Page 2 of Hannah's Truth

Riding a wave of wishful thinking, Bart stuck his head out the back door to check for Tim. Like Jenny said, the man’s Army salvage Jeep wasn’t in the usual spot. “What the hell, Tim?” he muttered to the humid summer morning as he dialed the number for Tim’s house.

When the voice mail prompted him, Bart left a curt message and pocketed his cell. He couldn’t go looking now, but as soon as the breakfast rush was over and someone else was here to help Jenny, he would drive out and find his AWOL cook. And when he found him, he’d insist the man start using a cell phone.

With one more look around, he was turning back to the kitchen when he noticed the clamp they used to secure the lids on the big trash dumpster had fallen to the ground. He made a mental note to talk with whoever had closed up last night. Raccoons and opossums were forever rooting through the scraps and trash, a serious downfall of being the only business in the immediate area. He stomped over, ready to take out his frustration on any unwanted visitors in the bin. It wasn’t his first time dealing with the wildlife and he pounded on the side before he raised the lid cautiously.

No reaction from inside. That was good news, but he wanted to be sure he wouldn’t be trapping a wild animal for the day before he put the clamp back in place. Holding his breath against the stench of rotting garbage, he found a foothold and leaped up to peer inside.

Fury whipped through him and he nearly lost his footing. “Dammit.”

Bound and gagged, Tim’s body had been tossed on top of yesterday’s trash. Bart checked for a pulse, but his cook was well beyond any lifesaving effort. Tim stared sightlessly at the lightening sky. Bruises marred his face and blood soaked through the fabric of his shirt and jeans. Even with his hands bound, it was clear a couple of fingers had been broken and crushed by something heavy.

He spotted a spiral notebook in Tim’s shirt pocket and pulling a pencil from his pocket he slid it out and turned a couple of pages. Just produce orders and a new recipe that didn’t make much sense to Bart.

Bart was tempted to take a closer look, but he didn’t want to contaminate the scene further. Pushing the notebook back into Tim’s pocket, he dropped back to the ground and pulled his phone from a side pocket of his pants.

Pacing away from the dumpster, he swore at the streak of orange paint across the knee of his pants. He looked back and saw the glowing orange graffiti of a skull and crossbones on the dumpster. Instead of the usual one-eyed grimace found on pirate flags, the skull had ‘X’s for eyes and a wavy line for a smile. He’d seen the sign in the news recently with reporters tying it to a Mexican cartel moving into the area and stirring up trouble with gangs in the urban areas further north.

How the hell had Tim managed to piss off a drug cartel?

He took a picture with his phone. Switching to his contacts page, he scrolled the short list of names and numbers until hefound the sheriff’s office. No sense dialing 911 and rousing all the volunteers in the county for a body.

He dialed and while he waited for an answer, he looked up toward the one security camera trained at this door. The vandal had covered the lens with that same neon orange spray paint. They might find the vandal, but odds were against finding whoever dumped the body.

What he wouldn’t give to kick these criminal crews off the planet. It seemed his best years had been spent cleaning up streets and communities just in time for the next wave to move in.

When the deputy on the desk duty answered, Bart gave the few details, relieved to have a tangible task. Then he just stood there, angry, a little sick, and unsure of the next step.

It felt wrong to leave Tim’s body out here alone, but he should walk through the kitchen for any sign that Tim had been dragged into something shady. He also wanted a look at the security tape without an audience. Bart knew his cook wouldn’t have willingly done anything wrong, but those injuries indicated something more than a mugging or car-jacking gone bad.

Bart recognized signs of torture, even a fast job like the one someone had put Tim through.

With a heavy sigh, he made another call, this time to his ex-wife, holding the phone away from his ear so her scathing greeting wouldn’t break an eardrum.

“Good God, do you ever check a clock?”

It had been a familiar refrain on the rare times he’d been able to call home when he was deployed. “Sorry, Beth, but it’s important.”

“It’s summer.”

A fact he appreciated since it meant his son was vacationing far away on the Jersey shore with her at her family’s beach house.

“Listen to me,” he growled into the phone. “I have a situation here and it might spill over.”

“You never could stop—”

“Not the time, Beth.” She’d told him often enough how he put the Army above his wife and son. “Can you just keep Kyle with you until I know it’s clear down here?”

“Is this some kind of joke? He’s telling everyone about getting back to you and that car you’re supposed to rebuild. A project you didn’t bother to clear with me. It’s all he can talk about. You can’t let him down.”

“I won’t.” Bart scrubbed at his face, while the old laundry list of his failures as a husband and father put a sickening spin in his gut. “I swear I won’t. Stay alert up there, Beth. I mean it.”

“Okay, okay.”

“I’m sending you a text with a phone number. If you have any concerns, if anything feels the slightest bit off, call that number and you’ll have help.”

“You’re scaring me.”

Good. Bart glanced at the dumpster. “Just stay alert,” he said, more gently this time.

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