Twenty minutes later Trace tossed his cell phone a few feet up into the air and watched as it traced an invisible, lazy parabola in the air before dropping down onto the sofa. Seven calls, he thought. Seven walls.
“There’s nothing available to fly out on right now,” Trace said to Isabella, “not before a week from this Thursday. I reserved seats for that day as a fallback, going into Baltimore though, not DC.”
We better not still be here then, he thought.
Trace picked up his cell phone and fingered it, turning it over and over, weaving the small device among his fingers.
“AMTRAK also says it’s fully booked and won’t sell any more tickets. There aren’t any buses either,” he said.
“What’re we going to do?” Isabella said. Her voice was elevated an octave. “You should have kept the rental car, Trace.”
Trace narrowed his eyes and looked at Isabella, but held his thought. She was right, of course, in theory, but how was he to have known at the time? He hated bad decisions that seemed so right when he made them.
“Pete,” he said, turning to Pete, who was sitting at the kitchen table reading the hacker magazine, “go online and check Orbitz and Expedia. See
if you can find a flight before a week from Thursday. Any airline, going anywhere on the East Coast. Even the Midwest will do.”
Trace looked over at Isabella, then turned back to Pete.
“In fact,” he said, “make it going anywhere at all if it just gets us away from here. I don’t care where.”
“Trace,” Isabella said, “what were you possibly thinking when you gave up the car?”
Trace felt his neck and face grow hot. He took a deep breath and swallowed his rising anger.
“Stop it, Isabella. Stop it right now,” he said, speaking barely above a whisper, his modulated tone belying his rising anger. “Think about what you’re saying to me. How could I have known this was going to happen?”
Isabella did not reply.
Nanna, who had said nothing during this exchange, looked at Trace, then at Isabella, and said, “I shouldn’t have sold my car when my eyes started to go. I probably should have kept it for when you come down here to visit.” She stood up from the kitchen table where she’d been sitting with Pete, and shuffled off toward her bedroom.
Trace turned toward Pete. “If you can’t find any flights, try looking for a rental car. Even a van or truck. Anything that moves. Even a boat to charter. In the meantime, I’ll make more calls.”
“Will do, Dad.”
Pete looked at his mother and then back at Trace, but said nothing. He picked up his laptop and walked outside to the patio.
Fifteen minutes later, Pete returned.
“There’s nothing online, Dad. We’re out of luck.”
“Oh, Trace,” Isabella said, “I’m so worried. What’ll we do?”
Trace looked at Isabella, and then walked over and put his arm around her shoulders. He gently hugged her, pulling her into him and holding her close, just briefly, before letting her go.
He turned toward Pete.
“What about nearby towns? Did you try Hallandale, Plantation, Davie?”
“Come on, Dad, give me a break, will you? I tried all around, not just Lauderdale. The story’s the same everywhere. Everything’s booked solid. Everybody’s trying to get out of town, not just us.”
Trace put his hands into his pants pockets and walked over to the window. He stood there, with his back to the room, looking out over the parking lot. He dug his hands deeper into his pockets. Then he turned back to Pete and Isabella.
“I’m going out for a while. See if I can find something for us. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Before they could protest or ask any questions, he turned and walked out the front door.
CHAPTER 23
Fort Lauderdale
March 13
Trace left Nanna’s condo and dashed down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. He smacked his palm against the exit door, slamming it open.
He was angry. Angry at Isabella for giving him a hard time about the rental car; angry at himself for not holding onto the car and having followed the SEALs’ mantra about planning for failure; and angry at the general situation in Fort Lauderdale because it made him feel helpless to protect his family. These were not feelings he was used to. Not any of them.
What’s more, what was even worse, the situation in Fort Lauderdale made him realize he might actually be helpless to protect his family under these circumstances. This did not sit well with him. It dredged up memories of Panama and the downed chopper.
He hadn’t been trained by the SEALs to feel helpless, no matter what the circumstances. He’d been trained to formulate a plan, rehearse and re-rehearse the plan, then act and resolve any problem. That training hadn’t left him when he left the SEALs.
Trace stood on the lawn outside Nanna’s condo building, his back to anyone who might be watching him from Nanna’s living room windows. He lit a cigarette, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs.
He thought about what to do next. He crushed out his cigarette on the lawn and began walking.
Trace walked east along Federal Highway, certain he would find a cruising taxi along this major thoroughfare. He was wrong. Instead, he found himself confronted with grid-locked, bumper-to-bumper traffic, with horns screeching. All the vehicles headed north in the direction of the I-95 interchange. The southern directed lanes were empty. The northern route provided an escape path that would eventually give these cars the choice, if they ever reached the interchange, to head either north or south on the Interstate.
Trace walked two miles until he came to a 7-ELEVEN convenience store. He was thirsty so he went inside to buy a soda, bought a bottle of cold root beer, and then went back outside to camp with his cell phone near the Yellow Pages book chained to a wall where the empty shell of a former telephone booth still stood.
He avoided calling Enterprise Car Rental, National, Hertz and Budget, the businesses Pete had researched online.
In the end, his calls didn’t matter. Each telephone call yielded only a taped message stating either that the car rental office was closed or that it had no inventory available to rent, or both. He decided he would call the last agency named on the list, the only one he hadn’t tried yet, one he hadn’t even heard of before, then give up and walk home.
Trace placed the call to Wilcox Auto Rental. To his surprise, his call generated a busy signal. He never thought he’d be so happy to hear a busy signal.
He redialed the number once, then twice, then five and six times. He waited a minute or so between redials. The line was busy each time.
He sat on the curb in front of the 7-ELEVEN drinking his root beer and smoking. After his eighth failed attempt to get through to Wilcox, he decided to do something less passive, less reactive. He stood up from the curb, copied out the address from the directory, and asked the 7-ELEVEN clerk for walking directions to Wilcox.
Trace jogged, sometimes walked, and then jogged some more. After half an hour of this, he strode up to Wilcox’s front door. What he saw pulled him back into the solemnity of his circumstances.
The office was dark.
It’s closed, he thought.
He looked at his watch. It was only 3:20 p.m.
He walked to the front door and flattened his nose against the glass, using his palm to shield his eyes from the reflected sunlight. He squinted as he looked inside.
There was one light turned on.
From the looks of it, he decided, it’s an anti-crime light, the kind that lights up an interior just enough to let customers know the business is closed, but bright enough to discourage intruders who could be seen from the outside.
Trace examined the interior of the office, peering through the glass door, looking for some indication of activity. He didn’t see any sign of anyone. Instead, he saw a telephone handset suspended just above the floor, dangling at the end of its cord, hanging from the base unit f
astened to the wall.
He took out his cell phone and redialed the Wilcox number. The line was busy. He pocketed his cell phone and started walking back to Nanna’s condo. He’d try something else when he arrived there.
CHAPTER 24
Fort Lauderdale
March 13
Pete sat near the pool, but far enough away not to be soaked if someone jumped in and splashed. He had his laptop booted up and was connected to the Internet via his wireless modem card. He was downloading pirated music files and updates to the basic tools used by hackers — crack files, key generators, and serial numbers to use with downloaded, pirated software.
“Hello there, Young Man. Is this seat taken?” the thin, leathery, elderly man said, pointing to the empty chaise lounge next to Pete.
Without waiting for Pete to answer, the man unfurled his long blue, yellow and orange-striped beach towel, spreading it over the chaise.
“No, Sir,” Pete said. “My Nanna was sitting there, but she’s gone back to the condo for the day.”
“Okay,” the man said, as he sat down. He dumped the contents of his duffle bag onto the foot of the chaise, sat on the chaise’s edge, and began spreading tanning oil over his arms, the front of his chest and shoulders, and up and down his skinny thighs and bird-like legs. He swathed his forehead and cheeks with the gunk. Then he leaned back, closed his eyes, and began marinating under the fierce Florida sun.
Fifteen minutes later the man opened his eyes and turned his head toward Pete.
“My name’s Sam Foley, Young Man. I live in Building 5. Are you a snowbird visiting from up north?” He looked Pete over, up and down, then said, “I guess you are. You’re as pale as a ghost.”
“Yes, Sir,” Pete said. “I’m here from Washington, DC, with my parents, visiting my Nanna.”
The man nodded, half listening. “Karen, my wife of forty-eight years, bless her, usually comes to the pool with me. We sit in the sun and gossip about our neighbors or talk about old times when we were young and lived in Philly. She didn’t want to come today, so she stayed home. She has some kind of a rash on her. Must be from too much sun, I told her.”
“I’m sorry,” Pete said. “I hope Karen — pardon me, I mean, your wife — will soon feel better.”
“She’ll be fine. But I feel a little off myself. I’ll be okay though. I don’t see no rash,” he said, as he turned his head and craned his neck to inspect the dark, sagging, wrinkled flesh on the back of his left arm.
Pete turned his head away and rolled his eyes. He looked back and nodded.
After a respectful amount of time passed so it would not seem he was brushing off the man, he said, “Well, Mr. Foley, I enjoyed talking with you, but I have to go now. My mom expects me back. I hope you and your wife feel better soon.” He stood and stepped away before Foley could start another conversation.
CHAPTER 25
Fort Lauderdale
March 14
When he returned to Nanna’s condo from Wilcox, Trace took a seat at the kitchen table. He made small talk while he ate a snack.
When he finished, Trace took his empty dishes to the sink and rinsed them. Then he turned back to face his family.
“I suppose you want to know about today.”
Pete and Isabella looked at each other, then back at Trace. Pete shrugged. Isabella nodded. Nanna remained silent.
He walked back to the table, sat down, then described his afternoon from the time he’d left the condo until he returned.
His story finished, Trace told them that he had formulated a plan as he’d walked home from Wilcox, but wanted to think it through a bit more before he offered it to them for their input.
In the meantime, he told them, he would try once more online to rent a vehicle.
“Pete,” Trace said, “go online again and see if you can find some kind of vehicle to rent.”
Pete searched the Web and found six additional, independent car rental sources not listed in the Yellow Pages.
Trace telephoned the rental agencies, but had no luck with the first five. A clerk at the sixth agency said she still had two older model cars available, ones they didn’t normally rent, but said she would make one available to him, given the emergency circumstances. She quoted a daily rental fee Trace thought was conveniently inflated, but which he accepted anyway.
The clerk required that Trace place a deposit with her over the telephone using his bank debit card. She then told him she would hold the car for him, but on one condition: Trace had to pick it up within the next hour or he would risk losing it to anyone else who might come along after that time.
“And in that event, she said, “you will also forfeit your deposit as well as lose the car.”
Trace reluctantly agreed to the woman’s terms.
He gathered his family to explain that he and Pete would go to the car rental agency located on the far west side of Fort Lauderdale. They would rent the car he’d just reserved. Then they would drive back to Nanna’s, pick up Isabella and Nanna, and they all would drive away from Fort Lauderdale.
“In the meantime,” he said to Isabella, “pack clothing, medicines, bathroom supplies, food, and water for the anticipated drive.”
“In fact,” he said, “if you’re not sure whether or not to pack something, pack it. We can always lose it along the way if we don’t want it.”
“Mom, charge my laptop and then pack it for me,” Pete said. “I can’t carry it with me right now when we’re trying to move fast.”
Trace and Pete set out for the car agency. By his best estimate, Trace figured they should make it there with many of the sixty minutes allotted to them left to spare.
As they walked along Federal Highway, Trace looked at his watch, counting the minutes as they dropped away from the total time allowed them.
“Pete”, he said, “try to hitch a ride for us.”
Pete walked to the edge of the road and stuck out his thumb. He caught a ride for them within minutes.
Trace checked his watch as he and Pete climbed out of the car that had given them the ride. They rushed up the path to the front door of the Jarrett Car Rental Agency. Trace felt self-satisfied, almost smug.
They were at Jarrett with almost fifteen minutes to spare.
Trace reached out and grabbed the door handle. The door stuck. He pulled again. It was locked. Only then did he notice the closed sign hanging from a thin chain just inside the glass door. It offered no explanation.
“What the . . . ?”
Trace leaned against the door and looked through the glass at the darkened office. The single room appeared deserted.
He stepped away and looked around the front of the free-standing building, hoping to see an employee. He didn’t see anyone.
“Come on,” he said to Pete. “I want to walk around back, see if anyone’s there.”
They circled the building and came back to the front entrance without having seen anyone at all, let alone a Jarrett employee.
“That woman lied to me,” Trace said. His face was flushed with anger. “She took my money. It was all a scam.” He glared at the front door of the rental agency. “Let’s get out of here.”
He started to walk back toward Fort Lauderdale. Pete walked quickly, and sometimes almost jogged, to keep up.
They were just into their return walk when Pete pointed to a man leaning against an old Mercedes. He was waving his arm, motioning for them to come over.
“Dad,” Pete said, as he pointed across the parking lot, “I think that guy wants us for some reason.”
Trace looked at the man and at the car, then at Pete, then again at the man.
“He has a car,” Trace said. “Let’s go over.”
CHAPTER 26
Fort Lauderdale
March 14
As Trace and Pete walked up to him, the man stepped away from the car, looked Trace up and down, and said, “Thanks for coming over, Friend.”
“What’s up?” Trace said. His recent experience wit
h Jarrett stoked his defenses.
“Couldn’t help seeing you trying to get into Jarrett. It’s closed, case you didn’t notice. If it’s a car you’re wanting, I can help you.” He leaned against the fender of the Mercedes and placed his meaty palm on its hood.
“What do you have in mind?” Trace said, his voice reflecting his skepticism.
“I have this here Mercedes,” the man said, patting the fender. “Had her since ’85. Has only 39,000 miles on her. She’s like new, hardly broke in.”
“How much to rent it?” Trace asked.
“Nothin’ at all to rent it, nothin’ at all ‘cause she’s not for rent. She’s for sale.” The man nodded sharply once to underscore his statement.
Trace tried to process what he’d just heard. He looked at the car and walked around it twice. For a few seconds, he just stared at it. He had mixed feelings.
Body and paint job look more than thirty-plus years old, he thought, pretty well dented. Probably rusted out underneath.
Trace leaned toward the hood and put his hand on the car. He flicked his finger, launching an imaginary piece of dirt from the hood.
He quashed these thoughts and turned to the man. “How much to buy?”
“Cash. No checks. Don’t take no credit cards neither,” the man said.
“How much?”
“Five thousand,” the man said. “Take it or leave it. No bargaining, no quibbling. Cash on the barrelhead is all I’ll take. No checks or credit cards.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Trace said. “Let’s the three of us go to the nearest Wells Fargo branch. I’ll drive. If I like the way the car handles on the way there, I’ll get the money from the bank.”
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