CHAPTER 55 The Kidnapper
The Kidnapper
I head out to one of the two Terlinguan bars, late.
It’s full of smoke – normal rules need not apply, I guess – and surprisingly rammed for such a small town.
It’s hard to know where all the people have come from; there must be fifty here, a large percentage of the population.
It’s excellent for me. I’m looking for a single face in a small crowd. Easy.
An old jukebox plays Tim McGraw in the corner, and a load of middle-aged people shuffle embarrassingly on a dance floor.
Smoke curls upwards and dances by the ceiling lights.
People down cocktails and beers. There are cowboy hats and men with moustaches and women with high heels on – funny, you hardly see those any more – but not her.
I head towards the women’s room. It’s – sadly – the place to be for this sort of job.
I pretend to study a poster on the wall advertising a tribute act coming here next month, hoping I won’t still be here then on this thankless errand, and listen.
There are two women swapping lipsticks or something.
Another with hunched, suspicious body language leaves out of a side door just as I arrive.
I don’t see her face, and it’s too obvious to follow her.
It’s enough of a thrill to think that she might just be here. Everyone cuts loose sometimes, don’t they? Especially young women. Guard down, dancing, drinking, sharing lipsticks and secrets, inhibitions lost.
People come and go, and this is fucking perfect. I could sit here, down a drink, and just sink into this, but I don’t. I can’t stay long – one will get something of a reputation hanging around near the bathrooms – and so I let myself check off twenty women and then begin to leave.
Just as I do so, somebody cuts in front of me. Similar body language to her and the right colour hair, too. I quickly realize that it isn’t her, but I follow her for a while anyway – just for practice.