by Cacey Hopper
“But all I found inside were these keys. Does anything stand out to you?” I ask.
“Maybe he wants you to find his car,” she suggests immediately.
It’s all I can do not to slap myself on the forehead. Apparently I need to sleep, and soon, because my brain function is not quite up to snuff.
“How do I know which car to look for?” At home Jason drives a fully-restored, 1972 Gremlin, but I have no clue what kind of rental he would possibly have here. I check the keys again, but none of them have any identifying marks on them that I recognize.
“Let me take a closer look at that keychain,” she says.
I send her a close-up of the keychain. It’s a round emblem, flanked by wings. It looks like it may have once had some writing on it, but it has long since worn off.
“Yup, definitely a car logo,” she affirms. “But I don’t recognize it, let me Google it.” Seconds later she calls out, “Got it, it’s a Mini Cooper.”
I sigh with relief when I recognize the name. There are few car models I can spot easily and this is one of them. Already I’m at the window looking for it.
“Alright, I’ve got to go,” I say. I can’t see all the cars on the street easily from the third floor window. I’m going to have to go outside and search.
“Okay,” she says. “Hey, Kit, where do you suppose Jason is if he’s not there?”
I hesitate, since I’m not sure I want to admit this out loud. “I think that the men Mr. V hired have found him already.”
“So you think they did that to his place?”
“I’m sure of it,” I affirm.
“You think they took him?” she says with disbelief, as though she’d never considered the possibility.
Unfortunately I’d been thinking about it for much longer. “I hope not. There’s still a possibility he got away.”
“Well, we know one thing for sure, you’re on the right track and the sooner you get to the car, the sooner we can find him,” she says with an optimistic attitude I don’t quite share.
Going down the stairs is easier than going up, but only slightly. Once out in the bright afternoon sun I’m reminded just how messed up my internal clock is. I’d barely slept the night of the party, and dozing on the plane for ten minutes hardly counted. Still, no matter how tired I feel, finding this second clue has energized me somewhat.
I glance up and down the street, but there are no cars parked on it. Picking a direction I start walking around the block. I can’t find a single parking garage on the block, so this leads me to believe the car has to be parked on the street somewhere. After circling the block once I return to the front of the building. I’m quickly realizing that finding one little car in this crowded neighborhood might take a while. Again I notice the particular street Jason’s apartment is on doesn’t have a single car parked along it. This seems odd until I spot a sign on a nearby lamp post: “No parking on Sunday for street sweeping. Violators will be towed.” Directly below it there is a flyer for Harold’s Towing. It actually takes me a minute to decide what day it is, but I’m pretty sure it’s Monday.
Seconds later I have Alexa back on the phone and less than a minute after that she’s given me directions to Harold’s Towing.
Fortunately it’s only a few blocks away, so I set out on foot. When I arrive it’s exactly what I would have expected an impound lot to look like, just a tall chain link fence surrounding a parking lot full of cars. There’s a small building serving as an office and a wide chain link gate, swung open. As I approach the building I see a woman sitting at a desk inside. Without hesitation I step inside. I ring the bell on the counter, since she’s too engrossed in a tabloid to notice me come in. She looks up at me with a bored expression but doesn’t rise.
“Can I ‘elp you?” she says.
“I’m here to pick up my car, it got towed yesterday.” I try to sound casual, convincing myself it isn’t actually a lie.
“Make and model?” She leans toward her computer.
“Uh, it’s a Mini Cooper,” I say.
She taps on her keyboard for a moment with chipped black nails. “What’s your name, love?”
“Uh, it’s under my friend’s name, Jason Barron.” I wish I could stop saying “uh” at the beginning of every sentence. My nerves are getting the best of me.
She taps the keyboard again and then shakes her head. “No car under that name, sorry.”
My mind reels frantically. Could his car be under another name? Maybe he was borrowing it from someone else?
“But you do have a Mini Cooper?” I ask leaning over the counter.
She shrugs noncommittally, and somehow I know that means yes. I know without asking it won’t matter to her that I have the keys to the car.
I thank her as sincerely as I can and leave. Part of me wants to walk around the perimeter of the lot and see I can spot the car, but I don’t. For one thing, I’m starving and exhausted. It has been a long time since I’ve slept, eaten, or even sat down. I’m discouraged with my recent failure, but I know I just need some time to regroup. All my hopes were riding on my ability to get the car. Without it, I’m not sure what my next move will be. I want to be discouraged, but I’m too tired.
I wander down the block for a few minutes before I spot a nice little street-side café. I find a table inside by the window and order soup, sandwich, and a soda. I sit there for a while, just resting and thinking. My food is gone in a matter of minutes, but the waitress keeps bringing me drink refills. It feels so good to sit down that I just stay, losing track of time as I ponder all the ways I could possibly get the car. None of my ideas seem likely to work. I’m about to call Alexa for reinforcements when I hear someone clear their throat quietly.
I glance up to see an older man, about mid-sixties, looking down at me over the rim of his glasses. He’s wearing one of those funny hats old men in England like to wear and holding a rolled-up newspaper.
“Excuse me,” he begins with a slight English accent, “do you mind?” He indicates the empty chair across from me. When I hesitate he continues, “It seems every where else is full.”
I look around the restaurant to see that he’s right. It must be dinnertime now, because practically every seat in the place is taken.
“Sure, I was just leaving anyway.” I start to pay my bill and rise.
He protests, “Oh no, don’t go on my account. Besides, your dessert has just arrived.” He points out as he sits down.
“But I didn’t order dessert.” Confused, I sink back into my seat as the waitress places a slice of pie in front of me.
“Your usual, Peter?” she asks the old man.
“Of course, thank you, Mariele,” he smiles at her.
“I really should be going,” I say. I’m already on my guard, and having pie with an old man, no matter how harmless he seems, is probably not a good idea.
“Well, that’s a shame, best pie in town, that is,” he says as the waitress sets a bowl of soup and a steaming mug of tea in front of him.
I look down at the piece of pie I hadn’t ordered. It is my favorite, coconut cream, and despite my large meal I still feel a bit hungry. I don’t know what else to do but eat it.
My plan is to eat in silence then leave, but the old man insists on talking to me. I’m reminded of the woman on the plane. Apparently I just attract talkative old people.
“My name is Peter,” he says.
“Kit,” I respond, already saying more than I planned.
“You’re American?” he asks.
I nod.
“Whereabouts are you from?”
“Connecticut,” I answer vaguely.
He nods this time and resumes eating his soup. I’m halfway through my pie and about to bolt when he speaks up again.
“What brings you to London?”
Again, I try to be vague. “Oh, this and that.”
“Really.” It’s not a question the way he says it
“Yep,” I mumble.
“Is the c
ity what you expected?” He lays down his spoon and leans slightly toward me.
“I guess so.”
“And you haven’t run into any sort of trouble, now have you?”
There’s something about the knowing tone in his voice that causes me to drop my fork. He’s still staring at me innocently through his glasses while I goggle disbelievingly at him.
“You see, I’ve got a bit of an intuition about this sort of thing.” He taps a forefinger to his temple. “And when I came in tonight and saw you sitting here, looking alone and troubled, I thought to myself that you might be in need of some help.” When his eyes meet mine I notice they are an odd shade of green; dark, but bright. What’s even more surprising is the look of genuine concern I see in them.
I’m completely speechless for a good five minutes, fiddling with the straw in my drink. He gives up staring at me and sips his tea quietly.
After a while I decide I don’t really have a better option, so I tell him, “I’m here visiting my friend, he’s—” I have to lie quickly, and badly, “—out of town and I left his car parked in a street sweeping zone yesterday. I just found out they towed and impounded it.” I dangle the keys in front of him for further proof.
“Ah, I see, and you can’t get the car out of impound?”
“Right,” I affirm. “It’s not that I can’t pay the fee, they won’t give it to me because it’s not in my name.” I leave out the fact that it doesn’t seem to be in Jason’s name either.
“And it’s important you get this car back?” he asks.
“Well, not exactly,” I admit. “I left something of mine inside that I need to get back.” I have already decided whatever it is I’m supposed to find is more likely to be in the car, not just the car itself.
“Where is the vehicle now?”
“In the impound lot at Harold’s Towing,” I say.
He’s silent for a long time, staring out the window at the fading sun, stroking his grey beard thoughtfully. I wonder frantically if he’s spotted my little white lies. But at last he turns to me and nods.
“Well, I think I can be of some help, shall we?” He lays a few bills on the table and rises.
Alexa would have been proud of me, because the logical side of me is trying hard to stop me from following him. I have no idea who he is or why he’s trying to help me. But for some inexplicable reason I feel as though I can trust him. After all, my spidey sense remains silent and that is generally a good sign.
I follow him out of the restaurant. It’s nearly dusk out, but the sidewalks are still crowded with pedestrians and the roads full of honking cars. This eases my nerves a bit more, there is no way anyone could hurt me in front of all these witnesses. Besides, my new friend isn’t exactly young either. If it comes down to it I can just make a run for it.
He takes off at a fairly fast clip down the sidewalk and I have to hurry to catch up. Minutes later we’re back at the impound lot just as the sun dips below the horizon. In the dull glow of the streetlamps I can see the blinds are now closed in the little building where I had spoken to the woman, and the front gate is now padlocked shut with a very sturdy-looking chain.
“It looks like they’re closed for the night,” I say, trying not to sound as dejected as I feel. Maybe Peter will agree to come back with me in the morning and speak to the woman for me.
“Pity,” he murmurs and I see him stroking his chin again. “Well,” he says brightly, “I find that sometimes when I’m confronted with a problem directly it’s sometimes better to go around it rather than face it head on, don’t you think?”
Before I can answer he’s off, hustling quickly around the side of the fenced lot. I follow him again and he comes to a stop around the far back corner. We’re now in an alleyway well out of sight of the road or pedestrians.
“Or in this case,” Peter says, looking up at the fence, “it might suit to go over the problem.”
He’s still staring up at the fence, which is about eight feet high, when he suddenly turns to me and holds out his hands, fingers interlaced.
“You can’t be serious,” I say when I realize what he intends.
“Oh, I’m perfectly serious. You do want to get your items back, don’t you?” he asks, crouching a little lower.
I gulp a quick breath. Climbing fences is definitely out of the question when you have a crippling fear of heights. My mind is racing with a thousand questions I want to ask him, about who he is and why he’s so willing to help me break into an impound lot. But now isn’t the time.
“Come now, Kit, it’s not as though you’re stealing anything. I’ll keep watch.”
Apparently he thinks my hesitation is for moral reasons. I bite my lip hard, telling myself how much Jason is going to owe me when this is all over, and put my green Converse into his hands. I place my hands on his shoulders and with a grunt he lifts me. Despite his age, he’s surprisingly strong and gives me a boost that takes me almost completely over the fence. I grab hold, swing my legs over and drop as carefully as I can onto the roof of a car.
“I’ll be as quick as I can,” I whisper through the fence.
I can feel myself shaking as I search the lot for the Mini, either from adrenaline or fear. I can’t tell the difference anymore.
Lucky for me Mini Coopers are easy to spot and I find a black one right away. However, my key doesn’t fit. Two rows down I find another one. This one is a red, late model with a white fender. The key unlocks the door and I take a moment to pump my fist in victory. My burst of happiness fades quickly as I search the inside of the car. Unlike Jason’s apartment, the car is spotless inside. There’s not a single napkin, cup or scrap of paper, and certainly not another clue. I look again, checking under the floor mats, in the glove box and side pockets of the doors.
Still nothing.
As a last ditch effort I pop the trunk. Besides a tire iron and a jack, it’s completely empty too. I lean against the bumper with a sigh. Why would he have led me here for nothing? Did I get the clue wrong? Is there something else these keys unlocked that I could have missed? I had to have missed something, I decide quickly.
As I turn back to close the trunk a sudden memory floods my mind, Jason trying to teach me to change the tire on my car one afternoon. Instantly I see an image of him removing the spare tire from a hatch in the trunk. I feel around the inside of the trunk with my fingers until I find the edges of the carpeting and give it a tug. Underneath, in the empty space where a spare tire would normally be kept, I spot a small, rectangular object. Feeling triumphant, I pull out the package and stuff it into my backpack without a second thought. I replace the carpet, the tools and lock the car back, pocketing the keys. I hurry off without a backward glance.
Seconds later I’m climbing onto the hood, then the roof of a car by the fence. This time I barely hesitate as I jump, my fingers grasp the edge of the fence and it’s a little more work to haul myself over this time. Peter is waiting on the other side to help me down. When my shoes are back on the concrete I allow myself a huge sigh of relief.
When I look up at Peter he’s observing me calmly. “Success?”
I nod, because I’m too breathless to speak, and follow him out of the alleyway. He begins to amble down the sidewalk, casually blending in with the other people. It takes six blocks before my pulse returns to a normal rate and even when it does I’m still having a hard time processing the events of the past few hours. I’m amazed that I’ve somehow found an ally in a complete stranger, basically broken into an impound lot and managed to get my hands on something that Jason had hidden pretty well. I feel more than a little proud of what I have already accomplished since arriving in London. I don’t even pause to wonder what might be in the package. Right now I know without a doubt it is exactly what I was meant to find.
“Will you be staying at your friend’s place tonight?” Peter asks suddenly. We’re now in a very busy downtown area I don’t recognize.
I think of Jason’s apartment, probably not the safest
place to be tonight. Considering V’s men had been there once, they could be back. “No, I can’t stay there.”
He looks at me curiously, but nods. “Right.”
He doesn’t speak again until we’ve traveled several more blocks. My legs are beginning to feel weak and I’ve once again lost all track of time, but I think it’s somewhere around eight or nine o’ clock. When he stops I look up and realize we’re standing outside a hotel. Unsure of what to say or do I just stand there.
“Well, good night Kit, and good luck.” He nods and is gone.
Two minutes later I’m still standing there wondering who he was and why he was wishing me good luck.
5. PROXIMA
Using my dad’s credit card I get a room for the night. The hotel is nice, nothing too fancy. Besides, all I want right now is a bed and a shower, and to hopefully keep the charges on my dad’s card as low as possible. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it, and possibly not ground me for a decade. Although once he finds out what I’ve done—and I’m sure he will—the chances of him going easy on me are pretty slim. But that’s the last thing on my mind tonight.
There are so many questions racing through my head right now I can hardly think straight. All I want to do is get to my room and try to figure this all out. The first thing I do once I’m inside is deadbolt the door behind me and slide the useless little chain thing in, just for peace of mind. Throwing my backpack onto the bed I rummage through the contents until I find the package from the car. I find I’m holding my breath now, hoping and praying it’s something that will make sense. Possibly something that could tell me where Jason is.
My initial reaction to the contents of the package is not favorable. The first item is a small, red, hardbound book. The second item is a little more interesting, though hardly helpful. It is the framed photograph I had given Jason the night he left. I stare at both items for a long time wondering what they mean. I pick up the book and scan the title. It’s a copy of the Aeneid by Virgil. Worse still, it’s in Latin. I flip though the pages, hoping a note or something will fall out, but nothing turns up. Annoyed, I hold the book by its binding and shake it violently. Still, it yields no secrets.
