Beth is kidnapped. It didn't sound real. He found himself repeating it in his mind, over and over. She wasn't coming home.
He could feel something in his head rattling around like a coin in a washing machine. An irritant. What was that?
Gerald heard an inner monologue snapping somewhere, like in a movie. Sepia tone. Music swells. Lights dim.
The Hardboiled Detective Lynch-one of his favorite characters-was sitting at an endless bar, drinking back her misery one shot at a time, and leaving endless ashtrays full of dead soldiers. Her. A battered Fedora hat shadows her face. There's an aura of menace about her-something that's not male, female or anything. Something hungry.
He couldn't exactly see the face under that hat. Maybe it was him...a part of him, that Beth had helped him find. Willing to help do things Gerald might have normally considered unconscionable.
I'm going to get her back.
And, how are you are going to do that?
Anything I have to.
How far are you willing to go for this woman?
Anything I have to.
Well, let's see what you got, Kid. I'll take your case.
Gerald smiled absently. Detective Lynch was on the case.
....
Gerald shook his head.
Who was this woman?
More important questions. Could he trust her? She seemed to have knowledge of Beths kidnapping...and how would she know that, if it just happened. Unless she was in on it.
I wasn't born yesterday, darling.
It was almost to easy, he thought. Mysterious woman from nowhere offers to help. He was desperate, afraid, dammit. Vulnerable. Ready for any lifeline. She certainly timed her appearance well.
So. Logic.
There's a very good chance this woman is involved in Beths Kidnapping. Maybe not directly.
Why are they helping you?
They want something from you.
What do you have to offer?
I'm just...a normal guy. I live in a small house with a leaky roof, and I don't make waves. What could they want from me?
If you don't take the leap, you're never going to find out.
She was right about that. 'Eliza Heart' (the name sounded amazingly fake to him) was the only lead he had. He could ask her things, sure. He could almost hear the canned response-"Everythink vill be answered when you veet mine Employer, Meester Green.". It was odd he thought of her as a sort, what was it-A Russian Spy. Or maybe she was more like an Alien Invader-Martian Doppelganger from Beyond the Stars. In his fiction, the Hero always trusted the Imposters at first-but, always in the nick of time, their gut instinct would warn them of their true form-and they would always win.
He wasn't a Hero, though. His gut wasn't saying anything right now.
Time to take a leap of Faith.
"...Okay. Just, give me five minutes. I need to clean up, get a fresh shirt and pants. I was...fixing the sink." He held up his greasy hands as an example. He gave her a look that he hoped implied to her she needed to give him some personal space.
Just give me five minutes alone, he thought. He needed to get a message to someone.