Combustible by David K. Wilson

Author:David K. Wilson [Wilson, David K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-08-21T22:00:00+00:00

29

The house may have matched the address but it did not match Sam’s expectations. It looked no different than any other farmhouse Sam had ever seen. He was half-expecting a garish building painted pink and black with an XXX neon sign flashing on the roof. He was more than slightly disappointed.

A gravel driveway cut across an acre of land and led Sam to a modest, two-story farmhouse with white wooden panels and gray shutters.

After discovering the suspicious purchase, Sam had called the number on the website and spoke to a man named Dennis Mosely. Dennis seemed cautious on the phone. He was used to getting calls from all kinds of weirdos. When Sam had first mentioned he was a cop, Dennis had nearly hung up. But Sam convinced him that he was just following a lead and he would be discreet. Hell, he had told Dennis, if he had known a place like this existed in the area, he’d probably be buying a membership himself. Dennis finally relented to an interview but only in person. He had given Sam directions and asked that he come before 6 p.m., as that was when “members” would start arriving.

Sam pulled to a stop in front of the house. He stepped out of his car and was greeted by the sound of clucking chickens and a loud moo from one of two brown cows. Just a typical farm, Sam thought.

He knocked on the door and heard footsteps approaching from the other side. The door opened slowly to reveal a large man who looked to be in his fifties, with short, salt-and-pepper hair and a darker, close-cut beard. He was wearing jeans and a plain black T-shirt. You would never know from looking at him what kind of establishment he ran.

Sam introduced himself, and Dennis looked around to make sure Sam was alone before letting him in.

The inside of the house was just as traditional as the outside. A small hallway led into a modest living room, where an old light-green couch and two brown La-Z-Boy recliners sat semicircle over a large, oval braided area rug.

Without a word, Dennis led Sam through the living room into the eat-in kitchen that appeared to double as the office, ducking his large frame as he passed through the doorway. Papers and a laptop sat on the round, chrome-trimmed kitchen table. Dennis sat down and motioned for Sam to do the same.

The only sound was the steady ticking of the kitchen clock, and the silence was making Sam uncomfortable. He had been waiting for Dennis to speak first, mainly because he wasn’t sure what to say. But his nervous energy was getting the best of him.

“Your house looks so normal,” he found himself blurting out.

Dennis lit a cigarette and held one out for Sam, who shook his head. The big man took a long drag and studied Sam. He finally cracked a smile.

“This is my living room and kitchen.”

His voice was deep and mellow. It was the one thing about him that seemed to match what Sam expected from the manager of a sex club.

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