London Escape

by Cacey Hopper

  “Kit, you can’t be serious,” she protests.

  “What would Jason do if I was in trouble, Alexa?” I ask pointedly.

  “He wouldn’t have to do anything, because you would never do something as stupid as stealing from your dad and taking off out of the country!” she points out.

  “Look,” I begin, “I don’t know what’s going on, but I know he’s in trouble. He asked for my help and I’m going to give it to him.”

  “Have you even considered, for one second, the possibility that Jason is the one in the wrong here? He’s the one who stole from his dad. He’s the one who’s on the run. Are you really going to let him drag you into all of this? He could go to jail, Kit, and so could you if you help him!”

  I know she’s just trying to be the voice of reason, as always, but I really don’t appreciate her lack of faith in my own moral code, or Jason’s.

  “He hasn’t done anything wrong,” I defend quickly, without thinking, because I believe it to be true. “Trust me, I know Jason, better than anyone. There’s got to be an explanation behind all of this.”

  “So you have to go all the way to London just so you can get your explanation?” Her tone is accusing.

  “Yes!” I exclaim.

  “And you know perfectly well that your dad will be completely livid when he finds out you’ve run away, not to mention hurt you didn’t go to him first.”

  I hardly remember my mom, but sometimes I can hear her in Alexa’s logic. I shake my head, even though she can’t see me.

  “I don’t care,” I say finally. The words sting, but they ring true. I would have gone to him with my problem if he had been there. But he wasn’t. Not this time and not ever before. I’m on my own, as always.

  Alexa heaves a sigh of resignation. “This really puts the whole damsel in distress thing in perspective doesn’t it?” she says wryly.

  “What?” My heart is pounding in my chest at the thought of everything that might possibly lie ahead while Alexa’s telling lame jokes. I knew there was a good reason she was my best friend.

  “So who’s the damsel?” I ask.

  “That would be Jason,” she says with a laugh.

  “Then I guess I’m Prince Charming.”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” she sighs. “I know I’m not going to convince you to stay, but let me say this. Please, please, please be careful. Don’t do anything stupid. You don’t know who these guys are or what kind of people Jason could be dealing with. Just find him and get home.”

  “Right,” I affirm, trying not to think of everything I already know about Mr. V.

  “Okay, I’ll cover for you if your dad calls,” she promises.

  “Thanks.” I hang up before she can ask me if I packed extra underwear or snacks for the plane ride. My hands are shaking as my nerves threaten to take over, and not just because of what I’m about to do. If I don’t hurry I’ll miss the next flight out. I can’t bear the thought of sitting around an airport terminal for three hours while my best friend is in danger.

  As expected, I run into crazy traffic on the way to the airport. After stowing my car in the long-term lot, I rush into the crowded airport. LaGuardia is one of the largest and busiest airports in the country, and it’s packed with people at this time of day. Impatiently I stop and wait in line to purchase my tickets. Buying a last minute flight to Europe isn’t exactly cheap, but I don’t care.

  Because I only packed a carry-on, I’m checked in and through security in record time. Thankfully my flight is already boarding when I arrive at my gate, so there’s no time to reconsider. I take a deep breath and follow the line of people filing through the walkway onto the plane. The plane is pretty full already, but I easily find my assigned seat. I’m still gripping my backpack in my hands tightly when the flight attendant tells me I need to place it under the seat in front of me. I comply, but not before I take out my notebook and place it in my lap.

  “Excuse me, dear?” the elderly lady sitting next to the window says. “Would you like to sit by the window? I’ve made this trip several times.”

  I grin tightly. “No, thank you.”

  As the rest of the passengers file onto the cramped plane I take out my cell phone one last time, knowing the flight attendants will soon request that everyone turn off their electronics. Taking a deep breath I follow the steps Alexa had listed for me earlier to disable the GPS chip inside, effectively taking myself off the grid. It’s a big risk on my part. If my dad suspects anything is going on when he talks to Alexa, he might try to locate my cell phone on his computer as he has done before. Still, I can’t take the chance of him knowing where I am right now. I ease my guilty conscious by telling myself I will be meeting up with Jason soon, and we’d be back before my dad will even know I’m gone. Besides, he’s busy with work right now and most of the time when he was off on an important trip he couldn’t even be bothered to call and check in. The last thing he would be thinking about this week is me. At least, that’s what I’m hoping.

  I pretend to watch as the flight attendants go through their routine of pointing out the emergency exits and the flotation devices under the seats. Strangely enough, it isn’t the fear of crashing into the ocean or the ground that bothers me most. It’s the mere idea of being thousands of feet in the air that terrifies me. I suddenly wish I had thought to pack my iPod or something to distract me. I had been too busy packing essentials like clothing to think about entertainment.

  I look down at the notebook in my lap, the same one I had used to scribble my notes as I cracked the coded text message. It is a well-worn leather journal Jason had given me for my birthday a year ago. I open it up and re-read the inscription inside the cover: “For your adventures – Jason”. At the time I hadn’t really appreciated the gesture. I didn’t have any adventures, unless you counted occasionally sneaking out of the house to go watch a movie at his place.

  But now that is finally changing.

  Tucked inside the back cover of the notebook are a handful of pictures I have stored there. There are pictures of me and Alexa, and quite a few of Jason, but it isn’t his picture that gives me pause. It’s the last photo in the small stack, the one I had almost forgotten about. Jason isn’t the only child who stole from their father, I realize. I can remember being nine years old and sneaking this particular picture from a family album before my dad could put it in storage with the rest of her stuff.

  It isn’t a family photo, though I would have liked one. It is just the two of them, my mom and dad. I can’t tell where they are in the photo, some picturesque mountainside, but the beauty of the scenery is dimmed by the look of love in their eyes. This picture has always confused and comforted me at the same time, just as it does now. How could she have left, when she clearly loved him so much?

  I was only nine when she left, so I can still picture them together in my mind. They had never been unhappy, at least not where I could see. But then the day had come, dark and cold, when my dad had simply walked into my room and told me my mom was gone. I asked him where, but he just shook his head sadly and walked away.

  When I was little it had been easier. Easier to pretend she had just wanted a different life than we could have given her. I used to pretend she was off in Paris studying paintings, or in Italy bicycling across the countryside. It was easier to think she just wasn’t cut out to be my mom, easier to pretend I didn’t want her to be. But as I grew, so did my resentment toward her. My feelings of abandonment never faded. Like my dad, I simply tried to put her away, somewhere where she couldn’t hurt me. It wasn’t much better, but it was something.

  Now is not a good time for reminiscing. I grip the armrests tightly as the engines start to roar and the plane begins its ascent. I close my eyes and try to think of something, anything besides the ground that is quickly disappearing below. The old lady in the seat beside me doesn’t seem to mind. Instead she reaches over, plucks the pictures from my hands and starts examining them.

  “Is this your boyfriend?” She ho
lds up the picture of Jason.

  I nod, but only because I’m too afraid to open my mouth and speak. I’m not sure what will come out right now, either my breakfast or a curse.

  “My, my, he sure is handsome.” She flips to the next one of Alexa. “Oh, and she’s very pretty, isn’t she?”

  Again I nod, gritting my teeth as my ears pop and the plane begins to level off.

  She seems to notice my odd behavior, but doesn’t seem concerned. Instead she glances out the window and casually comments, “My, we’re high, aren’t we?”

  Unconsciously my eyes follow her gaze to the window where I can barely make out the tops of the clouds. Not a good idea. I close my eyes again.

  “Oh goodness, are these your parents? Why you look just like your mother!”

  Now I definitely feel like I’m going to throw up.

  As it happened, my overly-friendly seatmate didn’t turn out to be such a bad thing. She talked the entire flight to Toronto, hardly stopping for breath. She was also headed to London, on the same connecting flight, and insisted we sit together on that flight as well. As odd of a friend as she was, her constant prattle about her son and grandkids waiting for her kept me sane. I could just listen to her talk and forget about the flight.

  Because of the time change, we wouldn’t be landing at Heathrow Airport in London until 6:30 AM, so at some point I force myself to nap uncomfortably in my seat.

  As we begin our final descent into Heathrow, my friend still dozing in the seat beside me, the reality of what I have done begins to hit me. I can’t help but think of my dad, and hope he never finds out what I’ve done. It’s not just the fear of flying that has turned my stomach into a cold, hard knot, but also the lingering guilt from running away like this without telling him. Before that guilt takes over, I can easily imagine what he would say to me right now if given the chance. He would tell me I’m being just like my mom, impulsive and stubborn. I never liked it when he compared me to her, even on the rare occasion he meant it as a compliment. Who would want to be compared to the woman who abandoned her family the way she did? This isn’t the same thing, I tell myself.

  By the time we land my stomach is back where it should be instead of feeling like it’s lodged my throat. I say goodbye to my new friend and wish her a good visit with her grandchildren. I realize as I walk away I never told her what I was doing in London, but I guess she never asked either.

  London is five hours later than the East coast, so even though the clock says seven AM, to me it feels more like two in the morning. My body is telling me to find a hotel room and crash, while my brain is urging me to find Jason’s apartment and get started trying to find him.

  I quickly hail a cab and give him Jason’s address. I feel like I’m in a daze as we head straight through downtown London, passing all the landmarks I’ve only seen in pictures and on TV. The cabbie helpfully points out Big Ben, though I would have recognized the famous clock tower anywhere. Next we pass Parliament, and finally, Buckingham Palace. I feel more than a little overwhelmed by it all until the cabbie finally pulls off onto a frighteningly narrow side road that puts us in a more residential neighborhood. The street is full of towering apartment buildings and little shops. At last we pull up to the curb and I pay him quickly with what little cash I had transferred into pounds.

  I stand on the curb for a few minutes looking around and trying to gather my courage, which has already been pushed to the limits just by getting here. I can’t help but wonder what I will find inside Jason’s apartment. Will he still be there, safe and sound? Or is he already on the run, fleeing for his life?

  I glance around nervously, wondering if the place is being watched. Up until now I haven’t even thought about the possibility. The front door to the apartment building is the kind where you have to be buzzed in from the inside or have a key, but someone has propped it open with a brick. I duck inside without a second thought.

  Right away I’m faced with my first obstacle, three flights of stairs I must climb to get to his floor. Thinking of all I’ve accomplished so far, I grip the handrail, look down at my green Converse and take them one step at a time. I’m to the third floor in no time, slightly out of breath, but feeling victorious.

  When I reach his door, D6, I pause momentarily to consider again what I might find inside. I picture myself knocking, only to have Jason open the door, a look of surprise on his face. I can’t help but hope this will come true, no matter how crazy he’ll think I am.

  But my fears are not allayed. No one answers my knock and when I try the doorknob the door swings open easily. Immediately I know something is wrong, just like I knew when I read the text he sent me the other night. Everything feels wrong. As soon as I step into the apartment I realize just how right I am.

  The apartment is in complete disarray. Not just a typical bachelor pad mess either, the type of mess that’s caused by someone tearing everything apart as though searching for something.

  Ransacked.

  The word pops into my head. I close the door behind me and lock it. I’m not sure why, either. There’s no damage done to it from whoever had trashed the place, so either they have a key or a lock pick. It makes me feel safer though.

  I take a timid step forward, afraid of what else I might discover, and my foot crunches on something. I lean forward to pick up the item. It’s Jason’s cell phone. The damage I’ve just inflicted on it doesn’t seem to be the worst it’s seen. It’s snapped completely in two, the two parts dangling together by single wire. It is a strong possibility the reply text he sent me was the last thing he had sent before Mr. V’s men arrived at the apartment. My hope that he had gotten away safely is fading by the minute. After all, if he had managed to escape he certainly wouldn’t have left his phone behind.

  I drop the phone as a cold chill runs through my veins. If the men who had trashed his apartment had also kidnapped him, I can’t even imagine where he might be. Again, I can clearly remember the sound of Mr. Barron’s head hitting his desk and I’m nauseous for the second time today. I try not to think about that, about someone hurting Jason, and press on toward my next goal. If Jason isn’t here, then maybe he has left me another clue.

  “Breadcrumbs,” I whisper to myself, as if the word has become my mantra. I step into the small kitchen and living room area. There’s a hall to my left leading to the bedroom and a bathroom. My feet crunch on broken dishes that someone had tossed onto the floor while searching the cabinets. I can’t help but wonder if they found what they were looking for, the stolen jewels. But if they found what they were looking for, why does it seem like they have taken Jason too?

  I try not to focus on all the what ifs, though it’s hard. Especially now that the possibility he has been kidnapped has entered my mind. I need to find his next clue, wherever and whatever it is. Standing in the chaos of his tiny apartment, nothing stands out to me. No matter how obvious it might be, it’s not going to be easy to find in this mess.

  I spend over an hour searching the apartment from top to bottom. It’s small, so it should be easy to search thoroughly, but combing through the rubble of Jason’s life looking for some sort of clue is proving difficult.

  Eventually I give up my search and make my way back into the kitchen, wondering if there is anything to eat in the fridge. I consider calling Alexa for a little insight, but after keeping her from her sleep yesterday, I’m not sure she will appreciate another rude awakening.

  I drop down onto one knee beside my backpack, which I had left on the floor, and pull out my notebook. I read the text message one more time, but still it gives me no further insight. I stand again and survey the damage all around me, feeling an unquenchable fear rising up in my chest.

  Desperately I repeat the message aloud, “Need help, only hope.” Something about the words sparks my memory this time.

  “Only hope,” I say again, my eyes searching the room. Then I laugh out loud to myself when I spot it.

  “Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my onl
y hope,” I say, almost laughing as I fall to my knees next to an old Star Wars lunchbox that had been tossed to the ground. I grasp it in my hands, staring at it in disbelief. Could this be the clue? It makes sense, sort of. It is just the kind of thing Jason would come up with in a pinch. I shake the tin lunch box and it gives a satisfying rattle. I wonder briefly if the stolen jewels are hidden inside. If so, Mr. V should fire his men.

  I undo the latches and flip open the lid. Instantly my shoulders sag in disappointment. Inside there are no missing jewels or even anything remotely interesting, just an ordinary looking set of keys.

  With a sigh I take them out and drop the box with a clatter. I examine them closer to see if I’m missing something, but there are only four generic looking keys, a small pocketknife and keychain with an emblem I don’t recognize.

  Questions begin to pop into my head quickly. Is this what I was supposed to find, or had I gotten it wrong? Did the keys unlock something important?

  I don’t have any answers right away. I get to my feet again and begin my second search of the apartment. But there’s nothing, not a safe or anything with a lock that the keys might go to. I’m out of ideas, which gives me only one last option. Taking out my phone I snap a few quick pictures of the keys and send them to Alexa. Moments later my phone rings.

  “Hey, sorry to wake you again,” I say when she answers.

  “It’s fine,” she says with a barely audible yawn. “So, I guess you made it okay?” she asks.

  “Yeah, I mean, I nearly hurled all over the place, but other than that I’m fine,” I admit.

  “I take it Jason isn’t there?”

  “No, he’s not here.” I bite my lip. “Look, his place has been completely ransacked, but I was able to find what I think is the next clue.”

  “And that’s what you’ve sent me a picture of?” she concludes.

  “Yes,” I confirm.

  She then asks me how I figured the text out at last and I tell her about the Star Wars reference, which gives her a good laugh.