Free Blood Secrets by Jeannie Holmes

sensation of being pulled apart.
    Anxiety gnawed at her spine. But was the source of her anxiety what she’d experienced or the brief glimpse of her father kissing another woman?
    As Varik sped down the highway and into the heart of Jefferson, Alex watched trees give way to houses and single-story commercial buildings and realized she didn’t know.
    Tasha eased her sedan through the minefield of dry potholes and ruts that comprised the driveway of Coone’s Pull-n-Go Salvage Yard. A chain-link fence topped with rows of barbed wire enclosed the yard but didn’t hide away the hundreds of derelict cars, trucks, motorcycles, and farm equipment scattered across what had once been several acres of pastureland. She parked beside a small single-wide mobile home that had seen better days and tried not to twist her ankle among the many ruts when she stepped from the vehicle.
    “You the police?” an older man with a bushy gray beard asked from the mobile home’s porch. He adjusted the band on a grease-stained cap before using it to cover an equally unruly patch of matching hair on his head.
    She flashed her badge as she rounded the front of her sedan. “Lieutenant Tasha Lockwood.” The edge of adeep pothole gave way and she had to catch herself on the hood of her car to keep from falling.
    “Watch your step there,” the man said. “Some of them holes could break a leg if you fell right.”
    “You should do something about that.”
    The man shrugged. “Don’t do no good. First gulley washer that comes through and they’re back.”
    Tasha reached the porch’s steps and stood on the lowest, still looking up at him. “Are you Mr. Coone?”
    “Last time I checked.”
    “Are you the one who called in to report a suspicious vehicle?”
    “Nope. That was my son, Buddy.”
    “Is he here?”
    The elder Coone pointed toward the yard and the sound of an approaching vehicle.
    Tasha turned to see an all-terrain version of a golf cart speeding in their direction. The cart bounced over holes and kicked up a plume of reddish dust behind it. The morning’s rain hadn’t affected this part of the county and the dust cloud overtook the vehicle. The driver stopped beside the porch and dust settled on everything in its path: the sparse brown grass, the weather-roughened wooden steps, the hood of Tasha’s car, and Tasha herself.
    The driver hopped from the cart and retrieved a toolbox and cylinder-shaped car part from the rear flatbed. He nodded to Tasha as he set the box and part on the edge of the porch. “Are you here for the alternator?”
    Before she could answer, the elder Coone spoke. “She’s police. Here about the car.”
    Tasha showed her badge and introduced herself. “You made the call, Mr. Coone?” she asked the younger man.
    “Yes, ma’am. Found it sitting in the back this morningwhen I went to pull a radiator. It’s definitely not one of ours.”
    “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but how can you tell?” she asked, glancing over the rows of rusting shells and partially stripped hulks.
    The older man snorted and the younger chuckled. “We keep track of all vehicle identification numbers. When a new one comes in, we log the number into our computer system. Anytime we pull a part we enter the part into the system and which VIN number it came from. Saves us a lot of time searching for viable parts.”
    “That’s how you knew this vehicle wasn’t one of yours.”
    Buddy Coone nodded. “Plus this car stinks to high heaven. Smells like something big crawled up in it and died.”
    “Did you open the car?”
    “I didn’t touch it except to check the VIN number through the windshield. Couldn’t stand being that close to it.” He gestured to the cart. “We can take a ride out there in the Mule and you can see for yourself.”
    Tasha joined him in the cart and winced as they bounced over the poorly maintained pathways of the salvage yard.
    Buddy pointed to a sturdy grab bar attached to the cart’s metal