The Other People: A Novel(14)
“When did the thin man come back?” she asked Ethan/Nathan/Ned.
He barely grunted, “Dunno,” intent upon attempting to either break or dismantle the coffee machine. Whatever he was doing, it certainly wasn’t making coffee. She knew they received training, but sometimes she wondered. Oxford material, indeed.
“Here,” she sighed, dropping her bag behind the counter. “I’ll do this one.”
* * *
—
GABE HADN’T MEANT to return to the same services so soon. Normally, he would be miles away by this point. But things were not normal. Not even close. Not even his normal, which was, by most people’s standards, pretty insane.
He had changed out of his wet clothes in the camper van, thought about trying to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was that damn liquefied body seeping into the car trunk. And then he saw Izzy, in the back of the same car.
Who was the man? What had happened to him? What had he done with Izzy?
He needed to stop somewhere. Stop and think. And this place was as good as any. He ordered a black coffee from a harassed-looking young man at the counter and sat down to wait for it at his usual table. The table hadn’t been cleared. Same with a lot of them. In fact, the young man looked like the only staff member on. He wondered where the blonde waitress was. Maybe she had finished her shift. He couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit disappointed.
He reached into his bag and took out the items he had retrieved from the car, still wrapped in plastic. He laid them on the table, and paused, feeling suddenly furtive. The Samaritan had once told him: “We’re all being watched. The Man has got eyes everywhere. Internet, CCTV, traffic cameras. You’ve always got to act like somebody is watching.”
He looked around the coffee shop. In one corner, an older couple in matching Barbour jackets sipped lattes. They probably drove a Volvo and owned a spaniel, he thought. At another table, a young woman in a business suit, and heels that were entirely impractical for driving, tapped furiously at her mobile phone. Finally, there was a mum and dad with a sleeping baby in a car seat. They gulped gratefully at their coffees and threw annoyed glances at anyone who made a noise.
None of them was paying Gabe the slightest bit of attention.
He slipped the items from the plastic bag and stared at them again. He tried to view them objectively. The bobble looked so much like the bobbles Izzy had been wearing that morning. But then, lots of little girls had bobbles exactly the same. There were no stray strands of hair attached and, if the Samaritan was right, it was too late to get any useful DNA anyway.
Of course, he could still call the police, but he already knew what they would say: So, he had found a car. So what? No one denied there might have been a car. But it wasn’t Izzy he’d seen in it. Oh, they would be nice. Patient. Understanding. To a point. The point where they treated him like he was crazy. Just like before. He had grown used to them rolling their eyes whenever he came into the station. The polite but firm tone. The suggestions of talking to someone, of counselling. People he could see, numbers he could call.
In a way, he had preferred it when the police thought he was guilty of something. At least they listened to him. At least they treated him like a grown man, rather than some pathetic figure of pity. That was the worst. Becoming invisible, soundless. The assumption that everything he said was nonsense.
There is, Gabe had learned, more than one way to become lost.
For now, he supposed, he was on his own. If he were some hard-boiled detective, he might add, Just the way I like it. But he didn’t like it. He found himself thinking about the blonde waitress again. He wasn’t sure why. Yes, she was attractive, and she seemed kind. But then, that was her job—to be nice to customers, to smile politely. It wasn’t as if he really knew her. Besides, she looked like she had plenty going on in her own life as it was. She certainly didn’t need his problems. And, aside from a rusty old camper van, that was all he had to offer.
He opened the map and spread it out on the table. A few places had been marked with an X, but they didn’t mean anything to him. He folded it back up and picked up the Bible. He had glanced at it only briefly before, the soft, moldy feel of the pages putting him off handling it for too long. Besides, he remembered the stickers on the back window of the car.
When you drive like I do, you’d better believe in God.
Real men love Jesus.
The Bible seemed appropriate. But now, as he thumbed through the still-damp pages, he noticed something else. Certain passages had been underlined:
But if there is any further injury, then you shall appoint as a penalty life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth. (Exodus 21: 23–25)
If a man injures his neighbor, just as he has done, so it shall be done to him. (Leviticus 24: 17–21)
You shall purge the evil from among you. The rest will hear and be afraid and will never again do such an evil thing among you. (Deuteronomy 19: 18–21)
He will avenge the blood of His servants and will render vengeance on His adversaries. (Deuteronomy 32: 43)
Real men may love Jesus, but it seemed that this one was strictly Old Testament. Vengeance, retribution, blood. Gabe felt an icy nail scrape down his spine.
He put it to one side and opened the notebook. Ripped edges. Blank pages. Why rip them out? What was written on them?
“Americano?” a voice asked.