This is a short story originally written for a class project.

The Man in the Fedora

            He had suspected she might be kidnapped for some time. All the signs were there. A strange car parked near their house that did not belong to the neighbors. He was sure someone had been following him, usually when they were together, but sometimes when he was alone. She would not admit it, but he could tell she was holding back. She did not want him to worry.

            “I’m not being followed Jack.” She would say.

             “Are you sure Chelsea? Have you seen that Jeep? Whose is it?” he would ask.

            “I don’t know Jack, the Millers? Jeff just got a promotion. Maybe he bought a Jeep.”

            So here he was, standing at his front door, thirty-three years old, stalling. He didn’t want to go in; he knew what he might find.  The living room to their modest ranch style home was a complete mess, as if there had been a struggle; almost as if someone had been kidnapped.

            “I knew it,” he said, to no one in particular. “My Spidey-Sense was tingling. I knew it. I should have listened to you Universe. I should have listened to the signs.”

            He sprang into action and entered the house. He gazed around the living room. The mocha colored couch was off center, just a tad, but enough for him to notice. He kneeled next to the couch, touched the slight indent on the sandy carpet where the leg of the couch usually rested. He replaced the couch, very carefully, like a librarian returning a rare first edition copy of Moby Dick signed by Herman Melville himself.

            He stood and closed his eyes, trying to imagine the scene as it had unfolded. Two masked men, maybe women; he wasn’t a sexist, stood at the front door. Did they ring the doorbell? Kick the door in? The door was closed when he arrived. They must have knocked.  Chelsea would have answered the door without looking through the window, she loved this neighborhood. Location, location, location right, wasn’t that the saying?

            They must have barged in as soon as she opened the door, like sprinters reacting to the sound of a starter pistol. BAM! In they charged, knocking Chelsea into the couch.

            Jack opened his eyes. His eyes darted around the room.

            “You’re wasting time,” he said. “The first forty-eight hours are the most important. Think.” He slapped himself in the forehead,  pulled out his cellphone and unlocked the screen. He tapped the icon for the phone, but paused. No. No police. Everyone knows you can’t get the police involved in a kidnapping; it just puts the victim in danger. Besides the police in this town might as well have been trained in Mayberry, buffoons, all of them. No, he had to do this himself.

            Jack reopened his phone. He tapped his contacts icon and scrolled to the line labeled “Work.” He tapped the screen and put the phone up to his ear.

            “Bill? It’s Jack. I think I’m going to take some of that personal time I have banked. Oh, no, we’re fine. I’m just going to get out of town for the weekend. Yeah, put me out till Wednesday. Thanks Bill.” He hoped Bill hadn’t noticed the quiver he could feel in his voice. Bill was the kind of idiot that would call the cops, just because, just because he “had a suspicion.” Stupid Bill, he could put Chelsea in danger. Still, Jack was grateful for having the kind of career where he could take the time off whenever he wanted.

            “Better get moving.” Jack darted out the front door, slamming it behind him. The hunt was on.

            He hopped into his silver colored Toyota Camry, turned the ignition, and slammed the car into gear. He was halfway down the street before he realized he wasn’t wearing his seatbelt. He tugged on the belt, but it locked up, stubborn as a camel in the Sahara.

            “Come on!” He pulled again, the belt snapped from his grip. He put both hands on the wheel and took a deep breath.

            “Slow down. Easy. Slow down.” He eased off the accelerator, reached back for the seat belt and pulled gently. The belt gave way and he fastened the belt to the familiar “click” he had heard thousands of time before.

            Jack looked at himself in the rear view mirror. Where to start, the airport? No, a flight would require identification; there would be cameras, a record of the kidnapping.

            Where would they take her? Where could they lay low, blend in? His face lit up, he almost said “eureka.” The bus station! Anonymous. Cheap. No cameras. It was an ideal mode of transportation for a kidnapping.

            Jack slammed on his brakes and pulled a U-turn any Nascar driver would be proud of. For some reason the driving maneuver reminded him of his grandmother. He chuckled. She had never even driven a car, never had a license. He could almost hear her voice now, “Jackie boy, always trust your gut. It’s never wrong. Except when you feed it tacos.” Only it wasn’t her voice he heard, it was the voice of Betty White.

            “Trust the Universe,” he said. “Or fate, whatever you want to call it.” He reached down for the button to turn the car stereo on.

            “Am I losing my shit?” He pulled his hand back from the radio. He once again glanced at himself in the rear view mirror.

            “Alright Universe, if Round and Round by Ratt is playing on the radio I’ll know I’m on the right track.” He shook his head and frowned.

            “What an odd choice. What are the chances? No. It makes sense, pick something off the wall. That way you’ll know.” He reached down to the stereo, and hesitated for just a second.

            Then, he turned on the radio.

            “Goes around, I’ll tell you why, dig. Lookin at you lookin at me.” Jack punched the roof of the car.

            “No fricking way!” he shouted. “No fricking way!” The familiar song filled the car and filled Jack’s psyche with absolution.

            “I knew it! I totally knew it.” His euphoria quickly turned to dread as he realized if he was right Chelsea had in fact been kidnapped and was now in mortal danger. He stomped the accelerator pedal, the engine whining in protest.

            Jack pulled into the parking lot of the bus station as sparks emitted from the undercarriage of his Camry. He slowed to a crawl, head on a swivel, looking for a parking space. Then he saw it, the Jeep. The paint job was glossy black, the rims flat black that appeared to absorb light. It was unmistakable. He pulled up behind the Jeep, his poor Toyota giving off an audible “clunk” as he threw it in park. He left the car running as he ran to the driver’s side window and cupped his hands to peer through the tinted windows. The mirror finish only reflected his angst.

            He shuffled sideways to the front of the Jeep, placed his hand on the hood, still warm. He backpedaled away from the Jeep and in one swift motion reverse pivoted and slid over the hood of his Toyota, a scene straight from The Dukes of Hazzard. He hopped back into the car and thrust the shifter back into drive. The tires whined as he rolled through the parking lot looking for a parking space. His efforts thwarted, he resigned himself to the possibility of a ticket or more likely a tow and parked in a handicapped spot.

            He shut the car off, shoved his keys in his pocket, and ran toward the entrance of the bus station. “Foosh”, the door parted to allow him entrance to the terminal. His eyes darted back and forth as he looked for his wife.

            “Alright, play it cool. Don’t want to look too suspicious, they might spot you” he muttered to himself. He spotted a small nook serving as a coffee shop. “There, that has a good vantage point.”

            He rushed over to the coffee shop and slumped into a strategic seat overlooking a large majority of the bus station. The smell of fresh coffee swirled into his nostrils, a benevolent smoke, distracting him momentarily from his mission. He eyed the patrons cautiously; any one of them could be the kidnapper.

            A new mother fawned over a small baby in a state of the art stroller, the canopy pulled back so the child could reach for the stars that lined the ceiling. The front wheel was cocked off to the side preventing the stroller from moving forward as a man in a brown suit bumped into the dark grey handle. He spun around to see what impeded his progress.

            “Oh, I am terribly sorry, ma’am. I didn’t see you there.”

            “No bother, we probably shouldn’t be in the middle of the aisle.” She moved back to the handle and pushed the stroller off to the side.

            Jack moved on to the next suspect. He looked at the line at the ticket window. Four people waited their turn to purchase the small piece of paper that would lead them on their next adventure.

            “No” he said at the last person in line, a short, stocky, bald man reading the newspaper. “Probably not,” the next was a woman in a short skirt, gabbing on her cell phone. “Nah, ah,” he muttered, another mother with two small children with her, all three with fiery red hair dancing on top of their heads. Finally, the next person in line was a man in his thirties. He wore a weathered leather satchel, its brass buckles dulled from age. His beige shirt resembled a sandy beach. He wore tan khaki pants with enough pockets to carry all sorts of nefarious kidnapping tools. On top of his head was a weathered fedora, hiding his dark brown hear underneath.

            “Bingo.”

            Jack took his eyes off of the man in the fedora and took one last look around the bus terminal to see if a possible partner was watching him. He looked back and forth, eyes darting from person to person. Satisfied he said, “Alright Junior, they named the dog Indiana.”

            Just as he was about to stand up and confront the man responsible for the worst day of his life, a woman sat down at the seat directly in front of him. She was at the most ten years younger than him. She wore a dark green apron over her blue jeans, with a crisp black long sleeved shirt underneath. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail; the curls reminded him of spiral pasta. He could see a tattoo on her neck, attempting to escape the oppression of the black shirt. Beneath her dark rimmed glasses, chocolate brown eyes pierced his anxiety and supported her obvious interference.

            “Hey, what are you staring at?” She asked, a warm smile suggesting a playfulness and genuine curiosity.

            “Well,” he squinted as if he had just walked out into the sun from an old saloon in the Old West as he looked at her name tag, “Ophelia. I don’t think you want to get involved in what I am doing.”

            Jack leaned over to his right and peered past Ophelia attempting to see the ticket counter. He spotted the woman behind the glass window just as she motioned with two fingers, he could read her lips. “Two?” she mouthed. The man nodded, his hat tipping just slightly forward.

            Ophelia’s bright smile blocked his view as she matched his lean. Jack leaned back to the upright position. Ophelia matched his motion. “The look on your face tells me I might” she said.

            “Might what?”

            “Might want to get involved,” her smile gave way to a look of concern. “You look like you could use some help.” Her smile returned, almost sinister this time.

            Jack’s eyes dashed back and forth between hers, left eye, right eye, left eye, right eye. He considered her motives. Could she be part of the kidnapping? Put here to distract him? To interfere with his rescue attempts? Not likely, she was too young, and besides what kidnapper would get a job at the local coffee shop?

            “How long have you worked here?” he asked. Her answer would determine her level of trustworthiness. If she just started she could be an accomplice. If she had been her for years, maybe she was just a barista.

            Her smile softened, back to a look of concern instead of malice. “Almost two years now, in fact,” she looked to the star filled ceiling, “it will be two years in six days.”

            Satisfied, Jack leaned in close. “Fine, I’ll tell you.” He once again leaned and looked past her. The man in the fedora was walking away from the ticket counter. He stuffed the boarding passes into his satchel and replaced the flap. He buckled one buckle and adjusted his hat.

            Jack leaned back to Ophelia. He nodded past her, “see that man in the fedora, with the leather messenger bag?”

            She turned her head and looked behind her, her ponytail snaping around like a line tamer’s whip. She turned back to Jack, just as quickly, her smile a mere smirk.

            “Yeah, what about him?”

            “I think he may have kidnapped my wife.”

            Ophelia gasped, “no way.”

            Jack nodded, “yes way.”

            “Well, call the police.”

            “No cops. That just puts the victim in danger.”

            “Right, seems legit.” She spun her head around once more, this time her slender body followed. Without looking back, she said, “he stopped.”

            Jack leaned again and looked toward the man. He had stopped. Suddenly he spun around quickly and began walking right toward them.

            “Shit. I can’t let him see me. Is he coming this way?”

            “Yep.”

            “Take his order. I’ll hide around the corner.”

            Ophelia spun back around, “but my shift is over.”

            “Just do it!” Jack got up and hurried toward the back of the shop, a hallway off to the side lead to the bathrooms. He ducked behind the wall and peaked around just in time to see Opehlia walk back behind the counter. A teenage boy behind the counter, wearing the same apron as she threw his hands in the air as Opehlia gently pushed him away from the register.

            The man in the fedora arrived at the counter. He looked up at the menu and exchanged some words with Ophelia. Jack put his finger behind his left ear, straining to hear what they were saying. The man paid Ophelia in cash. She handed him his change, which he deposited into a jar sitting on the counter. Ophelia glided over to her teenage coworker and said something to him. He threw his hands in the air again and began working on the man’s order. Ophelia walked from behind the counter and approached Jack. She spun her head around and looked behind her, her ponytail once again whipping around as if it were a prehensile appendage with a mind of its own.

            Jack ducked behind the wall and waited for Ophelia. She came rushing around the corner, letting out a little squeak as she struggled to keep her balance. Jack clutched her by the elbow, steadying her before she fell.

            “Did he order two coffees?”

            “He did.”

            “Was one of them a Peppermint White Chocolate Mocha?”

            Ophelia frowned, “actually, it was.” She gasped as she covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes widening in realization. “No way.”

            Jack nodded. He held her elbow as he peeked around the corner. The man was walking away briskly, a coffee in each hand. Jack faced Ophelia once more.

            “But why would a kidnapper buy his victim coffee?” she asked.

            Jack released her elbow, peeked around the corner once more, turned back toward her and said, “Why does the Pope wear a funny hat? Who knows? Come on.”

            He darted from behind the corner in hot pursuit of the kidnapper. Ophelia followed. Jack turned to look back at Ophelia. He grabbed her hand and spun back around. Just then a heavyset woman turned from the counter right into their path.

            BAM! Jack slammed into the woman, knocking her fresh coffee to the ground.

            “Dammit! Watch where you’re going!” The woman shook hot coffee off her hands in a panic.

            “I’m sorry.” Jack reached into his wallet. “Here.” He took out a twenty dollar bill and placed it on the counter.

            “On me, whatever she wants. Keep the change ma’am. I’m so sorry.” Jack spun back around away from the woman as Ophelia tip-toed around the mess. Jack reached back and took her hand once more.

            “Sorry Ethan, see you Sunday” Ophelia shouted without looking back. The pair hurried in the direction they last saw the man in the fedora. They rounded the corner. Jack looked back and forth at the crowd. People hurried in all directions, dancing around each other in a choreographed number both chaotic and orderly. The man in the fedora was nowhere to be found.

            “Shit. Where did he go?” Jack asked, more to himself than to Ophelia.

            “Toward the bus maybe, let’s go check outside.”

            They exited the terminal onto the lot. There were dozens of buses. Jack looked up and down the road frantically. He spotted the man in the fedora stepping up the short set of stairs of a bus at the end of the road.

            “There he is!” Jack ran toward the bus, but he was too late. The bus slowly picked up speed as it drove away.

            “Wait! Hey! Wait!” Jack flailed his arms attempting to grab the bus driver’s attention, but it was no use. The bus rounded a corner and was gone.

            “Dammit.”

            “Sorry, maybe now we should call the police now.”

            “No. They can’t help” Jack said, almost defeated. “Wait. We need to find out where that bus was going.”

            Jack ran back into the terminal leaving Ophelia behind. She looked back down the road the bus had traveled. The sun was just kissing the horizon, beginning its nightly ritual of disappearing. She looked back into the terminal and followed her newfound companion.

            She found Jack at the window, flailing his arms.

            “I’m sorry sir, I can’t tell you the destination of another passenger, it’s confidential.” The woman’s grey hair tossed back and forth as she shook her head.

            Jack slammed his hands on the window.

            “Hey! Don’t make me call security!”

            “Come on, maybe we can still catch them, they were heading East right?” Jack took Ophelia’s hand again.

            “Yeah, but that road curves around and meets an intersection just past the bend, they could be going almost any direction,” she replied.

            “I have to try, come on.” Jack led Ophelia out toward his car.

            As they arrived outside Jack dropped her hand. He walked over to the handicapped spot where his Camry should have been, but it was gone, a victim of his haste.

            “They towed my car. Son of a…” He threw his hands in the air and spun around like a ballerina.

            “Do you have a car?” he asked Ophelia.

            She slowly shook her head, “I’m sorry, no. I usually take the bus. I know, the irony right? I work at the bus station.”

            Jack collapsed in the handicapped parking spot his head in his hands. Ophelia approached him tentatively and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Come on, it’s getting dark, let’s get you home.”

            He looked up at her childishly, “but the first forty-eight hours are the most crucial.”

            “Good, then we still have time. Come on, let’s go.” She squatted down next to him and caressed him gently by the elbow. They stood together, “let’s get you some rest. We can start again tomorrow.”

            Jack closed the door to his home as Ophelia walked back toward the taxi cab. He slid slowly down the door. He sat there for a while, collapsed in his own grief, sobbing. Finally he stood up and shuffled like a zombie to his bedroom. He fell into the bed and grabbed the pillow next to him. He put it up to his face and inhaled deeply, it still smelled like Chelsea. Soon he was asleep.

            Jack woke with a stir. He looked at his alarm clock.

            “Shit, I’m late,” he said stumbling over his shoes as he rushed into the bathroom. He quickly brushed his teeth, watching as the water spun slowly down the drain. He looked at himself in the mirror, shook the cobwebs out of his head, and went back into the bedroom.

            He hopped on one foot as he struggled to put his shoe on, bumping into the couch as he hopped toward the door. He grabbed his keys from a bowl near the front door. The morning light stung his eyes as he stepped out onto the porch. He paused, turning his face toward the bright star. He closed his eyes as he let the light wash over his face.

            He let out a soft sigh, almost of resignation; he felt just a hint of recognition. As if he had been here before, in this moment.

            He turned back toward the door and reached out his hand stopping short of touching the door knob. He paused for a second before he grabbed the door knob. He half expected it to be burning hot. He turned the knob slowly, the door clicked open and he entered. He stood, looking around the room for a moment. He shuffled toward the couch, crouching down next to it. He could tell it had been moved, the indentation from its leg visible. He pushed it slowly back into place. He stood, taking out his phone, a look of panic overcoming his face. He dialed his work number and put the phone up to his ear.

            A woman in her late thirties sat at a desk. A huge sign in bright green letters hovered behind her. It said “Garden Global” in all capital letters. She wore a light pink blouse, unbuttoned at the top. A headset pushed her sandy blond hair against her scalp. The phone rang. She tapped a button on the receiver.

            “Garden Global, how may I direct your call?”

            The woman shook her head, “Jack, you don’t work here anymore. Stop calling in sick. She left you months ago. Please get help.” She tapped the button on the receiver again, this time with a hint of anger but also pity.

            Another woman walked up to the desk.

            “Jack again?”

            “That’s the third time this week.”

            “So sad. I guess he just can’t face reality.”

            “Should we tell Chelsea he called again?”

            “No, she has enough to worry about, just ignore it.”