CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Moonshine Public House loomed before Ella like a corpse at an open-casket funeral. Plywood sheets covered the windows, a ‘CLOSED' sign dangling crookedly from a rusty nail. The neon sign that once beckoned thirsty souls now hung dark and lifeless as a hanged man"s eyes.

Ella stood in the deserted lot. This place reeked of secrets, the kind that festered in dark corners and ate away at a town"s soul. She"d seen it before, in a hundred podunk burgs just like this one. But something about Liberty Grove got under her skin like an itch she couldn"t scratch.

Her phone buzzed. Luca, checking in.

‘Dawson"s house is a bust,' his text read. ‘No car, no lights.'

Frustration bubbled up like acid reflux, but if Dawson wasn't at home, it meant he had to be somewhere else. Maybe in the building right in front of her.

She eyed the wooden fence surrounding the bar"s back lot. Six feet of weathered planks between her and potential answers. In her Academy days, she"d have cleared it without breaking a sweat. Now, with a few more years and a helluva lot more cynicism under her belt, she approached it with the wary respect of a woman who knew her limits.

One hand on the top, a quick boost, and she was over. She landed with the grace of a cat burglar, her knees protesting only slightly. That"s when she saw it – a detail that set off every finely-honed instinct she"d cultivated over years of chasing humanity"s worst.

Cigarette butts. A small mound of them huddled near the back door like conspirators at a clandestine meeting. Fresh, too. The kind of litter that would"ve scattered to the four winds if they"d been there more than a day or two.

A familiar rush of adrenaline came surging. She wasn"t chasing ghosts after all. Someone had been here recently enough to leave their nicotine-stained calling card.

The back door hung askew with rusted and neglected hinges. It beckoned to her like a come-hither glance from a femme fatale in some pulp novel. Ella sized it up, weighing her options. Procedure dictated she call for backup, wait for the cavalry to arrive before storming the potential hideout of a deranged killer.

But the procedure could go to hell. People were dying, their lungs filling with water while bureaucrats twiddled their thumbs. She didn"t have time to dot every "i" and cross every "t".

Ella took a deep breath, centering herself. Then she hit the door with her shoulder, channeling every ounce of pent-up frustration into the impact. The wood splintered with a satisfying crack, swinging inward to reveal the bar"s murky interior.

The stench hit her like a physical force – stale beer, moldy peanuts, and the lingering ghosts of a thousand broken dreams. Ella blinked rapidly, willing her eyes to adjust to the gloom. Her hand found her Glock, and she trained it on the darkness up ahead.

The kitchen stretched out before her in a graveyard of abandoned cookware. Dust coated every surface, thick enough to write her name in. Ella moved through the space like a wraith, each footstep muffled by years of accumulated grime. Her nerves sang with tension, because in places like this, danger lurked in every shadow. One false move, and she"d be dancing with the devil before she could blink. The thought should have terrified her, but instead, it sent a perverse thrill down her spine. This was where she thrived – in the thick of it, where instinct and training merged into a finely-honed weapon.

The door to the main bar area loomed ahead. A portal to potential answers or certain doom. Ella"s hand tightened on her Glock, finger resting just outside the trigger guard. She pressed her ear to the old wood and strained for any sign of life beyond.

At first, nothing but the hollow silence of abandonment.

Then – a creak.

Faint, barely audible, but unmistakable. The sound of weight shifting on old floorboards.

Ella"s spine stiffened, every muscle coiling like a spring ready to release. She wasn"t alone.

Another sound. A clink of glass on wood. Someone was in there, waiting for her, having no doubt heard her intrusion.

This was it. The moment where everything could go sideways faster than a greased pig at a county fair. But there was no backing down now. Not when she was this close.

The floorboards creaked again, closer this time. Whoever was in there was moving towards the door. Towards her.

It was now or never.

Ella pressed her back against the wall, took a steadying breath, then burst through it like the angel of death coming to collect.

The words died in her throat, strangled by the sight before her.

A man stood behind the bar, trembling like a junkie in withdrawal. But it wasn"t his presence that stopped Ella cold. It was the gun in his hand, pointed straight at her chest with the unsteady aim of the truly desperate.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to crystallize. Ella"s finger hovered over her trigger, muscle memory warring with the analytical part of her brain that screamed this wasn"t their killer. Maybe some junkie or squatter. One wrong move and this dump would have a fresh coat of paint – blood red, straight from the tap.

Then recognition slammed into her like a freight train, nearly knocking the wind from her lungs.

It was the same man she was looking at pictures of an hour ago. A man who'd made big promises for this town and never delivered.

‘Greg Dawson?' she asked.

He was a far cry from the slick politician she"d seen in news clips. His face was a roadmap of misery, eyes sunken and haunted in a way that spoke of sleepless nights and whiskey-soaked regrets. A scraggly beard clung to his jawline, more patchwork quilt than fashionable stubble. He looked like he"d been put through a wood chipper and reassembled by a blind man with a grudge.

‘Who the hell are you?' Dawson"s voice cracked, his gun hand shaking so badly Ella was surprised he could keep it pointed in her general direction.

‘Special Agent Ella Dark, FBI.' She kept her tone steady, soothing, like she was talking down a jumper on a ledge. Every instinct screamed at her to disarm him, to take control of the situation. But something in Dawson"s eyes – a mixture of fear and bone-deep exhaustion – told her that aggression would only make things worse. ‘I"m here to help, Mr. Dawson. Why don"t you put that gun down so we can talk?'

Dawson blinked, his addled brain visibly struggling to process the situation. Then, much to Ella's amazement, he sagged. The gun clattered to the bar top, and Dawson collapsed into one of the chairs. It was a sorry sight. A lone man in an empty bar, nothing but stale alcohol and an unplugged jukebox for company.

‘FBI,' he mumbled, the fight draining out of him faster than beer from a punctured keg. ‘Christ. Guess my number"s finally up, huh?'

Ella lowered her own weapon, but didn"t holster it. Not yet. The situation was too volatile, balanced on a knife"s edge between resolution and catastrophe. ‘No one"s number is up, Mr. Dawson. I just want to talk.'

She pulled up a bar stool, its legs scraping across the floor with a sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. Dawson looked all the world like a beaten dog waiting for the next kick. The sight stirred something in Ella"s chest – not quite pity, but a grim understanding. She"d seen that look before, on the faces of men and women who"d hit rock bottom and kept on digging.

‘So talk,' Dawson said, his voice as hollow as his eyes.

‘Two homicides. Two men from Bristol, drowned and left in this town. Your town.'

‘Hah. My town? Half of this place wants me dead.'

Ella noted Dawson's dismissal of the two murders. ‘I'm sure they do, but I'm more interested in these aforementioned homicides.'

‘Yeah, I heard about them. Even a hermit like me gets the news.'

‘Any thoughts on them?' Ella asked.

Dawson gripped the edge of the table like a drunk apart to fall off his chair. ‘I don't know much. Just what the news reported.'

Ella decided to fill in the blanks for him and see if this creature knew more than he was letting on. ‘Two men, one left in a cornfield, one left in a dried riverbed. Both men worked on the dam project up in Bristol.'

Dawson seemed to shrink further into himself, like a man watching his own funeral from the sidelines.

‘Jesus,' he whispered, the word more prayer than exclamation. ‘It"s all connected, isn"t it? The dam, the drought, now this? It"s like the whole town"s under a curse.'

‘That"s what I"m trying to figure out,' Ella said. The bar top was sticky under her elbows, years of spilled drinks creating a geologic layer of grime. ‘And I think you might be able to help. You were mayor when all this started. You must know something.'

Dawson barked out a laugh. ‘Know something? Lady, I know everything. And that"s why I"m holed up in this godforsaken dump like a rat in a trap.'

‘Why here?' Ella glanced around the abandoned bar, taking in the dust-covered bottles and the faded posters on the walls. Ghosts of better times, when the taps flowed and laughter drowned out the jukebox. ‘Why not skip town, start fresh somewhere else?'

‘With what?' Dawson spread his arms, encompassing the desolation. The gesture was pure theater, a remnant of the politician he used to be. ‘No job, no money, can"t even go home without some yahoo chucking garbage through my windows. This place,' he patted the table like an old friend, ‘it"s all I got left. My cousin"s name on the deed, so no one"s looking for me here.'

Ella felt a twinge of something. Not quite pity – she'd seen too much, done too much, to waste energy on feeling sorry for fallen big shots. But there was a certain tragedy to it all. The mighty brought low, reduced to hiding out in the husk of their former glory.

‘Tell me about the drought,' she pressed. There"d be time for philosophy later, preferably over a bottle of something strong enough to strip paint. ‘How bad is it, really?'

Dawson"s eyes took on a faraway look, like he was seeing ghosts dance across the empty bar. ‘Bad? It"s a goddamn catastrophe. Farms drying up. Businesses folding left and right. You can smell the desperation on folks. It"s like the whole town"s slowly dying of thirst – and most of them blame me.'

The picture that formed wasn"t pretty. A town on its knees, people are driven to desperation by forces beyond their control. It was fertile ground for the kind of rage that birthed killers.

Dawson ran a hand through his thinning hair. ‘And the worst part? We never saw it coming. The dam was supposed to regulate water flow, benefit everyone. But somewhere along the line, things went sideways. I"ve got my suspicions. Toledo and his Bristol cronies, they pulled some strings. Suddenly, the water allocation shifted. Bristol"s getting more than their fair share, while we"re left high and dry.'

‘You"re saying this was intentional?' Ella pressed.

Dawson"s eyes darted around like he was checking for eavesdroppers. ‘Can"t prove it, but yeah. Toledo talked a big game about helping everyone, but I think he played us from the start. Knew exactly what he was doing. And now? Bristol"s got green lawns and full reservoirs, while we"re watching our town turn to dust.'

‘But killing the people behind the dam won"t change anything, will it?' she mused, more to herself than to Dawson. ‘If anything, it"ll just make martyrs out of them.'

‘Exactly.' Dawson nodded, a spark of his old political acumen shining through the haze. ‘If what you're saying is true, when whoever"s doing this isn't trying to fix anything. This is pure revenge, plain and simple.'

A chill ran down Ella"s spine, setting every nerve ending on high alert. She"d been so focused on motive, on trying to understand the killer"s endgame, she"d missed the forest for the trees. This wasn"t about justice or change. It was about pain. About making the people responsible suffer the way Liberty Grove was suffering.

It was the kind of rage that couldn"t be reasoned with, couldn"t be bargained down or plea-dealed away. The kind that would burn the world to ashes just to watch the flames dance.

Ella leaned back. Her eyes never left Dawson"s face, reading every twitch and tic like a polygraph. ‘Where were you last night, Mr. Mayor? And this afternoon?'

‘Where do you think? Right here in this dump.'

‘Anyone who can confirm that touching alibi?'

‘Yeah, the security cameras out back. Still work, if you can believe it. They"ll catch me sneaking out for smokes.'

Ella"s eyebrow twitched. ‘I"ll need to see that footage.'

‘Knock yourself out, Agent. I"ve got nothing to hide except a bunch of empty bottles.'

Somehow, Ella doubted that. She nodded, but in her gut, Ella knew Dawson wasn"t their guy. Killers came in all shapes and sizes, but this broken-down shell of a man didn"t have the fire in his belly to drown a kitten, let alone two grown men.

Just as she opened her mouth to press further, Dawson"s eyes flicked to the window. His face went slack, like he"d seen a ghost dancing on his front lawn. He rose out of his chair to take a look.

‘Well, I"ll be damned," he muttered. "And here"s me thinking you came alone."

Ella"s hackles rose faster than a cat in a dog pound. ‘I did.'

She was at the window in two heartbeats, gun already in hand. There, in the gathering twilight, stood a figure. Shadowy and indistinct, but undeniably there.

And it was the same silhouette she"d glimpsed outside Creed"s place, watching her with the patience of a spider in its web.

‘Son of a bitch,' she hissed. She was out of the back door before her brain could form a coherent thought, her feet pounding the gravel like she was running from the devil himself. She hopped back over the wall, rushed around to the front of building and – nothing.

The figure had vanished.

Melted into the darkness like a bad dream at sunrise.

She spun in a slow circle, every nerve screaming for action. But there was nothing. Just an empty lot and the nagging feeling that she"d missed something crucial.

Who the hell was following her?

And more importantly, why?

Ella"s phone suddenly shrieked like a banshee, nearly giving her a heart attack. Luca"s name flashed on the screen, probably checking in like the good partner he was.

She swiped to answer, words tumbling out before he could get a syllable in edgewise. ‘I"m fine, Hawkins. False alarm on Dawson. Guy"s about as dangerous as toilet paper.'

‘Yeah, about that...' Luca"s voice crackled through. ‘ Dawson"s definitely not our killer.'

‘I know. I just told you-'

‘Because another body just dropped.'

Ella wasn't sure she heard him right. Her brain short-circuited, struggling to compute.

Two victims in one day?

‘Are you kidding me?'

‘No. You better get here. Things just went from bad to biblical.'

Liberty Grove"s psycho wasn"t just making a statement anymore. They weren't just escalating – they were going supernova.