Chapter 109
Dylan
‘You should message that Claudia too,’ Garrett reminds him from the driver’s seat. ‘See if the guy she bought the picture from is our guy.’
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ Dylan says, finding Claudia Anstey’s profile and tapping out a DM. She must be waiting for it too, because her reply is instant.
Hey Dylan. The photographer we bought from is called Jake and his website is , but there’s no photo of him on there, so he might have nothing to do with this. Don’t jump to conclusions on my watch, you know? But good luck.
It’s him, Dylan knows it in his gut. He opens the website, scrolls through the various pages.
But it’s just photographs, nothing helpful about the photographer except his first name, Jake.
He tries to work out if the photos tell him anything, but they’re all landscape shots, moody desert plains encroaching on abandoned buildings.
One house holds his eye – half of it is blood red, like the owner bled out while painting it, and there are iron square windows that remind him of prison bars.
But it doesn’t help him work out where Maple is.
‘Anything?’ Garrett asks grimly, like he knows the answer already.
‘Nah,’ Dylan manages.
‘Bagdad Café it is then,’ Garrett mutters, staring at the road ahead. ‘And I’m pretty sure only a handful of people live in Newberry Springs these days, so we just need to pray that Jake’s one of them.’
It takes them nearly two and a half hours to reach the café – two hours pushing the truck to its max speed limit, then twenty minutes cursing and doubling back after missing exit 206.
They’ve been mostly quiet on the journey, but Garrett has explained that Bagdad Café is a cult movie from the 1980s – Stranger Things era – with an epic theme tune, so Dylan is surprised when they pull up outside a rundown, one-story roadside café.
But then again, they’re not here for movie nostalgia.
Dylan throws open the truck door and races toward the café, the others in step behind him.
Closer up, he can see hundreds of stickers in the windows, flags from dozens of different countries stuffed in flowerpots or stuck to splintered wooden beams. He pulls on the main door, but it only rattles.
He tries it again, then realizes it’s locked.
‘Shit,’ Garrett mutters, pointing to a sign with the opening hours. ‘The café closed half an hour ago.’
‘So what do we do?’ Dylan asks, scanning the desolate landscape. The sun has disappeared over the horizon now; it’ll be dark soon. How the hell are they going to find Maple in this? He rattles the handle again, but in frustration this time, so he almost falls over when the door opens.
‘Jeez, can’t you read a sign?’ a man in denim shorts and a grubby white T-shirt mutters. ‘I’ve been on my feet since dawn, broke my own record for flipping flippin’ buffel burgers for German tourists. I really don’t need kids trying to break my door down too.’
Dylan raises his hands. ‘I’m sorry but we really need your help.’
‘Oh yeah?’ The man looks at him suspiciously, then shifts his gaze to Garrett and the twins and visibly softens. ‘What kind of help?’
‘Do you know someone called Jake who lives around here?’ Dylan asks. ‘He’s a photographer, has an amazing camera apparently. He was in here recently. I mean I guess you have visitors from all over but …’
‘Yeah, I know him,’ the man interrupts. ‘Jake Carter. Lives out on Aleppo Lane.’ He frowns slightly. ‘You know, I always had him down as a loner, but you’re the second person who’s asked about him tonight.’
Dylan’s eyes widen. ‘Was it the police asking?’
The man screws his face up. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Okay, let’s go!’ Garrett shouts, already running back to his truck.
‘Get the police down there, please,’ Dylan begs the man. Then he turns and runs too.