The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set Ernest Dempsey (top 10 books of all time txt) 📖

few cars occupied parking spots in the crumbling asphalt lot. Two were more than a decade old and Dak assumed that one of them had to belong to the manager. The third vehicle was newer—an SUV parked next to a camper on the far right side of the L-shaped building.

Dak swung into a vacant parking spot and let the engine idle for a minute as he considered his next move.

He knew the McDowells were in the unit on the end, but approaching a couple of parents about the issue with their sons couldn't have been a more delicate matter. He had to have all the right words at the right times, or they would get suspicious and not only that, he could upset them further.  Dak and their sons couldn't afford that.

He turned off the ignition and stepped out of the SUV, still wondering if he'd made the right decision in coming here.  He stiffened his spine as he strode toward the door, doing his best to look confident in a rare moment of mind-racking doubt. When he stopped at the door, he paused and hesitated. After a couple of deep breaths, Dak rapped on the door and took a step back.

A woman's voice—muted by the door—reverberated from inside. After a few seconds, Dak heard it again, giving a description of him to someone else inside the room. Dak knew Martha McDowell was giving her husband Timothy the details, but at the moment those were the only definitive bits he could cling to.

The deadbolt unlocked, and the door cracked open with the chain still hanging on the rod in the frame. A tired-looking woman peered out from the dimly lit motel room.

Dark circles hung under her bloodshot eyes, and her hair dangled in haphazard strands.  "Yes?"

"Mrs. McDowell?"

"Who are you?" she asked, her tone as exhausted as her features. "Another reporter? I'm done giving interviews."

"No, ma'am. I'm not a reporter. And I'm not a cop." The moment of truth built up a knot of tension inside Dak unlike anything he'd ever felt before. This woman's sons were being held by a man he'd served with, and there was simply no easy way to tell her that. "I'm here to help you find your sons."

Six

Brown’s Ferry

At first, Martha didn't know what to say. She merely stood there with a worn look of confusion at the statement. Then she sighed and collected her thoughts. "Is this some kind of joke?" she managed.

"No, ma'am. I wouldn't joke about something like this. I'm serious. And I believe I can find them, but we need to hurry. I don't know how much more time we have."

She puzzled over his statement, then looked him up and down. "Who are you?"

The blunt question didn't catch Dak off guard. "Let's just say I'm a private investigator and leave it at that."

"Doesn't exactly give me much of a reason to trust you now, does it?" She started to ease the door shut.

"Please," he said. "I was in the army with the guy I believe took your boys. I'd give you my name, but I don't want you to get pulled into my mess. But I will tell you this, the man who took your sons… he's as sinister as they come. I served with him a long time, and I know what he's capable of."

Tears started brimming in her tired eyes.

"But I also know how to get to him. I just need to ask you a couple of questions. That's all. I promise I won't bother you again."

"Martha?" Tim asked from somewhere inside the motel room. "What's going on?"

The man appeared behind her. His haggard face displayed the same exhaustion as his wife's, but with a hint of anger.

"This man says he is here to help us find the boys." She looked to her husband, gazing into his eyes as if her stare might pry answers from them.

He could only stare back blankly for a breath before turning to Dak. "Leave us alone. The police are doing what they can. And we've had enough fake leads for the last thirty-six hours."

He started to shut the door, but Dak set his foot in the way and blocked it, leaving nothing but the thinnest sliver between the door and frame.

"I'm not a fake lead," Dak said. "And the cops can't help your boys. I'm sure they're doing all they can, but there isn't time for red tape and bureaucracy."

"Martha," Tim said, ignoring Dak, "call the police."

She let go of the door and retreated into the room, disappearing behind the wall.

"If you call them, you will never get your boys back," Dak said. "All I ask is you give me five minutes of your time. Five minutes. I know you have no reason to trust me. But I'm going to find the man who took your sons, one way or the other. If you help me, I might be able to save them. If you don't, I could get there too late."

He could see through the crack that Tim was considering the offer. The man's eyes betrayed desperation littered among the red blood vessels streaking the whites. He was a man at his wits' end, not ready to give up the search, but with hope dangling by the most frayed of threads.

"Martha?" he said, lowering his head dejectedly. "Hold on."

Dak felt the push on the door ease and then heard the chain unhinge from the clasp. A second later, the door swung open. The room reeked of body odor and pizza. It took less than two seconds for Dak to survey the interior. He noted the source of the second smell, two unopened pizza boxes on a desk in the corner to the left. An empty bottle of Four Roses bourbon sat next to the television, with a second half-full one nearby.

"Who are you?" Tim asked. "Some kind of private investigator?"

"Something like that," Dak said. "But I can't give you my name. I can give you a fake one if you want. I will, however,