Page 6 of Before the Bond
After grabbing a to-go cup at the diner, I spotted the local clinic just a few more steps down.
Could be a good place to check, I thought. If the man passed through town, they would know.
I entered.
The air smelled of old wood and antiseptic. A woman sat at the front desk in horn-rimmed glasses, working on a local crossword. Based on the harsh eraser marks in some of the squares, she was probably stuck.
“You here for something?” the receptionist asked, still focused on her crossword.
“Yes, actually,” I said. “Were there any medical emergencies last night?”
Her brow raised at the word “emergencies.”
“Why would there be?”
I really didn’t want to tell her about a man pinning me down in the grass. I decided to give her the short version of it.
“I found a man unconscious yesterday,” I explained. “He ran off before I could fully help him. Tall. Dark hair. Unclothed?”
The receptionist’s brow rose even higher. I ignored it.
“Did anyone like that come around here?”
“No.” She went back to her puzzle. “Not in here.”
“Do you think he showed up anywhere else?”
“It was dead all night in here.”
“Do you know if there’s anywhere else I could find out?”
The lady sighed. “Look, honey, I’ll be honest. It was probably just a town loonie.”
“But —”
“People get drunk off their asses here all the time,” she said with a shrug. “They wander. They pass out. They wake up embarrassed. Happens.”
I considered arguing, but she was already back at her crossword puzzle.
I thanked her and went back out into the fog.
I spent the rest of the afternoon asking around town. Similar to the receptionist, people saw nothing or passed it off as something harmless. They said it was probably someone who'dhad too much, sobered up, found his way home, and was currently embarrassed about the whole thing. Probably.
By the time the sun was setting, I was done circling the town. I considered heading back up, but I noticed a cluster of people heading to one area in particular. It was a large bar at the end of the road’s incline. It looked far more polished than anything else around here. The sign: The Blackwater Tap.
What better way to pick up on hearsay?
I beelined for it.
The entire bar glowed with the orange of the lamps and the fireplace on the side. The Blackwater Tap looked like it had been built with genuine intention. Plush leather booths on the side, round wooden tables in the middle with easy room to pass through, a pool and darting area far enough that the competitive shouting didn’t bother the rest of the customers, and, finally, a grand wooden bar counter acting as the centerpiece at the back wall.
I sat at the bar. A door leading to a back kitchen swung open. A woman around my age tied her hair up in tight swirls and slid behind the counter.
“About time, Stella,” a local man said at the very edge of it. “Beer’s running out.”
The woman smiled.
“Come on, Ted,” she said. “Beer’s always running out so long as you’re concerned.”
