Maybe. Maybe not. Her thoughts were scattering; her caffeine-high deserting her. She needed some damn coffee.
And speaking of overreacting, she’d already tried calling 9-1-1 outside. Still no signal. She’d tried several more times near the Nightmare Children, in the magic spot Ashley had described to her. Nothing. She’d even tried sending a text message to 9-1-1 — she recalled reading once that text files take up a fraction of the required bandwidth, and are the best wayto summon help from cellular dead zones. But that hadn’t worked either:Child abduction gray van license plate VBH9045 state route 7 Wanapa rest stop send police.
This text message, tagged UNABLE TO SEND, was still open. She closed it, in case Rodent Face looked over her shoulder.
She’d also tried opening the van’s rear door (which could’ve been a fatal error if the vehicle had possessed a car alarm), but it was locked. Of course — why would it not be locked? She’d lingered out there, peering into the darkness with cupped hands, tapping the glass with her knuckles, trying to coax the tiny form into moving again. No luck. The van’s interior was pitch black, and the rear doors were heaped with blankets and junk. She’d only glimpsed that little hand for a few seconds. But it’d been enough. She hadn’t imagined it.
Right?
Right.
“Ace of spades.”
“Goddamnit.”
“Language, Eddie—”
“For Christ’s sake, Sandi, we’re snowed in inside a taxpayer-funded shithouse in Colorado and it’s almost Christmas Eve. I’ll put a twenty in my swear jar when I get home, okay?”
The lady with the black bowl cut — Sandi, apparently — glanced across the wide table to Darby and mouthed: Sorry about him. She was missing a front tooth. In her lap, her rhinestone purse was embroidered with Psalm 100:5: FOR THE LORD IS GOOD AND HIS LOVE ENDURES.
Darby smiled back politely. Her delicate sensibilities could handle a little cussing. Plus, Ashley still thought Bing Crosby was one of the Beatles, and that made Ed a decent guy in her book.
But . . . she was aware that she was developing another blind spot here, just like when she’d entered the building without checking her corners. Her gut said that Rodent Face was the driver of the gray van. But it was an assumption. She knew the kidnapper/child-abuser could be anyone here. Any of the four strangers trapped at this roadside shelter could be — no, were— suspects.
Ashley? He was cleaning up at Go Fish right now. He was witty and friendly, the kind of sanguine charmer she’d dated once but never twice, but there was something about him she didn’t trust. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly why. Was it a mannerism? A choice of words? He just felt false to her, his social engagements carefully managed, the way a store clerk puts on a cheery face for customers but talks shit about them in the break room.
As for Ed and Sandi? They were nice, but something was off about them, too. They didn’t seem like they were married. They didn’t even seem like they particularly liked each other.
And Rodent Face? He was a walking AMBER-Alert already.
Everyone here was guilty until proven innocent. Darby would need to match each individual to each vehicle outside, and then she could be certain. She couldn’t just openly ask, either — or the true kidnapper/abusive parent would know she was onto them. She’d need to ply this information gently. She considered asking Ashley, Ed, and Sandi what time they’d arrived and deducing from the amount of snow piled on the cars outside. But that, too, could attract too much attention.
Then again, what if she waited too long?
The kidnapper wouldn’t linger here. The instant the blizzard cleared, or the CDOT snowplows arrived, he (or she, or they) would get the hell out of Colorado. Leaving Darby with only a suspect description and a license plate number.
Her phone chirped in her pocket, startling her. Five percent battery.
Ashley glanced up at her over a handful of grubby cards. “Signal?”
“What?”
“Any luck catching a cell signal? By the statues?”
She shook her head, understanding this was an opportunity. She knew her phone wouldn’t last the night, so now would be an appropriate time to ask, in-character: “Anyone here have an iPhone charger, by chance?”
Ashley shook his head. “Sorry.”
“I don’t,” said Sandi, nudging Ed’s elbow, and her tone morphed from sweet to venomous. “What about you, Eddie? Do you still have your phone charger, or did you pawn that, too?”
“You don’t pawn things in the twenty-first century,” Ed said. “It’s called Craigslist. And it’s not my fault Apple makes overpriced—”
“Language—”
“Trash. I was going to say overpriced trash, Sandi.” He slapped his cards to the table and looked at Ashley, forcing a grin. “I broke an iPhone in my pocket once, by sitting down. A seven-hundred-dollar gadget, destroyed by the simple act of sitting down. The flimsy little thing bent like a leaf against my—”
“Language—”
“—Hip. My hip. See, despite what Sandi here thinks, I’m actually capable of completing an entire sentence without resorting to—”
Ashley interrupted: “Four of clubs?”
“Fuck.”
Sandi sighed and popped another bubble on her tablet. “Careful, young man. Eddie-boy flips tables when he loses.”
“It was a chessboard,” Ed said, “and it was once.”
Ashley grinned, taking his new four of clubs.
“You know, Eddie, you’re never going to get another job if you don’t get that cussing under control.” Sandi pecked at her screen with a thumbnail, and a cartoon failure sound chimed — whomp-whomp.
Ed forced a smile. He started to say something, but reconsidered.
The room cooled.
Darby crossed her arms and let the words sink in — bottom line, no white Apple charging cord for miles. She guessed her phone had about ninety minutes of battery life left. Rodent Face hadn’t answered her question, of course, or even spoken at all. He was still standing by the front door, blocking the exit with his hands in his pockets, his fuzzy chin down, his red-and-black Deadpool beanie cloaking the upper half of his face.
He’s watching me. Just like I’m watching him.
She had to act natural. Her best friend had once told her that she suffered from RBF (“resting bitch-face”), and yes, it was true that Darby rarely smiled. Not because she was bitchy, or even unhappy. Smiling made her self-conscious. When the muscles in her face tensed, the long, curved scar over her eyebrow became visible, as clear as a white sickle. She’d had it since she was ten. She hated it.
CRACKLE-SNAP.
A ragged sound, like tearing fabric, and Darby jolted in her seat. It was the radio behind the security shutter hissing to life. Everyone looked up.
“Is that—”
“Yep.” Ed stood. “The emergency freak. It’s back.”