James Naismith's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

James studied the coastline route on his map, tracing the path she'd taken two years ago. The consulate records had given him something solid—a direction, a choice she'd made. He folded the map and tucked it into his jacket pocket beside the photograph. Tomorrow he'd ride east, following her trail even if it had gone cold. But tonight he'd check the radio one more time, listen to the static for any sign she was out there listening too. The radio hissed and popped for twenty minutes before James switched it off. Nothing. He packed his gear into a canvas bag and loaded it onto the dirtbike. The coastal settlements would be different from the inland ones—smaller, harder to reach. People there kept to themselves, which meant someone might remember a stranger passing through. He kicked the bike to life and headed east as the sky turned gray. By midday, he spotted something ahead that made him slow down. Two trees grew together near the road, their branches twisted into each other like clasped hands. The shape looked like a heart from certain angles. He'd heard about places like this—spots where people left messages or arranged to meet after being separated. James stopped and walked closer. Paper scraps hung from the lower branches, notes tied with string, some so old the ink had faded completely. He pulled out a new message he'd written that morning and tied it to a branch at eye level. She might come here looking, might recognize the words only she would understand. He stepped back and read it once more, then climbed back on the bike. The trail was two years cold, but he'd warmed it up by one more degree. The first coastal settlement had one main building where people gathered. The sign outside showed a moose jaw carved from dark wood, antlers spread wide across the entrance. James parked and went inside. Morning drinkers sat at tables near the windows, nursing cups and talking low. He ordered coffee and sat at the bar. The bartender was older, face lined from years of wind. James pulled out the photograph but kept it face down on the counter. He asked if strangers passed through often. The bartender shrugged and said a few, now and then. James turned the photo over and slid it forward. The man studied it for a long moment, then shook his head. Nobody like that. James thanked him and left the photo on the counter for another minute, letting others glance at it. One woman looked twice but said nothing. He pocketed it again and walked out. Before leaving town, James stopped near a wooden post outside what looked like an old government building. He pulled a brass casing from his pocket—.44 caliber, polished until it caught the light. She'd know what it meant if she saw it. They'd used the same caliber on a job three years back, and she'd kept one as a reminder. He wedged it into a crack in the post where it wouldn't fall but could be spotted by someone looking close. It was a signal only she would recognize, proof he'd been here and was still searching. He climbed back on the bike and rode to the next settlement. The world was full of places like this—small towns, meeting spots, bars where memories lived. Each one gave him another chance to leave a trail she could follow back to him.