But no. Maybe it’s good that Chrys isn’t here. She has a way of doing things the difficult way, the right way. She spent forever trying to persuade Chrys to steal a car, and in the end, Ron did it alone despite Chrys saying no. And look at how well that turned out for them. Chrys got to the camp, like she wanted. If it weren’t for the truck, they’d probably still be walking and hitchhiking across state lines.
Chrys isn’t here so Ron is going to do this her way. The easy way.
Ron closes the phone and puts it back in her pocket. She walks down the stairs and on the road that leads out of town.
The town has no street lights so she’s mostly guided by the lights in the windows. She stops at a noisy building that looks to be a bar or something. Parked outside is a motorcycle. A cherry red Harley Davidson.
She smiles and heads closer to the bike, peering at the license plate. 3RFP5A.
She looks into the first floor window. She can see some guys playing pool. One guy is blocking most of her view though.
If this is a bar, it should be fine. Hopefully, they won’t ask for ID. Ron is legally not supposed to drink, but she has no interest in that anyway. That’s the kind of thing teens who kid themselves into thinking they’re being rebellious and cool do.
Ron goes up the steps and enters, pausing at the door to adjust her eyes to the bright lights inside. No one seems to notice her.
Country music blares all around her. Two guys are playing pool near the window like she saw and a couple of other guys are standing around watching with a mug of beer in their hands. The bar is empty except for a bartender who’s cleaning glasses behind it. On the other side of her, a group of six guys are sitting at one table, huddled close, mostly full mugs on the table. Only one guy is talking. He’s holding and pointing at some sort of scanner gun.
That’s probably Carl.
Ron goes up to the bar. “Coke, please.”
The bartender nods. Ron turns her head to look back at the guys at the table while she waits for her drink. They’re all looking at her now. She keeps her gaze on them a little longer, making a point of it, and then turns back to the bartender as he slides a glass to her.
“Thanks,” Ron says. “How much is it?”
“First time in Bluewater?” the bartender says. He’s a white-haired, almost bald white man who looks like he’s been behind this bar for ages.
“Yes, and it’s a pretty nice town. Say, why is it called that? I haven’t seen any water around,” Ron says.
The man chuckles and then shrugs. “Never thought ‘bout it before.”
Ron points at the Coke again and opens her mouth but before she says anything, the man interrupts.
“First drink is on the house,” he says. “Shame ya chose something so cheap.” He laughs again.
Ron laughs with him and then takes a sip of the Coke. Ah, so sweet. Ron is grateful for Iris cooking and all, but if she had to complain about something, she’d complain about the lack of dessert after dinner. Last night, Ron went back to her room and ate a Pop-Tart. Tonight, this Coke will do. How Iris and Giselle can survive without having something sweet after dinner is beyond Ron.
“So what brings ya to Bluewater?” the bartender says, wiping down the bar with a cloth.
She turns her head back to the men at the table. They’ve gone back to talking among themselves, the guy with the scanner thing doing most of the talking.
“You probably already know,” she says. The country music is loud, but she does her best to make her voice carry. “Just came to look for the camp. Between you and me, I think I’m pretty close to finding it.”
“Oh yeah?” the man says. “I’ve heard that plenty of times. Doubt it’ll be found in my lifetime though.”
“Oh I’ll find it,” she says, resisting the urge to look at the table again.
“Then ya might wanna talk to Carl over there,” the bartender says, pointing at the table. “Maybe he can help.”
Glad to have an excuse now, Ron turns her head to where he’s pointing, but they’re still not looking at her. Must be hard to hear her over the music over there.
“Hey Carl!” the bartender shouts, hand by his mouth.
The man with the scanner looks over.
“Got another searcher over here,” the bartender shouts. He chuckles and then goes back to cleaning glasses.
Carl stands up and walks over to Ron, bringing the scanner with him. He has such a dad vibe to him—neatly slicked back blond hair, square jaw and stomach larger than his narrow shoulders, made protruding from his blue polo shirt. But at the same time, he also strikes Ron as the kind of guy who never had kids and doesn’t want them anyway.
When he’s close to her, he points the scanner gun at her, looking at the screen. It makes some kind of ding. He puts his arm down.
“What is that?” Ron asks.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Carl says.
Ron groans internally. So immature for a guy who looks old enough to be her father.
“Anyway,” Carl says. “Just stay out of our way and you’ll be fine, little miss.”
Ron puts a finger on her chin and then points it at the scanner like she’s just had a realization. “Oh, is that the thing I heard about? The thing that can detect the gifted?”
Carl narrows his eyes and puts the scanner behind his back.
