"Jesus Christ! I must be out of my fucking mind!"
Frank Bowers screams at the sky, makes claw-hands, and punts the plastic table into the sand, scattering beer bottles and mostly empty takeout containers.
"Why the hell did I think that warning you would actually make you get out of town or something? It's like I forgot who I was talking to. Like I thought I was talking to a normal person. But to Chloe Price, 'lie low, people are looking for you' means 'come see me immediately and bring a fucking friend, too!' Because of course it does!"
"OK, Frank," Chloe says. "I appreciate the warning, but…"
"I should just shoot you both right now and dump your bodies into the bay," Frank cuts her off. "Then maybe I'll survive the week."
"I see you are distraught."
Actually, she hasn't seen him this upset since the Damon thing. Or rather, since the flashbacks in which he died by her hand. It's worrisome. Steph looks downright terrified.
"You don't see shit! Forget it. What the fuck do you want?"
"Uh. Don't get upset, but I was wondering if… I could have my gun back, with everything that's going on?"
Surprisingly, that tickles him. Weird dude.
"You know what?" he chuckles. "It's ridiculously insolent, but... it's probably the smartest thing you said in a month."
He goes into the RV and comes back with a paper bag covered in grease spots. This he gives to Chloe.
"You owe me big time after this. And I will collect, believe me. Don't ever point that thing at me again, got it?"
Overjoyed at this unexpected outcome, which she considered a pretty long shot, and eager to continue proving her intelligence, Chloe asks, "Was it the surveillance?"
He rolls his eyes at her. Her score's been reset, clearly.
"No, there's no goddamn surveillance there. If there was, they would already have found your ass. And mine…"
"So how…"
"You shot the padlock off, stupid!"
"Oh. I thought you said…"
"No point replacing the lock, if there's a huge bullet dent in the hatch. And you left something else there, too."
"What?"
"They didn't say. Hopefully it wasn't your wallet or something."
"No. Still got that."
"Well, I don't know. What are you missing?"
She checks her pockets. Keys, smokes, wallet, knife, loose change…
"Cute robot panda keychain," says Max, after rewinding time at least a dozen times. "A pack with 7 cigarettes in it, a parking ticket stamped at 10:34AM, and 86 cents!"
Chloe Price empties her pockets onto the diner table, her eyes getting bigger with every item.
"Amazeballs! I literally got chills all over my neck. You have powers."
"Oh, shit," she says.
"What?"
"I think it's my marker. It musta dropped when I crawled under that wall…"
"Your marker? Well, that's not so bad. Unless you carved your initials into it or something. 'Property of Arcadia Bay Idiot.'
"Uh, no."
"Refreshing that you got nothing stupid to say. Now get out of here. I'm tired of you."
"Can you tell me more about these… farmers?"
"Oh yeah! Give you their names, maybe? Their photos? No. I told you enough to be careful, which I see was a mistake already. If I tell you any more, you'll just ride up to them, grin and say, 'Frank says you're looking for me. What's up?' I just know it."
"I mean, these guys wouldn't have anything to do with Rachel, right?"
"Not unless she went snooping around underground bunkers."
"Don't you fucking joke like that."
"Get out of here, Price, before I sic Pompidou on you."
"Well, if that's how it's going to be, Frank, you were talking about spotting me some weed the other day…"
He slams the door in her face so hard, the whole RV shakes.
"That went well," Steph says. "Can we go now?"
She's pale. Not unlike Max after she pulled the trigger on Frank in the junkyard. Or was it after she didn't pull the trigger?
"Sorry, Steph," Chloe says, as they walk through the empty parking lot back to the truck. "But Frank isn't as hardcore as he fronts. All he cares about is his cash, stash, and that mangy dog. Now these guys he was talking about… I don't know about them. I didn't really like how they made him nervous. He better be right about them and Rachel…
"The good news is, they don't have much to go on. That marker is a dime a dozen, and it's not like they can run ballistics on that bullet and match it with the step-douche's gun. Which, by the way, we got back!"
"Joy," Steph says.
Sand that the wind blew in from the beach fills the cracks in the asphalt and crunches under their shoes. A train clangs by, slow enough to jump on.
Chloe stops with her hand on the door handle, watching it.
"Still," she says, breaking out of her reverie, "if shit is getting too crazy, I will never blame you for wanting to get out. Just say the word, and I'll take you back to Portland."
"No… No way. I'm not leaving you here by yourself. It's just… It's a bit overwhelming. I feel like we're back in the days of the fire, and the Tempest, and the hospital, and you and Rachel… Except, instead of hearing about it all while I DM a game or something, or watching that smoke cloud from a distance, now I'm actually in the middle of it. I'm like some newbie bard character actually running around with Callamastia, as she cuts through hordes of the undead. Like I'm there with you when that psycho stabs Rachel, and she still gets stabbed, and I just stand there, not knowing what to do. Like, if Frank attacked you there, what would I do? I feel useless."
"Steph, you're the one who's keeping me sane and on task. Without you, between wanting to cry at every little thing and these drugs wreaking havoc on my brain, I would have already lost it. I'm really glad you're here. But I would really hate for you to get hurt. I couldn't live with that."
"OK, then, let's be careful, find Rachel, and, as much as it is possible, stay away from scary losers like Frank."
"Sounds like a great plan."
The train drags its rusted, spray-painted cars north, towards Seattle. As the last of them clears the crossing, it reveals a red pickup truck waiting to cross the other way. Chloe clenches the steering wheel. She knows that truck. She knows the driver. Nathan Prescott stares out at the ocean as he rocks from side to side crossing the tracks. He looks like an asshole, who's had a pretty bad day, but finally sees something that isn't entirely getting on his nerves. This look lasts only until he becomes aware of her unmoving truck and its driver and passenger and their unmoving stares. His face aligns itself into a What the fuck? sneer, but Chloe finally lets go of the brakes and lets the truck roll across and away from him.
"Fuck," she says, possibly at the same time he does.
She drives slowly, much slower than she normally drives.
"There's no way I can ask him about Rachel, is there?" she asks out loud. There's no way that conversation is happening. What if there's a gun involved? He might also have a gun. Almost certainly has one, actually. Would it turn into a stand off? Should it? Should she pull the gun on him and get it over with?
"There might be," Steph says, "but probably not right now."
"He's right there, though," Chloe says in a low voice. "Alone."
"If he's involved somehow, he's not going to talk, and knowing who he is, whatever he does say will sound like he's involved, regardless if he is or not. You know what I mean?"
"Shit. Yes, I do. OK, let's get something we can work with, first. Samuel and his bikes."
Except it's Saturday, and Samuel won't be at Blackwell. Chloe knows this, but drives there anyway, because what if he is, and because she doesn't exactly have many other options. They park in the lot and walk across campus to the dorms. For a Saturday, the grounds are decidedly undeserted. Every piece of outdoor furniture seems to be occupied by a sketching artiste; a spirit-store-clad jock is tossing a piece of sport paraphernalia on every patch of open lawn.
Steph's getting all nostalgic, talking about how nothing's changed, and Chloe can tell it's taking all she has not to go over to the picnic table where a bunch of geeks seem to be rolling 20-sided dice.
"It's only been a year, Steph."
"Wow, you're right. Feels longer somehow."
So there's hope, and there are flashbacks, but both dissipate at about the same time. The door to Samuel's hideout is locked. Futile knocks go unanswered, and the squirrel rummaging through the overturned garbage can nearby won't say where he lives, due to the Spirit Animal Confidentiality Agreement. As they stand there, pondering what crime to commit to obtain the janitor's home address, there's a noticeable change in their surroundings. Like the sun's been blotted out by a sudden cloud, or the wings of a giant black bird.
"Chloe!"
And there is the mustached reason for it.
"You are in big trouble!"
"He calls me 'Girlie,'" Chloe says, exasperated.
"He can be old-fashioned," Joyce replies.
"An old-fashioned dickhole."
David Madsen, apparently the only male resident of Arcadia Bay over the age of 12 who doesn't wear a goatee, is therefore the only one who is free of suspicion in the case of frolicking with Rachel on the beach, as though he already didn't have a perfect alibi of being the Creepy Mustache from Planet Dipshit. Famously, the mustachio man trusts no one with a goatee, which makes him suspect every man he sees in town, and of course, any woman who's spotted outside of a kitchen is getting straight on his nerves. He's wearing his Blackwell Security-and-frown uniform, which is in need of ironing. Preferably while still on his person. His appearance on the scene triggers multiple flashbacks and a single strong emotion in Chloe. The flashback that follows the memory of the kitchen conversation is the one in which Max hides in her closet, while David slaps her across the face.
Like that would ever happen without him getting stabbed.
She decides to be civil this once, though, for Steph's sake.
"Don't talk to me like I'm in fucking grade school, David."
"Then don't act like you're… in grade school! Running away like that! Do you know what you're doing to your mother?"
"Yes, I do. I already talked to my mom, and I don't need to hear it again from you."
"What you need, is…"
"Discipline?"
"… to grow up."
"Oh, like someone who can leave the house and be alone for two days without everyone losing their shit? I'm nineteen!"
"If you're such an adult, why don't you get a job? Move out? Live on your own?"
"So you want to evict me out of my own house now? Is that it?"
"I want you to be responsible. Get your life together."
"Maybe I wouldn't be so fucked up, if my mother didn't marry an asshole like you!"
"You can't talk to me like that!"
"What are you gonna do? Hit me?"
"How about I arrest you for trespassing? A few days in the cell oughta straighten you out."
"You're not a real cop, douchebag. Let's go, Steph."
He steps in front of her.
"Oh, while you're on campus property, I'm as real as they get. So you're not going anywhere, until I'm done talking to you."
"Let's go, Steph."
"You stay where you are!" David yells, pointing at Steph, who freezes. "Now tell me why you are here, Chloe, before I call the 'real' cops. Are you a drug mule? I'm not blind, you know."
"Fuck," Chloe sighs. "We don't have time for this."
"We're looking for Samuel, the janitor," Steph says.
"Why?" David narrows his eyes. "What business can you possibly have with him?"
"None of your business, that's for sure," Chloe inserts.
"He might help us find Rachel."
"Rachel…?" For a few seconds, David stammers, not knowing what to say. Then, the familiar asshole takes over. "Why, that snobby little tart's disappearance might be the best thing that's ever happened to…"
"You motherfucker!"
Chloe shouts and rushes forward, with Steph having to once again step between them.
"Why would you say that?" she asks, making David stammer in confusion once again.
"Because he's a scumbag," Chloe growls, pushing weakly against Steph's back. Her momentary rage subsides into tears, which are now streaming down her cheeks.
"Chloe never... she never saw…" David says quietly, trailing off. "Anyway, you shouldn't be searching for her. It's not a task for a couple of…"
"Do you know where Samuel lives?" Steph cuts him off, timely. "Can you tell us, please?"
"What does that weirdo have to do with anything, anyway?"
"We're looking for a biker, and he knows about bikes."
David scoffs.
"Well, I don't know where he lives. But the office does, I'm sure. Go on. Get off my campus. I'll text you the address."
With that, he turns and stomps away.
"Asshole," Chloe breathes.
"He's going to help us, Chloe."
"Makes me hate him even more."
They go back to the truck and wait in silence. Chloe tears have stopped. She punches the dashboard a few time, then lights a cigarette. Steph is checking her phone. A few minutes later, Chloe's phone buzzes. She checks the screen and starts the engine, without replying.
Samuel Taylor lives in a repurposed barn on an acre of land bordering the junkyard. You can literally see the stacks of wrecked cars from his driveway, and in the opposite direction, between the trees, the lighthouse. The house is red, with white doors. There's an old silo nearby and the remains of the stables. All of it seems familiar to Chloe, which does not surprise her. Having basicallly lived at the junkyard for the last three years, she probably saw the house without seeing it a million times. She wonders if there's a storm bunker on the property.
An old woman opens the door, because of course Samuel lives with his mother. She invites them into the hallway and shuffles away. A minute later, Samuel appears. Seeing his face, and the gray short-sleeved button shirt he wears, Chloe gets an unsettling feeling that the old woman was Samuel in disguise.
"Chloe Price and Steph Gingrich," Samuel says. "This is certainly a surprise. I didn't expect to see you here again."