They haven’t taken the photographs, and they haven’t yet contacted the identity seller, though Simone has looked at his profile on the dark web browser Damien showed her. The blocky text, the strange skull-and-crossbones emojis, the clear criminality of it. She wordlessly handed his phone back to him, and he didn’t press the matter.
They lie low, not wanting to leave the house, and chasing information from Moody. It’s a stalemate. Simone cannot bear to break Lucy’s heart by leaving without trying to find the British man.
They take showers; they sleep in. They read Moody’s vast collection of novels that line the walls, old American fiction mostly. One John Grisham, evidently discarded halfway through – the spine bent to the midpoint, then pristine. One evening, Simone reads a reply from Moody, who says he’s still following leads on the man. She tells herself it’s still hopeful, though wonders if she’s delusional: they all know they are on borrowed time here.
In the evenings, they burn through his movie collection – westerns, Golden Age mysteries, cult classics. Lucy pontificates about extreme close-ups and how the post-production inEverything Everywhere All at Oncewas done in somebody’s bedroom. Simone and Damien pretend to listen.
Somehow, the police don’t come. They check the news once a day, and the stories gradually begin to dwindle. Disheskeeps its Michelin star, for now. Timeo tells theDaily Mailshe’s the best boss he ever had. The comments section of the article is unfair.You deal drugs, you expect consequences, one person says, while another adds,Bet they’re escaping to Panama to live the high life.
CHAPTER 58
The Kidnapper
Something about this particular squat little building makes me look twice. What is it? Shutters closed, but it’s evening, so that’s not unusual. No car. I pause, just staring up at it, thinking. What is it?
That’s it:every singleshutter is closed. Living room, kitchen, bathroom, bedrooms. And yet – people are there. The lights behind them are on: I can see stripes of brightness here and there, around the edges of the blinds and between the occasional uneven slat.
But every single one is closed.
Maybe someone in there is trying to keep the heat out, maybe not. Something about it just looks a little dodgy to me, which is precisely the sort of thing I’m looking for.
I stand outside for several moments, watching for movement. Nothing. I creep closer, edging around the brickwork, hidden in Texan shadows, just waiting. Everything is worth a shot, so I start at the back of the little building, looking for a way in. Patio doors front the porch. They’re locked, even though its inhabitants are not yet in bed, the metal spoke across. I look at it, interested.Verysafety conscious …
I walk a slow circle of the house. No side windows are open a crack, nothing.
And then, as I’m standing there, the blinds at the patio doors open, and somebody pulls them back. They leave the lights off as they do so, then open the door.
It swings slightly on the breeze. I pause, but nobody comes out. I stand there, just staring, at this tantalizingly open space that I could simply walk into, as silent as a shark darting here and there, unseen, in the darkness of the water.
But it’s better to wait. I have to be sure it’s her.
Ten minutes later, a hand. A female hand, I think (it’s small), but I don’t see more than that. It pulls the door shut, its owner staying in the shadows, while I stand there, just watching and thinking that this must be the house: shut up, secluded, strange behaviour. And inhabited by a female.
The thing about a kidnapping is that the target has to be the right person, of course, but also the timing has to be exactly correct. And, quite frankly, I am running out of it. I therefore need to be totally ready.
That is how I find myself buying supplies, the right supplies. Things I don’t have here. I haven’t yet definitely found her, but I can at least be prepared for when I do.
What calls itself a hardware store is off the beaten track in Terlingua. It sells everything I might need and is open a little into the evenings, the way things are here unofficially.
I put two stiff blue ropes into a wire basket, bound into a figure of eight. Duct tape comes next. I stare down at them, then add some other things, things to disguise what it looks like. A roller for paint, a set of coat hooks. Whatever. I pay in cash, don’t look at the cashier’s face, in the hope that she doesn’t look at mine.
I leave carrying my big paper bag full of stuff. I go via the suspicious little house, just to look in.
I stand there for half an hour and, suddenly, I heara voice. High and clear. My whole body startles.The voice. It’s her.
It’s so loud, so close: are those windows single-glazed?
I stand up, move around to the front again. There’s no boundary, no plot of land. None of them have it here. Just houses picked up and put down on dust, no fences, no driveways, cars abandoned wherever.
I can’t make out individual words, but I can hear that it is her. I’m so sure of it. I stand there outside her house as darkness falls. A light pops on in the kitchen, a few hours pass, then it pops off. Another goes on then, at the front of the house: a bedroom. I see one shadow dart and move at the edge of the shutters. She’s sleeping alone.
CHAPTER 59
Four o’clock in the morning. Simone stirs, then comes to, dreaming of Lucy standing at the top of a tall building, teetering on the edge. Simone reaches to save her but misses.
The world outside stripes with headlights, and Simone sits up, terrified, but the car fades into the distance. She wonders if they are simply circling her, these near misses. The drone. Soon, they will come for her, to restore the natural order of things. She took one life. Somebody must take hers.
She looks in on Lucy’s room. Her breathing is regular and deep.
