The Promisor: A Suspense Thriller

by Dustin Stevens

  A blur of black fur offset with splashes of color from her lolling tongue and tufts of grass lifted into the air in her wake.

  Wind sprints performed in revolutions around the space, just watching her go enough to incite dizziness.

  “When you say big-ticket items...” Reed prompted.

  “Some armed burglaries, a vehicular homicide, a gross negligence claim that nearly took a little girl’s arm,” Deke rattled off. “Fairly high conviction rate, too. Looks like the guy was pretty good.”

  Based on the stories shared the last couple days, Reed wasn’t surprised by the last part. By all accounts, Harrison’s decision to move back was because of his father’s downturn in health, not the proverbial retreat back home with his tail tucked.

  In truth, Reed wasn’t much surprised by any of the information just shared. As he’d said to Deke when first asking him to look into things, Harrison’s mention of being a prosecutor was nothing more than a throw-in. Part of the backstory as to where they’d met and what he was doing at the time.

  A government employee years ago in a city a hundred miles to the north.

  Just one more dead end in a case that was starting to have too many of them to count.

  “Of those,” Reed asked, knowing full well the answer but wanting to be sure just the same, “any of them recently released?”

  “Nope,” Deke said. “Only a couple have gotten out at all since he left, and those were over a year ago. The rest are still six months away or more.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Unlike most similar establishments Reed had been to, there was no signage to be seen. No proud billboard out front like he’d noticed at various Veterans of Foreign Wars establishments. Nothing painted on the outer walls or windows as was common at Amvets posts.

  Certainly not a tank on the front lawn like he’d spotted at the American Legion during his various passes through Circleville in the last couple of months.

  Not even a single flag flying outside, whether it be American, POW-KIA, or representing a particular branch of the military.

  Nothing to give away the intended purpose of the building as he and Billie pulled up. A place that he likely would have never even noticed if just happening past, let alone thought to stop and conduct an interview.

  A spot where Jim Bob warned him people might be somewhat wary, but said he would call ahead and give a heads up about their impending arrival.

  A single-story brick affair that looked to be a bit newer than most around town, it had traded out the natural faded red for layers of gray paint. Set back off a side road not unlike the one the Salems lived on, it was tucked amidst a copse of pine trees. Old growth that predated the building and smaller ones that had been planted in the time since.

  A setting and design that made the structure difficult to spot from the road. Something Reed guessed was by design, even the parking for the place tucked away on the backside, not to be seen by anybody driving past.

  Stepping out on the far end of a line of vehicles numbering a dozen in total, Reed swept his gaze along the front of the place. A quick pass to get his bearings, his focus taking in the lack of windows along the front before settling on the cameras mounted to either corner of the building.

  Twin pieces affixed to both ends, giving a full view of both the parking lot and the outer area. A way to monitor all foot traffic, whether it be approaching traditionally or trying to sneak in on foot.

  An eventuality Reed couldn’t imagine being a daily concern, though two days before he would have said the same about Cara Salem simply trying to carry her yoga mat into the house.

  Careful not to let his focus linger on the electronics, Reed wrenched open the back door. Keeping Billie from climbing out just yet, he grabbed up one of the two leads from the driver’s side footwell and affixed it to her collar.

  The shorter one, allowing her only three feet of space to roam. A way to exert better control over her, each passing moment beginning to heighten the sense of unease he felt.

  Speaking with Jim Bob earlier, he didn’t get the impression that the man was hesitant or hiding anything. No reason why he might not like the direction of the questions being asked or had sensed that Reed was circling something a little too close to home.

  A friend or loved one with a known proclivity for .300 Winchester Magnum rounds. Somebody that might have had a recent dustup with Cara or Harrison.

  Any impetus for Jim Bob to have set them up, sending them to a certain ambush out in the woods.

  “Come on, girl,” Reed whispered, waiting as Billie spilled down out of the backseat before the two of them threaded their way through the pine trees pressed tight on either side of the sedan.

  Footfalls landing silent on the bed of soft dirt and pine needles beneath them, they took a circuitous route out around the rear bumpers of a handful of muddy pickups and dusty SUVs. A path that was very much by design, making sure they were clearly seen on approach as they made their way to the entrance.

  A pair of metal double doors painted black, one side was cracked open a couple of inches. An opening just wide enough to allow for the faint sounds of pool balls clacking and classic rock music to spill out.

  An old classic from Bob Seger, Reed recognizing the tune as they covered the last couple of feet.

  Finding his nostrils were the scents of charred meat and tobacco smoke, the combination stronger even than the smell of pine perfuming the parking lot around them.

  For a moment, Reed considered knocking. Pausing outside the metal doors and mashing his fist against the side of it to announce their arrival.

  A notion he pushed aside just as fast, reasoning that anybody who was paying attention already knew they were there. If not from Jim Bob’s promise to phone ahead, then certainly from the cameras mounted on high and Reed’s pained effort to make them as visible as possible.

  At his side, Billie picked up on the slight shifts. Reed’s pulse quickening and the moment’s hesitation outside the door. Altering her course just slightly, she pressed in tighter beside him, the clear ridges of her torso coming to rest against his calf.

  A silent bid of confidence as he reached out and grasped the distended edge of the door and pulled it back.

  Stepping just past the threshold, Reed came to a stop, his mind immediately taken to one of a dozen different movies he’d watched over the years. Scenes in which a newcomer would arrive at a local establishment and immediately bring the place to a halt merely by means of their existence.

  A momentary ceasing of all movement as everybody stared at the interloper that was either too arrogant or too ignorant to know better.

  A feeling that roiled through Reed as an assortment of faces turned to stare their way. Avoiding the subtlety of furtive glances, a crowd numbering somewhere between fifteen and twenty had turned, openly assessing Reed and Billie.

  Running across the better part of the local spectrum, Reed noticed bearded men in jeans and t-shirts and women in tank tops with shoulder tattoos exposed. Guys younger than Reed in flannel and a waitress that looked to be in her sixties donning a Henley and apron, a pile of curls held in place atop her head with a pencil shoved down at an angle.

  A cross section taken from central casting for those same old movies, the only thing missing being a record scratch, Seger’s graveled voice mercifully keeping everything from cutting to complete silence.

  “You lost?” a man in his early forties asked. A question that was posed as a challenge, the underlying intent made even more apparent by the pool cue clutched in both hands. Held just below belt-level, the man squeezed it tight, emphasizing the veins tracing along his thick arms.

  Careful not to make the mistake of fixing his attention and leaving his flank open, Reed kept his gaze moving. Lifting his voice to be heard by all, he replied, “Looking for Quentin Mitchell. Was told I could meet him here this evening.”

  “You were misinformed,” the man replied. Clearly the spokesperson for the group, Reed wasn’t sure if the p
ost was voted on or self-appointed.

  A way of asserting himself as the alpha in a room already loaded with them.

  “While we do respect the badge,” the man said, making it quite clear they had already pegged him as law enforcement, “this is a private establishment on private property, so we must ask that you leave.”

  If not for the fact that Reed couldn’t envision many strangers stopping by, he would think the line was almost rehearsed. Lacking only the addendum about requiring a warrant, it struck all the universal notes, right down to again asserting the underlying threat.

  Something Reed suspected would not be going unstated much longer.

  Nodding in reply, Reed continued moving his gaze around the interior of the structure. A design that had been built in one elongated rectangle, most of the space left open save the far wall. Room enough just for a couple of restrooms marked out with universal signage and a pair of doors between them that Reed guessed to lead to the kitchen.

  Otherwise, every remaining inch was used for congregation. One large area split into sections by purpose, whether it be the bar to his left, billiards behind the spokesman to the right, or the handfuls of tables dotting the hardwood in between.

  Taking it all in in short order, Reed allowed his focus to trace upward. His third pass through the room, this time moving beyond the crowd still sitting silent, watching the interaction play out, and the basic design of the room itself.

  His attention going to the wall behind the bar, he let it settle on the stretch of brick painted to match the exterior, largely papered over by a line of flags tacked neatly in a row. Banners extolling all the things Reed had expected to see outside, encompassing every branch of the military before ending with a coiled snake admonishing guests, Don’t Tread On Me.

  “And I respect that,” Reed replied. “But before we go, let me ask, this is an establishment for the gathering and service of veterans, is it not?”

  In no way did Reed have any idea if what he was thinking would work. No chance to be sure if it would grant them the access needed or if it would only spike what already felt like growing ire inside the place.

  Visitors that had been tolerated for the purposes of novelty but were fast overstaying their welcome.

  Just as surely, Reed wasn’t going to leave without at least trying. After two days spent chasing every tiny morsel that existed, he wasn’t going to allow this one thing to slip past. A final thing to finish before putting his full focus on Alex Aquino.

  Flicking his gaze from Reed to the line of flags, the man raised his chin. A pose that tilted his head back, accentuating the cut of his rounded shoulders and traps.

  “You serve?” he asked.

  “Not me,” Reed replied. “My partner here. Corporal Billie, United States Marine Corps. Two tours in Afghanistan before discharging and joining the Columbus Police Department.”

  The man’s lips parted. A response that was about to be lobbed but was cut short as the last statement registered, his gaze shifting to Billie.

  A pose he held for a moment before eventually tilting his head toward the backend of the room.

  “Q’s in the can. He’ll be out in a minute.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “You have to excuse Mac,” Quentin Mitchell said as he reclined in his seat. Twisted to the side so one arm was looped over the back of the chair he sat in, he raised a finger toward the pool tables along the side of the room. “Always a big brother, and all that.”

  Seated directly opposite him at the two-top table in the back corner of the building, Reed shot a quick glance in the same direction. A brief flash to see that the man was openly staring their direction, the cue still clutched in both hands.

  His preferred manner of standing, treating the stick as if it was a paddle and he was merely taking a break before plunging it back into the water or a barbell that he was preparing to snatch up overhead.

  “Ah,” Reed said, pushing his focus back to Mitchell. “No big deal. Believe me, we’ve gotten worse.”

  “I’m sure,” Mitchell replied. “We’re all used to being around working dogs, but I bet there’s a lot of people that don’t quite give her the same level of respect.”

  More times than Reed could remember, that very thing had occurred. Smartasses like Aquino or young kids wanting to prove how tough they were by threatening a dog. Latent manifestations of the classic ascension pattern, cruelty to animals being one of the most common early signs of someone Reed would likely end up crossing paths with again later in life.

  The cause of their future interaction almost certain to be a lot more pronounced.

  “It definitely happens,” Reed agreed, “though never twice.”

  Leaving it there, he watched as a smile creased Mitchell’s features. Leaning to the side, he studied Billie seated on the ground between them, her back to the room as she watched the conversation taking place.

  “I don’t doubt that either,” Mitchell replied.

  To look at the man, Reed would ballpark him somewhere around forty, though he could easily see that going up or down by as much as half a decade. Still blessed with all his hair, it was sandy brown in color, the top allowed to stand tall before being nudged to the side. Cleanly shaven, his most prominent features were bright blue eyes and smile lines that traveled all the way from his temples to the corners of his mouth.

  Creases that hinted at either serious weight loss or an extreme amount of time spent in the sun.

  Options that Reed would guess were more heavily weight toward the latter.

  “She looks a little too slight to be a shepherd,” Mitchell said. “Belgian?”

  “Good eye,” Reed answered.

  “Good looking girl,” Mitchell said. “Never seen one that color.”

  As if knowing that she was the subject of conversation, Billie’s ears climbed on her head. Her focus shifted from one to the other as they spoke, following the discussion.

  “Not many have,” Reed replied. “Solid black is extremely rare. Less than five percent, depending on the numbers you look at.”

  Opening his mouth to respond, Mitchell was cut short by the arrival of their waitress. The same woman Reed spotted when they first stepped inside, the pencil still jammed down into the mess of curls atop her head, a few strays having worked their way loose along the edges.

  Arriving with a tray in hand, she placed down a pilsner in a glass for Mitchell and a soda for Reed. A beverage choice he wasn’t overly enthused about, the need for caffeine and the fact that he was still very much on the clock contributing to the decision.

  “Here you boys go,” the woman said, her voice almost melodic as she placed them down in order.

  “Thank you,” Reed said.

  “Thanks, Gertie,” Mitchell added.

  “Be just a few more minutes on those burgers,” she replied. Flexing her knees a few inches, she patted Billie atop the head and added, “And we have a little something special for this girl too.”

  “Great,” Mitchell said, waiting until she had departed before lifting his glass. Taking a deep pull, he returned it to the table and ran the back of his wrist across his mouth, wiping away a few bits of foam before saying, “This place does do up a damn good burger, but I’m pretty sure that’s not what brought you out here.

  “What can I do for you, detectives?”

  Reaching out, Reed slid a hand around the base of his soda. Leaving it there without lifting it just yet, he felt the cold of it pass through his palm.

  “I’m guessing you all know what brought my partner and me to town,” Reed said.

  Dipping his chin slightly, Mitchell said, “We do. Awful thing.”

  “You know her?” Reed asked.

  “Her husband,” Mitchell said. Again, he lifted a finger, this time pointing toward the center of the room. A general gesture, with no specific target in mind. “When he took over for his dad, that included helping a lot of us here with various things.

  “You’d be surprised how
much red tape there could be in trying to track down your owed benefits.”

  A government employee himself, Reed had zero doubt that was true. A topic that could easily derail them for hours, turning a simple interview into an extended vent session.

  An avenue he’d rather not go down just yet, if he could avoid it.

  “She was shot with a .300 Winchester Magnum bullet,” Reed said, the words immediately eliciting a wince. “That’s how I ended up talking to Jim Bob. He gave me a rundown on its capabilities, said he hasn’t sold any in months, but that as the owner of the gun range in town, I might want to check with you, see if anybody new has been by recently practicing with that kind of firepower.”

  Falling silent there, Reed watched as Mitchell reclined an inch deeper in his seat. Lifting his focus toward the ceiling, his eyes glassed for a moment as he thought through what was just shared.

  The information about the bullet that struck Cara and the path Reed had followed to where he was now sitting. A destination he didn’t expect to yield a great deal, his more fervent hope being that it would lead to something.

  Either a continuation to move forward with or a definitive stop so he could turn his attention north to Aquino.

  “Am I correct in assuming from the way you phrased the question that you don’t think this was a local job?” Mitchell asked.

  Flicking a glance to the side, Reed checked to ensure nobody had drifted too close or was showing too great an interest in them.

  Obviously, the question was meant for fishing. A way of getting Reed to divulge where things stood. A bit of insider information to later share with the others.

  People that, based on what Mitchell just described about Harrison and his father, might have a vested interest in becoming a little proactive.

  “I don’t,” Reed said. “I mean, if you know of somebody around that might have been a little too keen on her or had an existing problem or something, I’m all ears.”