They Disappeared. Rick Mofina
conventions over the years, and—” Jeff glanced at Sarah. “We were here together, a long, long time ago.”
“Well, you picked a good time to return.”
“Why’s that?” Jeff asked.
“We got the president and about one hundred world leaders coming into town over the next few days for the UN meeting. Lots of security, sirens and helicopters. Messes up traffic.”
“Yeah, we saw that in the newspapers.”
“The president and helicopters, wow,” Cole said.
“It’s a huge show and a glorious pain.”
The road clicked under the taxi’s wheels as they moved onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Sarah looked out her window at the endless flow of apartment buildings, warehouses, factories and billboards. One showed a laughing baby’s face next to a smiling young woman in a graduation cap and she thought of their daughter, Lee Ann.
They were moving west toward the Midtown Tunnel when they came to a gently sloping segment. The tip of the Empire State Building emerged in the haze ahead as Manhattan’s skyline rose before them.
“Look at that! I gotta take a picture!” Cole said. “Oh, no, Mom, I put my camera in my backpack and it’s in the trunk. That was dumb, oh, no!”
“Here, use mine.”
Sarah fished her small digital camera from her bag. Cole, a technical master, clenched an eye, took a photo and showed his parents.
“Oh, this is awesome!” Cole said.
Moments later the taxi slowed. An overhead freeway sign guided three lanes to the great stone mouth of the Midtown Tunnel. Lines of traffic moved through the tollgates. The tunnel gleamed in brilliant orange and yellow as it curved under the East River to Manhattan.
Cole took more pictures until they surfaced somewhere near Fortieth Street and Third Avenue. As they looked at the skyscraper-lined canyons and the shining high-rise condos, Jeff’s cell phone rang. The call was a 646 area code with a number he didn’t recognize.
“Hello?”
He heard nothing and after several seconds of static he hung up.
“Who was that?” Sarah asked.
“Wrong number, I guess.” Jeff shrugged.
The sidewalks were a bazaar of action with streams of people hurrying, waving at taxis amid sirens, horns. Steam plumes curled from the hot dog stands. People panhandled and street merchants argued with delivery truck drivers while motorists screamed at jaywalkers who blocked streets.
They were a world away from Laurel, Montana.
Their hotel, the Central Suites Inn, was on West Twenty-ninth Street in the two-hundred block, not far from Madison Square Garden. They checked into their twelfth-floor room. It was large with two double beds.
“I need to freshen up,” Sarah said.
“All right, Cole and I will unpack and get changed,” Jeff said. “Then we can go out for dinner and maybe walk to the Empire State Building.”
Cole claimed the bed nearest to the window. He unzipped his backpack at the foot of it and dumped its contents. T-shirts, shorts, a chocolate bar, a bag of potato chips, maps of New York, a hoodie and socks fell out. All of it was unfamiliar, especially the man’s shaving kit.
“Uh, Mom, Dad?” Cole said.
Sarah set her things down and surveyed the heap. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, he’s got the wrong bag.” She inspected the backpack. The luggage claim bar code was torn. The blue name tag was faded and smudged. “I thought you guys checked this?”
“It looks exactly like Cole’s bag.” Jeff looked it over.
“A little, but the zippers are different.”
“What are we going to do, Mom?” Cole said. “I need my stuff.”
“We’ll call the airline, don’t worry, honey.” Sarah pulled a printed page from her bag and went to the room’s desk. “See, I put this paper inside all our bags. It has our hotel and cell phone numbers, so whoever has your bag can call us.”
While Sarah and Jeff searched their airline tickets for a lost luggage number, Cole turned to the strange belongings. One item drew his interest.
A tiny plastic toy jet.
He pushed a small button on top of it, lights flashed and it made a jet engine sound. Cole loved it. He moved behind the curtains, pressed the toy against the window, taking it on a flight over Manhattan’s tall buildings.
“I can’t find a claim number on my part of the ticket,” Sarah said just as Jeff’s cell phone rang.
“Hey.” Jeff looked at the display before he answered. “It’s the same number that tried to call me when we were in the taxi.”
“Mr. Griffin? Jeff Griffin of Laurel, Montana?”
“Yes.”
“This is Hans Beck, I tried calling you earlier. I got your number from your backpack. I have it, there was a mix-up at the airport and I was hoping you’d have mine? It looks just like yours—it has some clothes, snacks, maps and my razor inside.”
“Yes, we have it.”
“Good, can we trade them as soon as possible? I am running late for a train. According to your information, you’re at the Central Suites that’s near Penn Station?”
“Yes, we can exchange the bags now if you like.” Jeff nodded to Sarah, who smiled with relief and indicated that she would take a quick shower. After a few more minutes Jeff had worked out the bag trade with the caller.
“Cole! Let’s go get your backpack, son!”
Startled by his dad, Cole, who’d been running the plane up and down the curtain, let the toy slip to the lower end as he pushed the curtain aside.
“Really?” Cole stepped from the window. “Now?”
“Yes, really, yes, now. So put all that stuff back in the bag. Everything and let’s go.” Jeff had unfolded a map on his bed and studied it. “The guy who’s got your backpack is going to meet us now, so move it!”
Overjoyed at getting his possessions back, Cole forgot about the plane and gathered all the items as fast as he could, shoving them hastily into the backpack while his dad glanced at the map.
This Hans Beck had a German-sounding accent. Maybe he was a student, Jeff thought as he and Cole walked toward Madison Square Garden with his backpack.
They were to meet in front of a diner on Thirty-third Street across from Penn Station. Beck said he was twenty-nine, five foot eleven with blond hair. Jeff gave a description of himself and Cole, noting they would also recognize each other by the backpacks.
About twenty minutes after Beck had called, they spotted him on the street at the appointed location. Beck’s hair was unkempt, his clothes disheveled. He was dragging anxiously on a cigarette, his face taut.
This guy’s either on drugs or under some sort of pressure, Jeff thought.
“Are you Hans Beck?”
Beck blew a stream of smoke skyward and nodded.
“Jeff and Cole Griffin.”
They traded handshakes, then backpacks.
Immediately Beck began rummaging through his.
“Everything’s in here, right?” Beck said, snapping his head around at the sound of car horns from the traffic.
“Sure. We didn’t take anything, if that’s what you mean,” Jeff said.
“No, no, man.” Beck focused on Cole, then winked. “Because you’re too young