Mica speaks up, “We heard his family has property up this way. We searched it first and didn’t find him or any evidence they ever built on the property. Do you know where he might take shelter if not on his family’s land?”
Her face lights up. “No, but I can tell you who might know something. Carl Durgen. He owns the convenience store down the road. Carl talks to everyone and knows pretty much everything that goes on around here.”
“Would that be Hair Trigger Slots and Gas? We drove by it earlier.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t have slot machines anymore because the Bureau for Gambling Control threatened to shut him down if he didn’t remove them a few years ago.”
“Yeah, the BGC can be strict about illegal slot machines. They’ve got a real stick up their asses about that.”
“I know. Go to Carl and ask him all the questions you want. Tell him Dolly sent you.”
From the amused look on her face, I assume Carl doesn’t like strangers pestering him with questions. Instead of asking about that, I cut the conversation short. “Thanks, Miss Dolly. We appreciate you taking time outta your day to talk to us.”
Mica adds, “Have a nice day, ma’am.”
She steps back, chuckling to herself, and closes the door with a firm snap. I can hear a lock click into place as we turn to leave.
Mica and I get on our bikes and head for the gas station she mentioned.
It’s barely more than a fuckin’ shack in the middle of nowhere. There’s a huge metal sign bolted to the side of the building that says ‘Hair Trigger Slots and Gas’. There are two rusting gas pumps bolted to the pavement. It looks like the kind of place that sold beer to teenagers back when landlines were still a thing and nobody gave a shit if teens drank a little on the weekends.
We park up and fill our tanks before walking inside to pay. The door creaks like it hasn’t been oiled in years. The inside of the store is dimly lit, cramped with old-fashioned displays spilling over with merchandise and smells like the owner might be smoking inside on the sly. I pass several shelves of whimsically mismatched merch before arriving at the front counter.
“Nice place you got here,” I tell him as I take out my wallet. Pulling my thumb back towards the door, I add, “My brother and I filled up our tanks outside. What do we owe ya?”
The proprietor doesn’t even try to be nice to us, probably because we’ve got cuts on our backs. He responds flatly, “That’ll be twenty-six dollars and fourteen cents.”
“How about I make it an even thirty and you answer a quick question for me.”
When he doesn’t respond, I slide my card across the counter.
The older man tugs his ball cap lower and runs my card for thirty bucks. The weathered, wrinkled skin on his hands makes me think he’s well past retirement age.
When he slides my card back, I pull out my phone, showing him Brennan’s mugshot. “You seen this guy around lately?”
He glances at the phone, and then at me. “Charlie Brennan.” The skin around his eyes crinkles like he wants to laugh but doesn’t.
“Yeah, that’s him. Miss Dolly said to ask if you’d seen him around. She said you know everything that goes on around Sliverwood.”
“Yeah, Dolly has a lot to say. She likes to complicate a man’s life.”
I try my best to keep to the task at hand. “My question, the one I paid to get answered, is if you’ve seen him around these parts.”
The old man shoots me a disgusted look. “I’ve seen him once lately. I saw him sneakin’ up one of the back roads a couple of months ago. I never liked that boy. He always thought he was better than everyone else. He never had much to say unless he was making a mess. So, I’m not surprised to see him show up in a mugshot.”
“Go back to the part about sneakin’ up one of the back roads. Any idea where he was going?”
The man shrugs, leaning back a little. “Probably up to his family’s land. He used to hike there quite a bit.”
Mica speaks up. “We already searched his family’s property and found no evidence that anyone’s been there recently. Do you have any idea where he might take refuge if not there? Any help you could give me would be very much appreciated, sir.”
There is a long, thoughtful pause as he looks over my neatly groomed, well-mannered brother. Finally, he answers. “There’s a spot,” he says, scratching his chin. “Back near Turner Ridge. Years ago, some outsiders used an old shack there to cook meth. They picked it because it still had a functioning water well. You know, one with a hand pump. We sicced the local sheriff on them and last I heard they were all still in prison.”
I glance over my shoulder when I hear the door open. Jasper is just stepping in, with his helmet still in hand. He catches the tail end of it and lifts an eyebrow. “Turner Ridge?” he asks.
The man nods, looking a little alarmed. “Yeah. You guys know I’m not running a biker-friendly establishment here, right?”
Jasper glances at me. This is the first real lead we’ve had all day and it’s coming from a barely cooperative local.
