Page 5 of Give Me Peace

“Goddamnit!” I slam my fist against the door, frustration simmering beneath my skin as I take in the remaining time on the GPS before we’ll even enter Laiken County.

“What?” Roan glances my way, his probing gaze focused on me instead of the road.

“They’ve sent units to the sheriff’s place for a ‘welfare check’.” Ro swears as presses harder on the gas. “We’ve still got half an hour. All we can do at this point is hope they don’t have too much of a head start. Denvers shouldn’t be far behind them.” I hate everything about this situation. All of the unknowns. I don’t know what to expect from the rest of the department, if Price’s deputies are going to go to bat for him or happily hand him over. It’s difficult to have faith in any of them when the man in charge is such steaming pile of shit.

Allegedly.

It feels like ages before we make it to Lyola. Roan flies through the small town going at least twenty over the posted speed limit, but we roll straight on through without being stopped. It takes us another ten minutes of navigating back roads before we reach our destination. I’m holding my breath as we pull into the driveway, immediately noting the three cop cars that have already on-scene. A blacked-out suburban sits front and center, giving me hope that Denvers made it here first. I don’t trust them, not when they have a crooked fuck leading the charge. Ro slams on the brakes and throws the SUV into park. He’s got his door open and feet on the ground before I can blink. Tossing the laptop aside, I quickly hop out and join him at the front of the vehicle.

“Keep quiet. The less we piss them off the better.” Ro grunts but doesn’t agree. I wouldn’t expect anything less from the giant fucker. Two deputies break apart from the group and walk towards us, preventing me from saying anything more.

“Gentlemen, is there something we can help y’all with?” An older, overweight male is the first to speak. His sidekick looks underage and seconds from shitting his pants.

“They’re with me.” Denvers makes his way around the guard patrol, earning himself a sneer. He doesn’t give the deputy a chance to say any more, just nods his head to the side, gesturing for us to follow him. Once we’re away from the group and have a semblance of privacy, he starts updating us.

“Got here just in time to watch them pull in. Gave me the same rundown I’d been given earlier. They’re here to execute a welfare check since the sheriff’s been MIA. Last known sighting was after work on Friday when he stopped by for a visit at the nursing home. He failed to show up to work Monday morning, and after numerous attempts to reach him went unanswered, they finally received the go ahead for the search. So far, there’s no indication that they know anything about Saylor or the tip from the CNA, and I’d like to keep it that way. The less they know the better.”

I nod my agreement and ask, “So, what reason did you give for an FBI Agent being here?” Denvers smirks at my question.

“I didn’t. I’m not required to tell them anything. I’d planned to as a courtesy, but that pig-headed fucker pissed me off.” Ro snorts, his lip quirking to one side. That sort of pettiness is right up his alley.

“They’re doing a sweep of the house right now,” Denvers states, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes laser focused on the other deputies still lingering outside.

“They came in awful heavy for something that should be rather simple,” Roan remarks, his stance a mirror image of the agent standing between us. His statement is followed by silence, the three of us focused on scanning the dark house and the men stationed around it. Every so often, a light will switch on in one room before being flicked off a moment later, the process repeating itself as they search the rest of the space.

Ro is right, though. There’s about four too many men here. It could be coincidence, a result of who the welfare check is in regard to, but the sun has yet to even rise and these boys are bright eyed and bushy tailed. Laiken County is fairly small, and communities like this tend to be tight knit and stick together. Until I know with absolute certainty the type of men we’re dealing with, my guard is sky fucking high.

“Is Sergeant Hannigan here?” I glance at Denvers in question.

“Retired about a year ago.” His answer surprises me. Mainly because this is the first I’m hearing of it. Hannigan had been our local point of contact. He’d taken the initial statement from Saylor’s mom and filed the missing person’s report. We really didn’t have any reason to reach out considering the case had been turned over to the FBI long before we came into the picture, but he’d introduced himself when we’d been in town three years ago and offered his assistance should we ever need it.

I grunt and glance to the side, still keeping a close eye on the house. My hands are in my pockets, but my weight keeps shifting anxiously from one foot to the other. This is taking too long, and I’m not known to be a very patient man. One deputy in particular, the grimy wanker who’d approached us when we first arrived, keeps glaring in our direction. They whisper amongst themselves before three of them move towards the front, leaving the young one standing guard by the back door. I shift forward, trying to make my approach as unassuming as possible.

Roan and Denvers move with me, apparently as fed up as I am. We spread out, not wanting to draw attention to ourselves, but the young deputy keeps bouncing his eyes between us suspiciously. Once we’re close enough to the back of the house, I casually scan our surroundings.

“Long night, am I right?” I try to make small talk, hoping he’ll let his guard down enough that he won’t spook once I start looking around. I’m done waiting for whatever clearance they plan to give when we don’t actually need it, and the last thing I need is for some trigger happy fucknut to shoot me. He gives a noncommittal response, but I’m too busy eyeing the porch to pay attention, searching for anything that looks out of place.

It's a deck, really—no bigger than eight feet by eight feet and it sits almost completely against the ground. There’s not enough space between it and the dirt to wedge a flashlight in. But the front side of the house only has a concrete stoop, so I know this has to be what the old lady was referring to. I can hear movement in the house, but I couldn’t care less. I look back at Denvers, and with a nod for me to go ahead and get this show on the road, I drop to my knees and start running my hands over the planks.

“Hey!” The kid pipes in, his voice cracking with nerves as he attempts to be assertive.

“Don’t you fucking move,” Ro spits, but I block them out and continue feeling around. We’ve got seconds at most until the rest of them wrap up what they’re doing inside and make it back out here, and I really don’t want to deal with the headache I know they’ll bring. When I feel like my hands have touched every inch of the deck’s surface, I rise to my feet and pace back and forth. Palming the back of head, I stare up at the sky. The first rays of dawn are starting to peek through.

Defeat washes over me. We can’t be this fucking close only to walk away empty handed. Even if we don’t find Saylor alive, her remains would be better than nothing. It guts me to think that way, but we need closure. Kade most of all. He’s burning the candle at both ends, trying to balance his everyday work while thinking of Saylor every spare chance he gets.

This case has followed us for three years, a permanent fixture we devote as much free time to as we can, and Kade will never stop. None of us will. But I want peace for my friend. I hate that he lives with this torment, that he feels like it’s his sole responsibility to find answers. Most of all, I hate that I don’t understand why he feels this way. The thought of having to tell him that we got a lead, only for it to have been a dead end, makes me livid.

Squaring my shoulders, I look back over the space. I’ll get an ax and hack it to pieces if I have to. One way or another, I’m going to find out what’s under here. Denvers is cussing up a storm as, he too, comes up short. I’m pondering the logistics of hulking the damn thing straight in the air when something leaning against the house catches my eye. A tire iron. Almost directly beside the door. Cocking my head, I ponder why I find it, along with its location, so odd. Walking over, I lift the tool, causing the green-as-baby-shit deputy to flinch. I roll my eyes but say nothing to dissuade his thoughts.

Scrubbing my foot across the deck, I turn in circles to try and gain a different perspective. To the left, just in front of where Ro stands, a deviation in the pattern of planks makes me pause. The gap is slightly bigger in one spot, which could be from a knot in the wood. But the closer I look, my fingers trailing over it curiously, the more I’m convinced it’s from something else.

Like a tire iron being wedged between the boards.

Without wasting another second, I shove the tip into the groove. It slides in perfectly, making chills dance across my flesh. I shout for Denvers as I push upwards, the boards easily rising without much effort. Six planks lift together, the larger grouping making the hidden door more innocuous. They lined up seamlessly, and if we hadn’t known to look here, I’m not sure we would have noticed anything off about it.

“Holy shit,” Roan sputters, rushing forward to grab the hatch. The muscled prick doesn’t stumble from the weight whatsoever. Tilting it open fully, he rests it against the house. “Gimme that.” Ro yanks the flashlight from the deputy who’s gone still as a statue, his eyes bugging out at the hole that just appeared. He shines it downward, but the only thing that’s visible is a cylindrical shaft with a ladder attached to the side. Impeccably timed, the other deputies stumble out the back door, stopping short as they try to avoid the empty space where the deck used to be.

Chapter Three