It meant she’d been doped up enough not to know left from right, north from south. God knows where she’d thought she was going. She replayed the smudged memories of that night. All she remembered was just trying to get away. The shameful thought brought tears to her eyes.
She had used the spot where she’d wrecked as the center of her search. What happened to her and Holli would stem from the point where the cops had found her. How big a radius she was looking at was hard to determine. There were a number of factors to consider. In her dazed condition, how far had she driven from those old sheds? How far had her abductor driven them from the bar they’d been in? Where was the bar? She guessed she was looking at a fifty-to-eighty-mile radius, and she’d drawn the ring on a map that she’d picked up with her rental car. She’d focus her search in that circle. It was a lot of road, but she was helped by the fact that it wasn’t a densely populated part of the country. Towns were few and far between in the large expanse of land. However, it made the task no less daunting.
She didn’t trust herself to remember the bar just from seeing it from the outside, which meant stopping at every town to check out every bar and restaurant that fell within her search radius. The first town she hit was Big Pine, which turned out to be an Indian reservation. She pulled off at each road sign that pointed to someplace where there could be a bar or a restaurant. It was slow going. The hours slid by, but she didn’t let that stop her. Everything else could wait. This was all that mattered.
She eventually came to Bishop. It was a small town but by far the biggest one she’d hit since leaving Vegas. She checked her odometer. She’d racked up over 260 miles since Vegas. She and Holli would have been hungry, low on gas, and only halfway home. It was a likely place for them to have stopped.
She slowed her pace. Bishop was a place out of time. US 395 served as Main Street and its spine, with everything else spreading out from it. From what she could see, it was a tourist town serving as a base for exploring the Sierras. She could envision Holli and her stopping here. It was kitschy, which was right up their alley.
But for all its kitsch and possibility, she didn’t remember it. It was as unfamiliar as everything else had been during the drive. She didn’t let her lack of recognition deter her. She’d known when she’d started this journey that the whole thing could be a massive blowout, but that was OK. The important thing for her was that she tried and didn’t let the past stop her from finding the truth. Bishop meant nothing to her—fine—but she had to look under every rock.
She stopped at a place claiming to be a bar, restaurant, and gift shop. She asked for the manager and was met by the owners, a couple in their sixties, as round as they were tall.
She started with her opening gambit, “Do you remember me?”
It was an odd question to hit strangers with, but it got their attention, for better or worse. It had been awkward and humiliating at first, but after a dozen shots at this, the sting had gone.
The couple, Martha and Fred Blanco, shook their heads. She explained the situation and showed them a picture of Holli. That got her more head shakes.
The Blancos offered her a complimentary dinner, but she declined. Time was working against her. Places would be closing for the night in a couple of hours. In lieu of the meal, she asked for the location of all the other restaurants in town. They marked them for her on a tourist map.
She went to The Alley, a bowling alley with a restaurant; La Hacienda, a big Mexican cantina; Lucia’s, an Italian place; a German hofbr?u, and three other places, and struck out at every one. Nobody remembered her and she didn’t remember them.
That changed when she reached the Smokehouse, a barbecue joint. It was a big place for the size of the town. It was a warehouse in scale and shape, but the whitewashed walls and colorful murals softened its appearance. The establishment meant nothing to her on the surface but struck a chord with her subconscious. Her palms were slick with sweat in an instant. Her body was telling her that this place meant something.
“Please don’t be a delusion,” she told herself and climbed from the car.
She walked in. The Smokehouse was a Wild West saloon on the inside. It had bare wood floors and a long bar. A brass foot rail ran the length of one wall, flanked by high-top tables. Booths resembling horse stalls with high wooden walls filled the other half of the restaurant. Antler and longhorn racks and cowboy garb decorated the walls. A small stage and dance floor were in the back. Country music played. She thought she felt a flicker of recognition, but she couldn’t tell if it was genuine or was just the echo of some other barbecue joint or steakhouse she’d visited in the past.
A waitress spotted Zo? and walked up to her. She was short and in her late forties.
“How many, sweetie?”
“Just one, but I have a question first.”
“Sure. Shoot.”
“My name is Zo? Sutton. Do you remember me at all?”