The Roadmaster had a thin coating of dust across its windows from sitting idle out in the open for two days. Tomas set the urn in the passenger’s seat and pulled the seatbelt across it, strapping his father’s remains securely next to him. As he did this, he again had to wipe away tears, thinking about how his father hated wearing seatbelts.
Once he got out of the industrial park, he made a quick decision. “No time like the present,” Tomas muttered to his father, navigating the Roadmaster onto I-5 north towards Ocean Beach.
The drive was uneventful and Sunset Cliffs were beautiful.
Looking out across the cliffs and the waters of the Pacific, it was easy to see why Andy had designated this spot as his final resting place. Tomas took the urn as near to the edge of the cliffs as possible, twisted off the top and set the cap down next to his feet.
“Well, Dad,” he said, holding the open urn close against his chest, his voice breaking, “this isn’t what I thought spending the summer with you would mean. I’m … I’m sorry for not being around more. It wasn’t that … well … I love you and I hope you know that.”
There was a pleasant breeze moving away from the cliffs towards the sea.
Tomas turned the urn on its side and let the ashes spill out into the void. With the container upside down, he shook it hard to make sure all of Andy’s remains had been sent on their way. Something clinked out of the bottom and clinked off the urn’s cap beside his foot. Oh, no, Tomas thought. Was that a tooth or bit of bone? He leaned over and picked up the small object. But it wasn’t a part of Andy: it was a mini SD card used for extra storage in smart phones with a whopping 512GB on its side in tiny print below the initials V.P., Inc.
Tomas stood there with the empty urn under one arm, perplexed as to why there would be a memory card buried in his father’s ashes.
He went back to the Roadmaster, climbed inside, shut the door and looked around suspiciously. Then he took out his mobile phone, inserted the card and watched as thousands of file names scrolled across his screen. When it had finished, he scrolled to the top and saw that the first file was named “Read me-Tomas.”
He clicked on it ; and instead of a document, a video began to play.
It was Dr. Greer. She was leaning into the camera so only her face could be seen. She whispered, “Tomas, you need to listen to me. This is important. You are in grave danger. Vitura is not what it seems. Your father said you could be trusted with the files. Meet me at the lobby lounge in the Hotel Del Coronado tonight at ten. Make sure you aren’t followed. And Tomas, your father is still alive. I need your help to save him. Be alert and watch your back.”
Tomas played the message half a dozen times. His confusion over the message contents and the elation he felt about the news that his father was alive were nearly overwhelming. He tried to access more of the files, but they were a jumbled mass of encryption.
The digital clock on the dash read three o’clock.
He had seven hours to kill.
He drove the Roadmaster back to his father’s apartment in Mira Mesa, finished his pizza, took a long shower, popped a couple blues, changed into a newer but slightly wrinkled dress shirt over his cargo pants and flipped channels while he watched the clock.