No Passengers Beyond This Point(15)

This can’t be the taxi, limo, whatever. We shouldn’t get in this car.

Mouse has a funny look on her face, as if she’s found a hair in her hamburger. She hangs back with me, but India doesn’t seem worried.

“Cool,” she says, snapping shots with her cell phone. She smiles at the little man as if this isn’t the slightest bit odd. The little man clicks his keys, and the feathers all rotate outward. The door opens automatically, revealing lush pink upholstery inside.

Mouse’s lips pucker uncertainly. “Bing is not sure this is safe,” she whispers.

“Just who I wanted to take a safety lesson from . . .” India snorts. “Bing.”

“India, Mouse is right. This is too weird,” I whisper. “You need to call Mom.”

India raises an eyebrow, but she clicks open her cell phone and pushes Mom’s icon, a bright red teacher’s apple. Once again, the call goes directly to Mom’s recorded message.

She clicks the cell closed. “Does it look like we have a lot of options here?” she asks.

The airport is eerie at night. The usual traveling hustle and bustle is completely missing. It’s cold and dark, and I’m exhausted. The soft plush taxi seats and the warm glow of the light inside beckons to us. There’s something that doesn’t quite add up about the driver, but he has a nice smile—clearly genuine.

“It’s an unusual vehicle,” he concedes.

“Uncle Red would have chosen a good taxi service. And Mom trusts Uncle Red, otherwise we wouldn’t be going to live with him,” India announces, but even she sounds doubtful.

“Bing thinks we should call Uncle Red,” Mouse announces.

“Now there’s an idea,” I say.

India grinds her teeth, but she pops open her cell and dials the number Mom made her program in for Uncle Red.

Mouse and I move in close to hear what Uncle Red has to say, but Uncle Red’s phone is a fast busy signal, which means the call isn’t going through.

India and I look at each other.

“Would you prefer to stay here?” the little man asks gently. The car is weird, but the guy couldn’t be nicer. I trust him, I don’t know why.

“He did have our name. How else would he have our name if Uncle Red didn’t give it to him?” I offer.

Our suitcases are already loaded in the trunk. They fit perfectly too—as if the trunk was custom-made for three roller bags.

“Okay,” India says to the driver. “We’ll go with you.” She tosses her hair back over her shoulder and gets in.

Mouse’s bright blue eyes are half hidden by her red lashes in a strange un-Mouse-like way.

“You okay with this, Mouse?” I ask.

Mouse’s little chest heaves, like she’s hyperventilating. “Will Bing get to sit in the front?” she asks, digging Bing’s wallet out of her suitcase. She opens it and flashes her handmade ID.

The driver nods as if this makes perfect sense to him and opens the front passenger-side door, then closes it again, presumably after Bing is inside.

The car looks so comfortable I can hardly wait to climb in. I scoot into the backseat after India. Mouse follows me.

When we’re all buckled in—including Bing, Mouse insists on this—the feather taxi glides out of the dark airport parking lot, along the mostly deserted streets.

What I notice first is how comfortable the backseat is. It doesn’t even feel as if the tires are making contact with the road. It’s more like they’re hovering over rather than rolling on the street.

When we reach the open highway, there are mountains everywhere, beautiful mountains with snowcapped peaks. At the foot of the mountains is a bright, shiny lake glistening like a mirrored welcome mat. Through the skylight you can see how bright the stars are. The scenery is spectacular. My mom was right about that. Who knows . . . maybe she’ll be right about Uncle Red too.

On the dashboard is a brass plate engraved with Property of FB. FB must be Fort Baker. On the sun visor is the taxi driver’s name. Charles, it says. I can see India reading it too. “So.” India clears her throat. “Um, Charles. You know the address. Uncle Red already gave it to you, right?”

Charles takes the radio—it’s an old-fashioned kind that fits neatly in the palm of his hand, like the sort taxi driver dispatchers in movies have, except it’s attached by a pink curly cord to the dashboard. He mutters into the microphone, then he turns back to us. “You can call me Chuck,” he says in a high, sweet voice.

India and I look at each other. She seems to be thinking what I’m thinking. Inside the cab, we can hear Chuck much more clearly. His voice has brought him in focus. I lean forward to inspect his sideburns and mustache. They’re fake, glued right on. Chuck isn’t a short man, he’s a kid.