by K.A. Tucker
8. Reconnaissance
I studied the throngs of people as I crossed Fifth Avenue. There wasn’t a single person who could ever be mistaken for a protester. That seemed to favor my conspiracy theory.
I passed through one of the park gates and stopped to take in the gardens and paths of the famous landmark, exhaling heavily. Where do I begin? The aroma of a hot dog cart wafted my way. My stomach growled. Start with lunch.
Foot long and Coke in hand, I searched out a park bench and gingerly sat down, recalling the sharp metal seats of the benches around the fire the night before. This bench’s wooden seat was intact, definitely not one of their props. I scanned the other benches in the area to confirm that all of their seats were also wooden. I’m like Nancy Drew, I thought proudly as I took a big bite of my hot dog. A gob of mustard dripped onto my lap. A slovenly version.
I couldn’t help but feel discouraged, sitting there. It didn’t feel like the same forest. I didn’t remember autumn foliage. But it had been dark and, if they were drugging me, I couldn’t trust my instincts, I rationalized. Still, something didn’t add up.
I scrutinized the people hurrying along the various paths and sidewalks around me, hoping to catch a bubbly blonde skipping by. Or better yet, Caden. My heart began to race at the thought.
It was sunny but the gusting wind carried a bite, enough to warrant a thick jacket and mitts. My hands—ungloved while I handled my messy lunch—were turning red.
“So many people about, all in a rush, aren’t there?” a petite, elderly woman in a blue wool peacoat remarked as she slowly eased herself down beside me on the bench, a bag of dried bread in her frail, wrinkled hands.
I smiled politely at her. “People prefer the warm weather.”
“And you? What are you doing out on a day like this?” she asked, turning to face me as she leisurely tossed a few pieces of bread out to some eagerly waiting pigeons. She had to be in her late eighties, judging by her heavily creased face and her stark white, curly bob. Oddly though, her eyes were not clouded and bland with age but an intense hazel, speckled with dark green flecks.
Looking for evidence that I’m being drugged and dropped off in Central Park at night, I replied mentally. She’d likely keel over dead if I shared that. “Oh, just taking in the sights. I’m visiting from Maine,” I said instead, drawing a big gulp of soda through my straw.
“Oh, isn’t that lovely,” she replied. A typical old lady response.
We spent the next twenty minutes idly chatting about the differences between Portland and New York as the old lady fed the hungry birds and I finished my lunch. She was a sweet, grandmotherly type, eager to ramble on about her ten grandchildren and three great–grandchildren.
With the last chunks of bread devoured by the scavengers, she rose. “Well, it was nice to meet you …”
“Evangeline.”
“Evangeline. What a lovely name. Evangeline, I must be heading home now. It’s too cold out here for these old bones.”
“Goodbye,” I said, smiling.
“Are you going home now too?”
“Yeah, probably,” I said, crumpling up my hot dog wrapper. “I don’t think I’ll find what I was looking for.”
“Oh? And what was that?”
I hesitated. “A statue.”
She paused. “Anything in particular, dear?” she asked, her eyes squinting in query.
I described the white woman in detail to her. Those unusual hazel eyes widened. “Yes! I know the one you’re talking about. Just take the paths through Shakespeare Garden and you’ll find it.”
“Really? Thank you!” I said, feeling a mixture of distress and relief.
With that, she shuffled away, moving surprisingly quick for such an old lady.
I followed her directions and soon found myself deep within the park, surrounded by trees of all varieties, their leaves turning the colors of autumn. I was surprised how wooded and quiet it was with the city bustle so close by. It still didn’t look like my dream, but …
On and on I walked, searching. I wondered if Leonardo had discovered that I had snuck out yet. I hoped he wasn’t too worried. If I could just find this statue soon, I’d have the proof I need, I thought. It has to be around here somewhere.
Leaves rustled, stopping me dead. My head whipped toward the noise and I saw a stout, round–faced man walking a scruffy gray mutt of medium size. He had well–groomed, salt–and–pepper hair and a tidy mustache, and he was smartly dressed in a blue tweed coat and a matching plaid wool cap. A perfectly respectable–looking gentleman, I concluded, relaxing.
The dog’s front legs were practically off the ground as it pulled its owner toward me. When it reached me, the mutt sniffed my pant leg, let out a low growl, then lunged upward, snapping at my arm.
“Badger! Sit!” the man yelled, tugging the dog back sharply before its fangs could sink into my skin. Badger sat back on his haunches.
If only Max were here, I thought spitefully, glaring down at him. You’d be shaking in your hairy paws.
“I apologize, miss. Badger has issues with other dogs. He must have caught the scent of one on your clothing. He’s seeking therapy,” the man joked in a gentle voice, patting the dog’s head. I noticed a small tattoo of an angled cross on the fleshy part of his thumb.
I laughed along with him, keeping one eye on the mutt’s ugly face.
“Are you lost? You look lost,” he inquired.
“Oh, I’m looking for a statue that’s supposed to be around here …” I described the statue, hoping he could redirect me.
“Oh yes. This way,” the man said, smiling as he began moving off the path.
That’s right! There hadn’t been a path the night before. That, I would remember. I followed him with renewed excitement.
“Are you a tourist?” he asked.
“Is it that obvious?” I said, giggling.
“What brought you to the city?” he asked, veering into a more densely wooded area.
“Visiting friends.” Friends who paid someone to bite me and make me think I’m crazy.
He held a branch back for me to pass. “Friends … hmm … and have you known these friends long?”
“No.” I frowned. Why would he ask that?
“But you’re visiting them?” His eyes darted to our left, as if searching for something. Or someone.
Warning bells began sounding in my head. Get out of here. “Thanks for your help. I think I need to get home,” I squeaked.
It was too late, I realized, as I turned to see two scruffy men closing in behind me, one holding a gun.