Thirty-Two

I parked where I had before, although this time I didn't let the right side of the car rest on that woman's lawn. The last thing I needed was her coming out and giving me shit again.

I killed the engine and the lights, and made sure the Subaru's doors were locked so as to keep anyone from surprising me again with a backseat visit. I sat there in the dark, watching Billy Finster's house, listening to the engine tick as it cooled. The bat was on the seat next to me.

The street was quiet. The silver Kia I'd seen the woman get into and drive off in was not there. Nor was the rusted-out pickup truck Billy'd been driving when he'd first approached me at my home. But there was what looked to be a GMC mostly windowless van parked up close to the garage. Maybe Billy had two vehicles, and the pickup was tucked away.

It looked as though someone was home. There were lights on in the house, and slivers of light around the edges of the garage door.

"Showtime," I said to myself.

With my right hand I grabbed the bat, and with my left opened the door. When the car's interior light came on, I winced. Idiot. Nothing like announcing your arrival.

I got out and quickly closed the door to extinguish the light. I stood there a moment, holding my breath, then did a three-sixty, looking to see whether anyone had noticed my arrival.

So far, so good.

I switched the bat to my left hand and with my right opened the Voice Memos app on my phone, set it to start recording, and dropped it into the front pocket of my sport jacket. I took the bat back into my right hand and gave it a light swing at my side, getting the feel of it.

I am not going to beat this man to death. I only have this to defend myself.

I started walking toward the house and hadn't gone more than a car length when I heard a vehicle turn onto the street. Slight squeal of tires, the engine roaring.

I looked back and saw headlights coming my way. They hadn't caught me in their beam, and I certainly didn't want them to. I quickly stepped off the street and sought cover behind an oak tree broad enough to shield me.

The car, an Audi A4 or A6 in black, went speeding past my hiding spot. The brake lights came on, the car slowed and turned abruptly into the driveway of Billy Finster's house.

Hello.

The driver killed the headlights and the engine and got out. A woman. About five-five, skinny, scraggly hair down to her shoulders. A stocky guy got out on the passenger side. Together, they walked purposefully to the front door, the woman banging on it with her first hard enough that I could hear from my hiding spot.

They waited maybe ten seconds for someone to answer before she banged on it again. When the second knock produced no response, they headed for the garage. This time the guy did the knocking, hitting the small door at the side with his fist.

No one came, so he turned the handle, found the place unlocked, and went inside, the woman following.

Billy must have been there, because I could hear indistinct conversation that soon turned to shouting. From my location, I couldn't make out much of what was said, but I did hear this:

"Where is it? Where the fuck is it?"

Banging and crashing followed. I heard what sounded like a metal door being slammed shut. Whatever was going on in there between Billy and his visitors, it wasn't going well. Who were these people? More blackmail victims? Was Billy into other shenanigans that hadn't made him any friends?

The man and the woman emerged about five minutes later, closing the door behind them. I couldn't tell for sure, but it looked like they were wearing gloves as they headed for the house. Although I couldn't see them going to the back door, I was able to hear them kicking it in.

It wasn't a big house. One story, with a basement, judging by the low-rise windows at ground level. I could make out hurried shadows moving behind blinds or curtains. They were searching the place. And, from the faint sounds I could hear, tearing it apart. At one point, through what was most likely a bedroom window, I thought I saw a mattress being overturned.

Ten minutes went past.

Finally, the two came out the back door. If they'd found what they were looking for, it wasn't evident. Neither of them was carrying anything.

They walked quickly and purposefully back to the Audi, like they wanted to run but didn't want to attract attention. They looked, as best I could tell from my position, grim-faced. The woman got back in behind the wheel. The man got in on the other side and slammed the door angrily.

The Audi kicked up dirt and gravel as it backed quickly out of the driveway. Once on the street, the car sped off in the direction it had come from.

Everything went very quiet.

I didn't move. The bat hung at my side from my right hand. My phone was still recording. I took it from my pocket, hit the stop button, and deleted the recording.

Things had become a little more complicated.

I'd come here to confront Billy, but someone had beaten me to the punch. The smartest thing would be for me to abort. Take my bat, get in the car, and go home.

And yet.

An overwhelming sense of curiosity had taken hold. No longer was I here to take a stand. I wanted to know what had happened in that garage.

I brought up the bat, holding it crossways in front of me, right hand at the base, the wide end to my left. I cut across grass, wanting to make less noise than I would walking down the gravel driveway. When I got to the door, I rapped on it lightly.

No response.

I tried the handle and, just as those two visitors before me had, found it unlocked.

I opened the door, let it swing wide.

The lights were on.

I went inside.