Latitude Zero

by Diana Renn

  She shrugged. “I didn’t ask them. I told them. I’m eighteen. I’m going to MIT in the fall for mechanical engineering. These are my last weeks of freedom. They couldn’t stop me if they tried.”

  “They’re not worried about where you’ll stay?”

  “Nah. I have an older cousin who lives in Quito, and her parents—my aunt and uncle—live in the city of Cuenca. I’m going to stay in my cousin’s apartment. Only, just between you and me? My cousin has a boyfriend in another town, and she’s barely at home. The place will be practically mine!” Her eyes danced. “You should totally come.”

  “I don’t know, Mari. My parents—”

  “Tessa. You have to go. The Pan-American Cycling Tour is going to put Latin American cycling on the map. Quito is the place to be. You could do such an exciting series for your vlog about all this”

  I indulged in a fantasy for a few seconds. Merengue music. Empanadas. Cute Ecuadorian boys. Someone teaching me to salsa. Me in that red halter dress.

  “Besides,” she said, “Juan Carlos always wanted more publicity for Vuelta. He wanted people in the U.S. to know about it, so they’d donate money. If you could get your TV station interested, that would be so amazing.”

  I flinched. Yeah, right. Like Kristen or anyone at GBCN would want me to crawl back and pitch an idea for a new show.

  “Ask your parents,” she urged. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “Fine, I’ll ask,” I said. “But I can’t promise anything.”

  “You have to start somewhere, right?” Mari smiled. Then she looked worried. “Hey, what should we do with our video? I told Gage I was borrowing the van for an errand. I’m not sure how thrilled he’ll be if he finds out we broke into the Team Cadence-EcuaBar storage site and did this inspection.”

  “We didn’t break in. Amber left the door open,” I reminded her.

  “You know what I mean. We’re on murky ground here.”

  “Let’s bypass Gage and take it straight to the police.”

  “Even if we were trying to do something good, find this proof, we were breaking the law. Trespassing.” Mari slapped the top of the steering wheel. “Why didn’t we think of that before? What if Dylan decided to press charges against us? For trespassing?”

  “I have another idea.” I smiled. “Bianca Slade.”

  “The Watchdog lady? With the freaky striped hair?” Mari shuddered. “She’s spooky.”

  “She’s not spooky. She’s efficient,” I countered. “She’s tough.”

  “Oh, yeah, you work with her at GBCN, right? You know her?”

  “I met her at a holiday party once.” For one minute, where she signed that 8×10 glossy photo of herself before breezing past me to talk to some station executives. “But I could give it a shot,” I added quickly, as Mari looked disappointed “I think she’s the link we need to launch this investigation. She gets police interested in potential cases after she airs them. And she was already asking Chris Fitch some questions about bike safety on TV the other day. I bet she’ll be all over this story if she thinks there’s a problem with Juan Carlos’s bike.”

  “But the police will have to ask how she got the video,” Mari reminded me.

  I remembered Bianca’s blog post. The Qualities of Good Investigative Reporters #7: Being Trustworthy. Investigative journalists protect their sources. “She won’t expose us. I’m positive.”

  “All right,” Mari agreed. “Let’s send it. Today.”

  27

  THE NEXT day passed in a blur. I spent it all at Compass Bikes, helping to load up a shipping container on a flatbed truck parked behind the bike shop. I alternated loading with filming and interviewing, and got some footage for the vlog.

  At 4:00, Gage jangled a cowbell. “Everyone! Outside!” he called.

  I followed the other fifteen or so volunteers out back to view the huge white box, now packed floor to ceiling with bikes and bike parts.

  Mari was in it, stacking the last of some boxes in front of the rows of tightly stacked bike frames. Her face glistened with sweat. She beamed at the small crowd. “We’re on schedule! You guys rock!”

  A cheer rose up from the crowd. High fives were slapped all around. People clapped me on the shoulder, too, and said things like, “Hey, Tessa, nice work!”

  Holding my video camera, rotating and trying to capture the moment, I smiled. I glowed. It felt great to be part of this group and this project.

  Plus, Bianca Slade had called me at home yesterday morning to ask some follow-up questions about the video I’d emailed her. She said she found this case intriguing, and promised to get a bike forensics expert and a camera crew over to Dylan’s bike school right away.

  Every time I thought about Bianca’s plan, I found myself grinning. If Bianca and her team successfully got a look at the bike and ran a story on it, getting the police involved as a result, Mari and I would have helped launch a criminal investigation into Juan Carlos’s murder. That was something I could be proud of. A huge step in setting things right.

  As for Darwin? I could finally breathe easier. I’d checked my phone before going to Compass Bikes that morning, eager for a text this time. I couldn’t wait to tell him the bike was at Dylan’s place, and get him off my back once and for all. I even had a screen shot from Mari’s video that I was planning to send him as proof.

  Sure enough, a text was waiting for me. The fact that Darwin was a talented enough hacker to bust through the new antiviral software didn’t surprise me. The content of the text did.

  NEVER MIND, WE FOUND IT YESTERDAY.

  I stared at the words. He’d found it? Had he followed Mari and me to Dylan’s bike school? I texted back to ask him where it had turned up, curious what kind of information he might volunteer. But he didn’t respond. Seconds later, our brief exchange was completely wiped out, as always.

  I kept picturing Darwin going into Dylan’s place. Would he just barge in and grab the bike off the wall? Or send someone else for it? Would he threaten Dylan and Amber and make them hand it over? Throughout the morning, I tried to reassure myself that it wasn’t my problem anymore. Darwin wouldn’t be bothering me about that spare bike again. And gradually, as the container load work got busier, my mind drifted away from all that. All I could focus on were bikes and bike parts and lifting and carrying and getting that shipping container packed as tightly as possible.

  “See you in Quito!” Mari said to the bikes, as she hopped out of the container.

  “Yes, see you in Quito!” said a familiar voice behind us.

  I turned to look. Preston Lane. And with him? Chris Fitch of Cadence Bikes.

  Everyone made a path for the two men as they walked to the shipping container. Gage introduced them to everyone. I heard him mutter to Preston, “Hey, man, thanks for coming by. I thought you were still in Vegas.”

  “Whirlwind trip,” said Preston. “Besides, this is our guy’s legacy, right here. I wouldn’t miss this moment for the world.”

  Chris clapped him on the back and nodded, somberly. Then he turned to the crowd of bike shop staff and volunteers. He made a broad gesture, as if addressing a kingdom. “When Preston and I heard you were rushing this shipment, in honor of Juan Carlos, we both wanted to come by and thank you personally for helping his vision to live on. This is an outstanding bike shop—even if you don’t carry Cadence bikes. Yet.” He winked at Gage, who raised an eyebrow. “Seriously, though. I have a lot of respect for what you do here. It’s a boost to the team’s morale to know Juan Carlos’s project is moving forward.”

  “Yeah, guys, this is awesome,” Preston chimed in. His voice sounded enthusiastic but his eyes looked glazed, as if he hadn’t slept. “Vuelta was a cause dear to Juan Carlos’s heart. These bikes will help so many people. You should feel very proud of yourselves today. Awesome job.” Then he thumped the steel side of the shipping container with
his fist. “And I look forward to the honor of opening this bad boy myself there.” He grinned, and people applauded again.

  While the other volunteers filed inside for pizza, and the Compass Bikes staff thronged around Chris Fitch to hear the bike company CEO talk about their newest frames, I caught up with Preston, who was edging toward the door as if trying to escape undetected, and finishing up a call on his cell phone. I lingered a few feet away to wait until he was done.

  “What?” he said into the phone. “No, no, no. Nothing back door about it. The ice crackdown forced us to move in a different direction, that’s all. We’ll write up a blow-by-blow for you, and allay any concerns you might have, okay?”

  I rolled my eyes. Ice crackdown. A blow-by-blow. This was the kind of business lingo Sarita loved to learn, but I thought it sounded ridiculous, like some kind of made-up language.

  I stepped right up to him as soon as he ended his call. “Excuse me. Mr. Lane?”

  “Yes?” He squinted at me.

  “I don’t know if you remember me? I’m a Shady Pines student. And the host—well, the former host—of KidVision. I interviewed you for our show last year?”

  “Oh? Yes! Of course! Tessa Taylor, right? Aren’t you Jake Collier’s girlfriend?”

  “I am. I mean, was.” I winced at the mention of Jake. How weird that my school world and my boyfriend world intersected at Preston Lane.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. How’s life at Shady Pines?” His eyes flicked toward the door.

  “Closed. It’s summer.”

  “Oh. Right.” He glanced at his watch, a Rolex. An odd choice for a bleeding-heart liberal guy, even if he was from old money. Other than pricey sporting equipment and athletic wear, he wasn’t into showy status items.

  “Um. Do you . . . have a second?” I ventured. After all my reassurances to Kylie that Preston Lane was no one to fear, my heart was suddenly racing. I didn’t know what I wanted to say. I just sensed, in this moment, that he was a strong connection to Juan Carlos. He’d brought him here, legally sponsored him, even let him live in his home until Juan Carlos turned eighteen and moved in with some teammates. I wanted to feel that connection. Maybe get a sound bite or something for the video. Yes! He’d be great to have on Volunteen, talking about what this project had meant to Juan Carlos. Only—crap. I’d left my camera outside on the ground, with my backpack.

  “I’m sorry.” Preston sidestepped me, glancing at Chris, who extracted himself from the crowd of mechanics and started heading toward the door. “We have a meeting we’re already late for. Please forgive me. But good to see you again. Stay awesome, okay?”

  Stay awesome. He’d ended our KidVision interview with those same words last year. He’d sounded cool then. Now, for some reason, he seemed sort of pathetic..

  I watched him leave with Chris. Chris shook hands with Gage. Preston didn’t. The door banged closed behind him. Preston seemed so different from the upbeat guy who’d spoken at our assembly—and so different from the shaken, sad man who’d been interviewed at Mass General four days ago. It felt like a strong weather system had breezed in and out of Compass Bikes. And it left me cold.

  /////

  I WENT back outside to get my backpack but paused behind the big white box. Each corrugated steel door had double sets of metal bars running up and down, with latches going across them. Each latch had a heavy padlock. I walked around to the side. The truck’s engine rumbled while the driver sat in the cab, talking on a cell phone and going over paperwork.

  But the door latches weren’t yet pulled. I wanted to see the bikes one more time and get a really good shot of them for the vlog, without all the people. I went around back again and pulled a door open. I peered into the darkness of the container. The bikes were packed in so snugly. Some were flattened, and some were completely stripped; the bikes that had broken parts had to be taken down to the frames. They all fit in like a massive puzzle.

  I took my video camera out of my backpack and turned it on. I panned across all the frames, secretly hoping for one last look at my green-and-white Bianchi. Mari had checked it out and said it was safe to ride. They’d fixed it and loaded it in whole. Who would be its next rider?

  I climbed into the back of the container to film a little closer. I pushed into the second row of bikes to get a better angle. One area looked like some of the tightly packed bikes had slipped, about four or five rows back. If the bikes loosened more during transport, they could get damaged. I wondered if I should get Gage or Mari and tell them there was some kind of packing problem in that row.

  Then I lost some of my light. I turned around.

  A shape now filled the doorway.

  I crouched down, not wanting to be seen. I was only filming for my vlog, but I didn’t want Gage or any of the staff to think I was up to something. Paranoid.

  The silhouette of a girl with a model’s figure filled the open doorway. She wore a Compass Bikes T-shirt and cutoff shorts. She looked like any of the volunteers I’d worked with today, but none of them in particular. I squinted, trying to make out her face, half in shadows.

  She stepped closer, bringing her face—and her bouncy red hair—into a ray of sunlight that pushed through the open door.

  Another figure climbed up onto the back of the container, standing beside her. A tall skinny guy whose back was stooped, wearing his hair in a ponytail, with a courier bag slung across his chest.

  I froze. I’d seen them before. In EcuaBar volunteer outfits, passing out samples at Chain Reaction. They had to be part of Darwin’s network of “eyes and ears”!

  The two of them peered into the container, as if scanning the bikes. The girl took a few pictures with her cell phone camera. I blinked at the flashes.

  “I told you, it’s good to go,” the guy muttered. “I got it in just fine. Now let’s get out of here.”

  Then they both jumped off the back of the container.

  SLAM. The door closed.

  SCREECH. The metal bar outside the door slid across the latch.

  “Hey!” I shouted. “Hey, wait! I’m in here! Let me out!”

  CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. The tumblers in the padlocks turned.

  I squeezed out of the tangle of bikes I’d wedged myself into, and made my way to that space by the doors. I banged on the doors. “I’m trapped! Let me out!” I cried at the top of my lungs.

  Then I was thrown against the doors as the truck went into reverse.

  28

  A SHARP series of beeps let the outside world know the trailer was moving backward. It didn’t do a thing to let the outside world know that I was trapped inside with four hundred bikes bound for latitude zero.

  The truck turned, then turned again. Leaving the bike shop behind.

  I scrambled in my pockets for my phone. No phone. I swore, remembering it was in my backpack, and my backpack was on the ground, where I’d left it before jumping into the back of this box.

  The bikes were lashed together in rows and stacks. Wheels and spare parts were lashed to the container walls. Still, everything jiggled and rattled in an unsettling way as the truck picked up speed. I found an empty two-foot-square patch of floor where I could crouch and hopefully avoid injury as the truck merged onto the highway. A handlebar poked the back of my neck. A bike pedal pushed into my ribs. The container was sealed. No light leaked in at all.

  I tried to focus on positives but could find only one: I was still breathing.

  Think, Tessa, think. Obviously this truck was not driving the container all the way to South America. Shipping containers went on ships. Where did the shipping containers leave from? The Port of Boston. A loading dock. Back at Compass Bikes, I’d seen MassPort on the bill of lading, the customs document itemizing all the contents of a shipping container. Four hundred bikes. Twenty boxes of parts. Forty-two tires. One very freaked-out seventeen-year-old girl.

  The id
ea of going to the Port of Boston brought me cold comfort. I did not love the idea of being in a steel box, lifted in a crane, and plunked down onto a barge and then an ocean freighter. How long could someone breathe in this thing? Sometimes illegal immigrants stowed away in containers and made it across the ocean. I’d once heard a news story about a cat who’d lived sixteen days in one, with no food or water. And another story about a Bangladeshi port worker who’d crawled into one for a nap. He had survived nine days when he got locked in; they pulled him out dehydrated and delirious, barely alive.

  Bangladeshi man: nine days. Cat: sixteen. How long was this container’s journey? I tried to recall the shipping information I’d seen on the bill of lading. The ship was due at Ecuador’s Port of Guayaquil on July 16.

  That was in twenty-two days.

  /////

  THE TRUCK slowed and descended a ramp. We were leaving the highway. A few minutes later it stopped, and the engine turned off.

  I unfolded myself from my crouching position between bikes and stiffly rose to a standing position. I immediately started yelling again, kicking the walls and the door.

  Nobody came to my aid. I guessed the truck driver had gotten right out of his cab and gone somewhere right away. If this was a drop-off, his job was done.

  I needed to get some kind of light to see if I could find an emergency handle or knob.

  I found a cardboard box with bike parts to my left. I opened one on top. My hands scrabbled around in it, sensing various types of tools. I prayed for a flashlight, a penlight, any light at all. I was about to give up when my fingers closed around a familiar object. A bicycle light, for riding at night. LED. It had to be battery-powered. I found a switch and flicked it on.

  A soft white light glowed. I breathed out. “Thank you.” I scanned the walls and doors, looking for an emergency release of some sort. An alarm button. Nothing. I looked for a crack where I might push out a piece of paper with a note. No cracks. This box was tight as a tomb.