CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - Bad Gets Worse* 1 *
Wilfred raised himself up from the floor, one joint at a time.
He felt like he’d been run over by a hearse on the way to his very own funeral. His clothing was smeared with blood and grease and stains that he didn’t want to find a name for. His shirt was torn at the pocket. He’d lost three buttons and his left sleeve hung in angry tatters.
“Jesus three-toed ballerina.”
The back lockup looked like a scene out of Charlie Manson’s biography.
What the hell had happened?
There was no sign of Clavis.
No sign of Wendy Joe either.
Was it a serial killer?
A frat party run suddenly amok?
A chainsaw juggling trick gone badly awry?
The telephone rang. Wilfred grabbed for it, eyeballing the call display.
Shit.
It was Lily Milton.
What in the hell
