Lost And Found Part II
By: P.G. Barnett
Tags: Fiction, Fiction Series, Later Henry, Storytelling, Short Story

My name is Henry James and I’m a writer for Dark Sides of the Truth magazine.

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Conclusion

Whether it was Rick’s advice or my dreams which led me to Chantilly Virginia I really can’t say. But I think you people know enough about me to understand I’m not often inclined to take advice.

So, that pretty much sticks a fork in that don’t it?

I was waiting at the Hazy center when the doors opened at 10:00 AM. Admission was free and parking only set me back fifteen bucks so I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone.

Maybe check out all the other neat stuff as I tried to make some sense of these dreams I kept having.

The SR-71 was the very first thing I spotted when I walked in.

The Lockheed Martin SR-71 in its day was fast and sleek. The monster was built for travel at Mach 3 speeds and it was one of the first of its kind to be designed with a much reduced radar cross section which made it almost undetectable as it hurtled through the upper atmosphere.

I could have spent the moment taking in the sleek, coal black creature, wondering what it must have been like inside the aircraft, but I was searching for what she’d been trying to show me. Inspecting each square inch to find what the little girl wanted me to see.

There was no L213 anywhere on that aircraft I could see. I must have circled the plane about fifteen or twenty times trying to get close enough to inspect the landing gear, the belly or beneath the wings and engines.

Still nothing.

Oh there were several identification letters and numbers, but nothing matched what I’d seen in my dream. Nothing matched what the little girl was pointing at.

From behind me a voice said, “you sure must be a lover of that aircraft sir.”

I turned. An elderly gentleman in dress pants, white shirt and tie was smiling at me. I watched him adjust a pair of gold toned spectacles, then clasp his hands in front of him while he rocked back and forth on his heels.

“Well yes, this beast is impressive.”

“This your first time here?”

I nodded, then turned away for another inspection of the aircraft.

“You looking for something special?”

“Well, I’m trying to figure out which version of Blackbird this is. To my knowledge there were three.”

“That’s right. The A, B and the C. They only built one C version.”

“So which one is this? If it was an A version they usually they had a marking on them. What was it? Oh yeah, they had a factory number L213 painted somewhere on them.”

“Uh, no sir I don’t believe they did.”

The elderly man just confirmed something I was pretty sure of myself. What the little girl was pointing at wasn’t on this plane.

“Yes sir you’re probably right. A friend of mine and his daughter were here awhile back and they sent me a picture of them standing in front of this plane and she was pointing at something. In the picture it looked like L213 was right above the cockpit.”

“Interesting. So where were they standing?”

I closed my eyes for a moment trying to gauge the precise point where the little girl and the man were standing while he looked at the plane and she gestured at something above her.

Then I inspected the aircraft again and moved to a spot I guessed would have been where they both had been standing.

“I think about right here.”

“And his daughter was pointing at something above her?”

“Yeah.”

I scanned the area just above the top of the cockpit of the SR-71, slowly taking in everything.

Then I saw it.

A directional sign, bold neon illumination, highlighting a capital letter followed by three numbers, all in brilliant blue.

L2 — 13 Level two, section thirteen.

“So what’s level two, section thirteen?”

“Ultralight aircraft. Pretty impressive exhibition by it’s own right.”

The old man gestured to a stairway which wrapped its way around a glass elevator.

“You can either take the stairs or the elevator. It’s an open exhibit which means you should be able to get up close and personal with the airplanes. Just please refrain from touching them or getting in them. We want you to enjoy your visit while you’re here. It would be a shame if we had to ask you to leave.”

“Got it, thanks.”

“No problem. Enjoy.”

I took the stairs. No way I intended to wait on the elevator.

The old man was right about the layout. I was able to walk among several variations of ultralights, none of which I even thought about wanting to fly. It takes a lot of skill and even more courage to strap yourself into one of those and take to the air.

Or maybe a touch of insanity.

What’s insane is walking among these oddly shaped aircraft looking for something you have no clue what the hell it is based on a recurring dream you’d been having for a month.

Now that’s crazy right there folks.

As I walked around I decided to start looking for something, anything that shouldn’t be there. Something out of place, odd.

I saw paper cups, a hair beret, a quarter.

I put the quarter in my pocket.

More paper cups, an empty bag of corn chips, a locket on a chain.

Whoa wait a minute. A locket on a chain?

The chain wasn’t broken so I’m thinking it hadn’t accidentally fallen free from whomever lost it. More strange was where I found it. Beneath the rubber wheel of one of the aircraft.

What are the odds the locket had broken free from the chain — which it hadn’t — then bounced its way across the concrete floor and tucked itself beneath one of those tires?

If I was playing poker I don’t think I’d be betting against this hand.

More important was why. Why the hell was it there in the first place? The moment of truth came when I pried open the locket. On one side was a beautiful woman I guessed to be somewhere in her thirties. She had the kind of smile which could melt iron. On the other side was a picture of a little girl all smiles as well, her ginger hair curling around her face, streaming to her bare shoulders.

My little girl. The girl who kept appearing in my dreams.

I slid the piece of jewelry into a front jeans pocket and made my way back to the stairs. I now had hard evidence she existed, or at least at one time had existed. Proof that I wasn’t losing my mind.

Now I had to find her.

READ ON — LOST AND FOUND PART III

Let’s keep in touch: paul@pgbarnett.com