Chapter 5 - The Key
The downtown regional bus terminal was a relic of the late seventies, smelling of stale diesel exhaust, floor wax, and cheap coffee. Fluorescent tubes flickered overhead, casting a harsh, jaundiced glow over rows of bolted plastic seats and a cluster of metal lockers tucked away near the rear exit by the restrooms.
Maya pulled her coat collar up around her face, keeping her head down as we navigated the semi-empty terminal. It was mid-afternoon on a Monday, and the place was eerily quiet, save for a lone janitor pushing a damp mop across the linoleum floor.
"Section C, Locker 114," I muttered, reading the numbers from a small, coded notation scribbled on the inside back cover of Caleb’s notebook.
We stopped in front of a block of dented, gray metal lockers near the emergency exit. Rows of padlocks and key slots stared back at us like metal teeth. I scanned the numbers: 110, 111, 112, 113... 114.
The locker door was fitted with an old-fashioned brass keyhole rather than a digital keypad.
"We don't have a key, Diane," Maya whispered, glancing nervously toward the station security guard sitting behind a raised glass booth fifty feet away.
I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing against Caleb’s notebook, then searching deeper into the lining. When Mark and I sorted through Caleb’s personal effects after the funeral—the boxes Mark insisted on packing himself while I stayed locked in the bedroom—he had handed me a small, sealed Ziploc bag containing Caleb’s everyday carry items: a pocket knife, a broken watch, some loose change, and a single, heavy brass key attached to a faded green plastic motel tag marked C-14.
At the time, Mark had told me it was the key to the campus bike locker, which we had later cleared out and found empty.
I pulled the key from my pocket, its brass surface dull under the flickering fluorescent light.
"I think we do," I said quietly.
My hand shook as I inserted the brass key into the vertical slot of Locker 114. It slid in smoothly, though the tumblers felt stiff from years of disuse. I held my breath, gripped the ridged head of the key, and turned it clockwise.
With a heavy, mechanical clack, the internal spring released. The metal door popped open an inch, exhaling a faint puff of stale, dry air.
Maya and I exchanged a single, breathless look. I reached out, my fingers curling around the edge of the rusted steel door, and pulled it wide open.
Inside, sitting on the dusty metal floor of the locker, was a heavy, taped shoebox and a manila envelope stamped with the logo of Mark’s accounting firm.
Before I could reach in to grab the box, the heavy glass doors at the front of the terminal swung open with a loud chime, and a familiar voice cut through the cavernous space like a whip.
"I wouldn't touch that if I were you, Diane."
May you like
My heart stopped. I slowly turned my head toward the terminal entrance.
Standing beneath the flickering fluorescent sign, his silver-rimmed glasses catching the harsh light, was Mark.
