Page 18 of The Crowned Garza
Screw that caller for ruining his mood and consequently my night.Ugh.
A few minutes later, he makes an abrupt detour and tells me, “Need to make a quick stop to take care of something. That okay?”
A rhetorical question, based on his matter-of-fact tone, but I mutter, “Um, yeah, that’s okay.”
The silent menace emanating from him is overpowering, as palpable as a calloused hand pressed over my mouth, forcing me to remain quiet.
Some eighteen minutes later, we’re in an area I’ve never been before, on a back road with flickering streetlights. He parks adjacent to the mouth of an alley and leaves the engine running.
“Stayin the car,” he tells me, stark and firm. “I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.”
He leaves and I watch the path he takes in the rearview mirror. That man knows I’m intrinsically defiant. He’ll be expecting me to disobey right away, has probably even stopped in the alley just waiting to catch me coming and send me back. So I wait an appropriate amount of time before I sneak out and quietly follow the path he took. Off to the left, down the dark alley.
Headlights slice back and forth as cars whisk by at the other end of the path. A main road? Huh. The fraud is definitely up to something shady. Why else would he come here from the back instead of the main?
My steps are quiet as I move down the alley. On the left is nothing but the weather-stained side wall of a large building. On the right is a defunct building with busted-out windows. A stray cat leaps out from one of said windows, damn near scaring the bejesus out of me.
Farther up is a cleaner, more updated building with a rustic metal door that appears to be a side entrance. Judging from the glimpse of an LED signage facing the main road, it’s an operational business. This has to be where the fraud went.
Testing the handle, I’m not expecting it to be unlocked, but it is.
Gingerly, I open the door.
Arctic cold greets me first. Followed by the pungency of raw meat.
Tentatively, I move down the skinny hallway, following the blunt left turn, which leads to a frigid open area with huge slabs of red meat and gutted pigs hanging from hooks.
Oh, a butcher shop.
There are so many skinned carcasses hanging around me that it takes a bit for me to notice the overweight man slumped against the wall. Throat slashed, eyes lifeless, a cross carved in his forehead.
A belated squeak flies out of me when what I’m seeing registers.
Gurgling sounds have me whipping my head to the right, where the prone lower half of a man’s body is sticking out of an open door, legs twitching. I take two steps in that direction before I’m halted by firm, strong fingers gripping the back of my neck.
Terrifying relief rushes down my spine whenhisvoice growls in my ear, “Did I not tell you tostayin the fucking car?”
“Guy…” His name comes out as a ghostly rasp. “Are—are you hurt? Did they h-hurt you?”
A pause, then, “What?”
“Let me s-see,” I demand, albeit shakily. “Let me see that you aren’t hurt.”
“Tillie—”
“Let me see and I’ll go back to the car. I promise.”
Another long pause, and then his fingers loosen around my neck.
I waste no time, whirling around to get my eyes on him.
There he is. Tall and menacing. Crisp and clean. Not a speck of dust on his glasses. Not a smidge of blood anywhere.
The black gloves covering his hands, though… Maybehe’sthe one who did the hurting here?
Inhaling a relieved breath, I reach up and straighten his bow tie. “Okay, I’ll go back to the car now. Don’t get hurt.”
