Paraglide
By Peter Anthony Kelley
Copyright 2012 Peter Anthony Kelley
Smashwords Edition
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
For Katie
Table of Contents
Part One: London
Chapter 1
Genevieve Winters was gone. Vanished! Jim and Erica raced through the gift shop and around the ticket windows, searching up and down the long curving lines of sightseers, ignoring irritated cries about budging and queue jumping. Jim clutched his sister’s hand and ran to the visitor’s plaza. He examined every face, chasing after turned heads and hunched shoulders, whipping a hoodie off a startled skater boy. Nothing. Their mother was gone.
They’d arrived in London yesterday afternoon, bleary eyed and jet lagged on a nonstop flight from Minneapolis to visit Abbey Brewer, their mother’s cousin.
“I didn’t know you had relatives in England,” said Erica when their mom surprised them with news of the trip.
“She’s a second cousin. Or maybe a first cousin twice removed. I can never remember which it is,” Genevieve shook her head. She stood up and stared out the kitchen window, absently twisting a dishcloth in her hands. She cleared her throat. “Abbey moved to England, a town north of London called Colchester with her stepmother when I was still a kid. You’re father and I visited once.”
“Why did she invite us now?” asked Jim.
Genevieve shrugged, a distant look in her sharp green eyes. “We’ve been meaning to get over there again for ages. The time just never seemed right.”
Jim frowned. Another family outing. Ten days of forced togetherness. When his mom first mentioned Europe, he had visions of Paris, the food capital of the world. The best chefs, the best restaurants, lounging in sidewalk cafés, eating freshly made crepes or baguettes with gobs of sweet butter and hunks of cheese. Instead they were heading to England, home of mushy peas, sausage rolls, and greasy fish served in newspaper.
Once upon a time their mother would have solicited their opinion, asked them where they wanted to go, what they wanted to do. Vacation destinations were a group decision, majority rule. Only ties were broken by a parent. But there were no ties anymore. Even if he and Erica outvoted their mother two-one, she held veto power and wasn’t afraid to use it.
His mom used to be cool. When Dad was still around. They talked. She actually heard him. She didn’t mind if he cruised all over town, biking up and down Rock Creek Park, over to Georgetown and even down to Alexandria. As long as his cell phone was charged and he got home by nine, she trusted him. But ever since Edward walked out and they bailed on D.C., she’d become distracted and refused to let him do anything on his own.
For the past eight months, she acted as if he needed a bodyguard just to step out the front door. When he got on the school bus every morning he could see her watching from the kitchen window. It was all he could do to keep her from standing with him at the street corner like the kindergarten moms. Even worse was being dragged around every place she went: shopping for Erica’s shoes, visits to the dentist, even trips to her salon. It was Minnesota. Everyone was nice. What could possibly happen? He was fifteen years old. He didn’t need a chaperone while he brushed his teeth and tied his shoes. He didn’t need a chaperone at all. But his mom didn’t see it that way. “It’s a new place for us,” she’d explained. “Once we get settled in, everything will be back to normal.”
He tried not to complain or argue too much, especially when she got that distant look in her eyes. His parents’ separation and their move to the Land of 10,000 Lakes had been hard on his mom too. But it was tough enough making friends in a new town and a new school without your mother and your nine-year old sister hovering in the background like overeager puppies. If he had to spend one more Friday night visiting the video rental store with his mom and Erica, he would go ballistic.
They landed at Heathrow Airport and took The Tube into central London. Erica read a dark blue sign on the dingy platform. “Piccadilly,” she laughed. “That’s hilarious. Piccadilly. Pick a lily. Pill a licky. Lick a pilly. Lick a pillow.”
Jim rolled his eyes and waited for his mom to quiet Erica, but she didn’t. Genevieve had been unusually happy from the moment they’d gotten off the plane, actually bouncing when they picked up their luggage and went through customs. She smiled indulgently at her chattering daughter and winked at Jim. This was more like the easy-going parent Jim had known in Washington. Not the stressed out, overprotective den mother he’d lived with for the past eight months. Flying first class must have been just what the doctor ordered. Or maybe she was excited to see Abby again.
Their train approached three minutes later, its arrival heralded by a hollow chime and a gust of dank, musty air. The glass and metal cars blurred along the platform, racing toward the tunnel on the far side of the station. Was it going to stop? Jim and his mother exchanged troubled glances. Maybe they had the wrong platform. Erica stepped back, her nonsense rhymes swallowed up by the clatter of the oncoming train.
The cars finally began to slow. A pair of flight attendants positioned themselves near the edge of the platform. Jim relaxed and leaned toward the tracks, readying to board. Something gray flashed in the corner of his vision. He turned his head and was roughly bumped from behind. He sprawled toward the still moving train.
“Jim!” His mother cried, grasping desperately at the dangling straps of his backpack.
Jim caught himself with one hand on the cool concrete floor. He stood and spun around, searching for the culprit, catching sight of a dark-haired man wearing a long gray raincoat disappearing into the crowds at the far end of the platform.
“Are you OK?” Genevieve asked, brushing a patch of dust off his jeans.
“No problem,” he said, leaning to get out of her reach. He raised his eyebrows and stared after the now departed man. “But watch out for businessmen on a mission.”
“I guess,” his mom continued, still fussing over him.
“We should go now,” said Erica, pointing to the open train doors in front of them.
They gathered their luggage and bustled into the compartment. A calm British accent instructed them repeatedly to “mind the gap.” Whatever that meant. Crumpled Styrofoam cups and sections of abandoned newspaper littered the floor. A cold mildewy aroma filled the air. Threadbare blue and purple seat cushions lined the walls. The Tube was nothing like the clean Metro cars in D.C. “At least they have a subway,” Jim said quietly. Northfield didn’t have any public transportation, unless you counted the muddy tractors the occasional farmer let you climb on as they clattered down the country roads.
They managed to find three open seats, two side-by-side and a third across the aisle. Jim took the single chair and started reading ads lining the walls – mostly posters for the latest West End theater productions: The Sound of Music, Les Miserables, The Lion King and Monty Python’s Spamalot.
Genevieve had floated the idea of getting tickets to a show while they were in London. Erica desperately wanted to see Hairspray. She adored the John Travolta movie version and had listened to the soundtrack on her iPod at least a hundred times. Jim was indifferent to the idea. He didn’t really care for plays and found musicals ridiculous. Nobody ever broke into song like that in real life. But when he saw the description of Spamalot, he quickly changed his mind.
He’d been obsessed with everything Python since he was eleven and his dad brought home a copy of Monty Python’s, The Meaning of Life. The two of them watched the movie twice that day, then picked up all the troupe’s TV shows and other films in the weeks that followed. It was probably Jim’s best memory of his dad: sitting on the old leather couch in the back room, laughing until they cried. Watching Python remained the one thing they continued to share, even as his dad grew increasingly distant.
Neither Erica nor his mom shared their passion, so Jim assumed his chances of seeing Spamalot were less than slim and only slightly better than none. And, he didn’t hold out much hope for staying at the hotel by himself given his mom’s paranoia. So he resigned himself to two hours of bubbly singing and over-eager dancing. But his mom surprised him by being open to his suggestion.
“Let’s wait and see what we can get once we arrive,” she said a week before they departed. “We’ll hit one of those last-minute ticket stands and take whatever’s available.”
They exited The Tube at Covent Garden station and meandered toward their hotel. On the way, they passed through the Central Market, a huge open-air building full of arty little stalls selling jewelry, clothing, antiques, and huge assortment of hand-crafted items. Scattered amidst the shops were a selection of cafés, pubs and wine bars, each with its own portable blackboard out front announcing the daily specials in neon-colored chalk. The air smelled like a carnival: a mix of grease and cotton candy, tendrils of assorted perfumes and aftershaves, car exhaust and bubble gum.
One board offered afternoon tea with all the trimmings. While Paris would have been preferable, a few British culinary traditions did pique Jim’s interest. At home, he never would have lived down attending a tea. His friends would have razzed him mercilessly. He kept his love of cooking pretty much to himself. It wasn’t what the normal kids did. But the thought of a hot scone with strawberry jam and clotted cream made his mouth water. He asked his mom if they could come back later.
A small but exuberant crowd had gathered on the edge of the market. Curious, Jim and Erica slipped into the throng, squeezing past an elderly couple and a pale-skinned Goth girl. Genevieve stood guard over the bags a dozen feet behind, another sign their formerly relaxed mother had returned. At the front they found a street performer wearing bright yellow pants, a red-and-white striped shirt and lime-green jacket. He juggled knives while balancing on the top of a seven-foot aluminum extension ladder, walking the legs of the ladder around the small area like metal stilts. The crowd oohed and applauded with each trick.
Jim raised his eyebrows and pointed to the dull knives. “He could catch them by the blade and it wouldn’t hurt,” he said.
“You still couldn’t do it,” Erica pointed out.
“I didn’t say I could. I just meant it wasn’t that dangerous, that’s all.”
While the two siblings debated, the performer jumped off the ladder and leapt to where they stood.
“A volunteer!” He shouted, grabbing Jim’s arm and pulling him forward.
“No… I…,” Jim stumbled.
“Ah yes, another sap… I mean volunteer, rendered speechless by my incandescent brilliance! Not to worry, my lad! I have the same effect on pensioners and small dogs.”
The crowd laughed and Jim’s face reddened. He tried to pull away, but his arm remained locked in the grip of the street performer. Jim swallowed and looked up. A hundred pairs of eyes bored into him. His fingers grew cold and sluggish. It was the jazz band fiasco all over again. The two minute sax solo should have been a snap. He knew the music, played it every day in practice. But as soon as he got in front of an audience his body refused to move. The director told him to relax, but the longer he sat there the more uncomfortable he became. All those expectant faces focused only on him and his silent instrument. What could be worse? Gazing out now at a sea of unfamiliar people, Jim’s body tensed and his mind went blank.
“What’s your name, lad?”
Jim didn’t move.
The performer punched him lightly on the arm. “Your name, my boy. Everyone has one. What do they call you?”
Jim blinked and spotted Erica grinning at him. “Jim. Jim Winters.”
“And where are you from Jim Jim?”
“Um…It’s just Jim. I’m from America.”
“Um… where in Americer, Just Jim,” said the performer, using a mock American accent.
“I’m from Washington D.C.,” Jim began. “Er, no. I mean Minnesota.”
“Well which is it now? Make up your mind. You can’t be from two places, can you?”
Jim started to explain, but was cut off. “Well, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Jimmy. My name is Lionel and together you and I are going to give these fine people a bit of a show.” Lionel raised his hands in the air and turned in a broad circle, taking in the audience all around him. “Are you ready for a show?” he asked.
A few audience members nodded. Feeble calls of “yeah” floated out from the crowd.
“I said are you ready for a show?” Lionel shouted, prancing about the makeshift stage and waving his arms like windmills.
“Yessss,” answered the crowd a bit more enthusiastically.
Lionel shook his head and put his hands on his hips. “Better. But…what say you, Jimbo? Good enough? I don’t know if we should let these lot off with that pathetic display. You reckon they can give us a bit more?”
Jim summoned a weak smile and nodded.
“Jim ‘ere doesn’t think you’re loud enough.” Lionel took a step back and pointed at him with an accusing finger. Jim didn’t care how much noise the audience made. He wanted only to merge back into the crowd and become anonymous again. Where was his overprotective mother when he needed her?
“Let’s try it one more time.” Lionel paused. “Are you ready for a show?” he shouted.
Now knowing the drill, the audience roared its assent and added a dose of applause. Lionel hopped up and down like an excited monkey, alternately clapping and pumping his right arm into the air. Jim stood frozen, waiting for it all to be over.
As the crowd quieted, Lionel picked a tattered canvas sack off the ground, theatrically stuck in his arm and pulled out three huge curved swords. They were the kind seen in old pirate movies: bright silver, wide in the middle and tapering to a sharp point –the weapon used by Blackbeard and Long John Silver to prod hapless victims down the plank. And unlike the knives Lionel had been juggling earlier, these swords had razor-sharp edges.
The brightly clad performer removed a fresh pineapple from his sack. He turned the fruit for everyone to see, then tossed it high into the air. As the pineapple fell, Lionel swung one of the sabers in a wide arc, cleanly slicing it in half before it hit the ground.
The crowd oohed appreciatively. Lionel bowed and stepped toward his audience. He extracted a large orange from his jacket pocket and held it up in one hand, the sword in the other. “Orange juice, anyone?”
The laughter echoed around Jim. His vision dimmed. Memories of a visit to the Ichiban Steak House sprang to life. His twelfth birthday. Erica stayed home with a sitter and his Dad was between assignments. It was just the three of them. Jim marveled as the Japanese chefs prepared the meals, their knife blades barely visible as they whisked through the air. Mom had to remind him to eat. Even his dad’s announcement – another trip, two months in South America – hadn’t put a damper on the evening.
The vision of flying knives allowed Jim to relax a bit. He spied Erica grinning at him. He smiled back. He caught a glimpse of his mom’s face for a moment, but lost it when two men stepped in front of her. Jim frowned. He craned his neck and the men shifted again, as though deliberately trying to block his view. What were they doing? Jim signaled to Erica, wanting her to check on Mom, but she shook her head, unable to understand him.
Jim mouthed “mom” as Lionel pushed him toward a large white board leaning upright against a wall. “Stand there, lad,” said the showman, pointing to the outline of a body spray painted in red on the board. “I know it looks like something out a crime scene, but you needn’t worry, I’ve not lost anybody yet.” Lionel took a step away from Jim, leaned toward the audience, and cupped a hand against his mouth. “That French bloke doesn’t count. He moved.” Lionel winked. “And besides, he was from France.”
When Jim was correctly positioned against the board, Lionel picked up the swords and took six long paces. “Now Just Jim, you need to keep perfectly still. Do you understand?”
Jim nodded.
Lionel waved a sword in the air and cocked his arm. “Remember, don’t move. This won’t hurt a bit.” Lionel lowered the sword and spun around, letting Jim and everyone in the audience see his fingers crossed behind his back. Turning back to face Jim, Lionel cocked his arm again. “Ready?” he asked. Before Jim could respond, Lionel’s arm came down with a jerk. Jim jumped. He heard the crowd laugh and realized the sword had never left Lionel’s hand.
“I told you not to move,” said Lionel with flamboyant flourishes of his hands. “What are you, French or something?” The crowd hooted with approval. Jim shrank against the board. He looked for his mom, but couldn’t see her or the men blocking his view. He pursed his lips and tried to recapture the confidence he’d had in the Ichiban chefs, but the frolicking presence of Lionel hopping around the sidewalk was too great a distraction.
“All right, enough of this monkey business,” Lionel shouted, quieting the audience. “You didn’t come ‘ere for mindless frivolity. You want a trick. You want pizzazz and razzmatazz! You want mayhem and body parts! I know you do, don’t you?” He grinned and pointed to a large man with a red face, his big head moving up and down as though it were on a spring. “This bloke ‘ere is out for blood. Look at him. Nodding like a bloody bobble head doll, he is. What do you think this is, the Jack the Ripper tour? We run a family operation ‘ere, nothing to frighten the young ones.” Lionel winked at the man, cocked his head and put his hand aside his mouth. “Gimme a fiver and I’ll make sure you get a finger or two.”
Lionel stepped back toward Jim and pulled a black handkerchief out of his pocket. “All right, it’s show time!” He quickly tied the handkerchief over Jim’s eyes and whispered into his ear, “Remember Jimbo, it’s only a performance. It’s all for the audience.” Lionel obviously meant to comfort him, but sweat continued dripping down his forehead. The blindfold helped a little. In the blackness, he could almost imagine he was all alone, somewhere else, not the target of a crazy sword-throwing street thespian. It will be over soon, he told himself again and again.
Jim heard the clank of the swords and more of Lionel’s non-stop patter, but the specific words failed to register. Lionel’s voice blended into the buzz of the crowd. Jim heard a loud gasp and then applause. He started to think nothing was going to happen when the audience began counting down, “Three…two…ONE!”
Jim heard a strange whistling noise, the kind someone made when they were imitating a falling bomb. It was followed immediately by the crunch of splintering wood. The board vibrated against his back. The audience responded with an odd mix of laughter and boisterous applause. Why were they laughing? He took a step forward and felt a hand gently pushing him back. “One more, my boy,” Lionel said. A moment later he heard a second countdown, followed by the same whistle, splinter and applause.
As the clapping continued, the blindfold was removed. Jim tipped his head. The two-foot sword lay embedded in the wood under his arm. The second weapon stuck inches from his left shoulder. He wheezed out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The blood rushed from his head and his knees quivered.
“Let’s hear it for Just Jim!” shouted Lionel, raising Jim’s hand into the air and shaking it as though they were candidates running for office.
Jim stood by awkwardly as people buffeted him in their effort to drop money into Lionel’s outstretched hat. Indistinguishable voices buzzed in his ears. The crowd began to drift away and still he didn’t move. Someone grabbed his hand. “That was so cool,” said Erica, pulling him aside. “I wish he had chosen me.” She bounced up and down. “Did you know he was a fake? Could you tell he didn’t really throw the knives at all?”
“What?” Jim frowned, shaking his hand free. “Hey, where’s Mom?” he asked, remembering the two strange men. He glanced around nervously. He couldn’t see her anywhere. Dragging a puzzled Erica behind him, Jim ran for the spot he’d last noticed her. People milled aimlessly, obstructing his view. He spun around. Where was she? He turned again. Hey, did that man in the gray raincoat have one of their suitcases?
“Stop!” he called, dropping Erica’s hand and rushing forward. He reached the man, grabbed his arm and spun him around. “Lionel?” he said, stunned to see the round-faced performer smiling at him.
“Hello partner,” Lionel said with a grin. “Thanks for all your help today. I couldn’t have done it without you.” The raincoat transformed the street performer. Though still wearing the red-and-white shirt and the yellow pants, the long trench coat made him almost respectable. His voice sounded different as well, the rhythm more sedate and the accent a bit more refined.
Jim stared for a moment, unsure what to say to this new version of Lionel. “What…what are you doing with our bag?”
“This?” Lionel asked, nodding toward the suitcase. “I didn’t want your mum to strain herself.” He pointed across the cobblestone courtyard. Genevieve stood next to the rest of their luggage, waving at them.
Lionel marched quickly across the courtyard leaving Jim trailing behind, shaking his head and wondering what was going on. Erica caught up to them by the time they reached Genevieve.
“That was wonderful, you two.” Genevieve beamed. She hadn’t smiled like that in months, maybe the entire year. “You’ve really got it down pat now, Lionel. It was good before, but this one is hawks and eagles sharper than last time.”
“You two know each other?” Jim’s mouth gaped open.
Genevieve’s eyes twinkled. “Kids, this is Lionel Leadbetter, an old friend of your father’s.”
“An honor to meet you my lady,” Lionel said, taking Erica’s hand and performing a small bow. “Your father is a great man.”
Erica giggled, and then tried to compose herself. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Leadbetter.”
The performer turned to Jim. “And you and I, we’re already old friends. Thank you again for playing my straight man. I hope I didn’t frighten you overly much.”
Jim quickly shook his head, “No, it was no problem.”
“No, it wouldn’t be, would it? No fear. Exactly like your dad, you are. I probably should have asked first, but I knew who you were the instant I saw you. Spitting image of old Edward. I knew you’d love it up there, just like he would have.”
Jim frowned. Who was this Lionel kidding? He was nothing like his dad, nothing at all. Jim searched for sarcasm in Lionel’s expression, but saw only the same broad grin the man had used on stage.
“Someday they’ll be making a movie about your exploits, too,” continued Lionel. “Another Hollywood blockbuster.”
“It wasn’t real,” Jim muttered.
Lionel’s smile faded. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Is something wrong?” He glanced at Genevieve. “Where is Eddie by the way?”
Genevieve sighed. “I’m sorry, Lionel. I couldn’t tell you on the phone.” She blinked rapidly and looked away. “Edward and I split up.”
“No!” said Lionel, his eyebrows creased. “You two were so perfect together. I heard he’d had some trouble, but I had no idea.”
Genevieve shrugged. “Things change.”
Lionel licked his lips and nodded slowly. “So that’s why he didn’t come with you. I imagine he’s back in Washington saving the world.”
Genevieve glanced briefly at Erica before responding, “We don’t know where he is. He left eight months ago and we haven’t heard from him since.”
Lionel studied Genevieve for a second, a faint trace of indecision in his eyes. “Well, let’s get you to your hotel,” he said finally. “You must be exhausted.”
Chapter 2
Hotel Del Leo was two blocks away on Bow Street. Lionel deposited them at the front door, promising to come back in the morning and give them a tour. “You’ve got to see the London Eye,” he said. “Best view of the whole city.”
They waved goodbye and passed through a set of revolving glass doors. Erica grinned. “Robin Hood is the best bow man in all the land. He takes a bow after every shot.”
“What?” Jim asked.
“He had to bow out of the show because his bow tie had come undone,” said Genevieve.
“What are you two talking about?” Jim pursed his lips and wrinkled his nose.
“The woman sat on the bow of the boat, playing her fiddle and bow,” Erica replied in a sing-song voice.
Jim groaned. They were playing one of Erica’s word games. She loved double meanings, words with unusual characteristics, goofy synonyms or palindromes – words that read the same backwards or forwards like mom, madam or racecar. Erica and Genevieve could banter back and forth as though they spent all their free time reading the dictionary. Erica loved to tease him to see whether he could figure out what grammar rule or term they were using. He usually couldn’t.
“He bowed before the bowed throne of the king,” said Genevieve with a cringe.
“Weak,” Erica agreed.
The two girls turned and looked at Jim, expectation on their faces. He pretended not to notice.
“Oh, come on,” said his sister. “This one is so easy!”
Jim’s mind went blank. It’s always easy if you know. He didn’t like word games. His mind didn’t work that way. It took him too long to sift through the options. By the time an answer popped into his head, everyone had already moved on. He’d much rather be in the kitchen concocting some new recipe than torturing the English language.
“Give up?” Erica asked.
“No! Give me a minute.” Jim sat on an ornate couch and watched his mom approach the check-in desk. The arms of the couch coiled from the floor, golden wood carved in the shape of lions, their mouths ferociously open and their long streaming manes stretching to the end of the armrests and along the top of the back. The entire lobby was decorated with lions. A pair of safari photos hung behind the concierge desk, the heavy velvet wallpaper bore images of sleeping lions, and the wrought-iron gate of the elevator contained a vague likeness of the king of beasts.
“Bow Street…the hotel is on Bow Street,” Jim burst out, giving his sister a so there look.
“And….”
Jim maintained a haughty expression for a moment, then shook his head.
“It’s a homograph.”
“A what?”
Erica rolled her eyes. “A word with one spelling but two or more pronunciations and different meanings; like a bass guitar and a large-mouthed bass.”
“What a freak,” Jim muttered, waving his hands in defeat. His sister was a walking English lesson.
Before Erica could rub in her victory, their mom called them over. “They need to see passports to verify your age.”
Erica handed over hers. Jim reached for his back pocket and the bottom fell out of his stomach. His passport and wallet were gone.
“When did you have it last?” asked Genevieve, her voice calm and steady.
“I don’t know,” Jim said, miserably. He hadn’t used it at the market. He had checked out the fresh passport stamp while they waited for their luggage at the airport, the smudged black notation of Heathrow Immigration Control the only mark on the otherwise pristine document. He thought he’d put it back in his pocket, but now couldn’t be certain.
For a moment, Jim’s hopes soared. He must have put the passport in his luggage. But his relief proved short-lived. He rifled through both bags and found nothing. Genevieve and Erica searched their suitcases, as well, but had no better luck.
The three of them slumped next to the check-in desk. Jim scuffed his toe against the tile floor. “Excuse me.” A tall, slightly overweight man in a light gray suit approached them. “Are you looking for these?” he asked in an American accent. He held out a blue United States passport and Jim’s black leather wallet. “They were sitting on that couch over there. You really gotta be more careful, you know. These things are a pain to replace.”
Jim and his mom took turns thanking the man. Genevieve offered to buy him lunch, but he declined. “I’m on my way out of town. Enjoy the rest of your stay,” he said, shouldering a small bag and tapping a long black umbrella on the floor before exiting the hotel.
Erica frowned and looked at Jim. “Did he seem kind of familiar to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I feel like I’ve seen him someplace before.”
Jim shrugged and shook his head.
Chapter 3
They woke before dawn the next day, jetlag still playing havoc with their body clocks. Jim normally slept until lunchtime whenever possible. He couldn’t remember ever waking up voluntarily before sunrise. Even Erica, the family’s early riser, found it strange being awake so early.
“Let’s go down and have breakfast,” said Genevieve. “Lionel won’t be here until nine.”
“I’ll stay here,” said Jim, putting a pillow over his head.
Genevieve grabbed the pillow and whacked in him the stomach. “Oh, no you don’t. We’re not going to spend half the day lounging around in bed. Get your lazy butt up and let’s go.”
The hotel was eerily quiet. The 24/7 wall lights in the windowless hallways provided no sense of the hour. The morning staff had not yet begun their preparations for the day, and the other guests remained ensconced in their rooms. A bored night clerk glanced at them, his tired eyes momentarily sparking as they strolled by, returning resignedly to yesterday’s Soduko puzzle when they failed to stop.
Erica shivered. “It’s like one of those zombie movies you love,” she said, as they passed through the deserted lobby.
“Yeah.” Jim raised his arms like a sleepwalker, making his legs stiff. He shuffled toward his sister. “Brains, I need brains.”
“Knock it off,” Erica said. “You’re giving me the creeps.”
“Brains!” Jim continued, slowly wriggling his fingers in his sister’s direction.
“Cool it, you two,” said Genevieve, leaving her children behind as she marched toward the hotel dining room.
“Beans,” Erica said, curling her upper lip.
“You put them on the toast,” said Jim, surveying the platters of food under the heat lamps and enjoying the aroma of a full English breakfast. His plate was already piled high with a pair of sunny-side-up fried eggs, button mushrooms and tomato halves with black stripes from a grill, three rashers of meaty bacon, chunks of slightly overripe honeydew melon, a triangle of fried bread that looked like a crispy version of French toast, and a spoonful of the baked beans.
“Not for breakfast,” said Erica, helping herself to a scoop of fried potatoes. “And what are those?” she added, pointing to one of the platters.
“I think it’s black pudding,” said Jim. “I saw it on The Naked Chef.”
“It looks like sausage, not dessert.”
“It is. They make it out of oatmeal and pig’s blood. Want some?” Jim held a disk of the dark sausage over his sister’s plate with a pair of stainless steel tongs.
“Ewww,” said Erica, whipping her plate out of reach. “That’s disgusting! Get it away from me!”
“I told you! We should have gone to France,” Jim laughed. He carefully set the pudding on his plate, nudging it to one side to keep it from touching anything else. He couldn’t go home without at least trying it. Taking one final look at the buffet, Jim helped himself to a glass of orange juice and followed Erica back to their table.
Genevieve was already seated, halfway finished with a bowl of strawberry yogurt and granola.
“Is that all you’re having?” Jim asked.
“I’m saving room for that high tea you want to do,” she replied, running her finger along the rim of an empty cup on the edge of the table. “Did you see coffee anywhere?”
“I think they bring it to the table,” said Erica, looking around the room for a server. “Let’s ask him,” she added, nodding at a man with black pants and a crisp white shirt approaching their table.
The waiter glided toward them and asked in a low voice, “Genevieve Winters?”
“Yes?”
“I have a message for you, Madam. A Mr. Lionel Leadbetter regrets he will be unable to join you this morning. He hopes to meet you here after lunch, but requested I give you these.” The waiter held out three passes bearing a Ferris wheel-like image of the London Eye. “I would be happy to arrange a taxi for you, or you could take one of the double-decker tour buses. There is a stop two blocks from here.”
Chapter 4
Erica bounced up the spiral staircase and slid into the only open seat. Her head spun like a top, taking in the old stone buildings and the morning crush of traffic: shiny luxury sedans, boxy black taxis, long red buses, and throngs of sharply dressed pedestrians moving faster than the nearby vehicles. Genevieve eased in next to her and shrugged at Jim, who frowned and scanned the crowded bus before reluctantly dropping into the seat in front of them beside a bird-like woman wearing oversized black-framed glasses and smelling intensely of lilacs and baby powder. “There’s an open place down below,” said Erica, grinning with more teeth than necessary.
Jim crumpled his lips together and narrowed his eyes at his sister before turning and leaning back, letting the bright morning sunlight wash over him. Thank God for the open-topped bus. He’d couldn’t imagine being sealed inside, forced to listen to his sister’s giddy voice echo off metal walls and breathe in the bird lady’s floral assault.
The tour took them in a loop through Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus – much to Erica’s delight, until she realized there were no clowns or trapeze artists, only a tiny statue and lots of building-sized neon signs. Jim waited for Erica to begin torturing the word Piccadilly again, but she had apparently run out of permutations the day before. Instead, she pulled out her crossword notebook and scribbled a few words.
“A new clue?” asked Genevieve.
Erica nodded and held up the notebook. “Circus without performers –10 letters (Piccadilly)”
For the past year, Erica had been obsessed with creating crossword puzzles. She carried a small notebook with her everywhere, collecting clues the way other kids gathered stamps or interesting rocks. Every Sunday she checked out the answers to the previous week’s New York Times puzzle, marveling over the cleverness displayed by the puzzle’s creator. Jim thought the whole thing was a waste of time.
Ten minutes later they approached Buckingham Palace. “Let’s get off here,” said Erica, springing up and down in her seat. “I want to see The Changing of the Guard.”
“But it’s not for another three hours,” sighed Genevieve, consulting their guidebook. “Maybe we should come back later, after we meet Lionel.”
Erica pretended to pout for a second, squeezing her lips together into a closed circle. “Can I have the camera?” she asked. Genevieve hesitated, then pulled the brand new Sony out of her bag and handed it over. Erica snapped half a dozen shots, twisting the camera left and right to get weird angles of the queen’s residence. “Say cheese,” she said, pointing the lens at the back of Jim’s head and giggling when the flash blinded him.
Jim reached across the seatback for the camera, but Genevieve snatched it away and returned it to her bag. She shook her head at her son and gazed at Erica, who was already busy scribbling another clue in her notebook: “Queen’s rodeo pig –10 letters (Bucking ham)”
Moments later their bus crossed the brown, muddy waters of the Thames. The conductor announced the stop for the London Eye. The huge structure was impossible to miss, a 450-foot-tall bicycle wheel balancing precariously on the banks of the river. Massive steel cables thicker than a man’s arm made up the spokes of the wheel and stretched from a central hub to white girders making up the rim. Dozens of oval glass capsules, each full of excited tourists, clung to the outer circumference like giant drops of dew, glistening in the morning sunlight.
“It’s not moving,” said Jim. “I thought it never stopped.”
Genevieve tipped her head toward the wheel. “It doesn’t. Keep looking.”
Jim watched more carefully, focusing on a single capsule, measuring it against a mirrored office building across the muddy brown river. His mom was right. The entire wheel was spinning, a slow motion journey through the London sky.
Lionel’s tickets allowed them to enter the Fast Track lane, bypassing the long, winding line – over 10,000 sightseers visited the structure every day – and supposedly cutting more than an hour off their wait. Only a dozen people stood in front of them rather than the hundreds crowded in the regular queue. A security guard checked their bags and reminded them to pay attention to the boarding attendants. A sign stated that the capsules traveled at twenty-six centimeters per second, twice as fast as a sprinting turtle. Each rotation took approximately thirty minutes.
Erica peeked up at the tangle of cables and beams. Her face grew pale and a light sheen of sweat appeared on her brow. From the ground, the capsules looked small and fragile, hardly substantial enough to support a group of people “Can I have the camera again, Mom?” she asked, as though trying not to think about sitting 400 feet above the ground in a delicate glass box.
“Why don’t you take the bag?” She glanced at Erica and turned her head toward Jim. “Make sure you don’t lose it, though. My passport and everything else is in there.” Jim flushed. He still couldn’t believe he didn’t notice his passport and wallet falling out of his pocket.
There were only six people in front of them now, a family from Greece on their summer holiday. The mother and grandmother chattered excitedly, herding and cajoling two young children who kept trying to race ahead. The father stood at the front of the line with a boy no more than three perched on his shoulders. Jim looked past them and saw a group emerge from a descending capsule. Each pod could carry ten passengers. They were next.
An attendant pointed to the approaching capsule. The Greeks shuffled forward on the metal grate. The grandmother went in first, but quickly hopped back out and shouted at the children, pushing them ahead of her. The capsule floated along the loading platform. Jim was surprised how fast it moved. Never bet against the tortoise. He silently urged the Greeks forward, not wanting to miss his chance to get on. He bounced on the balls of his feet, waiting for the father to lower his young son to the ground so they could fit through the door.
The capsule was rapidly reaching the end of the loading platform. Erica hurried after the last Greek into the car, with Jim trailing close behind. He turned in time to see two dark-haired, middle-aged men shove past his mother and jump into the capsule. Genevieve started to follow, but there were already ten passengers. One of the attendants held her back while another closed the clear glass door.
Genevieve shrugged and waved slowly. “I’ll take the next one,” she shouted. “Meet me when you get down.” The door shut with a hiss, sealing them in the capsule as it started its slow assent.
“What happened?” Erica whispered to Jim.
“I’m not sure,” he replied, stealing a glance at the two men who had taken their mother’s place. They stood on the other side of the capsule, ten feet away, their backs turned as they stared out at the rising vista. Both men had short black hair. They wore identical black suits, white shirts and slate gray neckties, like some kind of uniform, hardly the typical tourist attire of jeans and shorts most of the people in line had been wearing. Jim frowned, then shrugged. “Maybe they’re all together,” he said, indicating the Greek family who were excitedly pointing at St. Paul’s Cathedral now coming into view.
“Ooh, we have to take a picture,” said Erica. The Cathedral’s 400-year-old dome stood out among the nearby glass office buildings like a senior citizen in a preschool. Black soot streaked its bluish gray stone. Erica pressed the camera against the glass and released the shutter. “Here, take one of me.” She held the camera out for Jim.
He didn’t respond. He was still watching the two men. Neither had moved from the far side of the capsule. They also hadn’t spoken to the Greeks at all. Jim started to wonder whether they really were together. If not, why had they pushed ahead and bumped his mom to the next car? Jerks! He shook his head and turned his attention to the panoramic view before him. They were two-thirds of the way to the top of the wheel and already could see the far reaches of the city. On a clear day you supposedly could see over 40 miles.
Erica poked him in the ribs, handed him the camera and pointed downstream toward the Tower Bridge. With a pair of castle-like towers joined together by a walkway four stories up and graceful suspension cables on each end, the bridge was unmistakable. Erica started softly humming London Bridge is Falling Down while Jim snapped her picture.
He thought briefly of telling her London Bridge and The Tower Bridge were completely different, but he was distracted by the sight of the next capsule coming up behind them. He stretched his neck to see inside. The glare from the morning sun made it impossible to make out any detail.
“Can you see her?” Erica asked.
“No, it’s too bright. Maybe once we start going down.”
As the capsule reached its peak, the Greek father tapped on Jim’s shoulder and held out a small camera. “You take,” he said, pointing to himself and the rest of his family. They were now across the river from Big Ben, the capsule almost parallel with the face of the massive clock. Jim focused on the black hour hand. It was three minutes short of eleven o’clock. He held up one finger, then a second, then took a photo of the smiling family.
There could be no doubt now that the two men were not with the Greeks. They had finally moved, but not to get in the photo. One sat down on the wooden bench in the middle of the car, his suit coat unbuttoned. He talked quietly into a cell phone. Jim couldn’t hear what he said. The second man stood with his legs apart and his thick arms folded across his chest like a bodyguard. He stared directly at Jim, his black eyes impassive and unblinking.
They’re not even looking around, Jim fumed. Why ride the London Eye if you don’t enjoy the view? Trying to ignore the black eyes, he gazed out at the city. The Palace of Westminster, home of the British Parliament, loomed directly in front of him. The trees of Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens swayed in the distance. A red-and-white river boat chugged upstream. Jim couldn’t concentrate. He tried counting the windows on the nearest building but kept losing track. The man gave him the creeps. It was like he was playing the staring game: last one to blink wins.
Jim looked at Erica, but she was too busy taking pictures to notice. He turned around casually, pretending to examine the view offered by the other side of the car, and was relieved to see the man was no longer staring at him. He perched beside the second man in the middle of the capsule. They chatted in a language Jim didn’t recognize.
“Smile,” said Erica, pointing her camera at him.
Jim relaxed and struck a pose, sticking out his tongue and making peace signs with both hands.
Erica flicked out her own tongue. “If you’re not careful, your face will stay that way forever,” she said, repeating one of their favorite family sayings.
“Maybe I want it to,” Jim grinned.
“It would be an improvement.”
The two of them laughed and took turns taking each other’s picture. Erica asked the Greek mother to take a photo of both of them, miming where she wanted her to stand and how to operate the camera. The woman smiled and nodded, pushing the two siblings closer together and making Jim put his arm around Erica’s shoulder before she would release the shutter.
Jim examined the next capsule, now slightly above them. He could see legs, moving bodies and an occasional down-turned face.
“She is not there,” said a gravelly voice to his left.
“What?” Jim jumped. He hadn’t noticed the man approaching. “Excuse me? What did you say?”
“Your mother. She is not on the next capsule.” The man’s English was straight out of a spy movie, his harsh accent Russian or Eastern European. The second man stood behind Erica, blocking the two of them into a corner, separating them from the Greeks.
“How do you know where our mom is?” Erica put her hands on her hips.
“Be quiet now and listen carefully.”
“Don’t you tell me to be quiet,” Erica said. “Who are you? What do you want?” she demanded.
“I said, be quiet.” The man grabbed Erica’s arm and squeezed. His eyes narrowed, first at Erica, then at Jim.
“Ow! You’re hurting me,” Erica whimpered.
“Let her go!” Jim demanded, clenching his fists.
The man released his grip and held up one finger. “Listen now,” he said. “Your mother’s life depends on it.”
Jim’s face paled. Erica’s blustery stance collapsed, her shoulders curling in and her head tipping down.
The second man stepped forward and removed his coat. His shirt clung to his muscular body. Sweat rolled down his forehead. “We want the key.”
Jim stared at him blankly. “What key?”
“Stop playing games,” said the first man. “Give it to me!”
“What…? I don’t understand.” Jim raised his shoulders and spread out his arms in a beseeching pose.
The man sneered, his upper lip quivering. “If you want to see your mother again, give me the key right now.”
The key to what?” Jim’s voice cracked. “The hotel room? Is that what you want? I don’t have any other keys.” He pulled out his empty front pockets to prove the point.
The two men exchanged a glance. Their expressions hardened. “If you are lying…”
“Please,” said Erica, “we’re telling the truth. Why are you doing this?” She gave Jim a look of desperation. He shook his head in agreement.
The first man squared his shoulders and stepped closer. Jim’s mouth went dry. The man leaned down, leveling his eyes with Jim’s. He narrowed his eyebrows and stared. “If you truly have no key, then I have a message for your father,” he said. “Tell Edward Winters to return what was stolen or he will never see his wife again.” The man straightened up. “He has one week.”
“I don’t understand,” said Erica. “What was stolen?”
The men stared impassively.
“But we don’t know where Dad is,” Jim said. “We haven’t seen him in eight months.”
“I guess you better start looking.”
Erica stared at the floor, her hands trembling. “What if we can’t reach him in time?”
The man mopped his brow with a white handkerchief and flashed a grim tight-lipped smile. “Then we shall have to move on to other bait.”
Jim shook his head. “Please, we don’t know where he is. Honestly, we can’t deliver any messages. If we could, I’d….”
“Enough!” cut in the second man. “When we come to the bottom, we will leave first, then the family.” He jerked his thumb toward the Greeks who were paying no attention to them. “You will get out of the capsule last. You will tell no one what has happened. Understand? Not the police, not the embassy, no one. If you contact the authorities you will never see your mother again. Deliver the message to your father. Only when that is done will your mother be released. Do you understand?”
Jim and Erica stood motionless, their jaws slack.
“I said, do you understand?” The man’s black eyes flared as he leaned toward them.
Jim nodded. Erica continued to stare, frozen in place. The two men moved toward the door of the capsule. The three-year-old Greek child wiggled out of his mother’s arms and pushed his way in front of the men. Jim held his breath as the first man picked up the boy, smiled, tousled his hair and bundled him back to the mother. As he returned, he paused next to Jim and said, “Remember. Seven days.”
Chapter 5
Jim and Erica said little on the way back to their hotel. The taxi driver demanded payment in advance, muttering about skiving kids. But after the three previous cabbies had refused to take them because of their age, they were of no mind to argue. The ride took forever, with streams of pedestrians and nondescript buildings flashing by the half-open car windows. As they crossed the Thames, Jim swore he saw his father. He sat up excitedly, ordering the driver to stop the car, certain the short-haired man waiting at the crosswalk was Edward Winters. But when the man turned toward them, Jim slumped back into his seat. How could he have confused the plumpish figure in the roadway for his obsessively fit father? Ten minutes later, his hopes soared again when Erica agreed the passenger in the taxi next to them did indeed look like their dad.
Jim instructed their driver to follow the other taxi.
“Quit winding me up, kid,” said the driver, berating them for playing games and telling them he would have none of it in his car. If they wanted to go anywhere other than the initially agreed-upon hotel, they would need to find another ride. By this time the other cab was long gone, and Jim concluded there was no way the passenger could have been their dad.
“What are the chances?” he shrugged to Erica. Wishing for something didn’t make it come true. Jim had long experience in that department.
Before getting in the cab, they had waited for over an hour at the entrance to the London Eye, desperately wanting to believe their mom would suddenly appear and tell them the whole thing was a practical joke or they were on some new reality TV show. But as each minute passed with no sign of her, the reality of their situation began to sink in.
“What are we going to do?” asked Erica.
Jim stared at the ground. His brain felt fuzzy. What could they do?
“I think we should go to the police,” said Erica.
“No! We can’t.” Jim clenched his jaw. “You heard what they said. Don’t tell anyone, especially not the police.”
Erica’s lower lip quivered, teardrops welled in her eyes. “Isn’t that just what kidnappers say? They don’t want the police involved. If it’s only the family, they don’t have to deal with calls being traced, or wire taps or marked bills.”
Jim shrugged, unable to meet his sister’s gaze.
“We can’t find him by ourselves. We need help.”
“I know!” Jim frowned, but said nothing more. Erica was probably right. This wasn’t a movie. The kidnappers wouldn’t know if they went to the police. Jim rubbed the back of his neck. But calling the authorities felt wrong. Grownups always made things more complicated.
In the end, they decided to go to the hotel and wait, agreeing that if their mom managed to escape, she would go there to find them. They trudged through the lion-filled lobby and waited for the old elevator, jabbing the up button over and over. When the wrought iron gate finally opened, they waited again as a wrinkled old man with a silver-tipped cane tottered out of the car. Chirpy music assaulted the ears on the ride up. They stared at the walls and their shoes, each secretly praying Genevieve would be in the room when they arrived.
“The room key,” Jim moaned, as they approached their door.
“What?”
“Mom has the key. I’ll have to go back down to the reception desk and get a spare. Wait here.”
Jim ran past the elevator and bounded down the steps two at a time. He skidded around a corner into the lobby, narrowly avoiding crashing into the gentleman with the silver cane. “Sorry,” he said, bounding toward the front desk.
The desk clerk was talking on the phone, but immediately hung up as Jim approached. “Mr. Griffiths,” the clerk said, looking past Jim. “The restaurant confirmed your reservations, sir. A taxi will pick you up promptly at seven.”
Jim turned around. The old man shuffled forward, clicking his cane against the tile floor.
“Is there anything else we can do for you today, sir?” asked the clerk.
Jim stepped aside. The old man launched into a complaint regarding the quality of the pillows in his room. Three additional complaints later, Jim jogged back up the stairs, a new key in hand. He told the clerk he’d lost the original, not wanting to mention anything about his mother. As he passed the second floor landing he heard a muffled scream. He froze. Erica! Jim lowered his head and raced up the remaining steps, throwing open the heavy fire door at the top.
His sister stood beside the half-open door to their room, pale and shaking. “There was someone inside,” she stuttered.
“Are you OK? What happened?”
Erica nodded and took a deep breath. “I … I was waiting for you when I remembered that I have Mom’s bag. She left her key in it.” Erica held up a green plastic key card. “I tried opening the door, but it didn’t work. The red light kept coming on. It must have been upside down, or something. I guess he heard me, because the door flew open. He pushed me out of the way and ran down the hall.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Jim put his arms around his sister and hugged her gently.
“I think so. I just need to sit down for a minute.”
Jim eased the door fully open and poked his head into the room. Erica followed him in and gasped. Clothes were strewn across the beds and the floor. The door to the mini-bar hung open. Jim’s dop kit and his mom’s makeup bag had been flipped upside down on the desk, their contents scattered. One empty suitcase lay in the corner, gaping holes slashed in the black nylon cover. A second suitcase sat on the bed, half empty.
Jim turned to his sister. “What did he look like? Was it one of the guys on the Eye?”
“What?” said Erica, her eyes wide in stunned disbelief. “I don’t know… wait, no. He was really tall, with short blonde hair. And he had really weird eyes. They were freaky. Too blue, like he was wearing some of those contact lenses that change your eye color.”
“Did he say anything?”
“No, he just pushed me and took off down the hall. What do you think he was looking for?”
Jim shook his head and sat down on the bed. “I don’t know, maybe the same key Frick and Frack are after.”
“But why kidnap Mom if they thought it was here?”
A loud knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Both of them froze. Jim glanced at the small window next to the desk, thinking about escape, but they were too high up. He’d looked out the window after they checked in. The three-story drop down to a brick courtyard offered no hope. There was no getting out that way.
The knock sounded again, accompanied by a faint hello. Jim eased to his feet and tiptoed toward the door. He put his eye to the peephole. “It’s Lionel,” he whispered. “What should we do?”
Erica shrugged and held up her hands. Jim bit his lower lip. His head sagged as he leaned into the door, palms outstretched.
“Anybody home?” called Lionel from the hallway.
Jim blinked hard, sighed and swung open the door.
“Jimbo, me boy!” Lionel thrust out his arm, initiating a handshake. “Tis grand to see you again. And is that the lovely Erica behind you? Don’t hide yourself so, lass. You’re a sight for these old eyes, you are. I said to my mate just this morning I did, that I would be spending the entire afternoon with a genuine vision, two of them, in fact. No offense Jimmy. You’re a fine looking lad, but you can’t compete with the lovely ladies in your family.