by Leigh Irwin
James’ dad and Janie dropped us off at the beach. It was a perfect day for surfing or walking, or really, anything but swimming. The air was crisp, the sun was bright and the surf was up. Shading my eyes with my hand, I focused far out to sea and noticed several perfect sets of swells. They built steadily and marched toward the beach in uniform lines. I watched as the closest set rose and transformed itself into huge cresting waves. There must have been a big storm somewhere out in the Pacific to create waves like those. They were at least six feet tall and perfectly formed, a surfer’s dream. I watched them curl and break with a crash, shooting white foam high into the air. Sudsy water raced toward us, covering the feet of brown sand pipers that stood expectantly on their stilt-like legs. When the water retreated, they scurried about, poking their long beaks deep into the wet sand, searching for breakfast.
I settled onto James’ new beach towel, leaned back on my elbows and sighed happily. The ocean was already dotted with a large number of wetsuit-clad surfers. That morning, James had arrived at my door already halfway into his wetsuit. The top part hung uselessly from his waist, its arms dangling comically at his sides. A school sweatshirt topped the ensemble, to ward off the morning chill.
James stripped off his sweatshirt and studied the waves in delight. With a backward grin at me, he tugged the wetsuit the rest of the way on and zipped it. Then he picked up his new surfboard, a Christmas present, and tucked it under one arm. After a quick kiss, he ran toward the water and was soon paddling past the breakers.
I watched for a while, like I’d done many times since we’d met. He was a fantastic surfer, quick despite his height, and he mastered the waves like he’d been doing it his entire life. His father had taught him to surf practically before he could walk, and I had no doubt that little Janie would learn, too, if her lessons hadn’t begun already.
My phone buzzed, and I looked down at the screen. Mom was calling. My breath hitched as I answered.
“Hi, Mom. What’s up?”
“Just wanted to let you know that I’ve got a shift tonight at 5:00, so you and Dad will have to make do with leftovers.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said, but I had the feeling she wanted to say something else, so I waited. For a few moments the only sounds I heard were the rushing surf and crashing waves around me.
Finally, she spoke. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you’re going to be on your own a lot this coming week, much more than I wanted. Dad’s out on another trip after tomorrow, and I’m still covering for people on vacation. I just thought you’d like to know, sooner rather than later, just in case you want to make plans or something. I’m sorry, Sam…”
“Don’t worry about me, Mom. You know I can take care of myself,” I said, trying to sound confident, even as a stab of disappointment shot through me.
The call ended, and I hugged my knees into my chest, thinking. On a day like this, James could be out there for ages, and I was restless. I tugged the legs of my jeans up to my shins, piled my shoes and socks on the towel and ambled down the beach. By the time I got back, James was sitting on the towel, his blond, curly hair dripping sparkles of water. He’d already taken his wetsuit off and changed into sweats. The wetsuit lay on top of his surfboard, looking abandoned and forlorn.
I’d never mastered the art of changing clothes at the beach, although a few of my girlfriends could. But the guys all seemed to have the system perfected. They nonchalantly wrapped a towel around themselves and somehow maneuvered out of their wetsuits and into dry clothes, all under the towel and without a hitch.
I sat down next to James, leaned my head on his shoulder, and we watched the crowded scene just beyond the breakers.
“The waves were great, but there were so many newbies out there today that I was afraid I’d get killed by one of them. Some of those guys were completely out of control,” he commented, sounding exasperated.
Then he turned, grinned and hugged me, and we fell back onto the towel. I tasted salt on his lips, and tiny droplets of water sprinkled my face as we kissed. We spent the next hour lying there, arms wrapped around each other, noses practically touching. I’d never felt so close to anyone before, not even Emma. I was tempted to tell him about everything going on at home, but I realized that was one topic I had to keep to myself.
Chapter 19
“They’re gone. Come now,” I texted to Emma the next afternoon. She arrived two minutes later, and I let her in.
“How should we do this?” she asked.
“Let’s start upstairs and work our way down. We might as well do their bedroom first, although I doubt anything will be there, since Mom might find it,” I whispered. Emma looked at me and laughed.
“Why are we whispering? We could shout and no one would hear us.”
“I guess so. I’m just nervous.”
We combed through drawers, their huge walk-in closet and searched under all the furniture. There was nothing taped to the toilet tank, and nothing on the closet shelf except dust and Mom’s shoes, tucked away in their original boxes. I felt guilty and ashamed, snooping around in my parents’ most intimate space, but I ignored my misgivings. After half an hour, we’d found nothing.
I was grateful to move on to the other two upstairs bedrooms, one a guest room and the other a study of sorts. My bathroom was next, and finally, we searched my room. That seemed like a real long-shot.
“I can’t decide if I’m disappointed or relieved we didn’t find anything,” I commented as we descended the stairs.
“I know what you mean,” Emma said. “How about we split up down here. This whole thing is so creepy, and I’d like to get it over and done with. You take the back bedroom and bathroom and I’ll do the living room, kitchen and dining room.”
“Okay. That leaves the den and all those bookcases, plus the garage. We can do them together.”
After an hour, we’d still found nothing. We move to the den, meticulously removing and replacing every book. They clearly hadn’t been touched in years, and we were soon sneezing from the dust we raised.
“I need a break,” said Emma, sneezing again. We grabbed Diet Cokes and went outside to the patio. The day had cleared from dreary fogginess to bright sunshine, although the ocean in the distance was still padded with a thick layer of fog that probably wouldn’t burn off. We sat on the grass and soaked up the warmth.
I gazed down into the canyon. Our lot dropped off sharply at the edge of the lawn, and the canyon spread in front of me. It looked like a huge open fan that nearly touched the ocean cliffs in the distance. Where the lawn ended, nature took over. A tangle of scrub brush, weeds and wild mustard clung to the rocky hillside, paused briefly at a flat and barren section about fifty feet below, then continued on. The canyon remained completely undeveloped, providing cover for the same local wildlife that had lived there long before any of the houses ringing the canyon top had been built.
Even though my parents had built a rough path down the back bank, I never used it, and it had been abandoned long ago. Aside from the path, the only sign of civilization was a small, whitewashed wooden shed that Dad had built, thinking that gardening tools and supplies could be stored there. When we first moved into the house, they had thoughts of landscaping the back bank. That was before they realized the hillside was more rock than earth.
I’d always been terrified of encountering a rattlesnake or one of the coyotes that we frequently heard calling to each other in the night. But they kept their distance. The same wasn’t true of the skunks. The neighbor’s dog had challenged a skunk more than once. I distinctly remembered the dog’s startled yowl, followed by the pungent perfume of skunk that hung in the air for hours afterward. You’d think one encounter would be enough, but the silly dog found another skunk not a month later. I shook my head in frustration, trying to pull my thoughts back to the problem at hand.
“I’m still not sure what we should do if we do find something, and I’m worried about bringing your parents into this. I know I sound paranoid, but what i
f your dad is involved in some way?” I said.
Emma glanced at me and then away, looking as angry as I’d ever seen. She stared at the distant horizon.
“I think you’re just being paranoid. There’s absolutely no sign that my dad has anything to do with any of this. So what if he has a security clearance? So what if he works with confidential information? Why do you keep going on about it?” Emma asked, looking back at me belligerently.”
“I just can’t forget what happened at your house last Thanksgiving.”
Emma looked at me sourly, shook her head and turned toward the house. We walked through the house to the garage, turned on the weak lights that hung overhead and began searching. Boxes were piled on boxes, and there was dust everywhere. We were both coughing and sneezing in no time. After an hour, we were sure we’d looked every place there was to look, and we were grimy and tired.
“I give up,” I said, wiping sweat from my face with the hem of my T-shirt. Emma sighed as we backtracked through the house and out to the backyard for some fresh air. This time, we plopped onto adjoining lounge chairs on the patio. I curled onto my side and looked at Emma, who stared overhead at the tree that shaded us. Flickers of light and dark played across her face as the leaves stirred in the barely detectable breeze.
“Are we really sure we looked everywhere?” Emma asked, shielding her eyes from the dancing light. I mentally searched the house again. All at once, a new worry popped into my head.
“I think so, but we were looking for actual papers. What if Dad didn’t save anything that way? What if he copied everything onto a thumb drive? We could have gone right past it and not even noticed,” I said, feeling more discouraged than ever. Would we have to start all over again? Then I realized that was just dumb. “On the other hand, I’m sure we would have noticed a thumb drive in the garage, or anywhere else in the house for that matter. It’s not like that’s something you’d expect to see just lying around. Not only that, but my dad is about as far from being a computer genius as possible. He probably wouldn’t recognize a thumb drive if it bit him on the butt.”
I stood up and walked to the edge of the lawn, staring idly into the canyon. Suddenly the ramshackle gardening shed caught my attention. I noticed its door was slightly ajar, hanging unevenly from its hinges. The trail down the bank petered out about fifty feet down, at a fairly wide plateau. I shaded my eyes with my hand and stared at the shed. It sat next to a scruffy bush, about ten feet off the trail to the left. I started down the hillside, slipping and sliding.
“What in the world are you doing?” Emma asked, peering over the edge from above.
I said nothing, concentrating as I picked my way down to level ground. As I approached, I saw that the door was kept from swinging open by a large rock. I stooped to push the rock aside, and the door slowly creaked open. I stood up and looked up at Emma.
“Sam! What is it?” Emma called out. I quickly shushed her, then motioned for her to join me. For a moment she stood at the edge uncertainly, and then scrambled down the path and picked her way across the rocky ground to my side. We both gaped inside the dark shed. My skin crawled as I imagined what might be hiding in its gloomy interior. Visions of spiders, rats and snakes ran through my mind. After a glance back at Emma, I gulped and pushed the door open the rest of the way. We both jumped back, to give whatever critters might be hiding inside a chance to escape. Nothing rushed out, and I sighed in relief. Legs shaking, I walked closer and peered inside. A couple of rusty shovels, a wheelbarrow and some hedge clippers came into view as my eyes adjusted to the dark. Then I noticed something that didn’t seem to fit. I stepped into the shed to get a closer look. Against the far wall, partially hidden by the wheelbarrow, I saw a dirty white plastic box. It looked like a portable filing cabinet. I pushed the wheelbarrow out of the way to get a better look.
“What is it, Sam?” Emma whispered loudly at the threshold. “Did you find something?”
“I don’t know,” I said, and motioned her to join me. Emma entered cautiously and stared at the box. “It doesn’t look nearly as old as everything else in here,” I observed and with trembling hands, I picked the box up and set it into the wheelbarrow. It wasn’t very heavy, but I could tell there was something inside. Emma and I shared a look. Then I turned back to the box and removed the lid.
The box contained two large stacks of money, held together with thick rubber bands, a simple blue file folder full of papers, and a single sheet of white computer paper, folded in quarters. I hesitated for a moment before lifting the money out of the box. We stared at it in amazement.
“Oh my God!” Emma exclaimed. She bent down, grabbed the money from me and tossed it back into the box like it was burning hot. I slowly opened the blue file, my heart thudding in my ears. It held pages and pages of typed documents, separated into stapled bundles of several pages each, except for one stack, which was at least an inch thick. That one was held together by another thick rubber band.
“I guess we found something,” I said dully, as spots blurred my vision. I opened the folder, and Emma peered over my shoulder. In the dimness, we paged through the papers quickly, the only sounds the rustle of paper and the call of a lone falcon somewhere off in the distance. The words swam before my eyes as I read the titles to several of the documents: Summary of U.S. Airline Regulations; Leisure Travel in the U.S.; Financial Health of the U.S. Airline Industry. I glanced at Emma, who was paging through the longest document, her brow furrowed, then I unfolded the single sheet of paper and studied it. I had trouble making it out, so I moved closer to the door, where a shaft of light highlighted the handwritten document. I had no idea who’d written it or what it meant, but I felt a shiver of relief when I realized that the handwriting was not Dad’s. I stared at the page.
Delivery Dates, Shanghai Pudong International Airport:
January 6
March 18
June 13
September 10
“Look at this,” I whispered, holding the page out to her.
Emma glanced up at me and took the piece of paper. Suddenly she went pale. The papers she’d been reading fell from her hands and onto the ground. I quickly gathered them up and stuffed them back into the blue folder. Emma’s eyes had glazed over, and her mouth hung open. She looked at me, then back at the sheet of paper quivering in her hand.
“That’s my dad’s handwriting. I’d know it anywhere!” she whispered. A wave of nausea hit me, and I put a hand onto the rough wooden wall to steady myself.
“You’re absolutely sure?” I croaked weakly.
“I’m telling you, that’s his handwriting. There’s no doubt.” We stared at each other for a long moment.
“Let’s take this stuff back up with us,” I said. I grabbed the money from the box and handed it to Emma, who was still holding the sheet of paper. I hastily straightened the papers in blue file, and shoved the lid back onto the file box before placing it where I’d found it. Emma held the door closed, and I set the rock back in place. Standing unsteadily, I started back up the path. Emma followed, but paused and waited halfway up until I’d reached the top and looked around. I saw no one, and motioned for her to join me. I noticed that she’d tucked the bundles of money into the waistband of her sweats, covering them with her T-shirt. We rushed into the house and up the stairs to my room.
“Wow. I never believed we’d find anything,” said Emma softly. Her eyes were round with fear, and there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek.
“Me either. At least I hoped there wouldn’t be anything,” I said. “Let’s look through this stuff some more. Something seems off about it,” I mused, pulling out one of the documents in the blue folder.
“Ya think?” said Emma with a sarcastic look. “What could possibly be more ‘off’ than finding a bunch of cash and papers hidden down your back bank? Not to mention a note in my father’s handwriting.” She took one of the documents from the folder. We’d skimmed through most of them in half an hour, but things didn’t get cleare
r.
“These reports are just awful,” I said. “You and I could do a better job with our eyes closed! Why would anyone pay good money for junk like this?”
“You’re right. We could get all the information in these piles of crap with a half-assed Google search. Anyone could do it,” Emma said, then paused. “But this one’s different.” She held up the thick document.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“It doesn’t read like the others. It’s much more technical, and it’s much better written.”
“Let me see that,” I said, and took the thick stack from her. The document was entitled A Forward Look at Airline Pilot Training. Something about the title seemed very familiar.
Chapter 20
I quickly skimmed the report. Emma was right. It was nothing like any of the others I’d looked at.
“You know, I think I’ve seen this title before, when we were in the den searching the bookcase,” I said. “Let’s go see if I’m right.”
“Okay, but first we need to put all of this somewhere safe. It’s making me too nervous. How about we hide it in my room? For now, we can just stick it all under my mattress.” I nodded in agreement, realizing it would be better to get it out of my house.
We hurried to Emma’s. Pam never noticed us walk past the open door to the study. She was talking on the phone and typing furiously, half turned away from us. I closed Emma’s door while Emma stuffed everything under the mattress. She haphazardly pulled up the quilt.
“That should do for now. I was thinking about making the bed, but that’d be a dead giveaway that I was hiding something,” she grinned.
Emma had always been an inveterate slob. Long ago, her parents abandoned nagging her about picking up her room and making her bed. Their only requirement now was that she keep her bedroom door shut at all times. We sprinted back to my house.
“I’m thinking we should both go through the shelves,” I suggested, and we got to work.