Sarah Lotz - Missing Person

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Copyright 2019 by Summit Fiction Ltd.

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First ebook edition: September 2019

Published simultaneously in Great Britain by Hodder & Stoughton, a division of Hachette UK, London, in September 2019

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ISBN 978-0-316-39663-9

E3-20190807-JV-NF-ORI

The White Road

Day Four

The Three

For Alan K and Dabby Flint, the original Wicklow Boys

If he doesnt approach me, Ill leave him alone.

Pete had been watching the boy for an hour now. The kid was blond, slight, couldnt be more than twenty, couldnt be more out of place in this bar, with its leather-skinned career drinkers bundled up in work shirts and steel-capped boots. The boy had blown in out of the cold a while backblue-lipped, shivering, hands cupped beneath his armpits, his jeans and pink denim jacket scant protection against the blizzard raging outside. But it hadnt taken long for the boy to regain his mojo. Shaking off the chill, hed made for the bar, slid onto a stool like he owned the place. Unselfconscious, unconcerned at the glancesnot all friendlythat were shot his way. Petes neighbour, a racist asshole whod been knocking back boilermakers, started droning on about the Million Man March. Pete nodded along, but his eye kept being drawn to the boy, a magnetic pull that hed given up fighting. Something had woken up inside him. Something had uncoiled, flickered to life.

If he doesnt approach me, Ill leave him alone.

Every so often the boy slid off his bar stool and weaved over to one of the tables, where he tried to engage the patrons in conversation. All hed gotten so far, apart from a cigarette and a good-natured grope from a female barfly, were shaken heads and rude gestures. It was unclear what he was saying to the folks he approachedthe bartender was into Kenny Rogers and was blasting that shit out loudbut he couldnt be soliciting sex. This part of town would be the last place youd come for that, unless you were blind or stupid. Could be that he was asking for a ride; could be he was asking for a handout.

Fuckin queer, a guy pinballing his way to the mens room mouthed as he passed the kid, but it was a half-hearted jibe. It was late and everyone had reached the maudlin stage of the evening. There was no sense of suppressed violence here, and the boy had picked up on this. This time when the fellow hed been hassling waved him away, the boy flipped him the bird, then sauntered back to the bar.

The tables nearest the door emptied one by one, and the bartender started upending chairs, nodding along to Just Dropped In. Time was running out. The boy made for the payphone. He dug out a clutch of coins, dropped them in, dialled. He was gripping the handset too tightly. He hung up, rested his forehead against the wall, shrugged, and then returned to his seat. The kid may be in trouble, but he still had that thing, that inner self-assurance that no amount of hardship could fully extinguish. That thing shed had. It was in every fluid movement. Petes neighbour belched, slapped a dirty dollar onto the counter, then stumbled out.

The boy looked over, downed his drink. Caught Petes eye. Smirked. Hesitated.

If he doesnt approach me, Ill leave him alone.

The boy approached.