Page 93 of Into The Light
"Fuckme," Felix growls. "I’ll check the salon, you check her house."
"Got it. Call you back." Riley ends the call and keeps the phone clutched in his hand as he slams his brakes to haul us around the corner onto First and then into the alley behind the salon. A quick glance tells us that he’s not here—the salon is quiet and dark, no sign of Bear. Riley peels out and whips past the front on Main, just to be sure, and then re-dials his brother.
"Not here," he says after Felix's snapped greeting. "Now what?"
"He'll look for Duane,” Felix guesses.
Riley looks at me. "What kinda shape is Duane in?"
I shake my head. "I…I don't know. Bad. Panzer got his arm. I called him off before he killed him."
"Shoulda let him," Riley mutters.
"No, she shouldn't have,” Felix snaps back. "That’s thelastthing anyone needs. He needs to be brought to proper justice, not mauled to death by a dog."
"You haven't seen her," Riley snarls in response. He looks at me. "Did…did he…?"
I shake my head, pulling the scrap of shirt away, refolding it, and pressing it to my nose, which isn't gushing anymore but still dribbling a little. "No. I fought him off until I could get Panzer."
"How'd he get past Panzer in the first place.?" Riley asks.
"Rye," Felix says, his voice whips sharp. "She can give a statement to the police. She doesn't need a goddamned interrogation. We need to find Bear.Focus. Where would Duane be?"
"He wouldn't go to a hospital," Riley says. "The man doesn't trust any institution. Probably home."
"Where does he live?" Felix asks.
"Fuck. I don’t know. I've got files on everyone at the yard." Riley's face clears, and he guns the engine. "Bear knows that's where the files are: the yard. Come on!"
A few minutes later, we're skidding to a halt in the gravel lot in front of Riley's and Felix's equipment yard—a U-shape of three long, low, steel-sided buildings with large bay doors, with a single smaller office as a dot in the opening of the U. The front door of the office hangs open, smashed inward.
Riley hops out, and I follow him—Panzer scrambles over the console and leaps out after me, ears picked and swiveling, head low, eyes roving, body pressed against my side.
Riley pauses at the door, whistling in awe. "Holy fuck, man. He didn't just kick this in, he smashed the whole fucking frame right out of the goddamned wall."
I see what he means—the frame has come away from the wall itself, the whole door frame hanging askew, daylight streamingbetween frame and wall, the door dangling open at an angle. The office is tiny, a single room containing three desks in a U, a row of filing cabinets along one wall, computer monitors on the desks, a large map of Three Rivers and the surrounding area on one wall, and pins of varying colors in different locations. A dark doorway reveals a bathroom; the office smells of old coffee.
One of the filing cabinets is open; the drawers yanked open despite the locks keeping them closed, the metal warped and ripped with the force of Bear’s pull. Files are scattered everywhere, papers strewn in piles.
A single manila folder lays open on the nearest desk, with Duane's mug shot, a separate, newer headshot, and a printed sheet of details, including his record, biological data, and last known address. A large, bloody fingerprint smears the last known address.
"Got the address," Riley says, still on the line with his brother; he rattles off the address. "Meet you there."
"Riley, if you get there first, you gotta be smart. You've got a record, too. Don’t do anything stupid."
"And don't you go calling the goddamn cops, Dudley Do-Right," Riley snaps. "Not till we know what's happening."
"Fine," Felix answers. "Just…be smart. Please.”
Riley ends the call with a savage snarl and a stab of his index finger, and then we're back in the truck and racing across town to Duane's address.
We arrive at Cooper's Hollow, a trailer park on the far southeastern edge of town; it's rundown, overcrowded, and dangerous. A lot of residents routinely call for it to be leveled and rebuilt, but the occupants of the trailer park up a right about that, stopping any action from being taken.
The lots are narrow, and most of them are weedy and scraggly, others bare dirt, the trailers ancient single-wides with sagging porches and bowed roofs and crumbling cinderblockstairs. Junk is strewn everywhere, and the streetlamps, what few of them there are, flicker and strobe, casting jumping orange light on the buckling blacktop road that winds around the trailer park.
"Should be just ahead," Riley mutters, his brights on to illuminate the street numbers on each trailer; night has fallen in the time since my attack, shadows lengthening as sunset fades.
A shotgun blast rings out ahead.
