on.”
“Trouble?”
He bit his lip and leaned closer. “Don’t think it’s a bad town, but we have our issues.”
I met the man’s gaze and gave him a questioning look.
“Kids gone missing. Three of them now. Just gone.”
“Seems like a lot of folks have gone missing. It’s mighty sparse out there considering the size of the town.”
His face was hard to read. “Lots of folks working long hours.”
I nodded. “The way of the world.”
He was peering at me and I could see the lights flashing in his corneas. “When we find the fella responsible for them kids, it ain’t gonna be pretty.”
“No.” My voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t imagine.”
“Another whiskey?”
“Nope.” The taste of bile still hung in the back of my throat. No amount of whiskey was going to chase it away. “Tell me, though, is there a pig farm nearby?”
Chapter 9
A man named Keith Woeberg ran a pig farm about a kilometer north of town. Hard to miss. It didn’t take me long to find it. There were pens and the stink of pigs. There was even a sign declaring the place as Woeberg’s Farm on the walkway. Seemed like the right place. Only, something was very wrong with that pig farm.
There were no pigs.
I pulled a piece of grass and stuck it in my teeth to help me think. The farm was huge and mechanized. A tall, metal barn loomed to the right of the path, with soil around it so grease-stained nothing grew. The other side of the barn was a series of fenced-off pens—some outdoors, some partially shaded. The nearest ones were empty. Buzzards circled lazily above.
The farm made up for its lack of pigs with an excess of stink.
If this was where the video came from, then a quick scan of the room with my glow cube would be evidence enough. There was no need to find the scruffy farmer. Once the evidence was in hand, Sheriff Flores would handle the problem. Probably. Flores would handle this locally, not bothering to bring in Trish. Zane wouldn’t have a problem with that, would he? It made me wonder why Zane thought my particular set of skills was needed.
There was nobody in sight, so I left the path and circled around the barn. The close end was a concrete loading dock, its metal doors wide open to the world. The scorching wind of the late Texas afternoon gently swayed the doors, rhythmically serenading the putrid homestead with a wailing metal-on-metal screech. The dry grass between my teeth tasted like dust.
The shadow behind the barn was deep and cool. It wasn’t cold in any real sense of the word, but it was certainly cooler than the blazing heat of the sun.
That’s when I heard the farmer.
“Here, piggy, piggy.”
The land outside of the barn was a flat stretch of dead earth. Running was an option, but talking might get me the information I needed. It just had to be done without confrontation or violence, since I was still unarmed. “Howdy,” I hollered. “Reckon you and I have some business.”
“Here, piggy, piggy,” called the farmer. “You done volunteered to be next.”
“Howdy!” There was no way he couldn’t hear me. He was calling to the pig at half my volume, so unless the man was completely deaf, he’d heard me just fine.
But he didn’t react to my voice.
The farmer, Keith, rounded the corner. His plain white shirt was crusted with black, dried blood. His untrimmed beard stuck out at angles from his chin. In one hand he held a wicked knife; in the other he held something that appeared to be a bolt gun. When he saw me, his eyes flashed bright and his face twisted into a mask of rage.
“You!” he snarled.
He swung his heavy bolt gun up.
Too slow. I took two long steps forward and backhanded the gun aside. A shot rang out, a slug of metal launched high into the air. The farmer twisted backwards and ducked down. He held hard onto the gun. With a tinny thunk he reloaded and brought his weapon straight back up.
But I wasn’t there.
Bolt guns are short-range weapons. Heavy equipment
“Trouble?”
He bit his lip and leaned closer. “Don’t think it’s a bad town, but we have our issues.”
I met the man’s gaze and gave him a questioning look.
“Kids gone missing. Three of them now. Just gone.”
“Seems like a lot of folks have gone missing. It’s mighty sparse out there considering the size of the town.”
His face was hard to read. “Lots of folks working long hours.”
I nodded. “The way of the world.”
He was peering at me and I could see the lights flashing in his corneas. “When we find the fella responsible for them kids, it ain’t gonna be pretty.”
“No.” My voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t imagine.”
“Another whiskey?”
“Nope.” The taste of bile still hung in the back of my throat. No amount of whiskey was going to chase it away. “Tell me, though, is there a pig farm nearby?”
Chapter 9
A man named Keith Woeberg ran a pig farm about a kilometer north of town. Hard to miss. It didn’t take me long to find it. There were pens and the stink of pigs. There was even a sign declaring the place as Woeberg’s Farm on the walkway. Seemed like the right place. Only, something was very wrong with that pig farm.
There were no pigs.
I pulled a piece of grass and stuck it in my teeth to help me think. The farm was huge and mechanized. A tall, metal barn loomed to the right of the path, with soil around it so grease-stained nothing grew. The other side of the barn was a series of fenced-off pens—some outdoors, some partially shaded. The nearest ones were empty. Buzzards circled lazily above.
The farm made up for its lack of pigs with an excess of stink.
If this was where the video came from, then a quick scan of the room with my glow cube would be evidence enough. There was no need to find the scruffy farmer. Once the evidence was in hand, Sheriff Flores would handle the problem. Probably. Flores would handle this locally, not bothering to bring in Trish. Zane wouldn’t have a problem with that, would he? It made me wonder why Zane thought my particular set of skills was needed.
There was nobody in sight, so I left the path and circled around the barn. The close end was a concrete loading dock, its metal doors wide open to the world. The scorching wind of the late Texas afternoon gently swayed the doors, rhythmically serenading the putrid homestead with a wailing metal-on-metal screech. The dry grass between my teeth tasted like dust.
The shadow behind the barn was deep and cool. It wasn’t cold in any real sense of the word, but it was certainly cooler than the blazing heat of the sun.
That’s when I heard the farmer.
“Here, piggy, piggy.”
The land outside of the barn was a flat stretch of dead earth. Running was an option, but talking might get me the information I needed. It just had to be done without confrontation or violence, since I was still unarmed. “Howdy,” I hollered. “Reckon you and I have some business.”
“Here, piggy, piggy,” called the farmer. “You done volunteered to be next.”
“Howdy!” There was no way he couldn’t hear me. He was calling to the pig at half my volume, so unless the man was completely deaf, he’d heard me just fine.
But he didn’t react to my voice.
The farmer, Keith, rounded the corner. His plain white shirt was crusted with black, dried blood. His untrimmed beard stuck out at angles from his chin. In one hand he held a wicked knife; in the other he held something that appeared to be a bolt gun. When he saw me, his eyes flashed bright and his face twisted into a mask of rage.
“You!” he snarled.
He swung his heavy bolt gun up.
Too slow. I took two long steps forward and backhanded the gun aside. A shot rang out, a slug of metal launched high into the air. The farmer twisted backwards and ducked down. He held hard onto the gun. With a tinny thunk he reloaded and brought his weapon straight back up.
But I wasn’t there.
Bolt guns are short-range weapons. Heavy equipment
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