Hour of Need (Scarlet Falls #1)(77)

“I didn’t anticipate going off-road.”

“Over there.” Mac pointed through the windshield. “I see a pig.”

“Son of a bitch.” Grant kept driving past a white trailer outfitted to look like a miniature farmhouse. Black shutters flanked the windows. A two-foot picket fence surrounded a patch of weedy lawn adorned with decorative pig silhouettes. The pig flag waved from its bracket next to the door.

“No car out front.” Mac scratched his chin. “How do we sneak up? There’s no cover.”

“No.” Grant spotted an empty space two spots down the lane and parked the sedan. “Sneaking doesn’t appear to be an option. Any ideas?”

“Yeah. Let’s talk to the neighbors. I suddenly feel interested in this empty lot.” Mac reached for the door handle. “Try not to scare the piss out of anybody.”

“I’ll do my best.” Grant rolled his eyes. “Unless we find Donnie. Then all bets are off.”

“Fair enough.” Mac opened his door and got out. “I’ll do the talking.” He pointedly scanned Grant from boots to jacket. “No one would believe you were interested in a trailer park.”

Grant looked down at his clothes. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“Nothing. You’re just too . . . ironed.” Mac’s attire leaned toward scraggly. His hiking boots were scuffed from use, and the holes in his jeans weren’t a fashion statement, but a lack of interest in shopping or his appearance.

Mac walked past a dinged pickup truck to the trailer between the empty lot and the pig house. The unit was neat but basic. He knocked on the door.

A thin, middle-aged man in a flannel shirt, jeans, and tan work boots answered. His Bee Gees beard was neatly trimmed but made him look like he stepped out of the 1970s. “Yeah?”

Mac backed down the step, giving the guy some space. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m interested in the lot. Can I ask you a couple of questions?”

“Sure.” Tugging a Mets cap over a salt-and-pepper shag cut, he locked his door and walked down the steps to join them on the square cement landing. “I’m leaving for work. I only got a couple minutes.”

“I’m Mac.” He held out a hand.

The Mets fan shook it. “Bob.”

Mac crossed his arms over his chest. “How is this place?”

“It’s OK.” Bob shrugged. “Folks mostly mind their own business. Some people have been here forever, but there’s a fair amount of turnover.”

“Is it quiet at night? I get up early for work.”

“I hear you. I hate first shift.” Bob huffed. “Broad next door and her boyfriend are into some weird shit. They go at it till late some nights. Pain in the ass. Some nights I got to put on f*cking headphones. Forget leaving the windows open.”

“Have they been here long?”

“She has, but he’s pretty new. I’m hoping he moves on. She goes through boyfriends like napkins. Seems like a lazy piece of shit to me. Probably an ex-con. Mean-looking dude.” Bob touched his face just below his eye. “Got one of those blue ink tats right here.”

“Huh.” Mac made a noncommittal sound of interest.

“Three kinds of people live in a place like this.” Bob held up a hand and ticked them off on his fingers. “Broke seniors, hardworking people trying to scrape by, and scumbags. The boyfriend is a scumbag, freeloading on a lonely woman.” Pure disgust colored his voice.

“Maybe I’ll knock on the door and see for myself.”

Bob glanced over at the pig-adorned trailer. “She ain’t home. Must be at work. She runs a register at the Walmart on the highway.”

“Hmm. I really need my sleep.” Mac scraped a toe on the concrete. “Maybe I should come back at night and listen for myself.”

“Probably.” Bob nodded. “Hey, I gotta get to work. Can’t afford to get docked.”

“Thanks for the info, man.”

“Anytime.” Bob got into his truck and drove away.

“Well, what do you think?”

Grant scanned the area. There was no one outside. “Can you work your magic on the lock?”

“Sure. Kind of ballsy in daylight though.”

“I’m feeling kind of ballsy.”

“OK.” Mac followed him to the trailer, raised his hand, and pretended to knock. Grant crowded him, using his body to block Mac’s hands from view. Two seconds later, Mac cracked the door. Grant nudged his brother out of the way and took point. His Beretta was in his hand as he crossed the threshold. He inhaled. Something smelled off. Raw.

Dead.

Mac sniffed and handed him a pair of latex gloves. “Not good.”

“Do you just carry those around?”

His brother shrugged. “Thought we might need them. I like to be prepared.”

“I feel like we need hazmat suits.”

The door opened into the living area. Nothing interesting in sight. Grant moved through the empty kitchen. A door led to the single bedroom. Grant gestured toward the assortment of BDSM toys scattered on the bed: handcuffs, whips, a spiked collar, something that looked like one of the dog’s Kong toys with straps on it. “Is that a ball gag?”

“You are asking the wrong person.”