BRIDGE STUDIOS
The next morning, we’re eating bacon-wrapped Pop-Tarts, talking about what the name Hounds of Eden means, when Dez suddenly sits up in the Hamana.
“Guys,” she says, giving us all a giant smile.
I remember our clichéd waterfall kiss. I remember that she trusted me enough to tell me her Percocet-addiction secret. Part of me is insanely happy about it, another part is scared shitless, and another part is worried for her. Each feeling is so distinct and new, and they’re battling for priority. I put three extra pieces of bacon on my Pop-Tart to ease my mental tension.
“I’m so excited for today,” she says. “What if we don’t just find an album? What if we find something that clears Mr. Cratcher’s name? What if we do it all before he dies?”
I feel the same fear I felt yesterday when we talked about this. I don’t know if it’s because we had such a good time last night, but it’s even more unsettling today.
“That’s a lot of what ifs,” I say.
“Yeah, but I bet there’s something out there, right?” Trey adds.
Dez’s face tightens. “Well if the optimist is on my side, I should probably lower my expectations. Let’s just go find Mr. Cratcher’s house.”
Thank you, Trey. Thank you so, so, so, so much.
—
We drive through downtown Nashville and take an exit that dumps us into a suburb called Historic Edgefield. As we sit at the bottom of the exit ramp, waiting for the light to turn green, Dez points at the neighborhood sign gleaming in the sun across the road.
“Turn right here. It should be the third house on the left.”
Addy turns, and a few seconds later, we pull up to a normal, non-Brentwood house. It has a small concrete stoop and faded green seventies shutters next to the two front windows.
“Everyone have their clipboards?” Dez asks.
Dez bought all of us clipboards at the drug store because she thinks the clipboards will make us look like professional journalists instead of nosy kids.
“This is crazy guys,” Addy says.
Dez makes a tsk noise at her. “We’ll leave you home if you suddenly want to be all adult-ish.”
Addy laughs. “I never said I didn’t want to do it. I just said it was crazy.”
“So, who’s going to talk?” Elliot asks.
“Adam should take this first one,” Dez says. “Addy, keep the car running in case we need to run.”
“I feel like a chauffeur,” she says. “You make out with my brother one time and suddenly I’m just the driver.”
Trey snaps his fingers. “Ooh, man!”
Dez grins. “Imagine what will happen next time we make out.”
Elliot scoffs. “Teen pregnancy?”
Dez’s cheeks explode with red and we all laugh.
Elliot stops mid-laugh. “Teen pregnancy isn’t funny.”
Trey shivers and gets out of the car. Dez follows.
“No teen pregnancy,” I say to Addy when we’re the last two in the car. “I promise.”
Her eyes look at me through the rearview mirror. “I trust you, Papi. Now go get your information.”
We walk up to the house door, and after ten knocks or so, it’s obvious our adventure isn’t being filmed in a Hollywood studio. After driving two thousand miles, four teenagers stand on the stoop of their dying mentor’s old house only to have no one answer.
This is as anticlimactic as it can get.
Dez crosses her arms. “Let’s just look around, see if a door is open.”
“We can’t break and enter,” I say. “We’re on a journey for justice and resolution, not criminalism.”
“That’s not even a word.”
“We’ll just have to come back. It’s not a problem.”
“Hey!” someone yells.
We turn around. Standing on the porch of the house directly across from Mr. Cratcher’s is a man maybe a little older than my dad, leaning against his railing and watching us like … like we’re about to look around and see if a door is open.
“What are you kids doing?” he asks.
“We’re an independent research team,” I yell, certain he won’t expect that kind of answer from a group of teenagers, one of which looks like he’s about to destroy something in emo-laden spiky bracelet rage.
“My colleagues and I are trying to gather some data on a cold case.”
The man scratches his beard. “What case?”
“The murder of Elias Harper,” Dez says.
The man stares at us for a few seconds. Trey fiddles with his clipboard to make sure our inquirer sees it.
“Wasn’t that in the seventies?” he finally asks.
“Yes, sir,” I say.
A few more seconds of awkward silence pass before the guy nods toward his house. “Come in. I might be able to help.”
—
We sit around the stranger’s table. He kindly offers us some soda, but Elliot is the only one of us who accepts.
“So, why do you want information on Elias Harper?” he asks.
“We’re journalistic hobbyists,” Dez says. “We use our school breaks to research cold cases.”
“We’ve gathered enough evidence to get cases reopened,” Trey adds.
I try not to let my face show it, but I feel like his comment pushes our cover a little too far. Luckily, the man doesn’t dig any deeper.
“Well,” he says, “it’s cool to see kids applying themselves to stuff that isn’t dangerous or to drugs.”
We look at each other. Dez has to bite her lip to keep from laughing.
“I don’t know any details about it,” he says, “but my dad might. He lived here when it all happened.”
Trey slaps the table. “Fantastic!”
“As long as you don’t tell him you talked to me,” the man says, “I can put you in touch with him, but I can’t guarantee anything. He doesn’t talk about anything unless money is involved.”
“Where does he work?” Elliot asks.
“At some recording studio. At least, I think he still works there. I haven’t talked to him in years.”
“Why?” Dez asks.
Awkward. Why would anyone ask that?
The guy doesn’t blink at the question. “He’s an ass. Simple as that. Do you want his number or not?”
“We’d love his number,” I say.
—
We sit in the SUV in front of Mr. Cratcher’s old house while Dez calls The Ass. Considering his reputation, we figured the guy would stay on the phone longer for a female.
“Hey—” she starts, but covers the receiver. “What’s his last name? We never got The Ass’s last name.”
Addy looks out the window at the mailbox. “Woodrow.”
“Is this Mr. Woodrow? Awesome. My name is Mindy Hastings, and I’m looking to record an album. A friend of mine recommended you.”
I raise my hands in confusion. She waves me away.
What the crap is she doing?
“There are five of us.” She rubs her eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Did you ask who recommended you?”
Trey slams his head on the back of my seat like we’ve been defeated.
“Okay,” she says, laughing. “Confession. I figured you’d take me more seriously if I said someone recommended me. This town is like one giant party. If you aren’t invited, you’re screwed.”
I can hear the guy laughing through the speaker. I pretend to give her a slow clap, but she just shrugs at her own ability to BS.
“Yeah. Our band name is … Knights of Vice. No, not nights with an n. Knights, like medieval dragon-slaying badasses. Haha, right. Well, we’d like to come in and see the place…. Yeah, and I’m sure Carrie Underwood wanted to see the place before she coughed up that much money, too. Can we drop by and get a tour today? Great, how about one? Cool. One last question: when I was reading reviews on your studio, I kept seeing these alternate spellings for the studio name.”
Her mouth drops.
“Haha, yeah.” She turns in her seat to look at all of us. “It’s pretty hard to mess up Bridge Studios.”