by Tyler Porter
First, he looked around again, studying each face. Once he was done, he was certain. Out of all of these bodies, Cody was not among them. He was still out there somewhere. Could he have slaughtered his club and taken Mariah? Or had someone else attacked, and he’d simply managed to escape, with Mariah? It wasn’t a question that had an easy, glaring answer. The second thing he needed to do was find something, anything, that would tell him where to go next. He had to find some sign of where the person who had done this had gone and possibly taken his sister.
There were bloody boot prints all over the floor going in all directions. It was likely that the majority of the men were dead before they were made, otherwise there wouldn’t have been all of the pools of blood now spread out there. Some of them could belong to Cody, walking around amongst his fallen brothers. It was possible that he hadn’t been there during the attack, but had shown up later to find them just as Matt had.
Some of the prints could belong to Matt, as he was sure he’d stepped in some of the blood during his time in the room, and he hadn’t been cautious about leaving prints. He was sure, however, that some of the prints belonged to the mystery attacker. Those were the prints he was most concerned with. He followed different sets of tracks until they ended or backtracked until he found a set that ended at the other door in the room⸺the emergency exit to the back of the building.
This door had a boot mark next to the knob just like the door entering the room. The difference was that the exit door was made of steel and was secured in a steel frame to keep people from being able to easily break in from the outside. Whoever had kicked it had not had luck in breaking it out of its frame for a quick exit, and would have had to unlock and turn the knob to get through.
He bent down and analyzed the boot mark, then returned to the entry door and did the same. The two marks had been made by the same individual. Whoever had kicked in the door to the small storage room had to have been the person who’d slaughtered the gang. That same person was the one whose bloody footprints led to the door, and that person was probably the one who had carried Mariah out of this room on their shoulder and who still had her.
He turned the knob and let himself out into the back parking lot of the bar. It was completely empty. Not a car in sight. He looked down at the ground, and, as he’d expected, he found more bloody boot prints on the pavement. They only led four feet or so before they lightened so much that he could longer see where they went. He didn’t know if the person had just walked off, or if they had loaded Mariah into a car, or what. He had no clue, and she could be anywhere by now. There was no way of knowing how long ago the massacre took place. He hadn’t touched any of the bodies, but they looked cold and the blood looked dry.
Matt had no idea what to do next. His head was spinning, and for half a second, he thought he might black out. Since finding his mother dead, he had two things in mind that had not left. One, protect Andi and Riley. Two, protect Mariah. He’d done everything he could, or at least he thought he had, and yet, he had no clue where any of them were. He was sure that Mariah was in the company of someone who was capable of slaying nine armed bikers. As far as Andi and Riley, they had just vanished, and he found himself with no other option than to hope for the best. But that hope was dwindling fast.
He needed help, and there was only one person he could turn to. The issue with that option was that the last time he’d seen him, he’d knocked him unconscious, stolen his back-up weapon, and left him on the side of the road. Deep down, though, he knew that Sheriff Demsey would help him. Demsey was a man who saw the world in black and white. There was right, and there was wrong; there was not a third option. Demsey knew Matt had been right to kill Michael Vincent all those years ago. No, murder was not “right,” per se, but to let that animal live free and have the opportunity to do the same to countless other children would have been the biggest wrong.
He knew Matt was right to go looking for Mariah, and when he found her in a shithole trailer with an abusive, drugged up, wannabe tough guy, he was right to step in when that tough guy decided to put his hands on Mariah. Pissed off or not, he had to believe that Demsey also knew Matt was right to beat him down if it meant getting to his sister.
They were men, although a generation apart, who were cut from the same cloth. They believed in justice, real justice. Not the kind that came from a majority vote, the kind that came from old school ideals. The kind of justice that was carried out based on eye for an eye. Based on standing one’s ground instead of tucking tail and running in the other direction. There was a certain justice that needed to be carried out now. His father had to pay for his mother’s murder. Someone had to pay for Andi and Riley’s disappearance. And someone had to pay if Mariah had been hurt.
Matt quickly decided that he had only one choice: he had to go see Demsey. The Sheriff having a late-in-life change of heart and going strictly by the state-issued book was a chance he was going to have to take. If Demsey was going to arrest Matt, then it would have to happen. But Matt was no cop. He was no detective. He had no resources available to him. And he had no idea where to start to find his family. Any of them. He could not figure any of this out on his own, and Demsey was his only chance.
He walked back into the bar, grabbed his cash bags, and with them over his shoulder just as they were when he’d walked in, he walked back through the bar, out the front door, and back to his vehicle. Throwing them in the back, he slid into the driver’s seat and took off toward the center of town. It was still the middle of the day, just after two in the afternoon. The Sheriff would still be at work for a couple of hours.
When Matt arrived at the police station, he parked a safe distance away. Surely it had been reported what had happened, and he felt certain there was a warrant out for his arrest by now. He was not planning on waltzing into the middle of the office to ask for Demsey’s help. He would stay put and wait for it to be closing time. Then he would follow the Sheriff home, so he could be sure he was there and ensure he would at least be able to say his peace before being tackled by deputies.
Two and half hours went by before any signs of life occurred in the front of the police building. First one deputy, then another, then finally, Sheriff Demsey himself emerged onto the sidewalk. He stretched so far backward that his shirt came untucked under the pressure from his protruding belly. He didn’t bother tucking it back in. He dropped into his 1998 Ford Ranger and took off for home. Matt followed.
The Sheriff and his wife had lived in the same house for over thirty years. It was nothing to brag about, but it was theirs, and they had never wanted anything more. Matt parked two blocks away, as he didn’t want to alert Demsey too early of his arrival. He took the back way around, crossing through neighbors’ yards, just as he had when he was approaching his parents’ house the day he’d found his father standing over his mother’s dead body.
He crouched behind some shrubbery and looked on at the house. The back of the house was where the kitchen was, and the lights were all on. He could see the Sheriff and his wife working together to prepare dinner. He waited a while longer, getting closer to the house, but not yet attempting to go inside. He witnessed the couple eat dinner, clean the dishes, and then he found his chance. Nancy Demsey made her way upstairs, and the Sheriff settled into his recliner with a can of beer to flip on the TV.
Matt left himself in through the back door which opened into a small mud room. Quietly, he tip-toed through the kitchen and into the living room. Only when he was about five feet from Demsey did he trigger any of the Sheriff’s senses. He never got up out of his chair, and he never turned around.
“Patrick, I don’t know what is going on, but we can figure this out. I know things seem like they are out of control, but we can fix all of this, Pal.” Matt stayed silent. “Look, if you’re going to do this, can we do it somewhere else? There’s no reason to hurt Nancy. Please.” Demsey’s voice was shaking, as if he were mumbling his final words.
“Sheriff, it’s me. Matt.”<
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Now the Sheriff stood up, his face as red as could be.
“You! You little shit! You left me on the side of the goddamn road! And you took my damn gun!”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry!? For Christ sakes, I had to try to explain why I went MIA for four hours while I was napping on the damn ground! You’re lucky I didn’t have a manhunt out looking for you!”
“I had no choice, Sheriff. I had to get to her.”
“Yeah, well, that’s a convenient-ass excuse for someone who assaulted an officer of the law and stole his weapon. Matter of fact, give me my damn gun back!” Matt handed the small, silver revolver back to Demsey who stuffed it into his pocket. “Don’t tell me either that you didn’t find Mariah. All the trouble I went through, you had better have found her and gotten her back safe and sound.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Matt told Demsey the whole story. He told him how her place had been trashed and how he had found the motorcycle tracks. He told him about his run-in with the bikers and how they were holding Mariah captive until he could get back with the two million. Then he told him what he had seen earlier that day at the bar. He told him about the fact that Mariah was missing, and he was sure someone had come, killed the bikers and taken her.
“Holy shit.” That was the only thing Sheriff Demsey could say after hearing everything.
“I don’t know what to do here. I’m lost. I don’t even know where to start, but I have a bad feeling about this. If we don’t find her⸺”
“We’ll find her, son.” That word, son⸺it reminded Matt that Demsey had thought he was his father a few minutes earlier.
“Did you find my dad?”
“Well that’s a pretty stupid question, considering I thought you were him, here to kill me.”
“Do you have any leads? Has anyone seen him? Anything?”
“Nothing. Not a peep. He hasn’t been seen or heard from since he shot out your back window. Obviously there is a warrant out for his arrest, but no luck.”
“How does he just vanish? It’s a small town. Everyone knows what car he drives, and I assume he is hauling around a mobile armory. How does he just vanish, after firing two shotgun rounds into the back of a vehicle in the middle of the street, not to mention the shots he fired in the house? How does that happen?”
They both thought for a moment, and then, slowly, they both turned to look at each other. They had come to the same conclusion at the same time, but it was Demsey who put it into words.
“Because he didn’t vanish. He never left.”
“It had to be him. He killed all those bikers at the bar in Alta Vista. He has Mariah! It has to be him.”
“Where would he take her? Where could he go if not to his house?”
“I have no clue. He had a secret weapon room hidden away from the world; Lord knows what other secrets he’s been hiding all these years.”
“I’ve had an APB out on him since the day you sucker punched me⸺which I still owe you for, by the way⸺but, there’s been no sign of him.”
“So, he isn’t moving around much. He is staying out of sight. And if he has Mariah, he would need even more privacy in case she escaped, so that she couldn’t go running to one of the neighbors.”
“Oh my God,” Demsey said. “I hadn’t even thought of that.”
“Of what?”
“Your grandparents’ old place out on Pierce Road. It’s run down as shit. Your parents just never had the time to keep it up, but they still own it. They have ever since your grandfather passed away.”
Matt hadn’t even considered that old house. His grandmother⸺his father’s mom⸺had passed away before he was born. His grandpa had lived for many years after that, but he’d never been very close to the family. Matt was still too young to truly understand what was happening when his grandfather died, but he remembered his parents being surprised he had left them the house. He recalled hearing them talking about how they had been sure he would give it to the church or donate it to the town just to piss them off.
Pierce Road was a ten-minute drive past the small, green sign at the edge of town heading east that informed drivers that the were leaving the corporation limits. The house sat on three acres of land, and there was a small outbuilding that his grandfather had never used other than to store his old Model T. Matt did remember that he had treated that car better than any person in his world.
“Perfect, let’s get out there,” Matt said as he turned for the door, but Demsey caught him by the arm.
“No, I’m going out there. This is police business now. You’re staying right here.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Matt, if I let you come out there with me when this is an official murder investigation and something happens, I could lose my position as Sheriff. I could lose my badge. Hell, I could do jail time.”
“And it’s a risk you’re going to have to take. One way or another, I am going to that house, and you know there isn’t anything you can do to stop me unless you plan on putting a bullet through my skull, right here, right now.”
The two men exchanged hard looks. Matt glanced down at Demsey’s right hand; it was rigid. It looked like he might actually draw his gun and accept Matt’s challenge, but he didn’t. He just turned with a heavy sign and led the way out to the cruiser. The ride was silent, which was becoming the norm for those two. The only communication had been between Demsey and the Sheriff of Alta Vista letting him know about the slaughtered bodies lying in the back of the Wet Bar. Matt heard Steve ask Demsey how he knew about the bodies, and after a quick look in Matt’s direction, he responded by saying, “Anonymous tip.”
The house was more tattered than Matt remembered. The white paint was chipping away, and it was noticeable from the street where Demsey had parked and turned out the headlights. As they approached the house on foot, he could see that most of the roof shingles had been taken by heavy winds. The windows badly needed replacing, and the lawn was so high that he didn’t think a mower would be able to cut it.
What he didn’t see was his father’s car. Or any car for that matter. The stone driveway was empty, but there were tire marks throughout that seemed too clear to be old. There didn’t seem to be any lights on inside, but that didn’t mean anything, considering his dad wouldn’t want anyone knowing someone was occupying the house. Demsey pulled out his silver back-up revolver and handed it to Matt.
“Alright, take this,” Demsey said barely above a whisper. “If he’s in here, he is most likely armed. We don’t want to go storming in together through the front door. You go around the back and go in that way. Keep quiet, though. If he’s in here, and he has the kind of weaponry available to him that you say he does, we don’t want him to know he has visitors until we are on top of him.”
Nodding, Matt took the gun and crouched down, moving toward the back of the house. As he did, he gave a once-over to the outbuilding. Although it was dark, it looked to be in much better condition than the house. Like someone had been keeping it up. No lights were on there either, as far as he could tell. He made a mental note to check that once they had cleared the house.
Matt stopped when he got to the back door. There was a small window above him, and he pulled himself up just enough to see inside. It was a sunroom, probably an addition, and it looked empty. He tried the knob, and it opened; he was having some major luck lately with unlocked doors. He opened the door carefully, as it looked ancient, and one squeak could mean instant death for him. He made a gap that was roughly twenty inches wide and slipped through.
He was thankful that it was dark, as it was much easier to stay concealed while surveying the surroundings. What he could tell right away was that someone had definitely been there recently. There were muddy boots that had been kicked off and left on the wooden floor in the sunroom. The light shining in from the full moon made them easier to see. The mud on them looked fresh, maybe even from earlier that day. As he m
oved into the kitchen, it became more clear by the pile of dishes in the sink.
He found himself wondering what his dad had been eating. There were no fast food or delivery boxes laying around, which made sense because he wouldn’t risk someone finding out where he was, but he also couldn’t have taken the chance of a trip to the grocery store. So what? Well water and acorns from the trees out back? Then he remembered something about his grandfather, one of the only things that had made an impression on young Matt. His grandfather was chronically paranoid. He was always afraid of some foreign invasion or famine, so he kept these military-issued prepackaged meals in his cellar.
Boxes upon boxes of them. They looked like rice crispy treats made out of raw oats and sand, but they had no shelf life. He kept as many of those as he could fit down there just in case. Matt was willing to bet his dad had been living off of grandpa’s supply. He was sure Grandpa O’Bannon never figured they would have been put to use to keep their son-turned-murderer fed.
Matt cautiously continued through the house, arriving next in the entryway near the front door. With the revolver pointed out in front of him, he spun in all directions, looking at least for some sign of Demsey, but found nothing. Then he heard the quietest creak. A floorboard? A rusty door frame? Whatever it was, he was sure it came from the second floor. The one staircase in the house was to the right of the front door. He started up them, one careful step at a time, pistol clenched, pointer finger ready just outside of the trigger guard.
He reached the top and had to make a choice: right, left, or straight? There were mid-length hallways going in each direction, each hall containing several rooms. He chose to go straight, because at the end of that particular hall, he thought he could see the door at the end cracked open a little. He kept his back close to the wall on his left. Close, but not touching so that the rubbing wouldn’t give him away, but sideways with his back toward it so as to make himself a smaller target as he moved toward the unknown.
