Authors: Cacey Hopper
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 only 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.
“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 city 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.