The Keystone: Finding Home

by Seren Goode

  “I think Grace is right.” I was surprised Shim spoke up first.

  Jaxon let out a frustrated growl and stubbornly turned his back.

  “You mean, what? That we find out the truth? Ourselves? Without calling the police?” Breeze’s voice wavered as she answered her own question.

  “That’s exactly what she means.” Skylar turned to his twin, and they did this non-verbal eye communication. Then he turned to the rest of us and nodded. “We’re in.”

  Breeze didn’t look happy.

  Jaxon let out a puff of air as if resigning himself to following us fools. “Fine, whatever.” Shim gave me a half smile, one side of his mouth tilting up while the other still looked grim.

  “So, what do we do?”

  So what do I do? What have I started with these people that I just met? I had no idea where this was going to take us. There was more to our parent’s story, and it was finally time to find out what that was, but could I depend on this group to help me search out the truth? Did I have a choice?

  Okay, Grace, think it through. First step, we have identified the problem. Now how do we find out the truth? What resources do we have? I thought about the backpacks, the stones, and the watch. Pulling out the watch again, I examined the attached tag. It had a gallery name and address. The watch came from the jewelry bag with the cuff. Could the two items be connected?

  “Do you know where this is?” I held the tag out to the twins.

  “Yes, it’s near here. Should we try and call them?”

  Jaxon and Shim thought that was a bad idea and leaned back against the wall of the alcove as I watched the willowy twins stand nose-to-nose with the muscular brothers and debate their opposing points. My mind is spinning with the events of the day. I couldn’t get past the thought that my mother might not be dead. It was tearing me up inside. What if she had been kidnapped too? I felt guilty for not trying to find her. I didn’t really care that she might have been involved in some kind of illegal activity. She could be in trouble. At the very least, she had been on the run from something. Someone? Maybe the same someone who had my dad and the others? The same someone who had replied to my text earlier, pretending to be my father.

  “We can’t call.” I interrupted Jaxon whose flushed face matched the color of his spiky red hair. He cut off his diatribe on the twin’s monumental stupidity.

  “What do you mean?” Asked a perma-scowling Shim. Just barely taller than his younger brother, he had been using his muscle and posture to support Jaxon’s position.

  They all turned to look at me.

  “We can’t trust any technology.” I had held up my phone as an example. “They either had my Dad’s phone or hacked it and texted me. We can’t trust any messages we get. And, my Dad says that people can track you through your phone.” I cringed, gritted my teeth, and with an underhanded throw that would have gotten me kicked off a softball team, I tossed my phone into the fountain.

  “She’s right,” Skylar chimed in with his support. “I read an article that the CIA can track your phone even if it’s turned off.”

  “I doubt the CIA are after us, nerdlet. I’m sure they care more about terrorists and shit.” Jaxon pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, gave a little shrug, and tossed it into the fountain.

  Breeze gasped, her mouth an “O”, and her eyes wide. She watched Skylar pull his shiny blue smartphone out of his pocket and give it a fond caress before lobbing it into the waterfall.

  Shim had his eye on me as this all went down. I crossed my arms and glared at him, arching a brow. He shrugged and, with a flick of his wrist, tossed his phone. With the shallow angle, it did a skip, then sank into the pool.

  “Argh” Breeze clutched her glittery pink phone to her chest with one hand while petting it with the other. “No, no, no, there must be another way.” Her voice sing-songed as she clung to hope, throwing out one ridiculous suggestion after another. “What if they are waiting for us to call them?” she reasoned, eager desperation lit up her face. “This could all be a mistake.” The tone of her voice hitched up at the end of each word.

  “Come on,” Skylar coached, “hand it over.”

  “Nooooo, please. I’ll turn it off. I’ll…I’ll bury it in the backpack with the other phones.”

  “You know that’s not how it works. And those are burner phones. They’re untraceable. You have your whole life mapped out on your phone. Every action you do is trackable.” Skylar stroked a calming hand over her hair down from the crown of her head, each stroke reaching farther down her arm and closer to the phone, eventually touching the phone and gently pulling it from her grasp.

  “Nooooo. Please, not the fountain. Just leave it here, in the alcove. I’ll leave it behind, but don’t sink it.”

  Skylar looked at her big blue eyes pleading with him and caved. “Okay, okaaaay.” He tucked the phone up against the wall of the alcove.

  “All right.” That task done, I turned to the next one. “Let’s grab our bags. We are walking to the gallery.” I stood, bracing for an ache in my knee and for another debate and was surprised that everyone followed my directions.

  Crack! Plunk!

  “Noooo.” Breeze wailed.

  I turned back from picking up my messenger bag in time to see Jaxon’s foot returning to the ground. Breeze slid across the floor, landing on her belly with her head leaning over the edge of the pool. A mournful wail issued from her lips as she had said goodbye to her phone.

  Chapter 4

  The Duchess

  A flash spread through the waterfall as twilight triggered the light meters and the fountain’s spotlights popped on. Dusk settled, and the howls of the city died into an evening purr.

  Slipping out from behind the waterfall, Breeze led our grim-faced group across the lawn. Skylar was next, his eyes nervously searching the shadows, and I followed, limping slightly on my injured knee. I assumed the moody Shim was somewhere behind me with the third backpack. Jaxon had snuck out earlier, checking the grounds and whistling an all clear.

  Quickly moving across the lawn, we merged into the pedestrian traffic on Third Street. Crossing in front of the Modern Art Museum, we walked briskly up to Market Street. The enraged horns from the heavy evening traffic echoed off the stone and pavement.

  Walls of buildings rose up on either side of Market, stretching up to the sky as we walked the canyon between them. Boxed in and antsy, I watched the unfamiliar streets alternate from thriving businesses and cafés to empty storefronts with boarded-up windows and barred doors, then back to thriving businesses. Heading deeper into the shopping district, we passed a series of trendy clothing boutiques and crossed streets packed with never-ending cars, headlights bouncing off heated surfaces. The pedestrian traffic picked up as we turned onto Post Street. Lamplights popped on as twilight settled in.

  The gallery was in a ground-floor shop, and the twins gave furtive glances up and down the street before they shot inside. Jaxon and Shim followed. I paused, taking a nervous, shaky breath. What were we going to do if we didn’t find the answers we needed here? It had surprised me when everyone had listened to my ideas earlier. I’m not the kind of girl that inspires a following. What if they all turned to me for the next move?

  Reluctantly, I pushed open the gallery door. The sweep of cool air washed over me, bringing a faint trace of oil and something metallic. Stepping over the threshold, I glanced around to make sure we hadn’t entered a mechanic’s shop by mistake. I was still sniffing the air when an object darted across the floor, heading my direction.

  The gizmo stopped in front of me. The rotating collection of cogged wheels and levers intricately laced together was slightly smaller than a basketball. The spinning pile of metal had an undulating row of levers, like a spine, and a small silver head with floppy copper strips on each side. The head looked up at me and then blinked two gorgeous brown marble eyes as a red tongue made of
leather lolled in its mouth.

  My nervousness disappeared, and I clasped my hands to my checks. The pile of metal was in the shape of a dog, its whole body moving in a mechanical jolt as it tried to jump up and wag its tail at the same time. I smiled as the metal dog pawed at my leg expectantly with a spork-like foot.

  “Duchess, down,” came from the back of the shop. A tall man rushed forward. “Down, girl.” He chided the pile of metal as he pushed the cutlery off my leg so I could enter the shop. Jaxon, who had missed the mechanical wonder on his way in, turned back.

  “It’s a dog!” He sank to his knees, and a smile transformed his face as he patted his legs. “Come here, girl.” The mechanical dog gave a last jump at me, and with a slinky, 180-degree rotation, Duchess launched herself at the new voice. Her paws had small wheels under them that rolled her across the room then locked as she jumped up and tapped Jaxon on the arm.

  The man who had called Duchess back raised an arched brow at Jaxon’s laugh. His waxed handlebar mustache twitched. He might have smiled in amusement, but it was hard to see under the facial hair. He was dressed in a long brown military-style coat covered with leather straps and brass buckles. A gold watch fob hung between his jacket pockets. He looked like a refugee from another time, or like he had just returned from Burning Man.

  In spite of his twitching mustache, he didn’t look happy to see us. He kept glancing behind me as if to check if we had adult supervision.

  I looked around the shop, hoping to see someone else we could talk to, but it was just him. The gallery held a selection of oils and watercolors. Paintings of rolling California landscapes and still-life abstracts of wine and cheese were interspersed with elegant stone sculptures and round handmade ceramic bowls. Despite the art, the space felt sterile and didn’t match the dog that greeted us or the man who had yet to say hello.

  Breeze and Skylar sank to their knees on either side of Jaxon, laughing as they took turns patting Duchess’ head.

  “We were wondering if the owner was here.”

  “And who is asking?” The man didn’t look up as he replied in a formal diction with a faint accent, somewhere between Harry Potter and Benedict Cumberbatch.

  I hesitated. How much should we tell him? “We have…business with him.”

  “And who would you be?” he asked again. Skylar, Breeze, and Jaxon seemed to remember why we were here and stood up.

  “Um, we have an item we need some information on,” I said.

  “Well, let’s see it,” the man said. His curled mustache looked friendly, but the set of his mouth and his folded arms screamed skeptic.

  Glancing at the twins, I gave Skylar a nod, and he pulled the watch out of his pocket and held it out. The man looked down at the watch but didn’t reach for it. His arms stayed wrapped across his chest.

  “And where did you pinch that?” He asked coolly.

  Skylar hesitated again, so I made up an answer for him. “It was a gift.” That was a mistake.

  The man looked at each of us, then walked over and opened the door and pointed out. “I think you need to leave, and I will be calling the police.”

  Chapter 5

  The Secret Gallery

  “Get out!” The handle-bar mustache dipped over his pursed-lipped demand.

  We eyed each other warily. Now what?

  When we didn’t move, the man pulled a phone from one of his many pockets in an angry huff and said, “You are lying.” Most of his accent was wiped out by tension, but his words were still formal and clipped. “And I am going to call the officials if you do not leave.”

  Frantic, I looked back at Shim who gave a what have we got to lose shrug. He had quite a command of non-verbal skills—and he was right. At this point, we had lost so much, what could the truth hurt? I didn’t want to say who we were, but I could tell him where we got the watch.

  “We aren’t lying.” I glanced at Skylar and Breeze. “Arie gave the watch to us.”

  The retro-man looked startled at the name. His fingers froze over the phone, and he cocked his head and looked at me. “You know Arie?” He drew out his words, imbibing each with a bucket load of sarcasm.

  I floundered, trying to come up with a good lie that would explain why we had this watch and not reveal who we were.

  Glancing back at the twins, I stuttered out an “uhmm,” stalling, when Jaxon interrupted.

  “For Stars sake. Arie is their father.” He pointed at the twins.

  The group gasped. Shim put his hand over his face.

  “Oh, come on,” Jaxon exclaimed. “He was never going to tell us anything; he thought we jacked the watch.”

  “Is it true?” The man looked at the twins with narrowed eyes. “Arie is your father?”

  They nodded.

  “Yes, and we need your help,” Breeze whispered.

  It took some convincing to get the man to believe we truly did know Arie and hadn’t stolen the watch, but the change that came over him was amazing. Stepping in front of a couple entering the store, he cut them off. “We are closed.” He shut the door in their faces. He flipped the lock, turned the sign in the window that read, “Shut Happens,” and pulled down the blinds.

  “Head upstairs, fourth floor, then turn left.” He indicated a door in the back. “I’ll close up the downstairs gallery and meet you up there.” He started to move away, then turned back to us. “My name is Jonas, and Arie is my friend. If you are who you say you are, and you have that watch, then you need my help.”

  We looked at each other, stunned. What a turnabout. With a cautious glance up, we followed the directions and ascended the shadowed stairs to the fourth floor. At the top, we turned left as instructed and faced a heavy dark-wood door. Shim, in the front, slowly turned the handle and cautiously stepped over the threshold. The oily metallic smell was much stronger here, and there was a whirring sound, like a winding clock.

  “Smells like a motocross shop,” Jaxon muttered, following him and pushing farther into the room.

  We emerged in a gallery very different from the downstairs shop. The space had a retro-futuristic Victorian vibe. The front walls were covered in sheets of riveted metal connected by delicate art deco arches. The remaining walls had exquisitely patterned wallpaper. Floor to ceiling shelves were in the center of the room, each crammed full of mechanical devices and pieces of metal art.

  A large painting in the corner showed an ethereal golden planet with metal pavilions floating in the air. Other paintings hanging throughout the room featured futuristic landscapes, human-mechanical hybrids, Victorian era-inspired laboratories, and flying machines.

  In the center of the room sat an old-fashioned chrome and leather motorcycle with a keyboard handlebar, elongated body, and tall organ pipes extending vertically from the back. Beside it was a bicycle with treads and cogs instead of wheels and a mannequin head where the seat normally would be. The pieces were amazing, wondrous, bizarre, and in some cases, extremely dangerous. I gave a wide berth to the chainsaw shaving chair.

  We dispersed throughout the room, gasps and laughter following each new find. It was sometime later when I heard footsteps coming up the stairs and looked up. Jonas came into the gallery and shut the door behind him.

  “Come with me.” His shoes tapped on the wood floor, his stride brisk as he swept through the exhibit space and entered a door in the back. We tentatively followed him into a workshop and over to a large wooden partners desk that had been turned into a workstation with spider-like metal arms to which a lamp and magnifying glass were attached. He laid a velvet cloth on the desk and put on cloth gloves.

  “Let’s take a look at that watch.”

  Skylar dug it out of the pocket of his jeans and reluctantly handed it over to Jonas. Laying it gently on the cloth, Jonas bent over the magnifying glass, silently studying the piece for several minutes, a metal probe with a rubber tip assisting hi
m with his investigation. Flipping the watch over, he removed the face and examined the inner workings.

  “It is Arie’s watch,” began Jonas, not looking up. “I’ve cleaned it several times over the years—tried to buy it from him, too, but he never would accept my offer.” He flipped it over again and secured the cover on the face of the watch. “It is in perfect condition, the same as the last time I saw it, which was well over a year ago.” Jonas paused. “Well, almost the same. This is new.” He pointed to the back of the watch where a pattern of dots and lines were inscribed above a line of text that read, “Find your way home.”

  “This design and the inscription weren’t here the last time I examined the watch.” He looked up and pursed his lips as he studied us, his brow creased. “Whenever I tried to buy this watch, your father always declined. Said it was an important family heirloom—all he had left.”

  I eyed the twins. They said their father was in foster care with my mother. How could he have a family heirloom? My family didn’t have any. Then again, most people probably didn’t move around with everything they owned in the back of a VW van.

  The twins looked as poleaxed as I felt. More secrets. How odd it would feel to know this stranger knew more about your father than you did.

  I empathized. What kind of family didn’t tell you that you had cousins, aunts, uncles, a mother who was still alive? What kind of family hid all the time? Mysterious kidnappings, hidden family heirlooms, cryptic messages. When had life gotten so complicated? None of this new reality matched up with my previous existence.

  I searched my memory for any story I could think of from my mom’s childhood—real stories, not the ones about fantastic underwater kingdoms and sea monsters that she made up to entertain a child, but a real, historical account of her life.