region where the reporter disappeared.’
‘That’s unusual, but I can’t help you,’ Megan replied and stood from her chair.
Frank Amonte frowned.
‘What do you mean? Can’t help or won’t help?’
‘A bit of both, actually. I’m sorry, but right now the last thing I’m going to do is travel half–way around the world looking for lost souls.’
Megan opened her wallet and dropped a ten pound note on the table before turning away. Frank Amonte’s slightly raised voice drew glances from the pub’s customers and staff.
‘I read about you. I know what you did. You spent years searching for lost people in Colombia. You found a girl in Thailand who’d been missing for three years. You’re experienced in this kind of work.’
Megan smiled bleakly over her shoulder.
‘In case you failed to finish your research, I never found many of the people in Colombia and I was lucky to escape from Thailand with my life. I hope you have better luck.’
As Megan walked, the American’s voice followed her and rising in urgency the further away she got.
‘There’s an old retired couple who live in Oklahoma, one of those small towns surrounded by miles of nothing but wheat and barley fields. The old man’s a former veteran, Vietnam, the old lady a faithful wife. They’re good people, honest people, the kind of people we’d like to be some day. Their last wish in life is to see their daughter returned safely to them and I’m the person they came to. Right now they’re worrying their way to an early cardiac arrest. They’re willing to pay for your work, Megan. God knows they haven’t got much, but it’s yours if you’ll help.’
Megan paused, glancing without interest over her shoulder.
‘If it’s so important to you Frank, then you go after her.’
Frank reached down and with an effort wheeled himself backward from under the table. He turned his wheelchair and rolled it toward Megan, who stood momentarily stricken in the middle of the pub – Frank’s hefty jacket had hidden the wheelchair’s handles. The American rolled to a halt in front of her.
‘This is as far as I can go. I’m a desk jockey, no use in the field. I just can’t do any more than I have – if I could I wouldn’t be wasting my time having this conversation.’
Megan dropped a thin blanket of curiosity over her shame.
‘Did the old folks know Mike Burnside?’
Frank Amonte’s lips curled into a haunted, sad smile.
‘No, but they knew who you were and that you could help.’
Megan dropped the act instantly.
‘What? How would an old couple from the Mid–West know who I am?’
Frank reached down into a pocket on the side of his wheelchair and withdrew a slim folder, from which he retrieved a black and white photograph.
‘Because their daughter told them all about you, the reporter who searched for lost souls, and about how she helped you.’
A hefty slab of anxiety landed in Megan’s stomach as Frank handed her the photograph. The image was of a young girl in her late–twenties, her long, lustrous black hair framing a beautiful face, olive skin and a bright smile.
‘Amy,’ Megan whispered, ‘Amy O’Hara. She’s the missing reporter?’
‘And we figured you owe her.’
‘Where was she when she went missing?’
Frank’s features hardened.
‘The Republic of Mordania, southern Russia.’
***
4
Megan switched on the television when she returned to her apartment with Frank, the huge plasma screen recessed into the wall glowing into life. On her coffee table was scattered the contents of the folder that the American had passed to her, containing everything Frank had uncovered about Amy O’Hara’s work in the Republic of Mordania.
‘If there’s any clue to what happened to Amy it will be amongst these papers, but I haven’t been able to find much,’ Amonte said, sitting in his wheelchair and watching the big screen.
The 24–hour news networks all flashed up sporadic broadcasts on Mordania, enough to
‘That’s unusual, but I can’t help you,’ Megan replied and stood from her chair.
Frank Amonte frowned.
‘What do you mean? Can’t help or won’t help?’
‘A bit of both, actually. I’m sorry, but right now the last thing I’m going to do is travel half–way around the world looking for lost souls.’
Megan opened her wallet and dropped a ten pound note on the table before turning away. Frank Amonte’s slightly raised voice drew glances from the pub’s customers and staff.
‘I read about you. I know what you did. You spent years searching for lost people in Colombia. You found a girl in Thailand who’d been missing for three years. You’re experienced in this kind of work.’
Megan smiled bleakly over her shoulder.
‘In case you failed to finish your research, I never found many of the people in Colombia and I was lucky to escape from Thailand with my life. I hope you have better luck.’
As Megan walked, the American’s voice followed her and rising in urgency the further away she got.
‘There’s an old retired couple who live in Oklahoma, one of those small towns surrounded by miles of nothing but wheat and barley fields. The old man’s a former veteran, Vietnam, the old lady a faithful wife. They’re good people, honest people, the kind of people we’d like to be some day. Their last wish in life is to see their daughter returned safely to them and I’m the person they came to. Right now they’re worrying their way to an early cardiac arrest. They’re willing to pay for your work, Megan. God knows they haven’t got much, but it’s yours if you’ll help.’
Megan paused, glancing without interest over her shoulder.
‘If it’s so important to you Frank, then you go after her.’
Frank reached down and with an effort wheeled himself backward from under the table. He turned his wheelchair and rolled it toward Megan, who stood momentarily stricken in the middle of the pub – Frank’s hefty jacket had hidden the wheelchair’s handles. The American rolled to a halt in front of her.
‘This is as far as I can go. I’m a desk jockey, no use in the field. I just can’t do any more than I have – if I could I wouldn’t be wasting my time having this conversation.’
Megan dropped a thin blanket of curiosity over her shame.
‘Did the old folks know Mike Burnside?’
Frank Amonte’s lips curled into a haunted, sad smile.
‘No, but they knew who you were and that you could help.’
Megan dropped the act instantly.
‘What? How would an old couple from the Mid–West know who I am?’
Frank reached down into a pocket on the side of his wheelchair and withdrew a slim folder, from which he retrieved a black and white photograph.
‘Because their daughter told them all about you, the reporter who searched for lost souls, and about how she helped you.’
A hefty slab of anxiety landed in Megan’s stomach as Frank handed her the photograph. The image was of a young girl in her late–twenties, her long, lustrous black hair framing a beautiful face, olive skin and a bright smile.
‘Amy,’ Megan whispered, ‘Amy O’Hara. She’s the missing reporter?’
‘And we figured you owe her.’
‘Where was she when she went missing?’
Frank’s features hardened.
‘The Republic of Mordania, southern Russia.’
***
4
Megan switched on the television when she returned to her apartment with Frank, the huge plasma screen recessed into the wall glowing into life. On her coffee table was scattered the contents of the folder that the American had passed to her, containing everything Frank had uncovered about Amy O’Hara’s work in the Republic of Mordania.
‘If there’s any clue to what happened to Amy it will be amongst these papers, but I haven’t been able to find much,’ Amonte said, sitting in his wheelchair and watching the big screen.
The 24–hour news networks all flashed up sporadic broadcasts on Mordania, enough to
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