Being kidnapped sucks.
Having complete strangers rough you up and yell at you for being a smartass sucks, being knocked out sucks, and waking up in a huge, badly-lit warehouse with guns being handled way too casually, sucks.
He tries not to throw up.
It's full of newspaper clippings, photographs, and a few printouts of webpages.
The mysterious appearances of these people in Gallup, New Mexico: aliens, or drugs?
Invoices for construction at a particular prison.
The revival of gang violence in this relatively peaceful city.
Blueprints and the final floorplan, with a suspicious discrepancy between the two circled in red.
"Headquarters, storage space, torture chamber? I haven't found a single member still alive, so I'm relying on a lot of guesswork when it comes to their motives, but it looks like this man," he indicates a clipping of an obituary, "worked here, before it shut down."
"Not quite. There's a man I talked to, who worked here. He's still alive, but won't tell me anything. My fault, but you might get something. There's also a woman, Barbara Strizke, who had a nephew that might still have her things; I've never been able to get close, though, he has the Comb."
"Mr. Conroy, the former janitor."
He rifles through the binder and finds a picture of him with several other people, standing in front of the motel on what seems to be its opening night, according to the large banner a blond woman and Mr. Conroy are hanging up.
He gives him the address.
"I was wondering if you could do something for me."
"I'd like to get a message to my wife. I can give you her address, too. I need you to tell her to reconsider her course of action."
"You can add extra flourishes, as long as you repeat that much. If there's anything you think could convince someone you've never met to think clearly, go ahead."
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