He answered on the second ring, “Waylon.”
“What can I help you with, ma’am?”
“This guy. A bartender at Jack’s. He gave me your number.”
“I know. You need help with something. That’s why he gave you my number.”
“My son. He was taken five week and two days ago. The police have nothing. I need someone to help me find him.”
She hated how pathetic, weak, and desperate she sounded. If it helped, though, it did not matter to her pride. Getting Curran back was all that did.
“What is your name, ma’am?”
“Jen Becker, Mr. Waylon,” she took a deep breath, “And, Mr. Waylon. I do not know what you do, but please. I need your help.”
“Call me Rhys, Ms. Becker. And yes. I will help. It is why I needed to know your name. Meet me at Jack’s tomorrow night at nine. I will let you know where we go from there.”
“Oh my god. Thank you so much.”
“Until then, Ms. Becker.”
The line went dead. Jen struggled to summon the energy to even put her phone away. She knew, beyond any doubt, that Rhys Waylon would help her when no one else would. They all told her Curran was dead and to be ready to find nothing more than his little body, cold and still. Rhys Waylon was the first who took her seriously.
“Here, Jen. Drink this. It will help,” the bartender handed her a reddish colored drink.
Operating on auto-pilot, Jen took the glass and sipped the drink. After a few minutes a warmth and lightness washed through her. She jerked her head up looking for who was in the bar. The bartender leaned against the bar top in the empty building.
“What the hell did you do?”
“Nothing. It’s my version of a Zombie.”
“There is more than alcohol in this!”
“I tweaked the recipe a little. I mean you no harm. You needed something to steady your nerves before you fell off the bar stool. My Zombie does that.”
She stood and realized she did indeed feel much better.