Brett Battles - Every Precious Thing

He lifted the latch and opened the gate. It groaned a little, but not enough for anyone but him to hear. The first thing he noticed once he’d rounded the back of the house was a concrete patio butting up against the building’s foundation. Sitting in the middle was a rusting Weber grill, a lonely monument to a past real or imagined. There was only one door along the back of the bartender’s home. It was at the top of a three-step staircase on the left, near where he’d come in, a window filling its upper half.

Logan checked the knob. Locked.

If he’d had the right tools with him, he could have picked it easily enough, but he didn’t. He glanced back at the yard, his eyes settling on the discarded lawn chairs. They were the metal kind, with the plastic straps that served as seat and backing. Only the plastic had rotted away, leaving just the frame and a few tattered fragments. He walked over and picked one up, checking its heft.

Perfect , he thought.

He carried the chair to the edge of the patio, took careful aim, and threw it at the grill as hard as he could. While the base of the Weber remained standing, he scored a direct hit on the top. It flipped off, tumbled through the air a couple times, and clattered loudly onto the concrete.

Logan immediately raced back to the house, hiding around the corner. Barely five seconds passed before he heard hurried footsteps thundering through the house and then stopping just on the other side of the door. He could imagine the bartender looking through the window, trying to see what had caused the noise.

A moment later, the door opened.

“What the hell?” the man muttered.

As soon as the man descended the steps, Logan peeked around the side. As he’d hoped, the bartender was heading for the patio, his back to the door. Without hesitating, Logan slipped over to the stairs, then into the house. Moving quickly now, he passed through a kitchen, a small dining room, and entered a slightly larger living room.

Outside, he heard the man pick up the chair and call out, “Who’s out here?”

Logan crossed into a tiny hallway and headed straight into the only bedroom.

From the look of the bed covers, the man had already been lying down when the chair hit the grill. A quick scan of the room revealed the only practical hiding place was the three-foot space between the bed and the far wall. As he dropped into it and tucked himself tight against the bed, Logan heard the distant thud of the kitchen door closing.

Less than a minute later, the bartender walked back into the bedroom, muttering under his breath. There was a metallic groan as the bed compressed under the man’s weight. Holding his position, Logan listened until the man’s breathing became deep and regular. Finally, he extracted himself and stood up.

He found the man’s wallet on the dresser. According to the driver’s license, the guy’s name was Brian Pearson, and he’d just celebrated his fifty-ninth birthday the year before. That was surprising. He looked a hell of a lot older to Logan.

Putting the wallet back down, Logan approached the bed and gave Pearson a shake.

“Wake up.”

The bartender’s breath caught, but he remained asleep.

Logan shook him again. “Hey, Brian. Wake. Up.”

This time, Pearson opened his eyes with a start. He began to push himself up, but Logan shoved him back to the mattress.

“What’s going on? Who-”

“What did you tell him?” Logan asked.

“Huh? What are you talking about? Who the hell are you?”

“Brian, answer the question. What did you tell him?”

The man’s eyes widened. “You’re…you’re that guy from earlier.”

“Answer the question.”

“Jesus. This is my house. Get the hell out!”

Again Pearson tried to rise. This time when Logan pushed him back, he left his hand firmly on the man’s chest, holding him in place.

“I told you there was nothing to tell,” Pearson said.

“You told me a lie, Brian.”

“I didn’t,” he said, but his eyes were clearly saying the opposite. “Wait. How do you know my-”

“Are you the one who had him beat up? Is that why you don’t want to say anything?” Logan asked. “I’d be happy to return the favor if that’s the case.”

“No, no! Please. I didn’t touch him. I didn’t even know about the fight.”

“I don’t think I believe that,” Logan said, shifting more weight onto Pearson’s chest.

“It’s the truth! I just sent him over there, that’s all.”

Logan eased back a little. “You sent him? Why?”

“Because of the picture. Why else? I’d seen the woman before, a few years ago.”

“Do you know her name?”

He shook his head. “No. I never talked to her. Just saw her with someone.”

Logan narrowed his eyes. “Who?”

When Pearson didn’t answer right away, Logan pressed down again.

“Okay, okay,” the man said, nearly coughing. “Her name’s Diana. Diana Stockley.”

Diana? “Is she the bartender at The Hideaway?”

“Yeah,” Pearson said, surprised. “You know her?”

Ignoring the question, Logan said, “You’re telling me you saw the woman in the picture and Diana together?”

Pearson nodded. “Came in a couple times on Diana’s nights off. Like I said, a year or two ago. After that, I never saw the woman again.”

Logan was silent for a moment. “Where does she live?”

“The woman? I have no idea.”

Logan shoved him in the chest again. “Diana.”

“Oh, uh…near the high school. I…I can give you her address.”

Logan left a shaken Brian Pearson with the promise of a return visit if the man said so much as a word to anyone about their conversation. Then he drove to Diana’s house.

While the homes in her neighborhood were a bit newer and better taken care of, the number of FOR SALE signs was about the same. Braden was apparently in the midst of downsizing.

The Hideaway’s bartender actually lived in one half of a duplex with a nice shade tree out front and some decent grass in the yard. The house was located on the corner, and had three cars parked in the shared, double-wide driveway, so there was no telling if Diana lived alone or with someone.

Her unit was the one on the left, farthest from the intersection. Logan walked up the stone path to the covered porch, and peeked through the window beside the door. The lights were off and all was quiet, so he assumed she must be asleep. He took out his flashlight, focused it to a tight beam, and aimed it through the glass.

On the other side was a typical living room, albeit one that could use some straightening up. Clothes and a couple of boxes lay haphazard on the couch and the nearby stuffed chair. A few more boxes were scattered across the floor.

He doused the light and turned his attention to the door, once again wishing he had proper lock-picking tools. As he’d done at Pearson’s house, he tried the knob. Tools, he realized, weren’t going to be unnecessary. The door was unlocked.

He pushed it open wide enough so he could stick his head in. The mess wasn’t contained to what he’d seen through the window. There was stuff everywhere. Even in the kitchen at the other end of the living room, he could see that all the doors to the cabinets were hanging open. It felt like the place had been systematically ransacked.

With growing dread, Logan stepped inside, made his way over to the hallway, then paused.

Dead silence.

Son of a bitch .

Hoping Diana was just a light sleeper, he tiptoed down the hall, running his light through the bathroom as he passed. It, too, had been strategically picked over. There were two more doors at the end of the hall. The first led to a small bedroom that contained only a bed and a nightstand, and nothing else.