The Last Car in the Parking Lot
by
Brad Alan Lewis
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Brad Alan Lewis
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Day 1
Saab. 900. Not a turbo. Probably a ’97 or thereabouts. You could probably pick one up for $1,700 or so, depending on what shape it was in. This Saab is the sort of car you’d drive in college and be glad to have.
The car’s owner is missing. Kate.
Three people stand looking at the Saab - Karen, Lindsay, Sam.
Karen and Lindsay are Kate’s sisters.
Sam is the searcher.
Lindsay unlocks the Saab with the spare key she claimed from Kate’s apartment. Stale air leaves the car’s interior like a lazy ghost.
Sam and Lindsay look through the car, searching for clues. A stray phone number. A stray note. A stray photo. A stray anything. No clues.
“Well, might was well get going,” Sam says.
After good-byes, Lindsay climbs into the Saab and turns the ignition key. Score one for ’97 Saabs. After sitting here for thirteen weeks, it starts with only a second’s hesitation.
Lindsay waves as she exits the parking lot - destination Encinitas, California. Karen follows in her Toyota 4Runner, destination Leucadia, California.
Sam is left standing in the parking lot.
And Michael. Forgot about Michael.
Michael is fifteen years old. Michael is Lindsay’s son. Her only child. About six foot tall. Lanky. Complexion, not too good. Hygiene might be an issue. Hair cut short, hastily. Might have cut it himself or had a friend do it.
Sam and Michael are going to search for Kate, who is Michael’s second favorite aunt. Unlike Auntie Karen, Auntie Kate would never take him to McDonalds.
Their backpacks rest on the ground near where the Saab had been parked, tilting against each other, back to back, like soldiers.
“Well,” Sam says looking around the empty parking lot, “here we go. Ready?”
Michael doesn’t respond.
Sam leans over, grabs his pack by the shoulder straps and lifts.
Michael’s pack thumps to the ground and rolls over, a dead soldier.
What’s nice about hiking at this time of year is that you don’t need a Wilderness Permit in order to legally enter the wilderness. Hiking in the backcountry and hassling with ranger-bureaucracy are just not a good fit in Sam’s opinion, not to mention standing in line for an hour at the Wilderness Permit-issuing office. The official hiking season is over for another year, and thus all rangers, backcountry, Wilderness Permit issuers and otherwise, have exited the Sierras. Sam and Michael are on their own.
Sam and Michael leave the parking lot heading due south. They soon pass a sturdy metal sign with these words cut neatly into it: John Muir Trail.
Instead of looking for Auntie Kate, Michael should be stumbling into his second-period class, probably Cinema Appreciation, Francis Ford Coppola to Sofia Coppola. Senior year. Oceanside High School. Go Pirates.
Last June, at the end of the school year, the principal of Oceanside High informed Michael’s mother that Michael was a bit more than the school could tolerate. The fact that Michael was heroically wasting his time went without saying - lots of students waste their time. That didn’t really matter. What mattered was that Michael often behaved in a rude, insolent, disruptive and even physically aggressive manner - displaying a distaste for rules, school property, authority, and teachers that was simply too much to handle.