When you punch through and beyond a target you multiply the force of the swing on an exponential level. The science is all about momentum and continued drive. The science wasn’t important to Fletcher as he’d tested the theory many times and its results were proven to his satisfaction.
Some Teeth’s head snapped back as he was lifted off the ground for a moment before slumping to a heap beside a dubious-looking puddle.
Fletcher pocketed the wad, leaned down and rolled Some Teeth onto his side so he’d be able to breathe. Maybe he had fewer teeth now, but along with his newly broken jaw, that was his own fault.
“Out you git.”
Fletcher turned to face the barman. An apology was ready on his lips as he spun, but the twin barrels of the shotgun he saw aimed at his belly stilled his tongue. He’d looked down the barrel of several guns over the years, but couldn’t pinpoint the last time he’d faced someone so close to pulling the trigger. At the current range of three feet, the shotgun would blow a hole clean through him and the pellets would carry on to maim those behind him.
The bartender’s jaw was set, and he’d lined the sights up, not that he needed them. What concerned Fletcher the most was the arthritic finger curled around the shotgun’s trigger. The bulbous knuckles would be sore and stiff. They wouldn’t have the sensitivity of youth; therefore there was no knowing if the bartender was aware how hard he was squeezing the trigger.
Of course, the shotgun might not be loaded, but Fletcher didn’t plan to find out the hard way.
“I hear you.” Fletcher’s hands came level with his ears as he stepped over Some Teeth’s prone body. “I’m leaving.”
As he made his way to the door, Fletcher made sure to keep himself between the shotgun and the regular crowd in the hope the chance of a local getting winged would stay the bartender’s grip on the trigger.
When he reached the door, he turned and saw the shotgun had been lowered, although it still pointed in his general direction.
He sent an apologetic look at the bartender then faced the rest of the room. “Sorry to have troubled you all, but if any of you want to make yourself some tax-free bucks all you have to do is help me find this girl. Maybe the word ‘trench’ will jog your memories.”
Fletcher’s jaw tightened when he saw the six conscious customers and the gun-toting bartender turn their gazes away when he lifted Lila’s picture and held it up for them to see.
The barman’s shotgun swung his way and the bulbous finger curled towards the trigger again. “Don’t you be threatening no one with Trench, boy. That’ll get you into all kinds of trouble.”
Chapter Eight
Zoey Quadrado looked at the files arranged on her bed. Each of the names was memorized as were the respective ages, descriptions and dates they’d gone missing. Every one of the fifteen women had been known to travel through Daversville on the day they’d vanished.
The earliest recorded disappearance had happened four years ago. At first the disappearances had been sporadic, but in the last few months they had escalated until a woman was going missing on a bi-monthly basis.
Quadrado hadn’t liked the looks she’d got when she entered Duke’s. She wasn’t so sensitive that she had a thin skin, but the gazes she’d drawn were of distaste rather than indifference. If people didn’t like her personality, that was fine by her, but when they chose to look at her as if she was scum just because of the color of her skin, that rankled.
The sensible part of Quadrado recognized the locals were stuck in a time warp, and as such hadn’t developed the relative acceptance of other racial backgrounds she was used to from living and working in New York. Other than her own café au lait complexion, every face she’d seen in Daversville had been white or sun-weathered brown. While they might not be outright racists, there was a good chance their shunning of her was born of their lack of understanding and therefore tolerance. Either way, she was tough enough to not let it bother her.
Quadrado’s father had been born in a Tijuana casucha. A day later his parents had illegally crossed the border into California and claimed he’d been born in the US. It took her grandparents years of legal wrangling to prove their lie, but eventually they managed to get themselves and their son accepted as Americans. Some thirty-one years after that, her father had married a Wisconsin farmer’s daughter and started a family.
Her brother worked on the Wisconsin farm her parents now owned and she’d studied hard to get herself the necessary qualifications needed to be accepted into the FBI. Now here she was, four years into her career and sent out on what could either be a waste of time, or a chance to identify a case that would require a full-scale FBI investigation.
This chewed at Quadrado. Part of her didn’t want to return to New York to report that the missing women had all happily joined some cult, as it would be an admission her time here was more or less wasted. Yet as much as she loved the thrill of an investigation, she didn’t want people to have suffered, and they surely would have if she found the big case she was hoping for. Single by choice right now, Quadrado devoted all her energies into her work. She saw a husband and kids in her future, but she had no intention of seriously dating for at least another five years. And if the husband and kids didn’t ever happen, she was okay with that. Her work was her reason for living. The FBI gave her a chance to do good, to make the world a little safer and to bring closure and justice to the victims of crime.
One thing she’d learned early in her career was that a lot of the older agents had developed a thick skin when it came to the victims and their fates. Whether it was compartmentalizing the horrors they’d seen or a sense of indifference created by experience-worn sensibilities, she’d instead vowed early on that she’d always keep the victims front and center of her mind. To Quadrado, each of the victims in her files was someone’s Aunt Janet, and having seen firsthand how loss without closure could affect a family, she would do whatever it took to find the missing women.
Quadrado gathered up the files, put them into her briefcase and snapped the locks shut. One name had appeared in the police reports more than others so that’s who she’d focus her energies on. An Agnes Jackson had been questioned regarding whether any of the women had visited the diner. Whether she’d be able to help or not remained to be seen, but she was the logical starting point.
Chapter Nine
Fletcher loitered outside Fellers for a while, but nobody followed him out. He half expected some of the folks in there would come out to exact a retribution for him knocking Some Teeth out, but not one of them was either bothered or brave enough to do so.
He didn’t expect them to come out and give him the information he’d requested, but there was always a slim chance.
Despite his best efforts in Duke’s, he’d learned nothing, and while he’d ingratiated himself with the tables of singletons, none of the bar’s other customers had taken him on.
He hadn’t planned to use violence when he’d walked into Fellers. His plan had been to get talking to folks over a beer and subtly probe them with his questions. He’d recognized Daversville as a hick town before he’d parked the rental car, but he hadn’t expected the town to close ranks against him with the same force as a bear trap. Lots of the hick towns he’d visited had been welcoming places, although as a stranger, there had always been a point where the locals had drawn a line on their friendliness.