"The Code of the Road" follows two sets of brothers — Jack and Jimmy Cassidy, members of Jackknife, a 1970’s Southern rock band on the rise, and twins, Zeke and Samson Steele, roadies riding the fringe — the four forever linked and sworn to secrecy as they navigate the seductive underbelly of rock and roll. A serial killer lurks in the midst of the young musicians on the biggest tour of their lives. Can Melissa Daniels, a Rolling Stone journalist on assignment, expose the truth and stop him before he murders again? Will the killer’s secrets be discovered, or will they forever remain shrouded in darkness, protected by the loyalty of the code of the road?
Deep down below where no one wants to go
To uncover the evil that no one wants to show;
To look inside the madness and see it all revealed,
To realize in that instant your fate is finally sealed.
“The Reckoning”
As the audience’s anticipation continued to build in the hot, sticky, pitch-black arena, the palpable excitement seemed to spring forth from every nook and cranny. Whoops, squeals, screams, and catcalls reverberated off of the wooden floor and walls of the aging auditorium. A cloud of incense and smoke hung thickly overhead and mixed with the aroma of patchouli oil and sweat seeping from the throng below. The slow, pulsing beat of the bass drum cut through the blackness and pounded into every chest in the gallery. As its volume increased, each successive beat seemed to push the mass of vibrating bodies packed into the pit backward and forward, causing the throng to sway and writhe seductively as one primal being. Very slowly, an intense, narrow beam of light began to bring into focus and illuminate an enormous, silver dagger suspended from the rafters above the stage. The crowd spontaneously erupted into thunderous applause and cheers as this eerie, but recognizable, vision appeared. This is what they had waited for, standing here for over two hours, packed, jostled, and pressed against one another. This is why they had cultivated and maintained their collective buzz. This was their chance to see...
“JACKKNIFE!” the announcer boomed over the PA. It was enough said.
The excitement built to a fevered pitch and exploded as the stage lights slowly came up in the haze and revealed the band. Pandemonium. The old National Guard Armory almost seemed to groan as it attempted to contain the impossible energy inside.
Jimmy Cassidy sat behind his Hammond B3, his fingers adjusting the organ’s drawbars as his foot slowly depressed the volume pedal. The spinning rotors of the organ’s Leslie tone cabinet droned out the opening chord of “Dixie Belle.” He looked over at his younger brother, who stood just behind the frayed curtain at the edge of the splintered stage, ready to make his grand entrance.
Jack’s Fender Stratocaster was slung casually over his shoulder and down his back, giving him the appearance of a guitar gunslinger about to step out into the fray. Attired entirely in brown leather—pants, vest, cowboy boots, and a flat brimmed, bullhide Western hat—he appeared more than ready to rise to the occasion. Jack smiled smugly as he surveyed the packed house. All here to see me. No doubt about that! As he turned to look at the band, he caught Jimmy’s gaze. He brought his index finger to the brim of his hat and then tipped it to his brother, signaling that he was primed to blow the top off this joint. Jack loved this moment of anticipation best of all, making them wait before strutting out like a bantam rooster and taking his rightful place in front of the band. Skies the limit; tonight’s just one more stop along the road to the top, he thought, as he swaggered out to center stage. Plugging into his amp, he turned to face the crowd and drink in the exuberance and adoration of his fans.
Jimmy knew his cocky, self-absorbed brother had lofty ambitions and pie-in-the-sky expectations, but for him it would never get any better than this. Never! No matter how much the band’s music might evolve, no matter how popular they became, no matter what good fortune befell them, no matter what huge coliseums and stadiums lay ahead. It would never get any better than this very minute right here and now. This, my friend...This was rock and roll!
Deep in the bowels of the armory, the sounds from above, although muffled, rained down on the solitary, black-clad figure as he went about his duties. The vibrations from the kick drum and bass guitar as well as the incessant stomping of a thousand feet hammered down on him from overhead. He glanced upward, placed his hand on the wall, and nodded his shaved head to the pulse he felt shaking the basement. He continued to work his way around the room triple-checking to ensure that everything was in its proper place. Road cases and equipment trunks lined up against the back wall. Check. Back-up guitars strung, tuned, and available to be hustled upstairs if needed. Check. Spare mics and instrument cords at the ready. Check. Budweiser longnecks on ice. Check.
He was so absorbed in his work that he failed to notice an intruder had slipped into the dressing room—this inner sanctum, his domain. When he rose to his feet, emerging from the shadows, she stumbled backwards and crashed into a row of neatly-stacked drum cases. A hulking figure towered over the stunned girl. Unfazed by her presence, he simply stared and held her gaze for an uncomfortably long time.
“Hi,” she slurred, rocking slightly from side to side.
He made an instant assessment: Wasted on beer, weed, and reds; stoned out of her mind; and a Jezebel to boot, no doubt. Just look at her—braless under that half-unbuttoned, fringed vest; skin-tight bell-bottoms; stiletto-heeled boots; love beads; and a thin, rainbow headband holding back that long, blond hair. A typical Jackknife groupie if I’ve ever seen one.
“Hi.” She tried again. “Uh...is this where the band hangs out?”
Stone silence.
“They are so cool! I just love their music. I’ve been dyin’ to meet them...forever! You work with them, right?”
No response.
Undeterred, she continued to ramble. “Groovy! What’s Jack really like? I think he’s so far out, so righteous! Can I stay here until after the show?...Please? I’ve got to meet them! I just have to!”
He weighed that option. It wasn’t often that a female wanted anything from him, and he briefly relished the moment. Perhaps this was his chance to make the type of connection which seemed to come so easily to everyone else. Maybe this time will turn out differently.
She rattled on in an attempt to engage him in conversation.
No luck.
She weaved a couple of steps toward the giant until she stood close enough to reach out and steady herself against his massive chest. She began to slowly trace her fingertip over the outline of the Jackknife logo. His heartbeat quickened as his adrenaline kicked into high gear.
“I’d do just about anything, if you’d let me,” she cooed in a seductive Southern drawl as she looked up into his eyes. “I’ve got weed. Come on!”
Nothing.
“I could make it worth your while, if you let me stay,” she propositioned. “Please!” She pressed her nubile body closer against him and let her finger trail downward across his large chest. He reached out and stopped its progress just above his beltline.
You little whore! Just like all the others! His mind screamed, as his simmering rage began to boil.
Her charms weren’t working. She searched her clouded mind for other tactics but came up empty. Finally, in frustration she hissed, “What the hell is wrong with you? Say something!” Her voice continued to crescendo. “Are you deaf, you bald freak? Huh? Wassa matter, big man? Can’t get it up?”
It was a poor choice of words.
As their eyes locked, he cocked his head ever so slightly to the side. The expression on his face was inscrutable. Just a stone-cold, steely stare.
She tried to step back and stumbled slightly, but one of his huge hands caught her behind the neck as the other closed over her mouth. Because of her condition, the shock followed by sheer terror was slow to show in her eyes. But when it did, he peered deeply into them, searching, perhaps even hoping, to find some reason to stop himself. Those familiar feelings of conflict resurfaced for the briefest of moments; and just as quickly as they had arrived, he pushed them back down to that dark place inside as his hands closed tightly around her neck. He pressed his thumbs against her windpipe and in concert with his vice grip effortlessly choked the life out of her.
John Rimel is a native of Charlottesville Virginia and a graduate of the University of Virginia. He is a nationally-awarded songwriter, a voting member of the Recording Academy (Grammys), and writer of Country Music Song of the Year as well as tunes included on seven top-10 Billboard albums, including four certified Gold.
John has worn many hats: An Air Force veteran, a passport clerk, a middle school language arts teacher, a musician on and off the road, and a first-time novelist. His greatest accomplishments: a husband, a father, and a grandfather. John spends time at the farmhouse writing new songs and fiction, recording in Wire and Wood Studios, performing in a duo with his son Brian, and enjoying his family.
© 2021 - John Rimel