a second-rate guitarist. But things don’t always turn out the way you plan.” His eyes lingered on the photo for a moment before he glanced back at Link. “She probably thinks I’m dead.”
“You never went back for her?” Necro asked.
The bluesman sighed. “After I paid my debt in the labs, Abraham sent me here. Another one of his Casters made sure I could never leave the crossroads. Guess the debt wasn’t paid after all. But I’ve kept track of her.”
“How?” The Keeper in Liv perked up.
Johnson bent down and scratched the dog’s head. “Deuce here helps me.”
The dog opened one eye lazily.
“He’s a Caster dog?” Link asked. “Like Boo Radley.” Ethan had told him all about the way Casters could see the world through the eyes of their Caster animals. Lena’s Uncle Macon had used his wolf dog, Boo Radley, to spy on Lena all the time.
Liv inspected the Lab more closely. “But you’re not a Caster. How is that possible?”
“It’s one of those Caster spells,” the bluesman answered. “The lady Caster who trapped me here said she was leavin’ me a little gift. She didn’t like Abraham much.”
“It sucks you can’t leave,” Necro said sadly.
“Anything’s better than bein’ back in the labs,” Johnson said.
Link cleared his throat. “Will you tell us how to find them, sir?”
Johnson shuddered. “I wouldn’t wish that place on my worst enemy. I didn’t make a deal with the Devil, but Abraham Ravenwood is as close as they come.”
“Was,” Link said. “He’s dead. John and I killed him.”
The bluesman walked over to Link and gestured at the sheet of paper Link had been writing on. “You a songwriter, son?”
Link shrugged. “I used to be. But I haven’t been able to write since I lost Ridley. That’s her name.”
“Mind if I take a look?” the bluesman asked.
Link hesitated, then handed him the page reluctantly. He didn’t like the idea of one of the greatest blues musicians in history reading his crappy songs.
But it’s worth it if he helps us find Rid.
Johnson’s eyes scanned the page.
“I told you the songs are real bad, sir.” Link hung his head. “They don’t even rhyme. Deep down, I always knew I wasn’t the best songwriter, but I didn’t think I sucked. Guess I was kiddin’ myself.”
John and Liv, and even Floyd and Necro, were in shock. It was more than they’d ever heard Link admit. From the moment he formed his first band, Who Shot Lincoln, and right on up to the Holy Rollers and Sirensong—Link had told everyone that he was destined to be a rock god. But he didn’t care anymore about saving face—or about the band, or his career, or anything.
If I don’t get Ridley back, none of it matters.
The bluesman looked up. “Songs aren’t supposed to rhyme, son. They’re supposed to make you feel. That’s what music’s about. All those words and notes are just a different way to tell someone you love them, or your heart’s broken, or you’re mad enough to kill somebody.”
Link nodded, but he wasn’t sure he understood.
“Isn’t that how it feels when you sing it?” Johnson asked.
“I haven’t actually gotten around to that part.”
Johnson handed the paper back to him. “Then let’s hear it.”
It was one of those go-big-or-go-home moments, and as much as he didn’t want to make a fool of himself, there was nothing Wesley Lincoln hated more than going home, and not just because of his mother.
I’m no quitter. If Robert Johnson wants to hear a song, I’ll sing him one, even if it sucks worse than my mom’s peach cobbler.
Like so many other times, Wesley Lincoln—tragically average Mortal basketball player, cheerleader kryptonite, and perpetual Pinewood Derby loser—had no choice but to man up.
Here goes nothin’. Link cleared his throat. This is for you, Rid. All my songs are for you.
He focused on the paper in his shaking hands and started to sing:
“Blond hair and mile-long legs,
Bad attitude wearin’ a borrowed smile.