The Passenger by Jacqueline Druga (the giving tree read aloud TXT) 📗

“Why?”

“Does it matter?” Joe asked. “I mean, I don’t think it has anything to do with you thinking the guitar was stolen. The passenger doesn’t matter to you, but he does to Chip. Instead of being stalled, Chip’s moving forward, memory or not. He believes he knows who the passenger was. Let it go. Let his belief do the wonders.”

“Okay,” Russ held out his hand. “You can believe in that stuff, but I don’t have to—”

“Stuff?” Marge cut him off. “You stop right there Russ McKibben, one more word scoffing at beliefs and I will ban you from my market, law or not. This is so like you. We should have known.”

“What are you talking about?” Russ asked.

“You.” Marge waved her hand around. “All good hearted at first. All good intentions. Trying to help, getting the pastor to take him in. Oh, yeah, that’s you. For about a week, then your mind goes, and you get suspicious or doubtful. You’re doing it again, turning your back, believing the bad and finding the negative, just like you did with our boy.”

“He is not your boy!” Russ blasted.

“No! He’s not,” Marge said emotionally, then calmed. “No. He’s not. Because I will not let you, me, or anyone else in this town give up on him. Like we all did … with my boy.” Saying no more, Marge turned and left the office.

They stood in silence, then Joe cleared his throat and stood. He paused by the door. “Did you ever … ever lose your glasses?”

“Huh?” Russ asked, confused.

“You know, lose your glasses. You look and you look, then suddenly you realize they’re on your nose or right there by your coffee. How did you miss them, right? Same can be said about answers, Chief. Sometimes you aren’t gonna see the answer if you look too hard, you gotta just ... sit back and let the answers come to you. Have a good day, Chief.”

It was a courtesy that Russ went to Marge and Old Joe, he didn’t need to. He did so because they, like the pastor, had taken Chip under their wing. It was a strong wing, and they were protecting him. Perhaps Russ did need to follow Old Joe’s advice and step back.

It was something else to think about.

◆◆◆

The Rat-Tat-Tat Bar and Grill was not what Grant expected, then again, he didn’t know what to expect. A large, log cabin looking place with a front porch as wide as the building. It was set off the main roadways so far, Grant wondered how they got any business.

He carried a flyer with him when he walked in. Not that he expected them to hang it up, but he had to try.

The young female bartender was behind the bar looking up to the television as she leaned against a cooler, and one other customer was there. A man sat at the far corner of the bar, eating a burger while looking at his phone.

The bartender noticed him, smiled and walked up to Grant as he approached the bar.

“Hi,” she said. “What can I get you?”

“Nothing. Are you Chelsey?”

“I am.”

“My name is Grant Truett.”

The smile dropped from her face and she drew a look of compassion. “Oh, yeah, my manager told me you would be stopping by. Still no word on your son?”

Grant shook his head and inched the flyer her way.

She lifted it. “Yeah, I remember him. Really talented guy.”

“Thank you. You were working that night?”

“I was.”

“His drummer said he got into a fight?”

Chelsey nodded. “He did. A scuff, short fight with Lance, one of our regulars.”

“Was he hurt maybe? Like something that would have a delayed reaction?”

“Not that I know of. He played the next set. But can you hold on, I have something for you.” She lifted her finger then darted from behind the bar to the back room.  She wasn’t gone long, and when she returned she set the black wallet down in front of Grant.

Grant sighed out a silent aching moan when he saw it. “His wallet. He didn’t have his wallet or ID.”

“He dropped that in here before he left … the police didn’t tell you?” she asked.

Grant shook his head. “They didn’t tell us much about what you told them, just that they didn’t suspect any foul play.”

“He was fine when he left. I mean … he looked tired, said he was hungry or something like that,” Chelsey said. “I mean I only served him two drinks. One was really early on, the other was at the end of the night when Doug bought him one.”

“Who is Doug?”

“Another regular. A friend of Lance, he got him the drink to make up for the fight. But when I left there was only my car and the waitress’ truck.”

“Was there any way he could have been jumped maybe?”

“I don’t know. I mean, the car was …” her attention was drawn away when another customer, a man entered the bar. “Hold on.” She turned from Grant. “Can I get you something?”

“I have a takeout order for Jeff,” he said.

“Two orders of wings and a burger?” Chelsey asked.

“That’s it.”

“Almost done. Can I get you something while you wait?”

“Nah, I’m good.” He slid onto a stool.

Chelsey returned her attention to Grant. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

“No, I appreciate it. I do. Can you …” He began to slide the flyer to her but paused. He glanced at Jeff, the man at the bar. “Sir, hi, are you from this area?”

Jeff looked over. “I’m working in the area. I live about eight miles east of here.”

“I’m looking for my son. Can you take a look and see if you saw him around?”

“Sure.”

Chelsey took the flyer over to the man.

Jeff stared at it then shook his head. “No, man, I’m sorry. I haven’t seen him. Quite a ways from Iowa City.”

“He was playing a gig here,” Grant replied.

“Sorry. I wish I could help.” Jeff returned the flyer to Chelsey.

She took it over to the other customer then returned.