Lost Contact (The Bridge Sequence Book One), Nathan Hystad [primary phonics books .TXT] 📗

into my pack. “That’s why she didn’t know who Dirk was, just Mister Clayton.”

“That makes sense. Okay, Clayton wanted someone to find this. There has to be a reason.” Marcus stopped talking as we heard the creak of the floorboards down the hallway. A soft knock clicked on the door, and I asked Marta to enter.

She had a box in her hands, water-stained and torn at the edges. “Here. Jose wanted to throw it out, but I kept it in the attic.” She smiled sadly and passed it to me.

I accepted the box. She stood there watching me, then seemed to realize I was waiting for privacy. She could have asked to stay, since it was her father’s possessions I was about to rifle through, but she stepped to the door, resting her hand on the knob. “Would you like some batidos? Uhm, fruit smoothie?”

Marcus said we would, and she left us in the spare room.

“There has to be a clue.” Marcus picked up the first item, a picture of a man. It had to be Marta’s father. Luis was smiling at a girl beside him, who I guessed to be his daughter. The beam of pride in his eyes was unmistakable.

An address book was next, and I flipped through it, checking if there was anything remarkable about the names or locations. Nothing seemed out of place, but Marcus took photos of each one regardless. Perhaps it was written in a cipher. We couldn’t be too careful.

A faded t-shirt, a belt buckle, and an old pistol rounded out the collection. I eyed the gun but kept it where it sat in the box. “Damn it. No leads.”

Marcus took the box, careful to return the possessions in it, and I heard something slip along the bottom. “What was that?” I asked.

He dug his hand in, moving the gun, and pulled out a key. “This is it. It has to be. There was a number stamped on it, and a ring.”

I retrieved the key from him and shoved the box at Marcus, rushing for the hallway. Marta was pouring us the fruity beverages when we entered the kitchen, and I slammed the key down on the countertop, startling her. “What does this open?”

She shrugged noncommittally. “He always carried it. When I asked him, he said it was a key to the stars.”

My heart raced, and Marcus grabbed the key. “To the stars.”

“Nothing else?” I pressed, but she only shook her head, sliding a cup to me. I took it with a thank you as Marcus inspected the ring.

“I think I recognize this name. What does it mean?” he asked me. There was Spanish writing on it, and the logo for a restaurant located at the Caracas airport.

“The airport,” I whispered. “This must open a locker.”

“What if we’re wrong?” Marcus was nervous, and so was I.

“If Marta is certain there’s no lock here, it’s our only lead. We’ll have to try it. Marta, what are the chances we can buy your van?” I wanted to get moving, but it was very late, and I didn’t love the idea of cruising around these foreign back roads in the dark.

She appeared distraught by the idea and muttered a few quiet words in her native tongue. “I cannot sell it.”

“Are you sure? We’ll pay far more than…” Marcus was cut off by her hard stare.

“It was his. My father’s, and I won’t give it up.” She was determined, so I didn’t want to argue. Her expression softened, despite our intrusion on her day. “But I will take you to the airport.”

“To Caracas? That’s a long drive.” I appreciated it but didn’t expect it from her.

“Not a problem. I’ve been wanting to see the city for some time. This is a good excuse.” She smiled, and it was settled. “But we leave in the morning. I won’t drive at night.”

I downed my cold beverage in seconds, providing slight relief from the lingering heat of the day. As badly as I wanted to leave, a night of rest would do us a favor. We settled in, and soon I was in bed, dozing off and dreaming of coordinates and a key to the stars.

12

Compared to the trip south, sitting in Marta’s van’s passenger seat while Marcus slept in the back was a pleasure. The slightest breeze rustled from the old AC unit, and I stared at the landscape through a heavily cracked windshield. She told me about her people and described the terrain as she drove. She had a passion for her country, and I enjoyed the company. The object in my bag was never far from my mind, and the key in my pocket was heavy on my spirit.

We arrived at the airport, and Marcus had already secured our seats on a flight in five hours, giving us what we hoped was enough time to locate the proper locker. With our bags in our hands, we took turns hugging Marta, and Marcus slipped her another envelope of cash.

“I cannot take this,” she said, shaking her head.

I grasped her hands, closing her fingers around the money. “Look, either you take it or I return it to a man who doesn’t need it. Trust me.”

This sold her, and she averted her gaze, staring at her shoes. “I hope you find what you’re after.” Her words were kind, and I smiled at her as I backed away. Someone honked behind her, wanting her parking spot, and she turned, calling out to the driver before hopping into her van. And she was off.

“Nice lady. Not everyone would have helped us,” Marcus said.

“I can see why Clayton trusted her dad. They’re good people.” I eyed the key, and we entered the international airport.

An hour later, we realized there were no lockers here. “Damn.” I’d asked every employee I’d found about them, and they’d all given the same response: There are none. One woman thought they used to exist but hadn’t seen them in some time.

We’d avoided passing through security so