June 14th, 2018
The Queen Anne's Arms Pub
The Queen Anne's Arms Pub
On the outskirts of a gated community, adjacent to a McDonalds, a tiny convenience store, and a wig shop that always seemed to be closed, there was a small English-style pub. Despite being located far from the main strip of bars and shops downtown, it was locally renowned for decent food, affordable drinks, and a complete lack of pretense. It was something of an open secret that the bar typically never checked for IDs, and so it occasionally drew a younger crowd than one might usually see at a bar. The dimly lit, L-shaped establishment attracted all sorts. While a relatively quiet place by nature, they didn't usually want for customers.
On this particular Thursday night however, the bar was somewhat empty. The owners attributed it to the recent kidnappings; the whole city seemed to be under a spell. The thinning patronage of the bar was made up for in part by the fact that those who did arrive ended up spending quite a bit of money. Despite being typically far removed from the troubles of the outside world, news of the disappearance managed to intrude even in this particular sanctuary.
One man had been a fixture of the bar for a few days now. He was a regular, though usually arriving late and taking a booth with a few of his friends. Tall, lean, always wearing a rumpled suit-jacket and sporting a light salt-and-pepper goatee, he liked to talk about big ideas. Snippets of his conversations were always interesting to the staff, who had become so used to his presence and sense of routine that they'd stopped asking what he wanted when he came in, and simply brought the man a pint of beer and a small plate of fried pickles.
The last few days, he'd arrived alone, and early. It was obvious he hadn't shaved or slept much, with dark circles hanging under blue eyes that seemed to have dimmed a little bit. He barely touched the fried pickles and sent back his beer in favor of a single bourbon, and then a steady stream of double bourbons afterwards. The bar staff knew enough not to cut him off, and to leave him alone.
A few well-intentioned patrons tried to start up a conversation with him, but were quickly shooed away by bar's owner when it became clear that they truly had no idea how well acquainted Rudolph Stieglitz was with the events of the last four days.
"Sorry 'bout that, Rudi. Can I getcha another?"
He nodded. Parts of him were starting to feel numb, but that was the point.
The bartender set a glass of Maker's Mark down in front of Rudi, on a coaster set between his cellphone and a tattered old journal. Written in faded ink on the brown pages were dozens of addresses and phone numbers. Some of the numbers were crossed out, or had been whited over and filled in with different addresses. Some were old colleagues, others were family friends. A few of them were celebrated relationships, like Detective Ferrie. A good man, he’d kept them in the loop as to the progress of the investigation.
At least, he had been doing so. For the last several minutes Rudi had been idly playing with the “refresh” function of his phone, waiting for a reply to his last email. It had been a day since their last correspondence. The man was surely busy.
He could at least spare a moment to say so, could he not?
Other contacts were best kept in an old address book instead of some digital library. His cannabis supplier, who he surmised had some connections to organized crime.
There were a few political figures he knew from his activist days, men and women knew to keep their ears to the ground. A cousin who worked in some bureaucratic capacity for Interpol, who owed Rudi at least one secret in exchange for keeping quiet about his flagrant womanizing. Only a few had gotten back to him yet. Busy lives and timezones were the cause of the delays, no doubt.
„Perhaps. Or they just don’t give a fuck.“
It felt like he was doing something. Rudi knew he was lying to himself. What were any of these people going to do here? What could they do to rectify a situation the government of the United States had failed to rectify? It was an embarrassment. For a country that prided itself on the strength of its defensive capabilities, that was so very obsessed and paranoid when it came to security, to yet again just lose one hundred and fifty-nine adolescents?
„You bastards lost my daughter. Where’s that fanatical American bravado when we actually need it? An eight hundred thousand strong intelligence community and they can't fix shit.“
Rudi fumed under his breath in his native tongue, cursing the country that up until this point had been very kind to him. It had been a place to gain respect in his field, and later wealth that had far and away surpassed what he’d ever expected to possess. For a time he’d thought that would be the extent of the good he could do in the world – mobilizing resources for one cause or another, using so-called “green capital” for the benefit of all mankind. Turning the capitalist engine in a direction that might benefit humanity.
Then Philip was born, and his perspective changed. It added a sense of urgency to his work. There had been some good years, before everything changed again. They almost lost him, and then gained more than they’d ever imagined. Erika was born, and in her blooming personality Rudi had come to realize that raising her was the best thing he’d ever done.
„Tried to do everything right. Gave her every opportunity. Moved heaven and earth to make sure she could be all she wanted to be. Tried to be a good father. Give her a future. For what? What was any of it worth?“
Irene wasn’t so pessimistic. She still held out hope that they might find the students, that some task-force would be formed to address the situation. When Rudi pointed out the flaws in that thinking, that it was going to be too late to save them all, she just jumped to another false hope. She’d taken Erika to all of those shooting competitions. Surely she’d be able to defend herself long enough to wait for rescue.
What if there wasn’t a rescue, he’d asked. Irene went quiet and told him that she knew their daughter, and that she’d never stop fighting. Then Rudi shouted, because he’d been drinking already and what was the use in holding anything back, at this point?
”I can’t believe you think our daughter is even capable of it! She won’t kill anyone, how could she do something like that?!”
“She can protect herself! She has to protect herself!”
“From what, her friends? She’ll just shoot them, yeah? What about Tyrell? You think she’ll put a bullet in his skull, too?”
“For Christ sakes Rudi, do you think Tyrell is going to let anything happen to her? They’ll look out for each other.”
“Until what?! Irene, for Gods sakes, who or what do you think is even going to be left when they find that fucking island?”
A short walk later, and he found himself here. At the bar, once again. Waiting for his own excuses not to feel completely hopeless. The best ones seemed to be at the bottom of a glass. As Rudi took another sip, the bourbon burning away his troubles, he saw a logo suddenly appear on his phone followed by an irritating chime. The battery had died.
“Shit.”
For the first time since he’d arrived, Rudi looked up and scanned the rest of the bar. Sometimes they had cables to charge phones with. As he looked to the end, his eyes drifted to another man who sat a short distance away. A Memphis Tigers cap sat low on his head, though Rudi caught a glimpse of a striking pair of light blue eyes. It was clear the two of them didn’t have much in common; this man was sturdy, blue-collar type, likely fifteen or twenty years Rudi’s junior if the apparent absence of grey hairs was any indication. He was sipping on a whiskey and coke, as Rudi continued to march through a parade of neat bourbons.
There was something familiar about him, though. Not that they'd ever met before, but he had a notion that they shared in a very particular kind of misery. This man was also a father. Rudi waved down the bartender.
“Peter – get this man another drink, it’s on me.”
