Then another.
The Biker signed:
CAN I PUT THIS AROUND YOU?
The girl nodded.
He wrapped the towel over her shoulders without touching anything else.
She clutched it closed.
The Waitress made fresh hot chocolate.
The girl would not drink.
The Biker understood.
Something had happened with food or drink during the abduction.
He signed:
SEALED WATER?
She nodded.
The Waitress brought a new bottle.
Opened it where the girl could see.
The girl drank.
The Biker stayed on the floor.
Not because his knees liked it.
Because the child did.
After several minutes she signed:
NAME?
He told her.
She frowned.
Then pointed toward his vest.
A club patch.
He understood.
She wanted to know whether the frightening-looking vest meant something dangerous.
He signed:
MOTORCYCLE CLUB. MOSTLY OLD MEN COMPLAINING ABOUT KNEES.
The girl stared.
Then, impossibly, smiled.
Tiny.
The first smile.
The Vice President would later be offended by the description.
At the time, it was perfect.
The girl signed her own name.
The Biker repeated it.
Then she corrected his handshape.
He tried again.
She nodded.
The man restrained against the booth watched them.
His face had become something close to hatred.
“You think you’re a hero?”
The Biker looked over.
“No.”
“You assaulted me.”
“You reached for a gun.”
“I have a permit.”
The Trucker laughed.
“While kidnapping children?”
The man shouted, “I did not kidnap anybody!”
The girl flinched.
The Biker immediately turned away from him.
Signed:
LOOK AT ME.
She did.
NOT HIM.
The girl nodded.
“Hey,” the Waitress said to the kidnapper.
“Shut your mouth.”
He glared.
The Waitress had worked night shifts for twenty-nine years.
She had been threatened by drunks, robbed once, and married twice.
The glare did not impress her.
She pointed toward him.
“You lied to me.”
No answer.
“You looked me in the face and told me she was your daughter.”
The man smiled.
There was something ugly in it.
“You believed me.”
The Waitress went still.
Guilt crossed her face.
The Biker saw it.
The kidnapper continued.
“You brought her cocoa.”
The Waitress’s hand began shaking.
The Biker stood.
Not toward the man.
Toward her.
“That’s enough.”
The Waitress looked at him.
“He’s right.”
“No.”