Others stared at the young man, but moved on with words spoken low. They asked about the guitarist. Iggy looked down. Hoped all would leave him, but a dark figure remained. He blinked, for it could only be a shadow. Up to the man’s face he glanced; yet, he had to look again to make sure it was a man.

“Men have sold their souls to play so sweet,” remarked the man, who brushed down a tie dark as the three piece suit. “I’m Valto, Valto Miettinen, and you are?” he asked, lip twitched, thinned, but eyes locked onto the young man.

“I’m just,” Iggy saw the angry man talking to another, “passing through. I’ve got business I mean to see done.”

“Yes, I’ve come to pick up a few things myself,” Valto’s lips turned up into a smile, but his skin held a sheen. Like a bird that was just hatched, Iggy thought, but looked from it with a shiver. No one looked at him, only the Guitarist. “I’m headed back to Lear Mountain, one county over, if you need a ride.”

“Thank you,” he sighed, saw the men look his way, “but I think it is best that I go alone.”

“You’ve been walking all day,” Valto looked at Paganini. Iggy frowned, but he pointed at his boots, “I know the look of a man, who has been riding his thumb.”

“I’ve been doing it for years,” he set down the guitar, “gives me time to think about music.”

Valto shrugged though his jaw flexed, “That man seems to know you.”

“I’ve been gone for a while,” he shrugged, but rubbed the scar. Iggy hoped his mother would come pick him up. It was a long walk from Thadwick, but he had to talk to her. “It has been a little more than a decade,” he stood, knew it would be a long walk.

“A decade,” repeated the man in the suit and tie, “that was the time around the Nottingham Knob thing.”

Iggy looked back to him, though he found it hard to look at the other, easy to dismiss him. “I can’t recall,” he put a hand over his eye. A migraine had seized it, and pounded with his heart.

“Yes, it was today,” he shrugged, “I forget the details.” He looked at the guitar, “I was trying to get better. I’m a picker, such as you, maybe not quite as skilled.”

“You play,” he dared to smile.

“I do,” he slid hands into his trousers, which were balled into fists, “I would do anything to be better, feel like I’ve hit a plateau in my skill.”

“Be careful,” Iggy thought of his plea at the crossroads, “Jimmy Johnson whistled up a devil that he couldn’t put down, so they say.”

Valto jerked, “Sounds like you may have some experience, and I would swear you played as one possessed.”

“Oh, I just know there is no deal to be made,” he laughed, shook his head. “It is natural, and I practice every day for years.”

The man in the suit and tie looked at him for a long moment. “Very well, some would be happy to be…blessed,” he nodded, looked away. His father said the guitar was a dirty thing for nasty boys. Eyes moved back to Iggy, “I heard of a boy; not quite a man, troubled, who played the guitar. Some used the word genius.”

The young man looked away. Angered his father, Iggy recalled, for he had smashed the guitar. “I play because I love it,” he looked away, “and I try to get better.”

“You’re incredibly talented,” he smiled eyes flat, “but I have to head back. I hope your business goes well,” Valto extended a hand.

He shook it though it felt oily, too soft, but held a steel grip underneath. “I hope you get better,” he smiled but the other’s grip tightened.

“You too,” Valto walked away.

Iggy watched him go, but his gaze slid away. A third man had joined the two with a glare equal in fury, and all stared at him. They crossed and uncrossed their arms. Murmurs were exchanged with a tilt of the head, but none looked away from the Guitarist. A group of women came to speak to them, and they finally looked away from Iggy.

He moved from the bench, while the men spoke to the women. Rhythm inside struck a fast, heavy beat. Into a department store he moved, refused to look back. If he could make it to the back roads, he swore, he would be safe. Years of hitchhiking had shown him all the back roads from Winter Rose to Lear County. Workers followed, watched his hands, and he sighed. Over his head he placed hands, so they would have no excuse to stop him. Their manager waited by the door, but saw he carried nothing, just Paganini.

Out onto the sidewalk he moved. The back road to Lear County felt distant, and few cars occupied the parking lot. Iggy moved, though kept it at a brisk walk; a man with his face gets the cops called. He stepped off the sidewalk.

“Hey Boy,” a man bellowed, and Iggy looked back to see four men came.

“Great,” he said, let out a breath. They always move in packs, lamented Iggy, even in that school for wayward children, even in the joint. They were broad, muscled, but he was accustomed to walking.

As he readied to bolt, a classic car rolled along, white a bleached bone. The window rolled down. That is the old preacher’s car, Iggy recalled, but the blacked out window rolled down. Valto looked at the men, who stared at the car, its gold trim.

“You gentlemen okay?” Valto asked, smile broad.

They looked at the Guitarist. The angry man stepped up to the car, “We don’t want him back.”

“You have any concerns,” he studied his fury, “you should call the Sheriff.”

“There is no need to bother Rutger,” his face burned.