Wake of Buzzards : A gripping psychological crime thriller (A Carolina McKay Thriller Book 1) by Tony Urban & Drew Strickland

Author:Tony Urban & Drew Strickland [Urban, Tony]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Packanack Publishing
Published: 2020-08-19T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty

Carolina trailed Max’s Taurus for the next half hour, passing out of Dupray County and into Monacan, a place she only knew by reputation. And that reputation was not good. This jaunt was foolish at best. In Dupray, at least, she had Lester’s badge backing her up. Here she was in the wind, and if something went awry, she was beyond screwed.

That’s why you don’t let anything go wrong.

Max’s brake lights came on as the vehicles approached a rickety mobile home with vaguely white paint and peeling maroon trim. The windows were weather-sealed with plastic, most of it shredded by seasons of wind. In lieu of steps, a rusty ladder connected the entrance to the ground. This place made the Lape’s homestead look like a four-star resort.

The Taurus slowed to a stop, and the door opened as Max stepped into the open. The notion that this was some kind of setup flitted through Carolina’s mind. But coming all the way from New York City solely to ambush her seemed far-fetched. Besides, all she had to lose was her life, and that wasn’t worth much these days.

“You take me to the finest places,” she said as she joined him in the patch of weeds and dirt that substituted for a lawn.

“You’re the one that’s from here. Not me.” Max grabbed his tablet and a small microphone from the car, then closed the door.

“Who are we here to see?” Carolina stared at the trailer, which might have been abandoned if not for the pick-up that waited at the far end. It was a Dodge, twenty or more years old. Ragged metal framed the wheels where rust had devoured the fenders. Two washing machines and a row of metal filing cabinets filled the bed.

“His name’s Dominic Gale. Self-employed as a scrapper.”

She knew the job, such that it was. Scrappers collected appliances, car parts, tools, anything from which they could scavenge metal and sell to the junkyard where it would be crushed and melted down as it awaited a new life as a bed frame or rebar or railroad tracks.

“Some career,” she said.

“What’s your job again?” Max asked.

“Retired,” Carolina said. “So, what happened between this Gale person and Harvey Lape?”

“I’m not entirely sure. All I could find was an old newspaper article about an assault with a deadly weapon. Then, when it came time to go to trial, Gale refused to testify, and the charges were dropped.”

“So, this might be nothing at all?” she asked, wishing she wouldn’t have followed Max Barrasso on this hunt for the wild goose.

“Maybe.” Max knocked on the side of the trailer. “Or maybe he doesn’t trust cops. And who could blame him?”

She was about to protest when the door swung open. This time there was no shotgun greeting, just a pot-bellied, shirtless man with tired eyes, a scruff of a beard, and thinning, brown hair. A faded, vaguely green tattoo of an anchor decorated his sternum, and in his right hand, he clutched a half-empty, two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew.

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