It didn’t take long for Anita to pinpoint the two most likely places that Freddie ran off to. He had an aunt that lived in the area, in some suburb just outside of Houston, and he had a little lake house in Oklahoma a few hours away. I checked out his aunt’s house first, just because it was closer.

I almost got lost in the sprawling, maze-like neighborhood filled with almost identical houses. But after going in circles and turning around for twenty minutes or so, I finally stumbled upon the correct beige house with a bay window and a two car garage. A sign that said “The Kidd’s” stuck to the side of the mailbox confirmed it. I knocked, and an old, tiny, concerned looking black woman with glasses almost falling off of her nose looked up at me.

“What?” she said.

“Uhhh, are you Florence Kidd?” I asked weakly, taken off guard by her oddly commanding presence.

“What?” she repeated.

“Sorry, I’m just looking for your nephew. Do you know where he is? I need to talk to him about something.”

“Boy, you are going to have to speak up. I can’t hear shit you’re saying to me,” she said.

“Is Freddie Kidd around here?!” I said, almost yelling.

She adjusted her glasses to get a better look at me.

“The fuck you want with Freddie?” she asked. “Did he piss off some crack heads again?”

“No, we’re friends. He was teaching me how to box. Is he here?”

“Mmmhm,” she said, her mouth flat and her eyes narrow. “He hasn’t come to see me in about ten years. Ungrateful little brat got his money and acted like I don’t exist. After I put his ass up in my house while he was getting beat down twice a week in those little regional tournaments. If you see him, tell him I want a new car. A fuckin’ Cadillac.” And she shut the door on my face.

Alright, I guess he was at the lake house.

As I turned to get back in the van, I felt someone moving behind me. They were moving fast, much faster than Florence could manage. I whipped around, ready to see Freddie, but it was a kid. I doubt he was older than ten or eleven.

“You’re friends with Freddie?” he asked.

“Yep,” I said.

“Can you ask him if he can come over for Thanksgiving? And give him this to sign?”

He handed me a kid’s boxing glove, about two-thirds the size of a regular one. The area around the knuckles was cracked and stuffing poked out.

“Yeah, sure. No problem.” I almost smiled.

“Thanks,” he said. “And is it true that he—”

“Franklin! Get your ass back inside!” Florence yelled from the porch.

He didn’t bother to finish his sentence, and ran back into the house before Florence got a chance to really get mad. She glared at me, and I hustled to the van, glove in hand.

It took a few hours to get to the lake house. It was small, and hadn’t been maintained well — the grass was long and full of weeds, and the baby blue paint had started to chip off of the paneling — but it was easy to see that there was a nice house underneath all of that. Freddie’s truck was parked in the front, and all of the lights were on.

I parked down the street a little, and walked towards the house, looking to see if there was any movement near the windows. There wasn’t. An old dude with a platinum blond helmet of hair eyed me suspiciously while he sat on the porch. I gave him the finger and he suddenly became very interested in his newspaper. It wasn’t long before I was able to crouch behind Freddie’s truck and get a closer look at the house. Still no movement inside, from what I could see. My heart thumped thinking about what sort of fucked-up ambush Freddie might have thought up for me.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Going around to the back of the house, there was a big propane grill, and it was still running. It wasn’t unlike Freddie to get drunk off his ass and forget to turn off a burner, but I couldn’t help but feel like he saw me coming and hauled ass inside. He was waiting for me in there, ready to either kill me or die trying. In that case, there was no point in all of this sneaking around.

“Freddie!” I yelled. “I don’t want to hurt you! Just open the door so we can talk! There’s some shit going on that you need to know about!”

No answer.

“Come on! We can talk outside if you want! Just come out! I don’t want to set off any fuckin’ boobie traps or anything!”

Still no answer.

Fuck, why couldn’t anything be easy? If he was going to be like this, I had no choice but to kick down his door and sludge his ass to the wall before he could get a shot off. He knew all of my tricks, but that doesn’t mean he could do anything about them.

My foot went through his front door with ease, and it flew off into the house. Cautiously, I stepped inside, looking both ways to see if there were any stocky men with guns pointed at my face. But there wasn’t. It was just a tiny mudroom with another door that led into the main part of the house. I kicked that door open too, even though it probably didn’t have a lock on it. It didn’t clang against the floor like the first door. The sound was muffled by a pool of coagulated blood on the floor.

The entire dining room was painted red with blood. Even the ceiling had splatters of blood that dripped down, leaving circular stains in the cedar tabletop. What was left of Freddie was gathered in one of the chairs. But there wasn’t a whole lot left of him. Most of his internal organs stuck to the walls and floor in bits and pieces, but his head was still fully intact, sitting on top of a pile of unidentifiable gore. There was a look of rage permanently frozen on his face.

There was only one person that was capable of something like this.

On the table, right in front of Freddie’s remains, there was a note, folded in half, bogged down by red droplets. I knew it was for me.

Dear Gus,

How’s it goin? It’s been awhile. A lot’s been going on back in Tennessee since you left. The country still needed drugs, so I took over for the Futrells. I’ve also been dealing with these crazy cultist fucks for you while you’ve been vacationing in Houston. Hope you had a good time, but the good times are over now. They’re planning something big, and whatever it is, it’s gonna happen soon. If they launch their whole army at my ass, I’m fucked. And if I’m fucked, you’re fucked. Meet me at these coordinates. We need to do some real talkin.

Love,

Mickey