Hide No Secrets (Lawson & Abernathy 3)

“Yeah, definitely.”

They didn't say another word until the farm truck reached Green Ridge. Its dry, dusty downtown area was nothing more than a city block filled with single-story wooden buildings that held a few functional businesses. Lance drove past the local 'Feed and Seed' store and swerved onto a dirt parking lot attached to a brick garage. A rusted tow truck was parked outside the garage in the scorching sun.

Mack jumped down onto the dirty yard and rushed to the garage without saying a word to Lance. As soon as Brenda’s feet hit the dirt, Lance made a quick U-turn and drove away. Brenda stood still for a few seconds and examined the surroundings. Nothing but corn, corn, and more corn surrounding the town of Gree

n Ridge.

Mack stepped into an open, greasy bay. “Hello?” he called.

“Yeah?” a hard voice called back, opening a side door that was connected to the garage. A large, fat man who looked like a bulldog stepped out of a hot office and eyed Mack. “What do you want?”

Mack looked at the man’s name tag on his shirt. Melvin was wearing a clean pair of gray work overalls—not a single spot of grease on them. “Car broke down about a mile south of town. Need a tow.”

Melvin spotted Brenda step into the open bay. He didn't like strangers showing up. No one in Green Ridge liked strangers, especially Mr. Frinton. Melvin narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “I'm closed.” he mumbled in a hot, angry voice.

“You're the only garage in town,” Mack informed Melvin in a voice that was far from patient. “I need a tow.” Mack whipped out his badge. “I'm Detective Abernathy.”

Melvin tensed up. Cops? What were cops doing in Green Ridge?

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” he asked. “I said I was closed. Take a hike.”

Brenda watched Melvin reach over to a greasy table and pick up a tire iron. “Put that down,” she warned.

“I said take a hike,” Melvin roared, ignoring Brenda. “Don't make me split your skulls open.”

Brenda began to go for her gun. Mack shook his head at her. “Think you're man enough?” he asked, putting his badge away.

“Try me.”

Mack didn't offer a moment of hesitation. He stalked forward like a powerful grizzly bear with his head tilted toward the ground. Melvin gripped the tire iron in his fat hand and waited for Mack to get close enough to strike. Mack kept walking forward with narrow, angry eyes. “Take your best shot,” he growled at Melvin.

Melvin took a quick step backward and then threw the tire iron at Mack's head. Mack ducked down, feeling the tire iron whiz over the top of his head, and then brought up a fist that caught Melvin hard right under his jaw. Melvin's head nearly left his shoulders. The man's eyes rolled back into his head, and he hit the ground like a sack of corn.

“Nice guy,” Brenda told Mack as he spit onto the floor. “See if there is a phone inside. I'll watch the bay.”

Mack nodded his head, stepped over Melvin's fat body, and entered a stuffy, cramped office lined with old paneling from the 1970's. Mack glanced around, shocked to see that the walls were bare—no photos, calendars, nothing. Mack approached the single wooden desk that sat up against the back wall. A Bible lay on the desk… only it wasn't a real Bible. No, the Bible was some kind of strange book. Mack read the large red letters printed on the book’s black leather covering. “Adam Frinton, Prophet.”

The desk was clear except for the false book. No phone. He returned his attention back to Adam Frinton. He picked up the book and opened the front cover. A single photo of a smiling man appeared before him. Mack memorized the face and then flipped through a few pages. “Looks like the guy I decked belongs to a cult,” he said in a disgusted voice before throwing the book into a metal trash can sitting beside the desk.

“No phone, huh?” Brenda asked, reading Mack's face as he walked out of the office.

“No phone,” Mack shook his head. “I found a cult book. Some guy named Adam Frinton thinks he's a prophet. Seems chubby fell for his line.”

Brenda felt a cold chill run down her spine. “Maybe he isn't the only one?” she suggested. “The guy who gave us a ride into town had the same attitude, Mack.”

Brenda eyed the blazing day sitting outside of the bay. She drew in a deep breath of heat that smelled of dry corn and old grease. “We need to locate a phone. We passed a small diner up the street.”

“No police station, though,” Mack pointed out. “The farm truck we rode into town on had expired tags.”

“I saw.”

“The tag on the license plate was from 1994. The trucks we passed in town, from what I could read, also had expired tags.”

Mack walked outside into the heat and examined the license plate on the rusted tow truck. “Expired tag,” he informed Brenda in a hard voice. He looked back toward the downtown area, where the few trucks that were parked in town were driving away, leaving town. “Looks like we're not welcomed.”

Brenda watched over seven rusted farm trucks leave town—in a hurry. “Feel like stealing a tow truck?”

Mack walked around to the driver's side of the tow truck, yanked open a rusted door that squeaked like a dying crow, and checked the gas gauge. “Truck is on empty. We wouldn't get far,” he grunted. He slammed the driver's door closed and looked around. “Let's take a walk into town.”