The Death
As the Symphony neared San Francisco, the air became more and more turbulent, and clouds were denser and denser, until visibility was almost nonexistent.
“We’re goin’ ta havta take ‘er down, now. I cain’t see a ting,” Roald said, switching levers and hitting buttons like a madman.
“Alright, folks. We are now approaching San Francisco. Please be quiet and remain seated until the helicopter has come to a complete and final stop.” Alan limped his way down the length of the aisle. As he reached his seat, a ringtone went off, and the phone’s called ID began speaking in a metallic voice.
“Call from Grea” Alan immediately answered, cutting of the rest of the name.
“Hello, Frank . . . now is not a good time . . . get down here. In ‘Frisco. The Green Duchess ought to suffice. Find the office of the Daily. We’ll be in touch. Talk to you later.” He shut the phone.
His wife leaned over to him and whispered in his ear, “Who was that?”
Tersely, he replied, “No one important,” before looking out the window and announcing that the helicopter had grounded in a field next to the San Francisco Daily office. As everyone exited the Symphony, a shorter woman with curly hair bouncing everywhere dashed out the side door of the office building.
“Who are you all, and what do you want?”
“We are a group of friends from the east coast looking for some refugee friends of ours, from Hawaii. We heard that this was the place to look. Can you help us?”
‘Yah, come on inside, I guess. Not all of you, now, but a few.”
Alan, Paige, Jeremy, Harmony, and Brooke followed the woman, who introduced herself as Crystal Harris, editor of the Daily, into the building and up a well-polished staircase into her second-story office, with a panoramic view of the mob milling around on the lawn.
“They’ll be directed to the Dukais Boarding House down the street, but a few families can stay here. All righty then, who was it you wanted to find? Last names, please, so that I can look up their temporary addresses in this notebook. Ms. de Miles put all refugees in by surnames.” She opened the spiral-bound journal.
“Stewart and Cooper. There are others, I do believe, but those two we are certain of, and they should be enough to get us started.”
“Hmm. Let’s see. Ah, yes, you all are lucky, aren’t you? I shouldn’t have even needed my book.” She closed it and set it back in a tray on her desk, which was completely covered in papers scrawled in various degrees of messiness, and various handwritings. “Follow me.”
The five friends trailed behind Crystal towards the stairs, but instead of going down, they started ascending to the next floor. As they topped the grand staircase on the third story and began climbing a rickety old spiral set of steps. “The third level is more offices and our presses, but the fourth floor is unintentional. The builders put it on accidentally, and we had it converted into rental apartments. Since a bit of a strange place to have lodgings, though, only two are occupied- mine and Ms. de Miles’s. Her husband ran off on her, so she and her children came to me, and has since become one of our best reporters. The group you’re looking for was the only group to be lodged here; we gave them four suites free of charge. Ms. de Miles registered them, so I don’t know who all exactly is with them. Anyways, here’s their rooms, and just down the hallway are your rooms. I’m off to mind de Miles’s kids. She’s got triplets. See you all in a bit. Bye!” Crystal rushed off down the corridor, and Alan tried not to notice the wistful look of longing on his spouse’s face. Brooke sighed.
