Finding Abbey Road (11 page)

“The tenant?” says Susan. “Of course I did. Mr. Walsh has been renting here since I still lived downstairs with my bastard ex-husband.”

“Mr. . . . Walsh,” I say. “Was that his real name?”

Susan makes a face that is sort of a smile and sort of a grimace. But what I am sure it tells me is that she definitely knows. She knows what we're
really
talking about. But why is she being cryptic about it?

“If he had another name, I didn't need to know it,” she says. “He always paid in cash, and always on time. I never saw the need to do a background check or any of those unseemly things.”

“Where is he now?” Val asks.

Susan shrugs. “It's not my business to know my tenant's plans. Long as they pay me on time and keep my places tidy, I keep out of their business. I rent five flats around town and I don't let it get personal. Mr. Walsh didn't tell me his plans and I didn't ask. Now, would you like a tour of the place?”

“We don't want a tour!” Caleb suddenly snaps.

“Hey,” I say, putting my arm around him. He feels so tense, every muscle pulled tight. “It's okay. We'll figure this out.” I try to tell him with my eyes that we're good here. That even though Susan is being cryptic, she knows what we want to know and I'm pretty sure she wants to tell us more . . .

If we can only figure out what's holding her back.

“I understand. Believe me, I do,” says Susan, “but I'd sure like to show you the place so you have the proper feel for it.”

“I'm sick of these games,” says Caleb. “We . . .”

“Caleb,” says Val.

He doesn't finish, trying to get control of himself.

But Val turns to Susan. “We didn't come all this way to be played with.”

Susan's eyes fall for a moment. She glances at the window again, and then speaks softly. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe you're not playing a game? That maybe, this is all very serious.”

“You think we don't know this is serious?” says Val.

“I think . . . ,” says Susan, “that if you let me show you the flat, you might find things more to your liking.”

Caleb shrugs. “Okay, but . . . what else is there even to see?”

“You'd be surprised,” Susan says.

“Guys,” I say, “let's just take a look, okay?”

“Your call,” says Val.

“Fine,” says Caleb.

Susan points us to the bathroom. “Pretty standard,” she says. “I'm going to update a couple things this week. Let me show you the kitchen.”

As she crosses the flat, she adds, “Now, I don't want to pressure you, but I have had other interested parties. One
in particular stopped by this very morning, and I think he's anxious to move in. I'd rather rent to someone young like yourselves, but he did make a very serious offer.”

Caleb and Val and I share a glance. It seems like we're supposed to be getting some hidden meaning from that, but what?

Susan steps into the kitchen. “As you can see, not much space but very functional.” Then she sighs almost theatrically. “Oh, would you look at that.”

She reaches up on top of the refrigerator. Something's lying there. “Mr. Walsh will be very disappointed that he left this behind.”

Susan holds out a flat cardboard square.

A record.

The sleeve is rough cardboard: a Pink Floyd album titled
Reaction in G.

“This is an extremely rare bootleg,” says Susan, “especially a vinyl pressing.” She hands it to Caleb.

“I thought you said this was Mr. Walsh's?” he says, eyeing her.

“I also said that I don't have any idea where he's gone, and I need this place cleaned out. Why don't you take it? It will be a nice souvenir for you. Or, if you need funds for the rest of your trip, it would fetch you a good price.”

Caleb holds the record in both hands. He looks like he might just break it, or toss it out the window. “What are we supposed to do with this?”

“I'm not sure,” says Susan.

“You're lying,” says Val.

“Mmm, it would be more accurate to say that I am being selective in what I say.” She crosses over to the windows, steps into the shadow beside them, and peers out. “Believe me, it's as much for my protection as for yours.”

Val and I take that as an invitation. We join her and look out, too.

“End of the block,” she says. “Silver BMW.”

I find the car. And the two men standing beside it. There is an older man with wavy white hair, wearing a white shirt and a dark tie and pants. Beside him is a tall, much thinner man, bald, with small oval glasses. Even from this distance, I know him. He's not someone I'd easily forget.

“Oh hell.” Val leaps back from the window.

I step back slowly. I'm pretty sure they're too far away to see us but I still don't want to do anything to attract attention.

“That's the other interested party I mentioned,” says Susan. “I gather you know them.”

I turn to Caleb. “It's Kellen.”

Caleb's face goes pale.

“I don't know who the other guy is,” I say.

“He's Detective Ames from Scotland Yard,” says Susan. “He didn't say a word while they were here, but the badge on his belt was hard to miss.”

Val whistles. “Holy crap, Scotland Yard . . . Are you
kidding me? I did not sign up for a bout with Sherlock Holmes.”

My throat feels tight. My mouth dry, hands clammy. And maybe I'm going to pass out.

Susan puts a hand on my shoulder. “It's okay, hon. Those men out there had some pretty specific questions about my former tenant, but like I said, I didn't know much about him. And they didn't ask me anything about other prospective renters, if you catch my meaning.”

I nod. “Sure, but we walked right by there on our way here.” I feel like I'm about to vomit. I hug Caleb. He is stunned silent.

Susan points to the record. “Take that keepsake, I believe it will give you some answers. When you leave, head out the window on the landing. There's a fire escape that leads down to the alley. Here's my card. In case you need help with that record.”

“Thanks,” I say to Susan, taking her card and slipping it into my pocket.

“We need to go,” says Val.

“Why can't you tell us more?” Caleb asks, even as we are turning to leave.

“I honestly don't know any more,” she says. “But I also believe that the dead deserve our discretion.”

If there were even the slightest question left about whether we were, in fact, talking about the same person, that pretty much confirmed it.

We hurry out of Eli's old flat. I snap a picture of those windows, sunlight streaming in. We nearly run down the stairs to the landing, and Val yanks open the window. We scramble onto the fire escape, hurry down to the end, then drop to the alley. It's all mostly terrifying.

“I'm not exactly feeling the thrill of international intrigue,” I say as we hurry up the alley in the opposite direction from Kellen.

“Maybe that kicks in once the pure cold panic wears off,” says Caleb.

Somehow I doubt it. We're a couple blocks away before I can even think straight.

10:22 a.m.

“We are screwed,” says Val.

We're sitting on a park bench about ten fast-walking minutes from Eli's old flat.

“How did he find Eli? Now, after all this time?” I wonder.

“Maybe he's been following us?” Val suggests.

I'm staring at my phone. Still in airplane mode. What would I find if I turned it on now? Has Scotland Yard been trying to reach us? Have they been in touch with my parents? If they figure out who we are . . . forget that we're looking for Eli. We took Val out of the country. That's likely some kind of crime. Could it be like an Amber Alert?
She is under eighteen. . . .

Once again, I slide my phone back into my pocket, unchecked. I don't want to know. Can't risk knowing, at this point. I'm overcome by the feeling that I really just want to be home.

“Jerrod wouldn't have told Kellen,” I say, trying to calm down and think it through. “Jerrod's been keeping Eli's secret from
everyone
.”

“Maybe it was Eli's trip to New York,” says Caleb. “Maybe Kellen got word of that somehow. Whatever, it doesn't matter now. This must be why Eli moved out early. Maybe Jerrod knew Kellen was coming, and tipped Eli off. Or maybe Eli left early because he somehow found out that we were coming. Uhhh.” He bangs his head against the record. “My brain is broken.”

“Let me see that,” I say, taking the square of weathered cardboard. “Susan made it seem like Eli left this for us. It must be a clue of some kind about where we can find him.” I turn the record over, reading the credits. “This is the original Pink Floyd lineup,” I say. “A live bootleg recorded in Copenhagen in 1967.”

“What kind of message are we supposed to get from that?” Val asks.

“No idea, but it's a pretty cool relic.” I pull out the vinyl, along with its dust jacket. The edges of the cardboard are worn to white, and the paper sleeve has a corner ripped off. This music, this copy, has history, a tactile connection
to those who listened to it before. What living rooms has it inhabited? Whose ears heard it? And what were they thinking, drinking, who were they with? It occurs to me that there is no artifact anymore in our world. When I buy music on my phone it has no connection to others. No hands are involved; granted as soon as we listen and share with others, we make community, but the object is no longer a connecter. And sure, this record smells weird, and probably has scratches and skips, but there is still something tingly about holding it in my hands, and connecting to its shared history through its texture.

Also, there's something written on the plain white paper around the record.

“Is that
Mr. Walsh's
handwriting?” Caleb asks. We've seen Eli's writing before, in torn-out pages from his journal. This looks different. But the other notes were ones that he wrote sixteen years ago. This one was written . . . maybe yesterday? His writing could have changed.

It's wild to think that Eli might have been holding this record in his hand so recently . . . and yet he's still just beyond our reach. But maybe not by much:

Where Her Majesty was set free

Where She made her first Million

When they tell you you can't live your

Thursday

See you there, just like the Piper

The word
life
is circled. Actually it's not a circle. There are dash marks around the inner rim of the shape.

“That looks like a clock face,” says Val, leaning over.

“How very Eli to pick that lyric,” mutters Caleb. “What do you think it means?”

I turn back to the album jacket. “There's a song called ‘One in a Million' on the record. This is maybe a lyric?”

“Maybe the clock face means the time when the lyric happens,” says Val. “Like what time in the song. Maybe it's a time Eli wants us to know.”

“When we're supposed to meet him on Thursday?”

“How exactly are we going to listen to it?” says Caleb. “I sort of doubt our hostel has a turntable.” Then he elbows Val. “Maybe
Teddy
has one at his house.” It's the closest to a smile he's come all morning.

I remember what Susan said as we left. If we needed any help . . . I dig into my pocket and pull out her card. “Check this out.”

In the rush to leave the flat, I didn't even look at it, just assuming it was for her property management. But it's not:

Berwick Street Records

Susan Hopkin: Owner

M–F 12–9.

“Maybe she wants us to come find her,” I say, tapping the record.

Caleb looks for the address on his map. “It's close by,” he says, then he looks at his British flag watch. “What are we supposed to do until noon?”

Val shrugs. “Kill time being tourists? We are in freakin' London. How about Big Ben and stuff?”

“Good plan,” I say. “That might take our minds off things. Or at least make time move a little more quickly.”

We head south. The rain has lightened up. We get toasted cheese sandwiches from a cart, and soon find ourselves in Trafalgar Square. Tourists teem around us. We eat on the steps of the National Gallery, watching the traffic spiral around a tall statue.

“Who is that supposed to be?” Val wonders.

Caleb checks the map. “Admiral Horatio Nelson,” he says. “Died in the Battle of Trafalgar, 1805, which was—”

“Don't bore me with reality,” says Val.

“I think the TARDIS landed here in the fiftieth anniversary special,” I say.

“They should build a statue to that,” says Val.

“Somewhere a roomful of British historians are choking on their tweed,” says Caleb.

We've made it a little while . . . but now a silence falls over us, and worried thoughts return.