Chapter 3: A Series of Strange Midnight Events

You continue to pace back and forth across your former parking spot, starting left towards the police station, then right back towards Trenton's house. It is when you hear a car door close in the distance, from behind the house, that you push yourself into a decision:
Can you catch Hal and Emily before they leave?
With a deep breath, you take quick steps across the grass, shadowy under a sky turning ominous with gathering dark clouds. The front door is locked and the house dark, but the sound of the car came from behind the building, towards the private driveway: you hear it again and begin to walk in its direction. What will I tell them? What could they do for me anyway? Your steps are faltering with uncertainty the closer you get, but desperation moves you onward.
You are just rounding the corner, piecing together a conversation in your head, when raised voices emerging from the back door of the house stop you in your tracks. One is undoubtedly Hal's. The other...also familiar but yet unidentifiable. The unknown voice is the first you hear clearly.
"What are you going to do about it, friend?" the last word spoken so harshly, it is barely recognizable as itself.
"Please don't do this. You don't need this. He doesn’t need this. We don't need this!"
"Go home, Hal. This doesn't concern you." The voices are shifting, moving around, becoming harder to hear. You step forward cautiously, slowly gaining on the corner of the house inch by inch.
"How can you say that after how long we've been in business. Well--how long we've been friends at that! Not only do I have a responsibility to the people who came here tonight in trust, but I have a responsibility to you--to keep you from harming yourself, your family--"
"The business," interrupted a sneering voice. "The integrity of the business. Well, you had no problem with that the first few times we were in need." Nothing from Hal. You are close enough that you are beginning to see movement; you take another small step forward.
A burst of sudden light blinds you: You've set off the motion sensor flood lights hanging from the back corner of the roof. Startled, you shield your eyes and wait for the black spots in your vision to dissipate. In the haze of light and black, you see a figure walking towards you, outlined by the brightness streaming from behind him. A hand reaches out to you, then a voice.
“Oh, it’s you! You certainly frightened us.” Hal’s voice is kind, but he cannot hide the nervousness underlying his tone. “I thought for sure you’d gone home.”
“I certainly tried.” You say, squinting your eyes open and shut hard, trying to recover, trying to be fully present and on guard. “I…I…” this is not coming out the way you planned. “Well, sir, my car was stolen and I wasn’t sure what else to do. I thought that maybe—I thought perhaps you were still here and you could—“
“Say no more.” He takes you by the arm and, to your surprise, begins to lead you back around the front of the house. “Let’s wait in here while I call a friend.” He unlocks the house and you are again inside. Hal carefully maneuvers you into a formal front sitting room and directs you to a red, white and black patterned chair—pretty. Hm. Hard as a rock. Hal assures you that he will be back very soon and leaves the room, going further and further back into the house until you can’t hear his footsteps anymore. You wonder if he’s rejoined whoever it was outside—Trenton, you are beginning to suspect. You haven’t been sitting alone for very long when the very man himself soon enters the sitting room and eyes you with poorly-masked suspicion.
“Stolen car, eh?”
“Yes sir. I stupidly left it unlocked. I guess I was just nervous about tonight and got distracted from being practical.”
“Well, downtown certainly is not known for being incredibly safe, but our neighboring policemen have always been very attentive whenever we’ve had a problem. We’ll get someone over here for you in a jiffy.” You nod gratefully. “Just—“ he moves towards the windows to peer carefully between the blinds “—sit right here and we’ll let you know when we hear something.” The next few moments are uncomfortably silent before Trenton excuses himself and you are alone again. You try KC once more—nothing. Minutes pass—30 minutes. 40…45. You start to get restless, not to mention your butt is beyond numb. Although you get the distinct impression that you are being purposefully confined to this small, cold room, you chance it and begin to pace before the windows. 60 wasted minutes finds you having tried every seat in the room—all torture devices, you decide—and sees you listlessly dialing KC, letting it ring until you hear her voicemail, then hanging up and dialing again. It is now 2am and you have class tomorrow at 8am that you’ve already skipped enough to fail. At least you have a valid excuse this time and should have a written report to prove it, if the cops ever get here. Finally, after an hour and 15 minutes of waiting, you breathe a sigh of relief to see beams of light filter through the blinds to create broken lines across your shoes and the wooden floor. Trenton and Hal must have met the cops outside because they all come into the house together: you “disobey orders” and cross through the next two rooms to meet them in the foyer by the door. You are extremely tired and on edge, but aware enough to take curious notice of a few empty spaces where paintings once hung in the early part of this deteriorating evening. Well, morning, now.
“Mr. Walker.” A tall, middle-aged man extends his hand, which you take with unexplainable relief.
“Yes. William—I mean, Will.”
“I’m detective Jeremy Hobb. Mr. Gallagher and Mr. Neil have already spoken to me about your missing vehicle, but I’ll need to ask you some questions that I’m afraid will take some time.” He turns to the two men standing behind him on either side of the open door, catching them just as they are exchanging a wary look. “Gentleman, I don’t think there’s anything else you can do, but I’ll take good care of Mr. Walker.” He points you towards the door, “let’s go down to the station and let these old guys get some rest.” All four of you leave the house, Trenton locking it securely behind him.
“Well, son,” Hal puts a hand on your shoulder—dé-jà vu. “I’m sorry about tonight. Terrible ending to an otherwise successful evening.”
“Thanks for your help,” you say, your words coming out with difficulty due to an overwhelming mixture of exhaustion and tension. Even as you say it, you truly wonder what good it did to return—what did they do after all? As if to explain, Hal offers a few…closing statements.
“We trust Jeff impeccably. He worked for us once—many years ago when our company was still young. Anyway, he came down here as quickly as he could to personally handle your case. I regret that I cannot stay with you to see it through; this is the best I can do for tonight.” He insists that you notify him as soon as you find anything out and predicts that it will be settled before you see him again at your impending lunch date. You call after his retreating form for him to tell Emily on your behalf that it was very nice to meet her, and he gives a wave of affirmation behind him. Trenton, it seems, left while you were talking to Hal, for he is nowhere to be seen.

Soon, you find yourself in the front seat of Hobb’s Impala to drive a few streets over to the police station. The next moments are hazy. Even the urgency of the situation isn’t enough to keep you from wanting to lie down under the table in the interview room and fall asleep. Hobb tries to keep you awake with pastries and caffeinated coffee—which tastes a bit like dirty dish water…with milk—until he is able to get the information he needs from you. Then, he shakes your hand, smiles, makes some comment about getting in touch with you soon, and has an officer, who has just arrived for duty, drive you back to your house. You survived the evening: the interview—all those questions—and the abnormally cheerful chit-chat of your “chauffeur” to finally slip into a coma-like state across your unmade bed at 4am.

What happens next?

A. You wake up and go to your 3 o’clock class: Art History.
B. You sleep as much as possible and stay at home until you have to go to work (Joe’s Tavern) at 9pm.

Chapter 2: black jackets and business cards

At first, you are only concerned with recollecting your dignity after your failed attempt to be professional, but when the trucks pull up, sirens blaring, and firemen quickly file into the house one by one in full gear, you start thinking about your pictures. You wonder about the consequences of all those carefully developed and framed photographs going up in smoke. Your tendency not to use digital technology suddenly seems a little...irresponsible?
One of the other artists featured tonight stands near you with her fiancé. She looks monumentally concerned and is craning her neck to see what is going on in the house. Her fiancé rubs her back and keeps a consistent string of encouraging words flowing her way--he is speaking too low for you to hear what he is saying, but it seems to be calming her nerves. You wonder at yourself when you realize that the only thing you feel is a mild curiosity at what will unfold next. No panic, no worry, only the faint hint of...what was that? Relief...?

After about 10 minutes of brooding and cowering behind a tree, Hal finds you and snaps you back into the moment.
"Well, it looks like the fire station was notified because of gas, not smoke." He says in a way meant to be reassuring.
"So as long as no one goes in and lights a cigarette, we should be okay, huh?" Hal chuckles,
"What are you doing way back here?" You don't have time to weigh your choices, so you opt for the truth, which stumbles out of your mouth like dribble, as per usual.
"I guess I feel more comfortable by myself than surrounded by...well, I mean not that I don't like your kind of...what I mean is I appreciate your company--" Graciously, he rescues you.
"I think I get the gist of it. What you mean is, you're brown corduroy, and we're black satin." He tugs on the sleeve of your jacket briefly.
"Exactly!" You are simultaneously appreciative and perplexed by the way this man continues to baffle your expectations.
"Well, I'll tell you, son: success in this field is unfortunately a combination of talent and good P.R. I wish I could tell you that you could be a recluse that shows up to his exhibits in tattered jeans and flip flops and leaves impressed buyers in his wake, but those artists are actually few and far between…and tend to have an ungodly amount of charisma."
"Which I don't have."
"Well," Hal's eyes get thoughtful, but he never looks away from you, "I wouldn't discount yourself so quickly. But I would suggest that you ease into the scene, perhaps starting by meeting some social expectations."
"Oh dear. I was afraid that was a requirement," this from a throaty voice behind you, gaining volume as the individual approaches. The voice is unmistakable, but still you turn to unexpectedly be faced by KC, toting something carefully over her arm in the dark. "That is one thing that he lives to try not to do." She is stocky and strong; her short dark hair is in natural disarray and piercings crawl up one ear and down the other. Her voice has a smoky, low tone not characteristic of women, but KC has spent most of her years settling comfortably into herself, and she has a distinct and undeniable femininity about her. She is also incapable of being intimidated. She thrusts her free hand towards Hal when she reaches your side. "I'm Cadence." They shake firmly, Hal clearly intrigued.
"Then I believe we spoke on the phone." He says good-naturedly. "You said you weren't able to make it tonight, but I'm certainly glad you did. An artist could always use their agent nearby." They both turn to you and you wonder if Hal feels played by this kind-of…charade. KC doesn’t wait for you to foul everything up.
"Yeah, well, I’m actually working tonight, but I'm on break. I was pretty sure this would be needed," she unfolds the cloth across her arm and holds it up before you: a smooth, black dinner jacket that probably belongs to her father. "Looks like I got here just in time for the real excitement!" she adds, nodding in the direction of the fire trucks on the curb. KC grabs at the collar of your jacket and you let her pull it off your back without too much awkward hassle, then turn and slip your arms into new sleeves, one by one. Already you start to feel constricted, like the air in your personal bubble just got uncomfortably warmer.
"Just a gas scare." Hal turns around as the last of the firemen retreat from the building and the one speaking to Trenton, who owns the building, finishes up his briefing on the situation. “Someone in the kitchen must have pulled the alarm to evacuate us.” All three of you watch Trenton motion those around him inside, and the whole crowd starts to slowly surge forward like a wave. “Well then,” Hal turns halfway around, “shall we?” He offers his arm. “Cadence, are you going to join us inside?”
“I’m afraid I left my ‘agent’ hat at home; tonight, I’m dressed the part of ‘bar tender.’”
“Well, I hate that our meeting in person has been so brief, but I’m sure we’ll talk again soon. I am looking forward to sitting down with you two over lunch to discuss tonight’s success and tomorrow’s opportunities!” Spoken like a true businessman; nonetheless, you have been getting a genuine vibe from this man all night—something you did not expect—so you take him seriously when he says this.
“Oh, have you set up a lunch meeting already?” KC’s eyebrows rise.
“Not quite,” Hal winks at her, “but I do not accept ‘no’ as an answer when I want something, so I anticipate seeing you again.” With that, he shakes her hand once more and strides off purposefully in his waiting wife’s direction.

“Well? You’ve got five minutes to update me before I go back to work.”
“Went inside, met Glitter and Glamour, fire alarm sounded, broke a vase, stood under this tree, current conversation.”
“Four minutes left to put something of substance in there. Money? Doting fans? ‘Tomorrow’s opportunities’?”
“Apparently two doting fans: Hal and his mysterious niece, who really got me the gig, if you trace it to the source. But honestly, I just got here in time to make a fool out of myself in as many ways as possible and then stand under this tree, which I think is shedding right now on your dad’s jacket.” You brush some fallen seeds off your jacket and they leave a powdery residue behind. You brush harder, and when you look up, you are met by the intense, perplexed gaze of your friend.
“2 minutes left to tell me why you took so long to get here. I told you when it started, didn’t I?”
“Now look, KC, I barely came at all. You pushed me into this even after I told you I had no desire to prostitute my hobby—“her eye roll interrupts your train of thought. “They wanted me to ‘explain my work’ to them! You have no idea what a disaster that was.”
“I don’t know; I’ve heard you try to explain to someone how to play Uno before.”
“Seriously, though,” you look up at the house, glowing like a radioactive stone across the empty lawn, “I don’t have a clue what to say. I just take them because…I don’t know…because I’m bored! Because I don’t know what else to do?” You roll your shoulders uncomfortably under the jacket, a little too large for your frame. “You talked to Hal, you chose the pictures…you should be the one to talk about them!”
“Hey!” Cadence’s resolute expression and resolved tone have always been able to command your attention. “I have negative one minute to tell you this before you get your butt back into that house and make me proud: We’ve been friends a long time and I’m tired of watching you saunter through your life like you have nothing to offer anyone. You got into college on an art scholarship and aren’t doing a blasted thing with what you’re accomplishing in that program. There is more to you than this stupid nonchalance you wear like a badge, and there is more to your photographs than an aimless point and click. You are going to explore this one opportunity that has all but jumped up and bitten your face off, and you’re going to do it if I have to be kicking you the whole way.”
“Tell me what to say.”
“Find the pictures you like the best. Tell the story behind when and where you took them. Start there. Maybe the ‘why’ will come later. They are begging to hear you say something—just…talk! I’m pretty sure it’s not going to hurt your work either way.”
“I wish you were coming inside.”
“Yeah, well, you gotta walk without your crutches sometime, buddy.” You reach for your jacket on her arm and she jerks back. “Un-uh. I don’t trust you. Not after finding dad’s jacket left in your backseat. By the way: you forgot to lock it again.” You sigh and she sighs back. Without anything left to say (and KC now at negative five minutes, at least), you start to make your way back towards the front door. She calls after you:
“Good luck! Come grab a drink afterwards! But you have to stay for at least another hour!” You playfully start to limp across the yard and she waves you off with another roll of her eyes.

Back inside, you down a glass of champagne, holding your breath against the taste, and notice with relief that the fragments of vase are gone. Mustering up your courage, you find Hal and Emily who are, thankfully, standing in a corner nearly alone. They allow your presence to interrupt their conversation and you say: “Where were we?” You follow KC’s advice, talking first to just Hal and Emily about some of your favorite photos—although you can’t really express why they are your favorites, you talk about how you came upon that shot, or why it caught your attention. She was right—it got easier and easier.

By the time your throat is getting dry from talking so much, you have once more gathered your high society crowd and are awkwardly trying to field questions in as ambiguous a way as possible (you don’t really want these people to know the details of your existence, although you do kind of want their money). Hal stands by approvingly, but he looks tired. You look at your watch to realize that it’s been several hours, and the exhibit is about to close. Trenton, as if he was waiting for your signal, suddenly gets behind the microphone on a small stage in the center room.
“Ladies and Gentlemen: my friend and associate Halbert Neil would like to close this evening with a few words. We invite you to gather near the stage in the next few minutes.” Those who are still left finish the last of their drinks and start to place empty glasses and h'ordeuvre plates on the trays in the corners of each room. You stay as far away from the stage as possible so that Hal doesn’t get any bright ideas. Several minutes later, he takes his place behind the mic.
“Please accept our gratitude for attending this exhibit. We especially thank you for enduring our brief interruption with the fire department.” Everyone chuckles politely and tiredly. “As you know, 80% of your ticket purchase will be donated to the Michael C. Bryant Foundation, promoting music and arts in our city’s youth. Join me in giving a round of applause to our local artists who graciously agreed to loan their work for this exhibit.” You can hardly believe that this applause is for you, but most definitely some people are looking at you, and this older gentleman on your left is slamming your back with an overeager hand. You hope Mr. Freeman’s coat will survive the impact. “We are going to let our faithful wait staff go home, so enjoy the last of your refreshments as you start to make your way out. Don’t forget to drop your business card in the receptacles provided by each artist’s biography if you are interested in connecting with that artist again. Thank you so very much, and have a safe trip home!”

You stay until the last guests are filing out, partly because you see the other artists still milling about making last bits of polite conversation, and partly because of the tag end of Hal’s speech—something to do with business cards. Is it pressure from KC that makes you interested in these 2X3 printed treasures, or the faint potential of cash they represent that keeps you eyeing your “receptacle” (which at some point was a beautifully hand-blown vase, now replaced by a much smaller crystal bowl that once held cashews) from across the room? That ever-present need for money: you loathe its faithful presence. Despite your attempts to drown out the truth, blaming KC, or Hal, or chance itself, you know it is the reason you are here.

Waiting for some sign from your host that it is an appropriate time to leave, you get caught up perusing the oil paintings and charcoal drawings of some of your fellow artists. Finally, Hal touches your arm and you turn to be greeted by a smile and a fat envelope in his hands, being extended to you. “These are yours, friend.” He yawns. “And don’t pretend you don’t see mine taped securely to the front of your envelope. I want lunch next week and no excuse. I know you don’t have midterms until next month.” You both start to make your way to the door and once you reach the cobblestone walkway in the night air, you shake his hand.
“Thank you, sir, for this opportunity. Please thank Mr. Gallagher and Ms. Snow for me as well. I—well, I guess I’ll just see you next week.” You tuck the envelope in the inner pocket of the dinner jacket. Hal smiles and tips his head in your direction with another yawn.

You find yourself much too tired to start over-thinking tonight’s events right away. In fact, you’d rather leave that to KC later. You know that at this hour, her shift is over and she’s already at home, so you have little else to do but drive home yourself and fall into bed. Thankfully, tomorrow is Sunday. When you reach the curb where you had parked, all you see is the typical oil spot that your ’94 Escort creates wherever it rests. Scratching your head, you look up and down the street, certain that you’ve made a mistake. Your heart begins to pound as you pace up and down the street, trying to remember if you had parked it somewhere else, trying to think—think—think. You call KC, but she doesn’t answer. Asleep, you’re sure. You have no one else to call.

Certain that there’s no other explanation, you sit on a nearby bench under a street lamp and finger the keys of your phone. Yup—your car has been stolen.

What happens next?

A. You walk to the police station a few blocks away to report your stolen car.
B. You catch Hal and Emily before they leave to explain your situation.

Chapter 1: The broken vase

You have been standing in the same spot for probably not as long as it feels. Why can't you bring yourself to move past the door frame into the ambient light beyond? You lean your head from side to side, and shake your hands at the wrist so that your fingers limply dangle, like a fighter about to enter the ring. The next moment, you reach for the cold bronze of the handle and push it and yourself into the uncertainty beyond.

You have to push past group after group of people eying you with curiosity (and some with disdain just to maintain their illusion of self-importance) and fingering long-stemmed wine glasses before you reach the central room of the old house. There, Sylvia acts delighted to see you in her over-exaggerated way.

"You made it! I was beginning to worry, to tell the truth. How wretched of you to leave us wondering like that!" she croons, sloshing wine about in her glass as she turns this way and that to let those around her get a good look at her playfully scolding expression. When she faces you again, you get the impression that the wine is a strategy to combat the jealousy. A tall man wearing an expensive suit steps forward and extends a hand to you, making you feel mostly self-conscious that you are under-dressed. You shake his hand purposefully, anticipating the usual comment about the confidence you exude, but he seems unable to be more impressed than he already is.

"I am Trenton Gallagher." You suppress a less-than-flattering facial expression at his pretentious-sounding name because KC isn't here...and there is that little matter of needing to impress this man for the sake of your livelihood. "You must be the artist of the hour."
"I suppose you could say that," you respond with more ease than you feel, "although my photos are not the only ones on display tonight."
"No need to be modest, my friend." He puts an arm around your shoulders and you are suddenly best buds. "It's perfectly clear who the star of this exhibit is!" He gently pushes you towards other well-dressed people who are gathered like so many stunning planets orbiting around the gravitational pull of Trenton. "This is Cecil, my wife, and our daughter Jacquelyn." You reach out your hand to both, but only get frigid, limp fingers in return, which you awkwardly give a little shake. "This is my associate, Halbert Neil, with whom your agent spoke on the phone." Barely quelling the laugh that rises in your throat at the word "agent" (wait until you tell KC), you manage to give a professional nod in Hal's direction. Hal; can I call you Hal? You say inwardly. "Hal" is more plump than Trenton and gives a jolly chuckle as if to confirm this fact.
"My boy, what a delight to meet you!"
"Very nice to meet you, Mr. Neil. My agent and I," a laugh catches in your throat like a hiccup and you cough into your sleeve before continuing, "are grateful for this opportunity to showcase my work."
"Oh, please call me Hal," he counters. To hide your widening eyes, you quickly offer,
"How did you find out about me?" Trenton turns away momentarily to signal a waiter dressed neatly in all black to bring him another drink. You notice the crisp white towel hanging from his arm. Where AM I?
"I have a niece who goes to school at the University. She saw your work in the literary magazine and fell in love with it. She knew I was looking to promote young artists in the local community so she suggested you."
"Who is your niece? Maybe I know her."
"I doubt you do," Hal chuckles, "her parents keep her under lock and key. But it's Angela. Angela Snow."
"Well, what picture did Ms. Snow see? I've submitted several to the Anthem."
"It was the photograph of the African-American street child," he describes with great sincerity and heaviness. Oh, Jada. My neighbor's kid. But you don't tell Hal that.
"Ah."
"I would love to walk about with you and listen to you talk about your work, if you would be so kind." You half expect him to take your arm and let you escort him, but he takes his wife's hand instead and suddenly, you have an entourage. Sylvia is not to be left behind, but you do notice her tap her glass for a re-fill.
"This is my wife, Emily." Hal gestures towards the woman on his right and you feel somewhat comforted by the soft expression she carries gracefully across her petite features. She leans across her husband's ample belly to give you a genuine handshake and a smile; you start to feel tension easing off of your shoulders.

As you walk towards the first photograph of the exhibit, trailing socialites, you are given a moment of silence to collect yourself...or rather, wrack your brain. You have never in your life had to explain your photographs to anyone other than a college friend over your third Guinness. And even then, that comes to more mindless babbling than what could be considered an "explanation." What on earth does an "artist" say about their own "work"?

The group comes to a stop before a black-and-white still of a old chapel door. They circle around, their faces turned gently towards you like flowers readying themselves to soak up the sunlight. You begin to stammer.
"Well, uh, I decided to start with this one because it is my favorite." Hal leans towards you expectantly while Emily looks directly at the picture, her head cocked slightly to one side. "When I first saw it, it caught my attention so I...." you clear your throat, "took a picture of it." The silence that follows indicates to the confused group that you are finished. Their bafflement is in-concealable.
"What about it was so striking?" Hal leads you encouragingly, like a master coaxing his dog to the food bowl. You clear your throat once again. It is relief, not panic, you feel when the fire alarm suddenly starts beeping insistently over the classical music and murmuring chatter of the gathered crowd. There are a few shrieks of surprise, and the building begins to empty onto the lawn. Hal gives you a shrug as he moves towards the door; you follow, but your nerves get the better of you for the first time and you turn too quickly, promptly knocking an expensive, hand-blown glass vase, which teeters in slow motion before proceeding to spread itself in tiny shards across the newly-waxed wooden floors. You hang back for only a moment, so that you find yourself on a section of lawn far removed from Trenton and company, all sparkles, black ties and startled women.

What happens next?

A. You wait until the fire-alarm situation is resolved to go back into the exhibit?
B. You slip away to find KC and a nice cold brew?