Silent Neighbor (Sheila Stone #9)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The neon sign of "The Last Drop" bar flickered erratically as Sheila and Finn sat in their unmarked car.

"It feels wrong being here," Sheila said, her eyes darting to the bar's entrance, then away, as if the mere sight of it might weaken her resolve.

The parking lot was half-full, a mix of beat-up pickup trucks with mud-caked tires and sleek motorcycles with chrome that gleamed even in the dim light. The diverse array of vehicles hinted at the eclectic clientele inside, a microcosm of Coldwater's population.

Finn nodded, his face a mask of determination, though Sheila could see the tightness around his eyes that betrayed his own discomfort. "I know," he replied, his voice gruff. "But Dwayne's intel is solid. Lucas Raines is in there, and he's our best lead so far."

Sheila sighed, recalling Dwayne's excited voice over the phone earlier. The IT specialist had managed to trace the IP address of PhoenixRising to Lucas, then tracked his cell phone to this very bar. It was a break they desperately needed, but the location made Sheila's skin crawl with unease.

Her eyes flicked to Finn, remembering the promise they'd made to each other months ago. She hadn't seen Finn at his worst, but he'd told her stories of his drinking days, and she understood firsthand how easily an occasional habit could become all-consuming. She'd started drinking heavily after Natalie's death, and only recently had she finished crawling out of that pit of misery and self-destruction.

The last thing she wanted to do was fall back inside. Being here, now, felt like tempting fate, like dancing on the edge of a precipice they'd fought so hard to step back from.

"We go in, we find Lucas, we get out," she said, as much to reassure herself as Finn. "No lingering, no... distractions." The word 'distractions' hung in the air, heavy with meaning.

Finn reached over and squeezed her hand reassuringly. "We've got this," he said, his voice low and intense. "We're stronger together."

With a deep breath that did little to calm her racing heart, Sheila nodded. They exited the car, the slam of the doors echoing in the quiet night. As they approached the bar, the sound of raucous laughter and the tinny strains of a country song grew louder. The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke wafted out each time the door opened, a scent that triggered a visceral response in Sheila—part craving, part revulsion.

Sheila pushed open the heavy door, its hinges groaning in protest, and they stepped into a different world. The interior of the Last Drop was dimly lit, the air so thick with cigarette smoke that it seemed to have a bluish haze. The sharp tang of spilled beer mingled with the smoke, creating a cocktail of scents that was at once familiar and nauseating.

Neon beer signs lined the walls, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the scarred wooden bar and mismatched tables. The bar itself was a long, curved piece of oak, its surface marred by countless rings from sweating glasses and burn marks from carelessly discarded cigarettes. Behind it, rows of bottles gleamed in the low light, their labels a tempting array of colors and promises.

A jukebox in the corner blared out an old Johnny Cash tune, the Man in Black's gravelly voice nearly drowned out by the cacophony of voices. The clinking of glasses, burst of laughter, and occasional shout created a wall of sound that was almost physical in its intensity.

Sheila blinked rapidly, allowing her eyes to adjust to the low light. She pulled out her phone, bringing up a photo of Lucas Raines that Dwayne had sent over. Scanning the room, her gaze moved from face to face, each one a potential suspect, a potential threat.

Finally, her eyes settled on a table in the far corner, partially obscured by a haze of cigarette smoke. "There," she murmured to Finn, nodding toward the group. Her voice was barely audible over the din of the bar, but Finn understood, his eyes following her line of sight.

Lucas sat at a table with half a dozen others, all of them raising their glasses in what appeared to be a toast. The table was littered with empty bottles—beer, whiskey, tequila—a graveyard of spent spirits that spoke of a long night of heavy drinking. Overflowing ashtrays added to the smoky haze surrounding them, the acrid smell growing stronger as Sheila and Finn approached.

Lucas himself was a sorry sight. His clothes were rumpled, his hair disheveled. He swayed slightly in his seat, his eyes glazed and unfocused. A half-empty glass of amber liquid—whiskey, Sheila guessed—was clutched in his hand like a lifeline.

As Sheila and Finn drew near, they caught the tail end of Lucas's slurred words. "To Jake and Brad," he said, his voice thick with emotion and alcohol. "May they find the ultimate thrill in the great beyond."

The group echoed the sentiment with a chorus of "To Jake and Brad!" before clinking their glasses together. The sound was discordant, glasses missing each other in the participants' inebriated state. They downed their drinks in unison, grimacing as the alcohol burned its way down.

Sheila felt a chill run down her spine at the casual way they spoke of the dead. Were all these people members of that adventure group—what was the tagline again? Ah, yes. Extreme Limits: Push Boundaries, Defy Death.

These people, who had apparently known Jake and Brad, were toasting their memory as if their deaths were some grand adventure rather than a tragic loss. Had they been involved somehow? Complicit?

Steeling herself, Sheila stepped forward. "Lucas Raines?" she said, her voice cutting through the ambient noise. She flashed her badge, the metal catching the light from a nearby neon sign. "I'm Deputy Stone, and this is Deputy Mercer. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

Lucas squinted up at them, his bloodshot eyes struggling to focus. "Cops?" he slurred, the word coming out more as an accusation than a question. "Man, what a buzzkill. Can't you see we're in the middle of something here?"

One of his companions, a heavily tattooed man with a shaved head and arms like tree trunks, stood up unsteadily. His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he pushed it back. "Yeah, get lost," he growled, his words slightly slurred but no less menacing. "This is a private party."

Finn stepped forward, positioning himself subtly between the tattooed man and Sheila. She didn't need the protection, but she appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

"I'm afraid this can't wait," Finn said. "We need to talk to Mr. Raines about an ongoing investigation."

The tattooed man sneered, taking a threatening step toward Finn. Even in the dim light, Sheila could see the man's pupils were dilated, whether from alcohol or something stronger, she couldn't tell. "I said, get lost, pig," he said, the last word dripping with contempt.

Sheila could feel the situation teetering on the edge of violence. She intervened, hoping to defuse the tension before it exploded. "We couldn't help but overhear your toast," she said, keeping her voice calm and professional. "You knew Jake Pearson and Brad Blackwell?"

A hush fell over the group, their inebriated revelry suddenly sobered by Sheila's question. The other patrons in the bar seemed to sense the shift in atmosphere, conversations dying down as curious eyes turned toward the confrontation.

Lucas leaned forward, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as he studied Sheila. The movement caused him to sway dangerously, and he had to grab the edge of the table to steady himself. "Yeah, we knew them," he said, his words coming out slow and deliberate, as if he was concentrating hard on each syllable. "What's it to you?"

"We're investigating their deaths," Sheila explained, watching Lucas's face carefully for any reaction. His eyes widened slightly at her words, a flicker of something—fear? guilt?—passing across his features before he masked it with a scowl. "We believe they may be connected. Can you tell us about your relationship with Jake and Brad?"

Lucas exchanged glances with his companions, a silent communication passing between them. The atmosphere grew tense, the air thick with unspoken words and shared secrets. Finally, Lucas turned back to Sheila, his face a carefully composed mask of nonchalance.

"We're all part of the same online group," he said, gesturing vaguely with his glass and sloshing some of its contents onto the already sticky table. "Extreme adventurers, you know? Jake and Brad... they were the best of us. Always pushing the limits, seeking the next big thrill."

Sheila's pulse quickened. They were finally getting somewhere. She could feel Finn tense beside her, both of them acutely aware of the importance of this moment. "This online group..." she began, choosing her words carefully. "Would you happen to go by the username PhoenixRising?"

Lucas stared at her blankly. "Why do you ask?"

"We've seen some of your exchanges with Jake," Finn interjected, his tone deceptively casual. "Particularly a heated argument about some of his posts. Care to elaborate on that?"

Lucas's demeanor changed instantly, his face hardening into a mask of defiance. "I've got nothing to say to you," he said, his words coming out in a rush. "You don't understand our world, what we do, why we do it. You're just looking for someone to blame, aren't you?"

The tattooed man stepped closer, using his bulk to try and intimidate Sheila. His breath reeked of whiskey and stale cigarettes as he growled, "I think it's time for you to leave, lady."

"Back off," Finn said. "Before I make you."

The two men glared at one another.

Sheila's eyes never left Lucas. She could see the wheels turning in his alcohol-addled brain, could almost hear him trying to figure out how much they knew, how much danger he was in.

"Mr. Raines," she said, keeping her voice calm and level, "we're not here to judge your lifestyle. We just want to understand what happened to Jake and Brad. If you know anything that could help us—"

"I said, I've got nothing to say!" Lucas shouted, his voice cracking. He stumbled to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair in the process. "I gotta take a piss."

He staggered toward the back of the bar, using tables and the backs of chairs to keep himself upright. Sheila watched him go, her instincts screaming that something wasn't right. She glanced at Finn, who was still engaged in a silent battle of wills with the tattooed man.

Trusting Finn to look after himself, Sheila made her way through the crowded bar to the restrooms. The press of bodies and the noise were overwhelming, the smell of sweat and alcohol nearly making her gag. She positioned herself outside the men's room, ignoring the curious and sometimes hostile glances from other patrons.

Minutes ticked by, each one feeling like an eternity. Lucas didn't emerge. Sheila's instincts, honed by years on the job, began to prickle. Something wasn't right.

Then she felt it—a cool draft coming from under the bathroom door. It was subtle, barely noticeable in the stuffy bar, but to Sheila, it might as well have been a blaring alarm.

Without hesitation, Sheila kicked the door open, the wood splintering around the lock. Her hand instinctively moved to her weapon as she burst into the bathroom. The smell hit her first—a pungent mix of stale urine, cheap air freshener, and desperation. But the bathroom was empty, save for a single stall with its door hanging open.

And there, across the room, was an open window, the night air rushing in and stirring the fetid bathroom air.

"Finn!" she shouted, already moving toward the back exit. "He's running!"