Chapter 3 - The Broken Station Wagon
They took Michael’s car—a black Mercedes S-Class that smelled of polished calfskin and cedarwood. The girls climbed into the rear seat with an reverence that bordered on terror. Emma ran her small, chapped fingers over the perforated leather of the seats, whispering to Lily that it felt like the cushions in church, while Scarlet sat upright in the center, directing Michael through the labyrinth of the waterfront with the precision of a seasoned harbor pilot.
"Turn here," she instructed, pointing toward an unpaved service lane running between two shuttered shipping warehouses. "Turn your lights down. The security guards have flashlights."
"They won't bother us," Michael said, though he switched the headlights to low beams to avoid blinding anyone huddled in the alcoves.
The lane ended in an expanse of buckled concrete littered with crushed pallets and rusted shipping containers. Tucked between an abandoned hopper car and a chain-link fence overgrown with wild blackberry brambles sat an ancient Volvo station wagon, its original sky-blue paint sun-bleached into a chalky periwinkle. The rear passenger window had been replaced with clear plastic sheeting held together by crisscrossed strips of electrical tape. The tires were sunk two inches into the soft mud at the edge of the asphalt.
"Stay here for a second," Michael told the girls as he parked twenty yards away.
"No," Scarlet said, her hand instantly catching his sleeve. The grip was shockingly fierce. "She gets scared if she wakes up and men are near the door. She keeps a tire iron under the mat."
Michael looked at the small hand clutching his fine Italian wool. "Then you come with me. Lily, Emma, stay in the warm car. Don't touch the buttons."
Emma nodded solemnly, clutching the bundle of warm bread Dennis had wrapped in silver foil.
The air outside was raw and smelled of brine, diesel, and rotting seaweed. Michael walked alongside Scarlet, matching his long strides to her hurried, uneven trot. Her duct-taped shoe clicked rhythmically against the broken pavement. As they drew closer to the wagon, Michael could see the interior through the fogged rear glass. The vehicle was packed nearly to the ceiling with clear plastic storage totes, taped cardboard boxes labeled *BOOKS - CHILDHOOD* and *LINENS*, and piles of mismatched coats.
Scarlet tapped three times on the driver’s side glass—two quick raps, then a pause, then one more.
A moment of silence followed. Then, inside the car, a silhouette shifted.
The driver’s side door groaned on rusted hinges as it pushed open four inches. A woman’s face appeared in the gap. She looked thirty-five, though her skin had the gray, papery pallor of severe dehydration and exhaustion. Her cheekbones were sharp enough to cut paper, her fair hair pulled back into a messy, greasy knot. In her right hand, held low beneath the window frame, was the rusted lug wrench Scarlet had mentioned.
"Scarlet?" The woman's voice was cracked, raw from cold. "Where were you? I told you not to leave the perimeter. I told you—"
Her eyes snapped up, catching Michael. The terror that crossed her face was instantaneous and complete. She tried to pull the door shut, but her strength failed; the door caught on an old towel jammed into the jamb.
"Mama, wait!" Scarlet cried, throwing her weight against the metal. "He brought bread! Real bread, Mama, from the glass house on the hill! And soup. We ate the soup."
Michael stepped back two paces, raising his open hands to show he was unarmed, keeping his posture relaxed and non-threatening. "Mrs. Vance. My name is Michael Willoughby. Your daughters came up to the terrace at Lucent Sky. Nobody hurt them. Nobody called the police."
Eleanor Vance looked from Michael’s polished shoes to his tailored trousers, then to the silver foil package Scarlet was thrusting through the gap in the door. Her knuckles on the lug wrench went white, then slowly, agonizingly, relaxed. The heavy iron bar slipped from her fingers, thudding onto the floor mats among the empty water bottles.
"You shouldn't have brought them back here," she whispered, her voice breaking into a dry, ragged cough that shook her whole frame. "You should have... you should have called someone. I can't... I can't get the engine to turn over."
"I have jumper cables in my trunk," Michael said gently. "But jumper cables won't fix a blown head gasket, Mrs. Vance, and that’s what happened to your car. The coolant smell is five yards wide."
She closed her eyes. Two clean tracks formed through the grime on her cheeks as tears leaked out. "We just needed until Friday. My brother’s check... he said he was sending two hundred dollars to the general delivery post office. On Friday."
"Today is Tuesday," Michael said. "The temperature will drop to forty-one degrees tonight. The fog is already rolling in from the Presidio."
"I have three blankets," she argued weakly, though her teeth were beginning to chatter violently. "We pile them up. We stay warm."
"Your youngest daughter has a wet cough," Michael replied, taking a half-step forward. "And your forehead is burning from ten feet away. Scarlet told me you haven't eaten since yesterday morning."
Eleanor leaned her forehead against the cold edge of the car window. "I can't pay you for anything. If this is... if you're with the port authority, please just give me until morning. Don't tow it with them inside."
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"I am not with the port authority," Michael said. He reached into his pocket, retrieved his clean handkerchief, and handed it to Scarlet, who passed it through the window to her mother. "I'm a man who was hungry once. Come out of the car, Eleanor. Bring your documents and whatever clothes won't survive the night. We're leaving."
***
