Page 234 of Remorseless
If it was her grave, Harris would die painfully. If it was her alive, motherfucker would still get fucked up for upsetting CJ.
It would just be quicker.
While Christopher texted Megan about what was going on, he made Stretch look up the tax records of properties near where the phonehad pinged. One parcel of land showed the owner Noxious Gnomes, LLC, and was purchased three years ago.
An hour after Stretch came to his office, Christopher tapped a few motherfuckers to accompany him to a rural property on the far reaches of town, with a decent-sized single-story house and several trailers.
Inside the house, Christopher cursed at the filth and smell of raw sewage as he searched the messy place. Dishes were stacked in the sink. Trash fell out of the cans in every room. Blood and cum stained the sheets on the bed in the biggest of four bedrooms. In the two smaller bedrooms, there were boys’ uniforms for Ridge Moore. School books with the names Wallace Byrd and Willard Byrd in them, along with school-issued e-tablets, lay on desks. The toilets in both bathrooms were stopped up. Next to each were slop buckets overflowing with shit and piss. In another bedroom, he found sex toys, used condoms, and dirty tampons.
Flies buzzed around the rooms while roaches darted in every direction.
“Nasty motherfuckers,” he grumbled.
Back in the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and studied the food. An unexpired gallon of milk, three quarters empty, sat on the top shelf. There was beer, margarine, sandwich meat, mayo, eggs, bacon, cheese, blueberry jam, lettuce, tomatoes, ground beef, and onions. It looked like motherfuckers had either left suddenly or were out temporarily and would soon return.
A bread box containing half a loaf of white bread sat next to four unripe bananas and pinned a stack of documents in place.
Christopher grabbed the first two papers and saw a utility bill addressed to Wally Bart, Jr., and a furniture bill for Eliza Bart.
He didn’t know who that bitch was, but he sure the fuck knew that assfuck. Christopher had been right. The Byrd brothers were actually Barts. Rack’s grandsons.
Folding up the bills, Christopher shoved them into his pocket. As he turned to get out of that shit pit, his elbow hit the documents and they flew to the floor. He would’ve stepped on those motherfuckers, but he noticed photographs scattered on the ground.
Scowling, he bent and scooped up the little stack. He looked at one, then another, and another. On and on. Each photo made him angrier and angrier, until he was pretty fucking sure steam was coming out of his goddamn ears.
A bitch who was at least his fucking age was fucking Ryan. Sitting on his face. Sucking his cock. It wouldn’t have been a problem. When Christopher was Ryan’s age, he’d fucked older chicks too. But he’dwantedto do it. Ryan was tied up, clearly in distress in some of the photos, and in tears in others.
Yeah, it fucking mattered that Christopher had proof of Ryan cavorting with the enemy. In the bigger picture. In the scheme of things, though, that shit was unimportant.
It didn’t matter compared to his nephew’s violation. All he knew was:that bitch was dead.
“Outlaw?” Val called, opening the door and walking in. He stopped and frowned, then squeezed his nose. “What the fuck?”
Christopher made a quick decision and shoved the pictures into the pocket of his cut just as he had the utility bill and furniture bill. Val had a lot of unresolved issues about his own sexual trauma. Christopher needed to think this through. Maybe, talk to Zoann first and see wherehermind was.
He grabbed the e-tablets and handed them to Val.
His eyes widened. “Fuck, another Ridge Moore connection?”
“The Byrd brothers not their real names,” Christopher said. “They’re Barts.”
“Related to Rack?” Val asked.
“Yeah.”
“Fuck.”
“Ain’t too sure if they comin’ back soon but they got a lotta shit. Food waitin’ to be fuckin’ cooked. Shit like that.”
“Fuck.” Val turned. “I’ll round up the motherfuckers, but you need to see something outside.”
He’d seen everything he needed to and didn’t find what he’d come in search of, so Christopher followed Val into the chilly evening. He was looking forward to spring. For weeks, it had been cold, gray, and wet.
Bikes crowded the access road to the property, although Christopher instructed Val to drive the van, hopefully to transport Molly to safety and her dickhead daddy to the meatshack.
Instead, Diesel held a little motherfucker in a Gnome cut at gunpoint, while Mortician frisked him. His name was Nugget. He looked like a fucking flea and smelled like a rhino’s ass.
“Prez!” Huck called from behind him.
