AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Over my breakfast of Alphabets and orange juice, while Blade scarfed down his bowl of the same, albeit minus the milk, I resumed my internet searching but this time looked up the junkyard I’d bought. The worn-out sign I’d repainted used to saySteel Deals—which someone had crossed out and graffitied withSuck Dick. I’d painted the whole thing black and then, in a bluish-white, stenciledBits and Bolts, which was my play onBits and Bites, a snack I loved in the cheddar cheese flavor. So salty.
Mmm. I should really pick up a bag. Only one, because I would likely inhale the entire package in one sitting. Okay, maybe not inhale. I’d suck the flavor from each piece before crunching it to bits. The numb tongue the next day? Totally worth it.
Anyhow, back to my search.Steel Dealswas apparently a popular combination on the internet. Only six hundred and fifty-five million search results.
After page five, I knew I’d have to go at it a different way. I popped in the address for the junkyard. First thing I got was a map—because that really helped.
Then a mention of the property auction with very few details other than that it was commercially zoned property with an attached residence. The writeup included the structures on the property, and the notes mentioned the metal scrap yard aspect. All shit I knew, and the reason I’d chosen to bid. I might not be some super climate activist, but I did like the idea of helping recycle metal parts.
Maybe I should take that welding course offered at Algonquin College. I could do quite a bit myself, but I’d love to learn the finer techniques. I could buy myself a Mig welder for the shop. Offer to do custom metalwork. Make some art with the unused parts in my yard.
Focus!I was getting distracted. I ate more soggy cereal as I kept flipping pages on my tablet, perusing all kinds of searches that did nothing to advance my knowledge. There had to be a better way of finding what I wanted. The detective had said something about the original owner having gone missing.
My bowl pushed aside, I leaned forward, only to tilt my face sideways at a slurping noise. My dog, realizing he’d gotten caught licking my bowl, sucked his tongue back in. “Nice try. I saw that.”
He offered me aWho me?tilt of his head. Is it weird I said it in Scooby-Doo’s voice? For some reason, the one made me think of the other. My dog was just as cowardly. As for me, I’d yet to decide who I was. One thing was for sure, I lacked the Velma gene. But, apparently, had a lucky one because I caught my break on page seventeen. Almost missed it skimming.
An archived newspaper article had the wordsjunkyardandmurderhighlighted. It took forever for the archived story to load, and I got the gist—salacious undertones and all. The basics consisted of one Killian Mahoney, owner of Steel Deals, being questioned about the sudden surge in possibly gang-related murders in Ottawa. As to why Killian Mahoney, aka Junkdog, came to the cops’ notice? He’d once belonged to a since-disbanded gang from Toronto known as the Trikillz who liked to eliminate their rivals by gutting their victims, though not with a knife. Instead, they apparently wore gloves fitted with three long blades that sliced like claws. Very distinctive.
Back to the mounting murders in Ottawa. Guess what trait the bodies all shared? And what a coincidence that the only Trikillz member not behind bars lived in the area. There was also conjecture that the junkyard had been a front for drugs and illegal guns.
They believed that when the cops got too close, Mahoney bolted. He was never seen or heard from again. And the murders stopped.
The comment section proved even more interesting than the article.
Cops should have left him alone. He was cleaning up the scum in town.
Someone needs to put out the Junkdog’s beacon so he knows he’s needed.Which I figured meant the equivalent of a Bat-Signal.
Thanks for ruining a good thing.
The gist being that the people’s deaths had left the world a better place. Cold. Harsh. Probably true, though. Some people were a waste of space and air.
The article didn’t have a picture of Mahoney, only the junkyard sign and fence. Suddenly, I had to know what Killian Mahoney looked like. I typed in his name, got bunches of people on social media, though none of them a late-forties-something man. But I persevered, and with a combination of his name and the gang he used to belong to, located a picture. Taken by someone as he emerged from the police station wearing a scowl, a leather jacket, a dark T-shirt, and jeans.
My jaw hit the floor hard.
It’s him.
The man in my dreams.
CHAPTER8
The shock hit me hard.How could I have dreamed of Killian Mahoney, a guy I’d never met? I’d have sworn I’d never seen him before, and yet there he was, on my computer screen, looking exactly as he had in my dream.
Or had I met his ghost?
“That’s just crazy,” I muttered. I’d never believed in the supernatural. Blame the detective for putting the idea in my head. A dead man hadn’t visited me last night. Blame all the pills I’d popped for the pain. As to how I knew exactly what he looked like, down to the way his hair waved back from his face? I must have come across a picture of him and just forgotten.
Right?
“Right,” I said aloud, and I could have sworn cold fingers trailed over my skin. Goosebumps erupted, and I stood so fast from my chair, it wobbled. No one there. Of course, there wasn’t. My house didn’t have a poltergeist.
I slammed my laptop lid shut, which startled my dog, who bolted as if a ghost chased him. A ghost required a dead person. No one claimed that Mahoney had died. The detective had implied he’d run off. What if he’d never been seen again because someone had killed him and buried the body? I couldn’t think of a better place than a junkyard to do it.
I glanced out my kitchen window.I’d better not find any dead bodies.It would probably put a cramp in my rebuild schedule for the Plymouth.
Thinking of which, I should get going on it. “You coming?” I asked my cowardly dog, knowing he probably hid on the other side of the couch.
