Page 101 of Searching for Bristol
Rocky nodded. “Do I have time to call Drew or one of the other guys?” he asked.
“After we talk to Art,” Simon said again. “If he tells me what Ithinkhe’s gonna tell me, we’ll need everyone. All of your military experience will be appreciated.”
Rocky’s stomach rolled as he pulled up in front of Art’s house just two minutes later. Nothing looked out of place. The door was closed and no lights were on. It looked just like it always did.
Simon and Rocky walked up the sidewalk to the front door. Simon knocked. When there was no answer, he knocked again, harder.
When there was still no sound from within the house, Simon pulled his weapon from the holster at his side. “Stay behind me,” he said.
Then he backed up, raised his leg, and kicked the door.
Rocky couldn’t help but be impressed. Simon was in his mid-fifties and a bit soft around his middle, but there was enough power behind that kick to bash the door open in one blow. The fact that Simon hadn’t bothered to walk around the house, looking for another way in, told Rocky that whatever suspicions the chief had about why Art was missing this morning…they were serious.
The two men crept into the house, Simon’s pistol at the ready, with Rocky at his back. He felt naked without a weapon, but there hadn’t been time to go back to his apartment. They cleared the living area and a small galley kitchen. They made their way down a hallway, toward the two bedrooms—and a familiar smell reached Rocky’s nostrils.
He’d never forget that coppery scent. It had been burned into his memory after so many missions.
Blood.
“Art?” Simon called out. “It’s Simon. Are you all right?”
There was no answer.
Simon pointed to his eyes, then to the space in front of him and Rocky nodded. They crept forward, and Simon slowly pushed the bedroom door open.
The sight that greeted them made too many bad memories flash through Rocky’s brain.
There was a trail of blood from the doorway to where Art was now lying motionless in the middle of the bedroom. Rocky assumed he’d attempted to crawl to a phone he could see on the table next to the bed. He hadn’t made it.
“Fuck,” Simon swore. “Stay with him while I clear the other bedroom.”
Rocky nodded and went to his knees next to the old man. He gently rolled Art onto his back—and was shocked as hell when the old man’s eyes popped open and he threw an arm up, clearly trying to protect his face.
“Easy, Art! It’s me. Rocky Watson. You’re okay.”
Art’s mouth opened and closed as if he was trying to speak.
“Shhhh, don’t talk. Save your energy,” Rocky told him. He lifted the man’s shirt and saw where the blood was coming from. There was a large stab wound to his upper right chest. He immediately put his hands over the hole, even though the bleeding had mostly stopped, making it obvious that he’d been hurt quite a while ago.
Anger threatened to overcome Rocky. Who the hell would stab a ninety-one-year-old man? And why? It made no sense. Art could be ornery, but he was completely harmless.
Simon arrived back in the room and Rocky heard him talking to someone on his phone. Most likely calling for the paramedics. Then he knelt down next to Rocky. “How’s he look?”
Rocky shook his head. “Not good. I’ve only found one puncture wound, but there could be more. I’m shocked he’s still conscious.”
It was obvious Simon hadn’t realized Art was awake. His gaze turned to the older man’s, and he leaned close. “Who was it, Art?”
Art’s mouth once again did what it had before. Open, close, open, close.
“You knew, didn’t you?” Simon asked. “You knew and confronted him instead of coming to me, or Rocky, or hell…any of Rocky’s friends.”
Art shook his head. “Saw…package. Bristol’s name. Came back home to call… Followed me.”
“Shit,” Simon swore. “He attacked you to keep you quiet. I’m guessing he thought he’d covered all his bases, but he was wrong. He didn’t know how strong you are. I think I know who it is, Art. But I need you to tell me so I have probable cause to go get the son-of-a-bitch,” Simon said firmly.
Rocky held his breath. There was no way he wasn’t going after whoever had done this to Art—and who’d likely kidnapped Bristol. He didn’t give a shit what proper procedure said.
Art’s lips moved, and the sound that came out was barely a whisper. In the background, Rocky could hear sirens approaching and knew the small house was about to be overwhelmed with people. He leaned down to make sure he heard the name Art was struggling to tell them.
