The house looked dark, like no one was home, and it was ramshackle enough on the outside that it wouldn't have been a surprise. There was no plaque for the vet, no sign, not even a mailbox out on the dirt road. It was far enough back that, in the dark, the house was practically invisible.
The door didn't open immediately. When it did, it opened completely, revealing the man standing behind it, fully dressed in jeans and a worn work shirt despite the time of night. He didn't appear to be armed, but his right hand was concealed behind the thin door.
The gash was blatant.
Matt looked over Luke's shoulder. Whatever he saw or didn't see in the small clearing, his long, hard look didn't change at all. The last thing he needed was trouble at his doorstep in the middle of the night, especially the kind that might bring police with it. Given the choice, you didn't go to the town vet to get patched up if you didn't mind going to the clinic.
There was a long, quiet moment there in the doorway, the polite visitor bleeding on the porch, and the broad, stocky shape shadowed in the doorway, all very still and very cordial.
"Kitchen."
Matt took the man's arm, grasping it tightly and holding him up, then kicked the door shut with a boot. There was a thin amount of light inside the living room beyond the door, thrown from a single lamp. The door they were headed toward glowed more brightly, and the kitchen revealed itself to be small, cramped, in disrepair, but clean, relatively speaking. The overhead light was on, but the windows sported blackout curtains, folded over at the bottom of the sill and duct-taped in to prevent light from escaping.
Matt helped the man to a chair at the kitchen table - the few that sat around it were mismatched and obviously salvaged. He expected the man would explain himself. He didn't think he'd need to ask.