She took back her cap and coat, and left, muttering to herself. I looked up and found Jenny regarding me, then making another note.
“All right,” Ngozi said as I sat down on the boulder by Tobias. “Let’s see…”
Though it was getting dark, the pictures—all save the first—were during the day. Timestamps at the bottom indicated that each successive picture was a half hour farther back in the past. With eight total, we had four hours of data.
Hopefully Ngozi could make something of them, treating the area as a crime scene. I flipped through the pictures one after another to give Ngozi a glimpse, then we’d spend time analyzing each one for—
That was Sandra.
I froze, holding the next-to-last picture. A narrow face, with almost ghostly features. Her hair was longer and straight, but it was her. Sitting on the bench, reaching toward the wastebasket beside her.
Ivy gasped. Jenny took notes. Ngozi lowered her face mask and pulled off a surgical glove, then rested her fingertips on the picture. Tobias put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed.
She’d been here. She’d actually been here, not four hours ago. But where had she gone?
“She texted you,” Ngozi said, “then dropped something in the rubbish bin.”
“Then let’s go get it!” I said, suddenly heedless of any risk.
“Hold on a moment,” Ngozi said, making me check the last photo. “I said wait. Tobias, restrain him.” She shivered, putting her glove back on as Tobias held me still. His wasn’t a strong grip, but there was something demanding about it.
“See here,” Ngozi continued. “This man buying a hot dog from the vendor? He’s back again in this other picture, and again in this picture.”
I sat back and squinted at the photos. At a prompt from Ivy, I used my phone for light so we could see them better.
Behind us, the crowd oohed and aahed over another round of sparks in the air.
“So…” I said. “He likes hot dogs?”
Ngozi cocked an eyebrow at me.
“Either that,” I said, “or both the patron and the vendor are involved.”
“Look here,” Ngozi said, pointing at another picture. “They’re whispering together. They’re definitely involved.”
My heart sank, and I looked back. The same vendor as in the pictures—a younger black man—was selling hot dogs now. “They’re surveying the drop site,” I said. “Waiting to grab me, perhaps?”
“Well,” Ngozi said, “you’re not exactly hard to find. If they wanted to snatch you, they wouldn’t do it here, in a crowded area. They’d come to your home, or ambush you on the street.”
Ivy grunted. “So maybe they just want to see what you do?”
“Or maybe they’re after Sandra,” Ngozi said. “Or maybe they don’t know who is going to respond to her texts. Or, most likely, they’re connected to this in a way we can’t guess—because we don’t have the right information.”
I turned back to the photo of Sandra. Then I stood up and started walking toward the bench.
My aspects scrambled to catch up. “Steve?” Ivy said. “What are you doing? Shouldn’t we think about this?”
I didn’t want to think about this. I’d had enough of thinking and worrying. Maybe I was making this harder than it needed to be. Or maybe I was doing something willfully stupid, and wanted to be done with it before J.C. got back to stop me.
Either way, I ignored the sputtering aspects as I strode right up to the wastebasket. I dug into it, ignoring the ends of half-eaten hot dog buns—and heard Ngozi retch at my side.
I pulled my arm out holding a small black bag, which turned out to contain a smartphone. It needed a PIN to open—and I tried the room number from Destiny Place, the one Audrey had used in the cipher. It worked, and the phone opened to the photo archive, showing selfies of Sandra sitting on the bench. She’d captioned the last of them.
It’s really me. Here is your proof. More to come.
“The vendor at the hot dog cart is right over there,” Ivy said from my side. “But I can’t find the other man from the pictures. We need J.C. Where is he?”
I turned to face the hot dog cart, with its vendor.
“Here we go…” Ivy said with a sigh.
“Ngozi,” I said softly, “see if you can pick out where this man came from or who he works for.”
“It doesn’t work that way!” she said. “I’m not Sherlock Holmes.”
I ignored her complaint and—as flashes of light behind us lit the fairgrounds a shimmering red-orange—I strode right up to the man at the hot dog cart, placed Sandra’s phone on the counter, and looked him right in the eyes.
“I’m tired,” I told him. “And I feel old.”
The man stood up straight, eyes going wide. He had his hair in a buzz cut, and was lean and muscular. J.C. could have told me whether he was packing, but even I noticed how poor a fit he was for his hot-dog-vendor role.
“Sir,” he said, “I’m not certain if a hot dog can help.”
Too formal. Military training, perhaps?
I sighed, wiping my hands on one of his napkins. Then I reached for my pocket. He immediately responded by reaching for his gun, flipping back his apron and revealing a holster.
I held my hand back up, splaying my fingers, showing I’d gotten nothing. I nodded toward his gun. “We can stop playing. I told you. I’m too old for this.”
“Old?” the man finally said, lowering his hand. “You don’t look that old, sir.”
“And yet, parts of me are wearing out. Like a car with faulty brakes and a secondhand engine. Looks and runs fine until you put it under stress, and then … well, all hell starts to break loose.” I spun the phone on the counter, then turned and scared away someone else who got into line wanting a hot dog.
“I think he must be the junior of the two,” Ivy guessed, inspecting the hot dog vendor. “See how nervous he is? He was set here to watch and send word if you showed up. I’d guess he wasn’t supposed to actually deal with you.”
“So who sent you?” I asked him. “And why didn’t you just take this phone yourself and run?”
The man shut right up, practically stood at attention, and didn’t answer as I pressed further. Yes, military for sure.
“I guess I should go then?” I said, taking the phone.
The man put his hand on it—not pulling it away from me, but also preventing me from walking off with it.
“So you do want to talk?” I said. “Then—”
“You can stop bullying him, Mr. Legion,” another voice said. I looked to the side as the other man from the photos approached: older, Caucasian, with flecks of grey in his beard. “He can’t answer your questions.”
“Then who can?” I asked.
The man pointed at the phone. Which started ringing.
I frowned, then answered and held it up to my ear. “Hello?”
“Hey,” Sandra said on the other end. “It’s good to hear your voice again.”
SIX
Sandra.
Sandra.
Her voice was full and husky, like the sound of a solitary cello. It reminded me of peace, of nightmares stilling. Of quiet talks at night, with a candle flickering between us, because modern lights weren’t alive enough for Sandra.