Chasing the Lost by Bob Mayer

The man blinked. “Old Doc Cleary owns that land. You related to him?”

“No.” And why Old Doc Cleary had deeded it to his mother was a question that Chase was going to find an answer to. It was a double lot, a little over three acres, stretching from Brams Point Road in front, across a hundred yards of scattered palmettos and scrub to the house, and then a short, sloping backyard of dying grass. It ended at a two-foot-high steel sea wall and a hard-packed beach whose width depended on the tide, and beyond that was the Intracoastal Waterway.

“No one can live there,” the man said. “The house is—”

“I live here now,” Chase cut him off.

“I’ll give you two million for the lot. And the house, even though it isn’t worth shit since the storm put that tree down on it. Hell, it wasn’t much of a house to start with. Have to raze that piece of crap, anyway.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Chase could still see the woman. Long, lean legs. Tanned. Perhaps a dancer. His mind went back beyond Sylvie; she reminded him vaguely of images of his mother, a dancer too, the memory from his hazy childhood. She stood where the gravel driveway met pavement, not hiding her interest about what was going on in the slightest. The kid, however, had become bored, and was peddling away down the street.

“I said two million,” the man repeated.

“Heard you,” Chase said. “Not interested.”

“Listen, you motherfucker, take the money or I’ll—”

Chase made up the ground between the two of them in less than three seconds, in which time the man brought the gun up and aimed it. Chase clamped his hand on the man’s wrist and twisted, the gun falling to the ground with a clatter. He shoved the man back and away from the weapon.

That should have been it, but the fire-plug guy dropped his beer, grabbed a golf club from one of the bags in the trunk, and came forward. In a smooth movement, Chase went to one knee, scooping up the gun, cocking it, flipping off the safety and aiming it right between the man’s eyes. The man froze, eyes wide, club over his head.

“Good boy,” Chase said. “Down.” The man lowered the club and backed up.

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Genre – Thriller

Rating – PG

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