Lost & Found

April 2007

The woman in front had her passport stamped and the immigration officer waved her through. Chris stepped forward, presented his passport, and tried his best to look like his five-year-old photo, which was difficult, given he’d shaved off the beard three years ago.

The immigration officer looked at the passport, then at Chris, then back at the passport. He grunted. “Purpose of visit?”

“I’m here to see a friend in need.”

“In need of what, exactly?” The officer sounded suspicious.

“A hug.”

The officer grunted again. Chris sighed. Had relations between Britain and the US really gotten this bad? He knew that security had been stepped up after the recent terror threats, but this was ridiculous.

Do I look like a terrorist? Chris thought. What is it with these people? Give them a little bit of power and it goes straight to their heads.

There were more inane questions before the officer stamped the passport and waved Chris through.

Excellent. All I need to do now is get to River’s Crossing and find Beth.

He rented a car and then fought his way from JFK Airport to the north of Long Island, where he could get a bridge to the mainland. He had to switch freeways twice, and the signage was so poor he almost missed the exit both times.

On top of that, he was driving on the wrong side of the road. He’d driven in continental Europe before and so had some experience of driving on the right, but this felt different somehow.

It was scarier.

Driving an automatic car didn’t help—he’d always driven a manual back home and he didn’t feel completely in control without being able to change gear.

He eventually made it to the East River and the most spectacular skyline he’d ever seen greeted him. He only wished he’d had a chance to take it in and appreciate it—but he was too busy concentrating on the road.

He was beginning to think this trip wasn’t such a clever idea. Overzealous passport controllers, a freeway maze with no signs, and a spectacular skyline. That was his introduction to the United States.

But after an hour and a half on the interstate, River’s Crossing—and Beth—beckoned.

Perhaps the trip would be worth it after all.

River’s Crossing—a rural Connecticut town with a population of fifteen thousand. A town that most people in Britain had never heard of. Chris certainly hadn’t heard of it before he met Beth. Hell, most Americans had probably never heard of it either until it hit the headlines two weeks ago.

Chris couldn’t believe it was a real place. Or that he’d made it there in one piece. Now all he had to do was find Beth. How hard could that be?

He pulled off the freeway, drove through the commercial and industrial developments, and into what Beth always called The Old Town. He parked in front of the courthouse in the town square. It was Sunday. The courthouse and most of the shops were closed. The only place open was a bar called Molly’s. He went in and sat on a stool at the bar.

“What can I get you, pal?” the barman asked. His dark hair was slicked back, and he wore a tight, white T-shirt with the bar’s logo on the right breast.

“Could I have a Budweiser, please?”

“Two fifty,” said the barman. He sounded as if he belonged in a trashy American sitcom.

Chris fished out his battered wallet and handed over one of the five-dollar bills he’d purchased from the Bureau de change at Heathrow before he caught his flight.

“Haven’t seen you around here before,” the barman said as he handed Chris his change. “You new in town?”

“I’m on holiday—erm, I mean, vacation.”

“Okay. You’re a Brit, right? I can tell from your accent.” Chris nodded. “Well, you guys backed us up over that mess with Saddam, so you’re all right in my book. What brings you to River’s Crossing?”

“I thought I’d see a bit of real America.” Chris decided it wasn’t the time to start asking about Beth. He was desperate to see her, but he was also aware that it would look strange if a foreigner started asking where someone lived.

“Yeah, I heard that about you guys. You like to do things your own way, right? That’s cool. Me? Give me a trip to Florida any day of the week.” He laughed. “Well, you’ve certainly come to the right town if you wanna see what the real United States is all about. We’re ’bout as typical as you can get.”

“Great. Look, this is probably a silly question, but do you know anywhere I could stay? I didn’t really plan this trip in advance. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

“Sure. There’s a Holiday Inn and a bunch of other motels out by the interstate. Part of the River’s Crossing Mall development.”

“I was thinking of something a little more luxurious. I’m on holiday—I mean, vacation, after all.”

“Oh, right. Well, in that case, you’ll want River’s Crossing Inn. Cross the square from here. It’s pricey, mind.”

“Price isn’t an issue.”

“Well, when you go over to check in, be sure to tell ’em that Mitch from Molly’s sent you. They may even give you a discount.”

“Thanks, Mitch.”

“Hey, we don’t get many foreign visitors. Hell, we don’t get many visitors at all. Well, not until recently, anyways. So, we need to look after the ones we do get. You might tell your friends about us when you get home.”

“Yeah, I might just do that.”

Chris finished his beer, then bid Mitch farewell and went to find the hotel.

Molly's was on the eastern side of the town square. The courthouse dominated the northern side. To the south, east, and west were old, three-story buildings which had most likely been residences of the town’s great and good in times gone by but had all long since been converted into shops, restaurants, and offices. A road ran around the edge of the square. In the centre, surrounded by a white picket fence, lay a well-kept garden. Chris cut through it and made a mental note to have a closer look later.

River’s Crossing Inn was an unassuming place, the kind of hotel that knows all about its quality and doesn’t need to show it off. Chris booked in and got a free room upgrade after he mentioned Mitch. He lugged his suitcase up from the car and settled in. After a much-needed shower that washed away the sweaty legacy of a day’s travel, he took a quick nap to get back some energy. When he woke, he fired up his laptop and browsed through the pictures of Beth he’d collected over the two years of their online relationship.

They’d started out as friends brought together via an international affairs discussion forum. They’d gone on to be what Beth called cyber-lovers. The pictures he’d got of her reflected that. He stared at the first and remembered the sense of anticipation as the download progress bar crept across the screen—that was when he still used dial-up Internet.

He remembered the pounding in his chest as he double-clicked the icon to open the picture and the delight he felt when she filled his screen. It was a picture taken at her college graduation, and she was everything he’d imagined and more.

The last photo she’d sent him showed just how far their relationship had come. She was lying on her bed in her underwear and sporting a ‘come to bed’ smile. She’d sent it several weeks ago—before she’d received her devastating news.

They’d been saying for over a year that they should meet in real life. One of them should get a flight and visit the other.

But they’d never gotten around to it.

Chris hoped that his unannounced visit would be a pleasant surprise. She deserved a pleasant surprise. He knew how much she’d been hurting for the last two weeks. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and tell her everything would be okay. The last message she’d sent him before he signed off and went to bed the night before was “I need a hug.” He’d been in London then and couldn’t help her. Now that he was in River’s Crossing, he could help her.

If he could find her.

The hotel offered free wireless Internet access to its guests. Chris logged on and checked his e-mail. As he suspected, there was a string of messages from Beth. The first was a polite inquiry into his whereabouts. The subsequent messages showed her increasing agitation. They went from anger at his absence to worry about his safety and finally concern that she’d somehow upset him.

He sent her a message to say that he’d had to go out of town for the day and not to worry about him. He signed off with “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He smiled as he hit send, thinking that he would see her tomorrow, but in the flesh and not on a webcam.

He wandered back across the square. One or two restaurants were getting ready for the evening sitting. Chris lingered in the garden, walking along the path and admiring the flora. In the centre was a dignified reflecting pool, a miniature version of the one in Washington, DC. It ran north to south. At the southern end, facing the courthouse, was a giant statue on a marble plinth. The double life-size statue held a document in one hand and pointed towards the sky with the other. Chris went for a closer look. On the plinth were two plaques. The first informed him that the statue was of Abraham Fairchild, co-founder and inaugural mayor of River’s Crossing.

The second plaque read:

The townspeople of River’s Crossing salute and commemorate its sons and daughters who gave their lives so that we might live ours in peace and security.

Below the plaque, carved into the marble, was a list of names, ages and dates.

At the foot of the plinth, surrounded by flowers, was a single, framed photograph of a man in uniform. He was beaming with pride. His hat was straight. His brass buttons shone. Chris had never seen him before, but he knew exactly who he was—the town’s latest loss, killed in Iraq two weeks earlier. Chris rummaged through the floral tributes—taking care not to disturb them too much—until he found what he was looking for. The card read simply, I’ll miss you, baby brother.

Beth’s handwriting was just as he’d imagined—elegant and feminine. He didn’t know why he’d imagined it that way. He just had. They’d spent so much time online together that he felt as if he knew her intimately. He’d shared things with her that he hadn’t shared with anyone else. When she got the news about Lance, he’d felt her pain. She idolised her brother, even though he was five years her junior. He could do no wrong in her eyes. And he’d been cruelly taken from her before his time.

Chris made his way back to Molly’s.It had filled while he’d been away. Most of the barstools were taken, and many of the booths and tables had occupants. Chris found a seat at the bar and Mitch came over to him almost immediately.

“Hey. Our English visitor is back. What can I get you, pal? Same as before?” Chris nodded, and Mitch fetched another Bud. “I never got your name,” Mitch said as he popped the top of the bottle.

“Austins. Chris Austins.” They shook hands.

“Nice to meet you, Austins, Chris Austins. Have you eaten yet?

Chris shook his head. “Nope. And I’m starving. Have you got a menu?”

“Sure.” Mitch fetched a menu from further down the bar. “Chef does a mean steak. Best you’ve ever had, I’d bet.”

Chris quickly looked down the menu then said, “Yeah, steak sounds good.”

“How d’you like?”

“Medium rare. I assume it comes with fries and all the trimmings?”

“Naturally.”

Mitch put Chris’s order through to the kitchen and then introduced him to some of his regulars sitting at the bar. They chatted about the area while Chris waited for his food.

River’s Crossing had sprung up around the first bridge across the river. Over many years, the town had expanded in all directions. Industry built up along the riverbanks and later spread west towards the interstate. It was a dull town. The most exciting thing to have happened recently was the expansion of the glassware factory. Chris played the interested visitor, but he already knew much of what they were telling him. It was about twenty minutes before he managed to steer the conversation where he wanted it. “So, what’s small-town life like? I mean, I lived in London until a couple of years ago and you’re lucky if you know your neighbour’s name there. Even the town I live in now, Westmouth, is much bigger than River’s Crossing and most people who live there are strangers.”

“Well, I know or know of, most people hereabouts,” Mitch said. “This bar’s the heart of the community.”

“Heart of the community, my ass,” croaked one of the barflies. He had a couple of generations on Mitch. “Small town life ain’t what it once was, son. But this ain’t what I’d call a small town no more, neither. This town has more than tripled in size since I first joined the paper as a trainee outta high school. I’m telling ya, there was a time I knew everyone and everything that was going on in this town. As a good reporter should. But now? More and more folks are keeping themselves to themselves. I blame all this new-fangled technology. Twenty-four-hour news channels and the World Wide Web. Hell, people can work from home as if it were the office, pick up the phone and order takeout delivered to the door, even shop for groceries on the damn ’Net. Folks need never leave their own homes if they don’t wanna. Don’t they say over your way that an Englishman’s home is his castle?” Chris nodded. “Well, these days, an American’s home is his god-damned fortress.”

Chris smiled at the old man. He felt sorry for him. The world had passed him by, and he hadn’t realised until it was too late. “Talking of the Internet, that’s what brought me here.”

“Really?” said Mitch. “You heard of River’s Crossing on the ’Net?”

“Sort of. Actually, I’m here looking for someone I met online a couple of years ago, and she’s become sort of a good friend. Hey, if you know so many people in this town, you could maybe help.”

“Try me.”

“Her name’s Elizabeth Burnett.”

“Burnett? That rings a bell.”

“Burnett, Burnett,” the old man said. He tapped the side of his head as if he were trying to remember.

“You might know her as Beth. She’s in her early thirties. ’Bout five-seven, slim, blue eyes, long blond hair.”

“Sounds cute.” Mitch shook his head. “But no, can’t say I know anyone by that name. Is this one of those Internet romances you hear about?”

The old man was still muttering her surname.

“I know she’s a lawyer,” Chris said.

“You know which law firm she works for?” Chris shook his head. “Shame, ’cause there’s five in town. Guess you’ll have to try them all tomorrow.”

“Guess so.”

“Lance Burnett!” They looked at the old guy. “Captain Lance Burnett. That’s where I know the name from.”

Chris nodded. “Her brother.”

“Well, in that case,” said the old man. “The Burnetts live over by Lincoln Gardens. East of the river.”

“She doesn’t live with her parents. And I can hardly knock on their door and ask where their daughter lives, can I? Can you imagine their reaction? Especially given they’ve just lost their son.”

The steak arrived, and Chris demolished the meal as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. He washed it down with two more beers, then bade Mitch and the old man goodnight and headed back to his room at River’s Crossing Inn.