Secret Triplets(20)

 

“Just tax stuff,” I mumbled.

 

Not buying my unconvincing reply, Brock shrugged and said, “Anyway, got your car all hooked up. We’ll have to drive a bit slow down the bumpy old road, but we should be fine.”

 

Brock was better than his word. Our drive was smooth, easy, quiet. All of Brock’s attempts at conversation, I shot down. I couldn’t afford to get in another nice long talk with him; I would never want to leave. No, this was a job and nothing more, and I planned on keeping it that way.

 

And yet, the farther away from the cabin we got, the more a sick feeling twisted in my stomach.

 

By the time we got to New Moon Café, where I’d told Brock to drop me off, I felt downright nauseous.

 

“Wait here. This’ll just be a sec,” he said, hurrying out and unlatching my car. When he got back in, we sat in the car in silence for a few seconds before he spoke. “Alexa…I’m really glad I met you. I...you know where to find me.”

 

“Goodbye, Brock,” I said hollowly, opening the door and walking out.

 

When I turned to look at him, he was still motionless in the pickup, staring at me, as if he wanted to stay and would stay if only I asked him. But I turned my back on him once more and walked to the café’s door. When I turned back, the truck was gone. Brock was gone.

 

I hurried to my car, and when I got there, I reached into my pocket.

 

Nothing. I reached into the other pocket and found the same. I ripped off my coat and shook it over the pavement. I emptied my bakery bag on the ground, flipped and shook every item like an addict looking for a lost stash. In a way, it wasn’t all that different. I was screwed without that fuel pump, and yet there was no denying that it was gone. I had lost it, probably on our ill-begotten trek out to the pond.

 

Now my make-believe had become real. My car really was out of service, and I was far away from the garage.

 

What was I supposed to do now?

 

I took a miserable look at the Half Moon Café and rushed inside, past the empty tables, to the back, where I went into the flowery-wallpapered bathroom.

 

There, crouched over the toilet, I heaved, over and over again. Nothing came out, though I felt better afterward. I guessed what was making me feel sick had left in the maroon pickup.

 

In a dreamlike state, I wandered back to the counter, told the red-haired girl with the crooked smile I wanted four cookies, paid for them, and slumped into a seat. Only halfway through my third cookie did I notice I was at the same table as last time, the one under the picture of the mountain ridge. It was funny, being at the same table when I was already a different person than the last time I had sat there.

 

A traitorous current of uncertainty was coursing through me, making me devour the cookies rapid-fire, tearing off chunk after chunk until my mouth had all it could chew. When I was finished, having scarfed down every last cookie, I was left with nothing but my phone in my hand and the realization of what I had to do next.

 

I typed “East Street Garage” into the search bar and then called the number shown. They picked up on the sixth ring and replied with a terse “yeah, yeah, all right” when I explained that I’d need a tow to their location since my car was “somehow” missing the fuel pump.

 

Then, once I’d hung up and the next, bigger choice was before me, my fingers dialed again before my mind could think better of it.

 

“Hello?” said Russell Snow.

 

“Hi. This is Alex Combs. I did it. I found Brock Anderson, went to the cabin he’s staying at, and got pictures of some illegal guns he has. I’ll be sending you the pictures over email shortly. I just have to get home first.”

 

“Ah, excellent. Where is he?”

 

“Nederland.”

 

“And you’re still there?”

 

“Yeah. My car’s temporarily out of service. Needs a part replaced before it can get back on the road. They’re coming to tow it now.”

 

“I can give you a ride home.”

 

His answer came so fast and easily that I had to take a minute to think about it.

 

“Really? No. I should be fine.”

 

“Please. It would be my pleasure. You’re in town now?”

 

“At the New Moon Café, but—”

 

“I’ll be there in about two hours. I’ll bring the money.”

 

Then the dial tone signaled that the matter was settled.

 

I stared at my phone for a minute. Then I went back to the café’s front counter and ordered a sandwich, realizing I’d eaten nothing but cookies for almost 24 hours. It was going to be a long wait. Already my stomach was churning with ominousness. Clearly, staying unoccupied while waiting for the man I wasn’t sure I wanted to arrive wasn’t going to be an option.