Author: Dustin Stevens
Category: Suspense
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/dustin-stevens/page,6,565390-office_visit.html
For my friends, I’m sure they feel some form of the same thing, all of us uncertain on how to proceed.
“The house doesn’t have much,” I say. “If they found something, they took it with them.” Again I lift my glass, about to give it a spin, before thinking better of it and lowering it back to the wet spot already spread beneath it. “So tomorrow I’m going to track down her friend Mallory.”
All three of my friends are looking my way, each honing in on what I’m saying, seeing if there is anything for them to assist with.
For the time being, there is not.
“They worked together. Outside of us and her family, she’s one of her best friends.”
“Yeah,” Stapleton inserts, “we all met her last summer, at the concert.”
“Right,” I say, jabbing a finger her way, having forgotten that they already knew her. “Anyway, I’m going to sit down with her, pick her brain a bit. See if there’s anything she might be able to help with.”
Chapter Thirteen
The sun has set in Southern California, depleting the world of its usual diet of bright natural light. In its stead, the overhead bulbs attached to the ceiling fans twirling lazily throughout the room have kicked on, casting a filmy glow over the everything.
The crowd inside The Wolf Den has swelled considerably, the number of men in leather vests tripled, almost twenty in total. Handfuls of women have also made their way inside, ranging in size and shape, their attire stretching the full gamut. Some are in dresses and teased out hair, their intentions for the night clear. Others are in jeans and flannels, either directly attached to a Wolf or around enough to be considered an active affiliate.
Behind the bar, the same old man makes his way from one end to the next, a bottle of whiskey in either hand. Once he finishes his pass, he’ll do the same again with a pitcher of beer, those being the only two forms of acceptable drink in the place.
Do not ask for soda. Do not even consider something like a martini. Water is for washing away blood.
Still posted up in the corner, a small cluster has gathered around Ringer. Three men in total, all are around his age or even a bit older, wearing the life of the road plainly for all to see. Heavy-ink tattoos and unhealthy amounts of sun cover their skin. Ditto for the various forms of facial hair stretched along their jaws.
Completing the look are the matching vests the men all wear, each with a small patch declaring their place in the pecking order above their right breastplate.
Reclined in his seat, Ringer’s weight is shifted onto one haunch, the elbow on the same side resting on the arm of the chair. His index and middle finger press into his temple, propping his head up as he stares at the table.
“Alright, what were you guys able to find out? Start with Linc.”
Flicking his gaze up, he focuses on the man directly across from him, Snapper stitched onto his vest. With yellow, bucked teeth that threaten to jut straight out of his face, it isn’t hard to discern the origin of his nickname.
“Bitch was right,” Snapper replies, his voice a bit higher than his look would suggest. “Linc’s in the wind. Not picking up his phone, ain’t nobody been at his place in days.”
“You sure?” Ringer presses.
“Positive,” Snapper says. “Two dozen calls from three different phones. Even tried his burner. He ain’t picking up.”
“And his house?” Ringer asks.
“Same. Went by this afternoon. Place smells like hell, kitchen sink has shit growing out of it.”
There is no reason to doubt what the woman said. As foolish as walking straight into the place – packing, no less – was, there wasn’t a chance she’d do it just to come in and lie to them.
Still, he’d had to check her story, see if what she was telling him was on the level before he moved forward.
“Anybody else seen him? Heard from him?” Ringer asks, casting a glance to either side.
On his right, Gamer shakes his head. A massive man with the build of a powerlifter gone to seed, the light above glints off his shaved head, his salt-and-pepper goatee drawn to a straight point before him.
“Not since last week. He mentioned he had some work to do, but you know how that goes.”
Ringer nods. Every member of the Wolves knows what Linc does for a living, one of the many unspoken things that exist within the confines of the bar. If he said he had work to do, it was assumed without being pressed on.
It wasn’t like he was the only one on the roster with those sorts of skills.
“Me neither,” Byrdie replies, the man’s handle a small extension on his last name. Pulling the group’s attention to the opposite side of the table, he is the smallest one present, his body cut from sinew and striated cord. His bare arms exposed, every single ridge can be seen beneath the skin, his hair buzzed short on the sides, the top and back hanging more than eight inches down his back. “I’ve put a word out with the boys, but nobody knows anything yet.”
Ringer grunts in agreement. Right now there is a decent handful of guys present, but in total, they represent less than half of the active members. It being a Monday night, it’s to be expected, many having other matters to tend to throughout the week.
Work and kids and shit that Ringer would rather do without, but doesn’t begrudge the others for dabbling in.
Just so long as their priorities stay in line.
“Okay,” he says, shifting his attention back to the center of the table, his eyes glazing as he focuses on the half-full pitcher of beer sitting between them. “And the woman?”
For a moment, there is no sound save the usual soundtrack of the bar. People in conversation. Boots thumping against the floor. The revving of an engine outside.
Flicking his eyes up, Ringer looks to each of his three deputies, all careful to avoid his gaze, as clear an answer as anything he might have hoped for.
“Nothing, huh?”
Again, Snapper shakes his head. “Plate number you gave me is registered to some company downtown. No website or telephone number. Looks like a shell.”
Which makes sense. Nobody conducting the sort of business she was would be foolish enough to do it right out in the open. They would want layers of deniability, not to mention the need to cover a back trail when walking into places such as the bar they now sat in.
In the wake of her leaving, Ringer had immediately sat the phone lines burning, putting in calls to each of the three before him. Knowing better than to ever accept anything at face value – especially for an organization as recognizable as theirs – he had needed more information. Fast.
Unfortunately, six hours had provided them with very little of it, leaving him now with some difficult decisions to make. The proposition she had tossed down before him wasn’t ironclad. The fact that her identity and that of the company she worked for were both cloaked in secrecy gave the entire thing a hint of deceit. As did the sudden disappearance of Linc.
On the other hand, the price tag she had floated with it certainly helped put things in a different light.
Mulling over it another moment, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He laces his fingers before him and asks, “What do you guys think?”
For an instant, there is no response. Each of the three leaves the floor to the others before Snapper says, “It’s just the one remaining, right?”
“Right,” Ringer confirms. “Linc got the first one.”
“And she’s willing to give us double his wage for the second one?” Byrdie asks.
“She is,” Ringer says, the number quite large, about the only thing throughout the conversation that had truly been a surprise. Except for the obvious of her having the gall to walk in in the first place, anyway. “Though that’s not the part that I find most appealing right now.”
Again, he pauses, the other three letting silence settle in as he sits and processes, recalling the conversation from earlier in the day.
“She also says if we finish it, she’ll tell us who the first
hit was.”
My apartment had never smelled so good. Not even upon my first move-in, when the place was barren and had the distinct aroma of wet paint and caulk still floating in the air. Certainly not two days earlier, when a half-bottle of Febreze and a pair of autumn candles were unleashed in anticipation of my mother’s arrival.
This was of an entirely different origin, a mixture of traditional Thanksgiving fare and a bit of southwestern spice for good measure, mama and Mira basically dueling in the kitchen, a good-natured battle for culinary supremacy.
Not that there was ever a bit of concern over who would come out on top, but poor Mira did at least have to put up a good fight. A move that made me endlessly proud, and tickled mama to death about, well, everything.
Pulling up a chair on the edge of the festivities, I was like the proverbial puppy dog in the room. Sitting and watching everything that transpired, I laughed when the jokes were at my expense, inserted extra commentary where it was required. More than once I was called on to act as Taste Tester Extraordinaire, a position I was more than up to the task for.
The cooking had started at seven o’clock that morning with the turkey going into the oven. Two hours later, Mira had arrived with a pair of dishes already assembled and ready to be baked. Two more were still in their infancy, a sack of groceries dangling from her hand.
Dressed in sweats and a puffy coat, she had already been prepped on how the Clady’s did Thanksgiving.
Four intense hours commenced thereafter, a whirling mass of ladies and seasonings and hot casserole dishes. Who they could have possibly thought they were feeding with such a spread I didn’t have the slightest, though it was far from the point.
We were all together in the same room, cooking providing the backdrop for a process that began with them feeling each other out and soon morphed into full-on bonding.
If only our own first interactions could have been so smooth.
“Alright,” Mama announced just after one, sliding a dishtowel off the oven handle and kneading it between her wet palms, “I believe we’re ready.”
Hearing the words I’d been waiting most of the day for, I snapped to my feet, moving so fast I nearly knocked the chair I was sitting on out from beneath me. Reaching for the television remote, I jabbed it toward the living room, cutting the sound on the football game that had been background noise for the last several hours.
“And wouldn’t you know it? I am too.”
“I bet you are,” Mama said, wagging her fingers my direction.
Sliding out from behind her, Mira placed a hand on Mama’s arm, adding, “Ha! Should have seen this guy on our first date. Took me to a Mexican restaurant and barely ate a thing.”
Her face falling flat, Mama looked from Mira to me, shaking her head. “He took you to...I’m so ashamed. I have failed as a mother.”
A smile graced Mira’s face as she looked my way, both openly apprising me. “Naw, he was a lousy date. Definitely can’t be blamed on parenting.”
“Hey, guys,” I said, feeling a bit of blood come to my face, “can we save the target practice for after dinner? Some of us are getting famished over here.”
“Famished?” Mama asked. “Really?”
Taking a step toward the hall, Mira added, “Yeah, don’t let him fool you. After that first night, he’s had no trouble eating ever since.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” Mama called, both breaking into laughter as Mira headed toward the hall, excusing herself to the restroom before we started.
In the wake of her leaving, I didn’t bother asking how it was going. There was no need to ask for first impressions, not even a point to inquiring as to if she was enjoying herself. It was all splayed out across Mama’s face, her grin reaching from cheekbone to cheekbone.
Which was wonderful to see, a look I hadn’t seen quite enough of in the last decade since my father passed on. Almost overnight the woman I used to know had vanished, replaced by the one standing before me. What was once a healthy tan and soft features were now pale and sharp, direct results of the murderous work schedule she kept.
“Did you really take her to a Mexican restaurant?” Mama whispered, peeking over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t heard.
“That’s my spot,” I countered. “Had nothing to do with her being Mexican. We’ve been back tons of times since. Everybody laughs about it. She and the owner even swap tips!”
“Still...” Mama countered, flipping the tail of the towel my way. “Have some awareness, son.”
Knowing Mama only employed the term son when she was trying to be extra serious, I bobbed my head slightly, letting my own grin form.
“And why didn’t that girl just stay last night? She didn’t have to bring all that food over here in the cold this morning.”
Raising my hands to either side, I replied, “I tried and tried, but she wouldn’t have it. Kept saying she wasn’t going to have your first impression of her be over here spending the night.”
“Pssh,” Mama shoved out, leaning back at the waist to exaggerate the sound. “You guys are in college. I’d expect nothing less.”
“I told her that,” I said. “Didn’t matter.”
Having gotten through her list, finishing off the things she wanted to scold me on in our private moment, Mama took another step forward. Again she checked the hall before leaning in conspiratorially and saying, “I really like her.”
Extending both hands before me, I slid them around her shoulders, pulling her in closer. “Yeah, I do too.”
Putting up no effort to stop me, she pressed in tight for a moment. “Try not to mess this one up, huh?”
“Meaning I’ve messed up other ones in the past?” I asked.
“No, but I’m just saying.”
Chapter Fourteen
The name of the place is the Valley View Inn & Suites, though I’ve been here three nights and have yet to see any views. Or any suites, for that matter. All that I seem to notice is a lot of sand and dust, the place resembling one of those mock towns that were set up in the desert back in the sixties so the government could examine the effects of nuclear bombs on neighborhoods from various distances.
A single-story tall, the structure is made of concrete block, two long halls of matching length stretched out in a right angle. In the center is a concrete hole that at one time was a swimming pool, the thing long since gone dry, weeds poking up through the cracks. Around it sits a handful of rusted metal chairs and a rotting picnic table that couldn’t hold up a chihuahua, let alone a family sitting down to eat.
Inside, things aren’t much better. A queen-sized mattress that I could dribble a basketball on. A tube television last produced at the same time those nuclear tests were taking place. A bathroom with the sink, shower, and toilet all bearing the worst rust ring I have ever seen.
Even despite all that, it is still far and away my best option.
There is no way I can go back to my house. Not now, and maybe not ever. Any hope I had that things would improve, that time would make it easier, was extinguished yesterday by our attempt to dig through the place. Every item in the home brought back some new memory, untucking something that I hadn’t thought about in ages.
Reminding me of something I should have done, or said, while I still had the chance.
Angelique and Hiram invited me to stay with them, but there was no way I could do that either, for just as many reasons. Before two days ago, never had I been inside their home without my wife. It was the place she had spent most of her formative years, still has her bedroom set up the way she left it.
Doubling the pain there is the presence of her mother and brother, one the spitting image of Mira in twenty years, the other her best friend in the world. Both going through just as much agony as me, trying to cram so much concentrated grief into a single space just seems like a bad idea.
They are wonderful people, and they will always be my family, but right now I can’t bear to face them. Or anyone. Which is why I also begged off o
n Ross’s invitation. And Swinger’s. And Stapleton’s.
Everybody means well, but right now, I need space. I need the ability to push through when I can, to break down when I must.
It’s the only way I’m ever going to get through this.
One of only two guests at the Valley View, I don’t mind that the front curtains are parted. Just like I don’t care that the sun is streaming in, illuminating my bare chest and tear-soaked face as I sit upright on the bed, my back against the wall.
Having slept no more than a couple of hours, I can feel my eyes are puffy, the blazing sun doing nothing for them as I sit and stare out. Beside me, my cell phone begins to buzz, making it through a handful of rings before I roll my head to the side to look at it.
Just as it has been for the last few days, my first inclination is to chuck it. To grab it and hurl it through the thin glass of the window, sending it into the empty concrete ditch that was previously a swimming pool. Blinking twice, I manage to clear my eyes just enough to read the screen, expecting to see one of my friends, or family, or even the damn police, calling to check in on me.
To my surprise, it is none of those, the number the only possible one that could get me to answer right now.
“Mallory. Thank you for calling me back.”
“Oh my God, so it’s true?”
The words are out fast, rushed through in a low cadence, as if she is hiding in a bathroom or something, a slight echo in the background. I have no idea what she’s heard or is referring to, though I’m sure after Mira wasn’t in on Friday and hasn’t shown yet this morning, the rumor mill must be buzzing.
Not once since I’ve known her has she ever shirked a responsibility. A day at work, a team practice, even a volunteer appointment. A trait she inherited from her parents, my wife was scrupulous about keeping her commitments.
“Hello?” I ask, pretending to not have heard her. There is no way I’m going to confirm or deny anything right now, especially not with her likely at the office. As far as I know, nobody outside of the small handful I’ve told directly even knows what happened a few nights ago.