“You believe me?”
“I’ve seen a lot of strange things. The strangest things are often true.”
He stood and held out his hand again. Gabe took it and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet.
“You’re not done yet,” the man told him. “When you are, you’ll know.”
He turned and walked away, to a car parked further down the bridge. An angel, Gabe thought. Yeah, right. And then something occurred to him.
“Wait!”
The man paused, looked back.
“You never told me your name?”
The man smiled, flashing very white teeth, one inlaid with a small stone. “I got a lot of names—but some people call me the Samaritan.”
“Right. Cool.”
“Yeah. It is.”
“So that’s what you do? Hang around motorway bridges saving people’s lives?”
The smile snapped off. Gabe felt a sudden chill enter his bones.
“I don’t save them all.”
* * *
—
THE CAFÉ WAS a small, shed-like building set back from the road on what looked like an abandoned building site. Gabe had passed it a few times. The road led to an out-of-town trading estate he occasionally visited for supplies.
He had always thought the place was closed, perhaps about to be demolished. It didn’t even have a name, simply the word “Café” daubed clumsily on the wood in red paint, which had run a bit, like blood. Two cars sat outside, one of which was missing its wheels.
Even the sign hanging inside the door read “Closed.” However, when Gabe pushed it, skirting the debris and broken bricks which formed a pathway, it gave with a painful groan.
Inside, the light was so dim it took his eyes a moment to adjust. Tables were arranged in rows on either side of a small, square room. A serving hatch and kitchen lurked at the back. Lights glowed dimly. Only one other patron sat at a far table in the corner, almost blending in with the shadows.
Gabe had spent a while driving before he made the call, turning thoughts over and over in his head, kneading them like dough. Could he go to the police with the photo, or would they simply dismiss him, make the right noises then file his statement in the shredder? He could already hear their calm, patronizing tones.
You’re suggesting that your father-in-law faked a morgue photograph?
Isn’t it more likely you’re mistaken? The cat must have scratched your daughter another morning.
And then the Samaritan’s voice: It ain’t proof.
No, he thought. Proof lay with the decomposing sludge of the man in the car. He held all the answers, but the only thing he was giving away was noxious gas. That just left the Bible and the notebook. The Other People. What the hell did it mean, if anything? Were the underlined passages and the words he found in the notebook connected or was he trying to link needles in a self-made haystack?
Who could he ask? Not the police. And then a thought prodded him in the gut.
There was one person who probably knew more than the police about criminal activity, the darker side of life. If anyone knew what those three words meant, he would.
Gabe walked over to him. “You invite me to all the best places.”
The Samaritan glanced up. In the dim lighting, his eyes looked like empty holes. “Don’t knock it. This is my place.”
“You own it?”
“Call it my retirement fund.”
The Samaritan must have caught Gabe’s dubious look.
“It’s a work in progress.”
Gabe couldn’t help wondering if it was more about a work in money-laundering, but he knew better than to say anything. He never asked questions about the Samaritan’s business or his life. He had a feeling he wouldn’t like the answers. And it didn’t take much of a leap to assume that a man who worked at night, carried a gun, lurked around deserted woods and refused to divulge his real name wasn’t exactly Santa Claus.
Besides, the Samaritan was a friend, of sorts. Perhaps the only friend Gabe had. And who was he to judge? We’re all capable of good and bad. Very few of us show our real faces to the world. For fear that the world might stare back and scream.
“So, can I get a coffee?”
“If you make it. “Kettle on the side. Instant in the cupboard to your left. There ain’t any milk.”
Gabe walked behind the counter, flicked on the kettle, located two grimy mugs in the sink and added the coffee and hot water. He stirred with a stained spoon from the drainer and brought the coffees back to the table.
“I can see you’re going high end.”
The Samaritan didn’t break a smile.
“You wanted to talk about the Other People.”
So it was straight down to business. Sometimes, Gabe wondered if his perception of their friendship was more one-sided than he cared to admit.
“You’ve heard the name?”
“How did you hear it?”
Gabe fumbled in his bag and took out the notebook. He showed the Samaritan the page with the traced words.
“I found it written here. I wasn’t sure if it meant anything, but…”
“Burn it.”
“What?”
“Take the notebook, burn it and forget you ever saw those words.”
Gabe stared at the Samaritan. It was the first time he had ever seen him anything less than composed. He was almost—and the idea seemed scarcely believable—rattled. The thought disturbed him.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you do not want to go anywhere near that shit, trust me.”
“I do if it will help me find Izzy.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“You were sure you wanted to jump, too.”
“This is different.”
“It really ain’t.”
“I told you, I always thought Harry must have been mistaken about the identification. Now I’m sure he deliberately lied. He’s still lying. He may even know who took Izzy. But I don’t have any proof. If this is somehow connected, if it can help me make sense of anything, I need to know.”
Another long pause. The Samaritan picked up his coffee and took a sip. He sighed.
“You heard of the Dark Web?”
Gabe felt his skin bristle. Of course he had. Every parent or relative who has lost someone would, at some point, hear about the Dark Web. The vast sub-surface of the internet, encompassing everything that’s not crawled by conventional search engines. The hidden place beneath the sheen of the official Web.