The Promisor: A Suspense Thriller

by Dustin Stevens

  Public property that was for the most part going unused, the early afternoon hour and the day of the week keeping them free of foot traffic.

  A lack of activity that wasn’t shared on the opposite side of the road, the majority of the town situated in one long line. A series of structures each rising two to three stories in height, all done in bricks of various shades with signage affixed to their front or stenciled onto their windows announcing whatever they had to offer.

  An assortment that included all of the usual small-town staples, ranging from a pair of diners to an inn. An insurance company, a dry cleaner, and an optometrist. A market, a dry goods store, and a bakery that Reed could smell as he rolled by.

  Stretched out well over a quarter mile in length, the main strip was broken into chunks by four designated stops. One on either end using simple signage with a pair of larger thoroughfares extending north warranting full stoplights.

  A snapshot of classic Americana, right down to the water tower with the name of the town stenciled across it looming tall in the background.

  A place that Reed would certainly not peg as the site of a shooting earlier in the day, the handfuls of people out on the sidewalk seemingly unaware that any such thing had occurred just hours before.

  Alternating his gaze between the assorted buildings and the street ahead, Reed kept a watch out for the local police department. A search that took him the entire length of Main Street before spotting it tucked onto the far end. The very last structure in order before things began to thin out, the edge of town clearly demarcated by the grass lot abutting it on the far side.

  Open space that provided for plenty of parking, Reed sliding into a free stall facing the open lot and stepping out. Looking to take advantage after the long drive down, he popped open the rear door and allowed Billie to come bounding down before motioning to the lawn beside them.

  “Go ahead, girl,” he said. “Do your business.”

  Immediately crossing from the blacktop into the thick grass, Billie dropped her nose to the ground. Taking off at a diagonal, she picked up the search she’d been pulled from in the backyard earlier.

  A hunt that Reed watched for just a moment before swinging both doors closed. Lacing his fingers before him, he extended his hands as far down as he could, looking to stretch away some of the stiffness after the long drive, before slowly arcing them out away from himself.

  A methodical process that ended with them high overhead, more than a handful of vertebrae popping along the way.

  A blessed release from the tension of navigating the winding road that was cut short by a voice calling, “Hey, he can’t do that here.”

  Giving up on the stretch while still at full extension, Reed dropped his hands to his side. Agitation shooting through him, he turned to find an officer in uniform standing on the opposite side of the lot. A man who he hadn’t noticed when pulling in and certainly didn’t hear arrive in the few minutes since.

  Somebody that must have been enjoying a late lunch inside one of the cruisers lined up close to the building, as evidenced by both the paper sack gripped in one hand and the red Coke cup in the other.

  Standing with his body turned toward the door, a growing midsection sagged over the top of his belt, hinting it likely wasn’t his first lunch of the day.

  “She,” Reed said in reply.

  Raising his eyebrows, the man sighed, as if the entire interaction was an unnecessary annoyance. “Okay, well, she can’t do that here either. This is police property.”

  Scads of smart retorts rising to his tongue, Reed forced himself to swallow them down. No matter the man’s clear sense of self-adulation, snapping back at him would likely only make their job that much harder.

  A task that, as of yet, Reed didn’t even know the entire scope of.

  “Actually, that’s why we’re here,” Reed replied. Pushing away from the side of the vehicle, he took a few steps closer, narrowing the gap between them. “Detective Reed Mattox and my K-9 partner Billie. We were sent down by Governor Cowan per a request this morning.”

  The man’s mouth sagging open to reply, he pulled up short. Shifting his feet to turn and look at Reed square, his brows came together, confusion clear on his ruddy features.

  “You were sent down about a request?”

  “Yeah,” Reed replied. “We were told there was a murder here this morning. A woman shot in front of her home?”

  In an instant, whatever confusion the man held evaporated. His mouth closed as he tilted his chin back, the previous look of disdain returning to his features.

  “Oh. That.” Smirking slightly, he added, “I’m not surprised she called the damn state over a hunting accident.”

  Already feeling his disdain for the man rising, Reed didn’t bother saying another word. No mention of what was meant about it being a hunting accident or even who the she being alluded to was.

  Instead, he merely stood and stared. A look that the man didn’t seem to appreciate, his features hardening before he motioned with the top of his head toward the police station behind him.

  “Chief Scott is out right now, but I can tell you that wasn’t us. You’re looking for the sheriff’s department, on back the other way a little piece.”

  Chapter Five

  The trip from the Gallipolis Police Department to the Gallia County Sheriff’s Office was barely more than two miles. The first part of it covered the entire length of the town, giving Reed a second pass in a little over a half hour. A follow up trek down Main Street, retracing his previous path in reverse.

  Another chance to see everything, the second viewing revealing little more than the first.

  Not that Reed was especially interested in seeing the sights, his thoughts firmly back in the parking lot of the police station behind him. Twice through he replayed the conversation with the officer who didn’t even bother offering his name. A brief interaction that started cool before turning downright icy, the first noticeable turn arriving at the mention of Reed and Billie having been sent by the governor.

  The second that went further still being when Reed said it was by request, the man surmising it originated with the sheriff’s department.

  “First case for the damned governor and the bastard is already setting us up,” Reed muttered, the sound of his voice drawing Billie’s ears up high atop her head. A shift visible in his periphery as she sat in the center of the rear bench, her muzzle extended between the front seats.

  A post she’d adopted after they climbed back into the car, seeming to feed on the demeanor shift that had taken hold of Reed after the encounter at the police station.

  Had Reed been given the slightest whiff of a choice as to if he wanted the job working in conjunction with the governor’s office or – even worse – moving over exclusively to the Bureau of Criminal Investigation, he would have turned down the offer cold. Waiting the perfunctory couple of minutes to feign interest and spouting all the required platitudes to appease a man such as Cowan, he would have declined on the spot.

  The same as he would have done with each subsequent offer, perfectly content to keep working the graveyard shift in The Bottoms, the chunk of ground comprising the bulk of the 8th Precinct he and Billie were housed in.

  A course of action that he suspected was either known by the governor or had already played out with other detectives in the past, that being the reason that the offer made to him was much closer to a directive. A blackmail scheme informing Reed that if he had any interest in continuing to work in law enforcement in Ohio, it would be through this new role that had been created.

  A hybrid position only granted that much autonomy through the efforts of Brandt and his captain at the 8th, Wallace Grimes.

  “Dropped us right into a jurisdictional pissing match,” Reed muttered, letting the thought simmer for a moment before giving his head another shake, physically casting it from mind for the time being.

  A topic that he would have plenty of time to ponder at length in the future,
his attention for now shifting to the passenger side of his vehicle as they passed the same state route that had brought them to town earlier. Continuing on in the other direction, he pushed past a couple of barren lots. Grassy patches that looked to be chopped down a couple of times a year, the foot-tall weeds throughout giving the impression they were long overdue for a cut.

  Another clear delineation, much like the lots just beyond the police stations behind him. Physical and visual barriers making a clean break between the town of Gallipolis and Gallia County.

  An arbitrary boundary that stretched nearly a mile before another series of buildings appeared. Single-story structures of a uniform size and shape, easily identifiable as government facilities. The kinds of places Reed had been working in and around for most of his adult life, able to point to each in order and call out their purpose.

  “Post office,” Reed whispered, glancing to the small, square building with windows lining the front providing a glimpse of even grids of silver mailboxes tucked away inside.

  Moving his focus to the next one up, he muttered, “Commissioner.”

  Flicking his gaze at it for barely a moment, he moved on to the third building in the sequence. The one he’d been looking for since arriving to town twenty minutes earlier, easily identifiable in its own right, made even more so by its positioning next to the others.

  Turning off the road that had transitioned from Main Street back into some numbered state route, Reed swept his gaze across the front of the building. A structure larger than the previous two combined, it stretched nearly twenty yards across with lined parking spaces across the front to match.

  Matching the general motif in the region, the place was constructed entirely in brick, split in the center with a pair of double doors set in steel frames. Moving away from it in either direction was a series of rectangular windows turned vertically, all but a few with shades pulled low.

  Despite there being ample parking for more than a dozen vehicles, only three stalls were currently occupied. Two on the far end with regular civilian vehicles, one a Ford Ranger pickup with sprays of mud down the side, the other a Buick that resembled something Reed’s grandmother had driven before her passing.

  The third automobile present was a tan Bronco with a star painted on the door and the words Gallia County Sheriff framing it along the top and bottom. Parked directly in front of the main entrance, Reed got the impression that it had just pulled in, selecting the spot for ease of access. A quick stop likely while waiting for them before taking off again.

  An assumption that appeared to be correct as he pulled in beside it, barely coming to a complete stop before the front door pushed open and woman in her mid-forties stepped out. Standing halfway between five and six feet in height, she had a compact build and dark hair cut short, just long enough to wear tucked behind her ears.

  Presumably, the she who was alluded to earlier by the officer outside the police station.

  Dressed in jeans and a tan uniform shirt, she strode halfway down the short walk. Waiting there, she watched as Reed climbed out and Billie spilled down through the driver’s seat behind him, before asking, “You from the governor’s office?”

  Like a fair number of things in the last couple of weeks, this was another first. The initial time that somebody had asked what office he worked out of or if he was an official emissary of Governor Cowan.

  A title he was not about to accept unless forced to.

  “State BCI,” Reed said, figuring it was easier than saying he was with the CPD and then having to explain how he came to be down on the Ohio River. Stepping around the front of his sedan, he extended a hand and said, “Detective Reed Mattox.”

  Accepting her grip, he gestured with his free hand and said, “My K-9 partner, Billie.”

  “Detective,” the woman said, her grasp firm within his. “Sheriff Valerie Meigs.”

  “Sheriff,” Reed replied, releasing her grip and stepping back. “And please, just Reed.”

  “And I’m Val,” she replied. “Thank you so much for coming down so soon. When I called earlier, they said they thought you could get here by this afternoon, but they didn’t sound too sure.”

  Still not sure how the call tree even worked, Reed wasn’t surprised that it had been less than fluid. A process that likely passed through three or more offices before finally getting to him.

  A system that would have to be streamlined moving forward, the hours immediately following the commitment of a crime vital to it ever being solved.

  “Yeah, this is kind of a new role that has been created recently,” Reed said. “Still a few bumps on the logistics side to get straightened out.”

  Raising her eyebrows slightly, Meigs turned to glance at the building behind her. “Don’t I know how that goes.”

  Rotating back, she added, “How you guys doing after the drive? I thought we could start by heading out to the scene, but if you guys need coffee or to use the restroom or something, we can definitely get you squared away first.”

  Raising a hand before him, Reed waved aside the offer. “I think we’re all set. We ate before heading down and since we were mistakenly sent to the police station first, Billie has already had a chance to relieve herself.”

  Letting out a smirk strong enough to raise her shoulders an inch, Meigs said, “Please tell me she took a piss on their front lawn.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Good girl.”

  Chapter Six

  Each time the bell affixed to the top of the front door jingled, The Promisor couldn’t help but cut his gaze toward it. A Pavlovian response to see who might be stepping inside. A quick tightening of his fist around the handle of the knife resting on the table beside his plate.

  An evoked reaction seated in the concern that his exfiltration hadn’t been as clean as he thought. His first time attempting such a thing as a civilian, there was some small detail he’d missed.

  At some point in the time after pulling back on the trigger, he had been spotted. Someone had seen a flash of light against the scope on his rifle or caught a flicker of movement up high in the trees. Maybe they noticed his truck sitting beneath the camouflage net on the opposite side of the hill or heard the engine kicking to life.

  Hell, perhaps he’d even made the mistake of driving the recently acquired truck the fifty miles since with a busted taillight or at a speed that was too fast or slow not to arouse suspicion.

  Anything that might bring unwanted attention his way, forcing an end to what had essentially just started, his mission still far from complete.

  A fate - The Promisor did not mind admitting - that would be worse than death.

  Seated in the rundown diner in a town he’d never heard of, The Promisor sat with his back to the wall. A vantage that put him facing out into the room, allowing him to survey the thin crowd inside and to monitor the door each time it opened. A handful of sideways glances before returning his attention to the television mounted above the front counter.

  A constant back-and-forth that had lasted for nearly a half hour, flicking his gaze between each patron entering or exiting and the local news flashing across the screen. A state with his entire body tensed, waiting for someone to look his direction or mention what happened down along the river.

  Perhaps even come storming in and point guns in his face, ordering him to the ground.

  The last time The Promisor had attempted anything even similar was years before. A period back when carrying out such missions was his not just his job, but his singular purpose in the world. A task he was most proficient at, getting sent everywhere from the thickest jungles to dusty stretches of desert sand to mete out justice.

  Eventualities much in line with what he was doing now, the only difference being that this time, it was his own ends that were being served rather than those of his country.

  In the decades since, the closest he had come to such a thing had been sitting out in the woods with the Mossberg, staring at unsuspecting prey. De
er or rabbits or even the occasional pesky coyote. Creatures that found themselves within the framework of his crosshairs, taken to put food on the table or to protect what was his.

  Instances that, on the surface, might have looked the same. Times when all the parts in the sequence were identical, from sighting in to slowing his breathing. Making sure the rifle was perfectly still and the draw of his finger slow and even.

  Superfluous details that The Promisor knew better than to equivocate, what he saw this morning a vastly different experience than taking down a deer.

  Both in those first moments after his round made contact, and later when the woman’s husband arrived home to find what had happened.

  “How we doing over here?” the same perky voice that had greeted The Promisor when he first entered asked, ripping him from his thoughts. Catching him in a rare moment of reflection, the sound of it caused a ripple of palpitations to rise through his chest.

  His hand instinctively reached for the knife, making it halfway there before The Promisor consciously brought it to a halt.

  “Great,” The Promisor said, flicking his gaze from the approaching waitress to the television.

  A midday newscast splashed across it, local reporters prattled on about an upcoming outdoor festival. A draw that was said to be the official start of the summer season, preparations already well underway for the event set to begin in a few days.

  A spectacle The Promisor could not care less about, his concern more on what wasn’t being mentioned.

  No matter how much The Promisor’s every ingrained response was to collect his shell casing and sprint from his hiding spot atop the neighboring hillside the moment the bullet struck its target, he had forced himself to stay in position. Minutes that seemed to stretch into an eternity, the sun climbing higher in the sky and the adrenaline coursing through his system drawing sweat to his features.