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Flicking through them, I swiftly realize they’re all in some code.
Shit.
“Dammit, Gavin! What do I do?”
Slamming the metal card file down, I slump down in his chair, powering on his laptop. Password protected. Of course.
My hands start to shake.
He’s dying, and I’m letting it happen.
I’m on the verge of tears, about to scream when I see it. Just behind the filing cabinet, a tab sticking out with the letters E.R. on it. It’s almost unnoticeable, a tiny sliver of green tape. Tugging on it drops a small leather case, the kind they zip money up in at the bank.
Inside, I find a tiny black remote with a number taped to the back.
Alongside the device is a short note in Gavin’s handwriting. “If you ever need to track me down.”
No way he left this for me. Like he knew I’d break in here if he ever needed me. Either way, it pays to be prepared.
The little remote powers on, pinging my phone.
It’s a lojack for his work van.
I’m in the truck, flooring it down the old backwoods road a minute later, hauling ass toward wherever the GPS is taking me. What starts as twenty minutes on the drive time estimate drops to twelve for me to make it to the series of old wooden warehouses out along the southern end of Dockside. It's in a part of Sanctum Harbor that I haven't seen before. The Industrial section.
Probably because I would never, ever have a reason to come here.
I’ve only seen Gavin’s van a couple of times when he left the property. He keeps it somewhere else, not in the garage. Figures he’d have a backup location for his illegal operations.
Even so, the black van catches my frantic eye in the orangey street lamps lining the complex.
I pull in, checking to catch a glimpse of what I’m heading into before I get out of the car, but the alley between the buildings is too dark. All I brought for protection was Gavin’s Maglite. Not that a gun would do me any good.
Throwing caution to the wind, I race from the car, around the van, slowing as I flick on the flashlight and swing the beam around. There’s blood everywhere.
It looks like Gavin was in the process of spraying it down, a lawn care pump and nozzle lying discarded by a bleach-flecked wall, rust-colored streaks already drying.
“Gavin?” I hiss in as loud a whisper as I dare.
A low groan reaches me from a ways back, along the darker face of the warehouse.
Creeping foot over foot, flexing up on my toes from anxiety and anticipation, I nearly shriek when my foot hits a dark shape. My hand shoots over my mouth, clapping so hard it stings as a body shifts, the head lolling to the side, blank eyes staring up at me.
I’m going to puke.
I steal myself to the horror, the smell.
“H–Hell…” Off to my right. There!
“Gav!” I’m at his side, ignoring the scrapes on my knees and shining the light over him. One hand is pinned to his side, holding what might be his dark work shirt, wadded up and completely soaked in blood.
Lower, I notice he tied off another strip of cloth over his thigh, more blood soaked through, but not as wet, not as fresh. My throat closes, tears threatening to burn their way out as I check his face. His eyes are half closed, his head sagging to the side.
“One of them… not so dead. Caught me off guard,” he mumbles. “I–is he dead?”
“Don’t talk. He’s dead. Hold on, I’ll get help.” I start to pull out my phone to call 911 when Gavin’s free hand jerks toward my phone, waving back and forth slightly. Old habits from another life spring to my memory.
I can’t call the authorities.
