The Thief of Souls

We were out in the country somewhere so it took some minutes to find a local police station.  The girl was growing increasingly agitated, alleging that Lane had kidnapped her, then drugged her, and then maybe even did things she didn’t care to mention.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about lady,”  he said.  “I was the one who was kidnapped.”

“Who kidnapped you?”  I asked.

“Some old man, and some young guy.  They approached me in a bar where I had stopped after work.  The old guy and me started talking.  He said he was rich and didn’t have an heir.  At some point, I went to take a leak. When I returned, I took a sip of the beer they had bought me.  Then, I got dizzy.  Sleepy.  After that, I can’t remember much.  A mansion near the lake.  Then, just a funny dream.  Voices and images.  Not, not sure.”

The girl had calmed down.  “That’s what it was like for me, too,”  she said.  “Funny dreams I couldn’t wake up from.”

I found a police station in a small town.  We walked and made our collective, somewhat incoherent report to a lonely, skeptical desk cop.   One thing I learned was that two days had passed since I had tried to rescue the blonde girl in the Rostow/Lane mansion.





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