“Quite the opposite, actually,” Mitchell replied. “Cara might have been new, but the Salems were family. Even if someone had a problem with them, they wouldn’t have acted on it for fear of the retribution that would have come back on them.”
Pausing there, he raised his brows, making sure his point was made, before adding, “And to answer your question, I haven’t seen a stranger at the range since around the last time Jim Bob had one in his shop.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The smell of barbecue and cigar smoke clung to Reed’s clothes as he trudged up the pair of steps leading to the front door of the Gallipolis Inn. Remnants from the last couple of hours that didn’t provide a great deal in the way of actionable data, though still ended up far better than he ever would have imagined upon first arrival.
Even more so, in those initial few moments after stepping inside. Tense seconds with every eye in the place on him and Billie, many within easy reach of pool cues and beer bottles.
To say nothing of whatever other firepower was almost assuredly hidden away nearby.
Falling in line with each of his previous stops, Mitchell didn’t have a lot to share, but did seem to be the final stop in Reed’s investigation in Gallipolis. Another story about how beloved Cara was and how unlikely it would be that someone local would ever do her harm.
A close community that was now almost aching for an excuse to become vigilantes, eyes and ears attuned to the slightest bits of information that might become available. A thousand or more people acting as extensions of Reed and Billie, allowing them to move on to other lines of inquiry.
Namely, the enormous one they were set to delve into again in the morning.
Duffel bag tossed over a shoulder, Reed carried the plastic sack with Billie’s provisions in the same hand. In the opposite one, he grasped his partner’s leash, leading her through the doorway into the small front lobby.
An entry that almost served as a portal, transporting them into a snapshot from a different time. An area that would be trying entirely too hard to recreate one of the classic looks from the sixties if not for the fact that many of the items looked like they’d actually been acquired back then.
Effort and expense put in long ago that was never updated. Grand designs that were cast aside when the tourist crowd dried up, or – more likely – never materialized to begin with.
Underfoot, the carpet bore a pattern of burgundy and gold in a crosshatch design, large amoebic stains of indeterminate origin spread across it. A staged sitting area of overstuffed furniture with hunter green upholstery and nicked coffee tables sat off to the side. Behind it, a fireplace was pressed into the wall, the stonework on it stained by years of ash and soot.
An interior space that was dark enough as was, made even more so by the heavy curtains drawn closed over each of the windows, blocking any residual light from entering.
The only form of available lodging in town, Reed gave it little more than a passing glance. His interest more in getting to a room, checking in with Grimes and Schoen, and then digging through his notes before turning in for the night, he led Billie up to the counter made of dark wood. Dropping her sack and his duffel to the floor beside him, he tapped at the brass bell positioned in the center of it, waiting only a moment before a young man stumbled out from the back room.
Looking to be no older than his mid-twenties, his gangly form and thatch of blonde hair called images of a baby giraffe to Reed’s mind. Cheeks both bearing a flushed tint, the young man gave a sheepish grin as he approached. Knifing a hand down around the interior of his waistband, he shoved the tail of the short-sleeved button down he wore into his pants.
A first impression that spurred a great many questions, the answer to every last one of them being things Reed was certain he didn’t want to know.
“Hey there,” the young man opened, his lips parting in a leering smile. “What’s up?”
“Evening,” Reed replied. “Do you have a room available for tonight?”
The smile the young man wore grew a bit larger as he smirked. “Uh, yeah. I think we can find one.”
Extending a hand, he drew over a piece of paper from a stack hidden below the top ledge of the counter. Snatching up a pen from the same place, he made a handful of x’s across the page before dropping them both down in front of Reed.
An old school method of record keeping, much in line with everything else about the place.
“Fill that out for me if you would,” he said. “Just one night?”
“Yep.”
“And how many people?”
Taking up the pen, Reed rotated the paper so it was facing the right way and begin to fill in the requested information. “Just me and my partner.”
“Alright,” the young man said. “Two beds, then?”
Continuing to work his way down the page, Reed shook his head. “One’s fine. She sleeps on the floor.”
“Your partner sleeps on...the floor?”
The last several words drawn out to clearly suggest a question, Reed paused his work on the registration form. Glancing up, he felt his brows come together, hints of confusion and annoyance both working their way into his system.
An interaction that was already longer than he would prefer, the distinct possibility of awkwardness fast approaching.
“Yes,” Reed replied. Using the pen as a pointer, he jabbed it toward Billie by his side. “My partner sleeps on the floor. Usually under the kitchen table.”
His features screwed up in befuddlement, the young man twisted his head to the side. An animal trying to make sense of a command from its master as his gaze followed the outstretched pen. Going as far as his vantage would allow, he leaned forward and peered over the front of the desk, his confusion dissipating as he laid eyes on Billie.
“Ooh, gotcha,” he said, keeping himself raised to look over the desk another moment before retreating back into position. “The owners are usually pretty strict against pets, but they don’t actually make it in all that often. Just don’t let her tear anything up and we’ll keep it a secret.”
For a moment, Reed considered pointing out that Billie was not a pet. As a law enforcement agent, she was protected under state and federal statute and allowed to stay at any establishment where Reed was a registered guest.
Corrections that he let go without voicing, realizing that the annoyance he felt was not aimed at the kid, but at the ongoing frustration of the last couple of days and the fatigue he was feeling.
Especially considering the young man was offering to do him a solid, even if he didn’t realize it was not at all necessary.
“Hey,” Reed said instead, “do you work here most evenings?”
Glancing up from checking the sheet Reed just completed, the young man nodded. “Five nights a week, why?”
“I was wondering, can you tell me if you’ve had any out-of-town visitors check in over the last week?”
“Week?” the kid asked, his eyes widening slightly. “Definitely not. Outside of you and that poor guy that just lost his wife, we haven’t had a single other guest here since the start of the month.”
A host of questions rising to mind, Reed was cut short by his phone springing to life in his back pocket. A persistent buzzing that pulsated against him, drawing his attention away from the conversation at hand.
Fishing it from his back pocket, he glanced down to see an unknown number on the screen, the 740-area code ascribed to most of southern Ohio serving as the base.
“Excuse me,” Reed said, the young man nodding in acquiescence and returning his focus to the form before him.
Turning away, Reed made it as far as the small sitting area before accepting the call and pressing the phone to his cheek.
“Reed Mattox.”
“Detective,” a voice boomed over the line. “This is Chief Liam Scott, GPD.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The third real promise The Promisor ever made was just north of twenty-two years ago to the day.
Seated in the stiff plastic chair alongside the bed in the patient room at Mt. Carmel hospital, he leaned forward at the waist, his wife’s hand clutched in both of his. A hand that he had held for more than a decade in total, always so strong and firm. Gentle and loving.
A thousand other things along the way, providing the exact support that was needed in the instant that it was required.
The same one still that he had stood in front of that church and clutched. Slid a ring onto the third finger of.
A hand that had he’d been forced to watch whither in the preceding months, a precursor for the decline of the woman it was attached to. A slow and gradual descent that was nothing short of heart wrenching, taking every bit of resolve The Promisor had along the way.
A devastating path that he may well not have recovered from if not for that third promise. Words that his wife implored him to repeat back to her.
One of the final things she ever said to him.
An oath that in all the years since, he spent his entire energy working to fulfill. His true purpose in life, replacing her as his focal point. His grounding. His entire reason for being.
A pledge that ultimately turned out to be untrue. The only promise he had ever broken, done so by forces far beyond The Promisor’s control.
A hellish situation that ended with him making his fourth and final promise.
The one resulting in his being here now.
Easing himself into position, everything about the situation was different from a couple days before. The area where The Promisor found himself was much more populated, a string of houses clearly visible from his current vantage. A solid row of homes stretching more than a half mile in length, all part of the same subdivision.
Even at just after eleven, each and every one of them was clearly delineated. Dwellings set apart by security lights and interior lamps left burning, marking their position in the distance.
More than a dozen in total, visible from where The Promisor laid in wait. One at a time, he ticked them off, counting inward from both the east and west. A way to pass the time, keeping himself sharp. A task he would undoubtedly perform dozens of more times, wiling away the long hours until morning.
Until the exact moment he was planning for, his target moving into position.
As he did so, The Promisor could hear traffic moving by below. Night owls and long-haul truckers using the highway carving through the center of the ravine he was overlooking, their lights passing by in bursts of illumination, their engines providing the din of background noise.
Byproducts of his post, both of which will serve his purposes well when the time arrives. Masking for the sight and sound of his gunshot, providing all the cover he needs as he makes his escape.
A lone benefit to where his second target calls home. A recent relocation displaying how well life had been treating them. How much they benefited on the backs of people like The Promisor.
While Cara Salem was the first in the sequence that was put together, this target was where things really took a massive step forward. A second point at which somebody paying close attention might be able to start making connections.
The proverbial tipping point, everything thereafter moving forward with increasing acceleration.
Prior to pulling the trigger a second time, any investigation into what happened in Gallipolis would be just that. A scouring through the local scene, or perhaps even a tangential pass into the sordid history of Salem’s brother.
A convenient subterfuge that The Promisor had carefully planned for when considering the best approach, making Salem the ideal first target. An entity unto herself that would keep his back trail clear as he moved on to the next in order.
An outlier geographically that would be enough to give him a small head start.
Provided, of course, that the mishap with the tear in his pants wasn’t his undoing. An error he would not be repeating, as tonight he was sprawled atop a solid black tarp.
Starting just after daylight, whatever lead he might have would come abruptly to a halt. From that point onward, he needed to be meticulous. Steadfast reliance on the work he’d put in and the schedule laid out.
Vigilance would have to be heightened. Care to avoid detection doubled. Measures The Promisor was more than willing to take.
Already, he’d broken one promise.
There wouldn’t be another.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Just three minutes passed between Reed Mattox hanging up the phone with Chief Scott and bursting out through the front door. Enough time to grab a room key from the young man behind the counter before sprinting upstairs to dump the meager haul of supplies in hand. A mad dash up a single flight of stairs with Billie keeping pace beside him, consciously pulling back to keep from dragging him along as he gripped her leash tight.
Not even entering long enough to bother flipping on the light, Reed tossed the items onto the bed before whirling and leading Billie right back down the steps. An exit made even faster than the ascent by the additions of gravity and adrenaline, allowing them to hit the sidewalk at a full sprint.
The information Scott had called to impart was straightforward. A narrative that was still developing, passed along out of courtesy between two overlapping law enforcement agencies potentially sharing a common enemy.
A favor springing from their conversation earlier in the day and the agreement to phone should anything noteworthy arise.
According to Scott, a few minutes prior a call had come into dispatch. Made from a bar known as Smokey Jo’s on the opposite end of Main Street, the girl working behind the counter had phoned in requesting officer assistance. Speaking in a hushed tone, she said that about an hour before, a pair of men she had never seen before had entered. Talking in voices much too loud for the time of evening and the sparse crowd present, they had walked in and gotten drinks, posting up to assess the evening customers as they trickled in.
An open appraisal of every person present that had progressed from sideways glances to outright stares in short order. From there, it had escalated further from making thinly veiled comments to issuing open challenges, invitations that – as yet - nobody had taken them up on.
Something the bartender seemed petrified might soon come to pass.
A losing proposition to hear her tell it, the men not the sort to be trifled with.
Having driven by Smokey Jo’s a handful of times already, Reed knew where the place was located. Eschewing going for his car parked behind the hotel, he opted to take Billie down the front sidewalk, oblivious to any attention the two of them might grab.
Turning west out of the Gallipolis Inn, Reed hit his top speed within seconds. Days of building frustration and simmering energy unleashed, propelling him down the sidewalk.
The first promising hint of a suspect since first arriving in town, Reed hooked his arms into ninety-degree angles. Pumping them as fast as he could, his feet slapped at the sidewalk beneath him, his footfalls echoing out into the quiet evening.
Beside him, Billie easily kept stride, her darkened body passing in and out of the lights spilling from the various buildings. A form alternating from visible to shadow with each stride, only the sounds of her breathing and feet touching down giving up her exact location at any moment.
Man and animal matching each other, tearing along the open swath of concrete stretched out before them. A run driven by anticipation, hoping for it to finally be the piece they’d been seeking all day. A validation of the time spent working the case, chipping away at every angle, waiting for something to break loose.
Gaze fixed on the neon signage announcing Smokey Jo’s up ahead, Reed sprinted with his head up, his eyes wide, the suddenness and swiftness of the run ripping most of the breath from his lungs. The combination of exertion and humidity pulled perspiration to his features, droplets of sweat running from his brows and down his cheeks.
Covering the distance of a couple hundred yards, Reed kept his pace as fast as he could, wait
ing until almost on top of the bar before breaking stride. An unceremonious slowing with legs flailing, his feet landing flat and hard against the concrete.
Sound reverberated from the brick façade of the storefronts beside him as he managed to slow to a stop, coming up alongside a stool sitting empty along the edge of the sidewalk. A seat normally reserved for a bouncer, reduced to merely being used to prop the door open.
A gaping maw beckoning them in, giving a full view into the interior of Smokey Jo’s.
When Reed had gotten the call from Scott, mental images of what was happening down the street sprang to mind. Conjured visuals of the two interlopers sitting at the bar, tossing back shots and making lewd cracks to anybody passing by.
A scene threatening to cross from uncomfortable to contentious at any moment.
Something that would have been a hell of a lot better than what they actually arrived to find.
Still gripping Billie’s leash tight, Reed led her inside using only a light slap at the leg of his jeans. A signal to avoid having to speak out, drawing any attention their way as they slipped into the backside of a situation already well into the throes of playing out.
Arranged in a standard bar format, the interior of Smokey Jo’s was more or less a square. The main entrance situated in the center of one side, to the right was a bar running the length of the room. An elevated counter with a row of stools in front of it and plenty of space allowing patrons to approach and order or sit up close, chatting with the barkeep or watching the televisions mounted high on the wall above.
Directly opposite it was a row of booths. Running the entire left side of the place, they jutted directly out of the wall, bench seats from neighboring tables sharing a common backing.
The sole features that could be described as permanent fixtures, the remaining space was largely left open. A handful of tables were scattered about and the usual accompaniments of a pool table and juke box were present, but otherwise the space was barren. A wide corridor serving as a way for people to reach the bar, the restrooms in the corner, or to even act as a dance floor should someone feel the urge.
The Promisor: A Suspense Thriller Page 15