Fifteen years ago, I left a man named Dirk suspended two stories above a Charlottesville alley with one shoe, a woman he had met only hours earlier and a restaurant employee smoking beneath them.

It was not particularly kind of me.

The post was called “The Shoe”, and it began with a green suede sneaker I found wedged between two rocks on a beach in Costa Rica. I imagined an elaborate history for it, wrote several thousand words and ended with three that have remained unanswered ever since:

“To Be Continued…”

Apparently, the continuation required a decade and a half.

When we last saw Dirk and Rose, they were hiding on a metal platform above the alley behind Yuan Ho’s Chinese restaurant. A handwritten message inside Dirk’s fortune cookie had said simply:

HELP ME!

Reason had suggested they notify someone qualified to investigate. Curiosity, adrenaline and the sudden confidence that sometimes accompanies the company of an attractive stranger suggested they conduct their own surveillance.

That decision had placed them on the platform.

Dirk’s green suede sneaker had just fallen through the opening and landed in the alley below.

The restaurant employee stepped outside, wearing the same white apron and carrying another cigarette. He struck a match against the brick wall, lit it and inhaled deeply.

He required far fewer than four hundred and twenty opportunities to notice the shoe. It caught his attention during the eleven seconds between his third and fourth drags.

The shoe lay on its side several feet from the door, its white sole facing the brick wall and one lace stretched across the pavement like a question mark that had fallen over. The worker lowered the cigarette from his mouth and stared at it. He looked toward the entrance to the alley, then at the fire escape and finally at the metal platform above him.

Dirk and Rose stood perfectly still. Dirk had one hand wrapped around the railing and the other pressed against the warm brick. His shoeless foot had begun to object to the rusted metal beneath it, but he was afraid that shifting his weight might cause the platform to groan. Rose stood close enough behind him that he could feel her breath against his shoulder.

The worker bent down and picked up the shoe by its heel. He turned it over once, studying it with the puzzled expression of a man trying to understand how a green suede sneaker had fallen from an otherwise empty sky. Then he looked directly at Dirk.

Rose’s fingers tightened around Dirk’s arm.

The worker did not shout or call for anyone inside the restaurant. Instead, he raised one finger to his lips. Before Dirk could decide whether the gesture was comforting or threatening, the man disappeared through the door with the shoe in his hand.

“Was that good?” Rose whispered.

“I don’t know.”

“It didn’t feel good.”

“No,” Dirk said. “But it could have been worse.”

Rose released his arm and looked down at what she was still holding: the printed fortune from her cookie and the handwritten message they had found inside Dirk’s. She folded the two slips together and pushed them into the front pocket of her jeans. The gesture was almost unconscious. She had no idea that before the afternoon ended, one would become evidence and the other would remain a question neither of them could easily answer.

The door opened again less than a minute later. The worker stood just inside, holding the shoe in one hand and motioning urgently with the other. Whatever hesitation he had shown before was gone. He waved them down as though he had been expecting them and they were now late.

The ladder seemed less trustworthy going down than it had going up. Dirk descended first, placing his sock-covered foot carefully on each rung and trying not to imagine the assortment of nails, broken glass and biological hazards waiting in the alley below. Rose followed close behind. When Dirk reached the pavement, the worker handed him the shoe and immediately looked past them toward the mouth of the alley.

“You found the paper,” he said.

Dirk stopped with one foot partly inside the shoe. “What paper?”

The worker’s eyes moved from Dirk to Rose and back again. “In the cookie.”

Neither of them answered.

The man grabbed Dirk by the sleeve and pulled him toward the open door. “You cannot stand here.”

The rear entrance led into a narrow passageway that seemed to contain every smell the restaurant had produced since opening that morning. Cooking oil hung heavily in the air, mixed with soy sauce, bleach, steamed rice and the sour odor of wet cardboard. Plastic buckets and boxes were stacked along one wall, leaving barely enough room for a person to pass without turning sideways. Somewhere nearby, dishes struck one another in quick succession while voices called across the kitchen in a language Dirk could not understand.

The worker closed the door and locked it. “Did anyone see you come back here?”

“No,” Rose said. “Who wrote the note?”

The man hesitated long enough for Dirk to notice. His gaze settled on Rose, perhaps because she had asked the question or perhaps because she appeared more likely to believe the answer.

“A woman. Her name is Elena. She came here for work, but they took her passport. They keep her upstairs when she is not working.”

“Who keeps her?” Dirk asked.

“The men who own this place.”

“Then call the police.”

The worker shook his head. “One of the owners has family with the police. Elena tried before. They brought her back.”

Dirk looked at Rose. The story was possible, which was not the same as saying it was true. A handwritten plea inside a fortune cookie had been disturbing enough when it had no explanation. Now that someone had supplied one, Dirk found himself almost wishing for the mystery again. Mysteries could still become misunderstandings. Explanations demanded decisions.

“How did her note get into my cookie?” he asked.

“She has been putting them in when she can. Most people throw them away or think they are a joke. You came to the back. That is how I knew you found one.”

A door opened at the far end of the passageway. The worker turned sharply toward the sound and pushed Dirk and Rose behind a stack of boxes just as a broad-shouldered man entered the corridor.

From the narrow space between two cartons, Dirk could see only portions of him at first: the sleeve of a gray shirt, one large hand and a polished black shoe. The man stopped so close that Dirk could hear the faint rasp of his breathing. Rose stood behind Dirk with one hand covering her mouth, though whether she was trying to quiet her breathing or contain another question, he could not tell.

The restaurant worker said something in a low voice. The broad man replied with a single sentence, and the worker answered too quickly. A pause followed. Dirk became aware of an unfamiliar ridge pressing against the inside of his right arch. He shifted his foot, producing a soft scrape against the floor.

The broad man stepped toward the boxes.

Before he could take another step, a woman shouted from the kitchen and a metal pan struck the floor. The crash sent a sharp metallic echo through the passageway. The worker moved away immediately, speaking rapidly and drawing the broad man’s attention with him. Their footsteps receded toward the kitchen.

Rose lowered her hand. “We should go.”

“That is the first thing you’ve said in the last ten minutes that makes perfect sense.”

“I mean we should find her.”

Dirk turned as much as the cramped space permitted. “I thought you meant we should leave.”

“If the woman is really here, we cannot walk away.”

“And if she isn’t?”

“Then we leave.”

“That sounds much easier when you say it.”

Rose looked past him toward the corridor. The fear in her face had not disappeared, but something else had settled beside it. Dirk had seen the same expression earlier when she spoke about her father. There are losses that leave people afraid of danger, and there are losses that make inaction seem like the greater danger. Rose had already learned what it was like to stand beside someone she loved and be unable to save him. Dirk suspected that if there were even a possibility that someone could be helped now, she would not be easily persuaded to leave.

A soft knock came from behind the boxes.

A door had been almost completely concealed by the cartons. It had no knob, only a shallow metal handle set into the wood. The knock came again, three quick taps followed by two slower ones.

Dirk moved the uppermost box aside and pulled the door open.

The room beyond was hardly large enough to deserve the name. Shelves filled with bags of rice and canned vegetables occupied most of the space, and a single fluorescent tube flickered overhead. A young woman stood near the rear wall. She wore dark slacks and a white blouse that might once have belonged to a restaurant uniform. One sleeve was torn at the shoulder, a purple bruise darkened her left cheek and her bare feet were tucked close together on the concrete floor.

When she saw Dirk and Rose, she did not rush toward them. She took one frightened step backward.

“Did you find the note?” she asked.

Rose entered first. “Are you Elena?”

The woman nodded, though her attention remained fixed on the open door. “We have to go now. He will come back.”

“Who?”

“The man in the gray shirt.”

Dirk glanced into the passageway. “The large one?”

“He watches me. If he finds you here, he will not let any of us leave.”

She spoke quietly, but her words arrived without hesitation, as though she had repeated them to herself many times. Rose crossed the room and touched her arm. Elena flinched, then seemed to force herself to accept the gesture.

“We can call the police,” Rose said.

“No police. Please. They have already taken me back once.”

The answer matched the worker’s explanation almost perfectly. At the time, Dirk found the agreement reassuring. Later, he would realize that people telling the truth rarely tell it with precisely the same words.

“Is there another way out?” he asked.

Elena pointed to a second door behind the shelving. “It opens onto the upper loading platform. There is a stairway to the next building, then a fire escape into the street. Mateo said he would unlock the gate.”

“Mateo is the man who brought us inside?”

“Yes.”

Dirk looked at the bruise on her face, then at her bare feet. He wondered how long she had been there, how many notes she had hidden in fortune cookies and how many diners had cracked them open, read her plea and dismissed it as someone’s tasteless joke. He also wondered why the soles of her feet looked remarkably clean for someone held above a restaurant storeroom. The thought appeared only briefly before a crash in the corridor crowded it out.

Elena seized Rose’s hand. “He is coming.”

The door behind the shelves opened onto another metal platform, this one broader than the first but in worse condition. It extended across the rear of the restaurant and connected with the neighboring building through a series of steps, ladders and walkways that appeared to have been assembled by several people who had never met or discussed what they were building. Pipes ran along the walls at shoulder height, electrical wires sagged overhead and two stories below them the alley narrowed between dumpsters and stacks of empty cooking-oil containers.

A white refrigerated delivery truck sat backed into the loading area with its rear doors open. It appeared to be waiting for someone to finish unloading it, and the steady rumble of the refrigeration unit mounted above its cab blended naturally with the other mechanical sounds behind the restaurant.

Heat rose from the kitchen vents, carrying the smell of fried onions and something sweet. Dirk followed Rose through the doorway and pulled it closed behind him. The metal beneath his feet shuddered as all three moved across it.

Elena did not behave like a woman unfamiliar with the route. She ducked beneath the first pipe before reaching it, avoided a loose section of grating without looking down and knew that the latch on the next gate had to be lifted before it could be turned. None of this seemed important while Dirk was trying to keep up. He assumed fear had taught her the path. Fear is an efficient instructor, and people held against their will become students of every possible exit.

They had nearly reached the steps leading to the neighboring building when the door behind them burst open.

The broad-shouldered man stood on the platform. His gray shirt was dark beneath the arms, and one hand was inside his jacket.

“Stop!” he shouted.

Elena pulled Rose forward. “Do not listen to him.”

The man shouted again, but his words reached them in pieces through the combined noise of the kitchen vents and the truck’s refrigeration unit. Dirk heard only “stop” and “police,” and the second word sounded enough like “please” that he could not be certain which one the man had said.

The broad man began moving toward them, and the platform complained beneath his weight.

Elena reached the steps first. Instead of descending, she climbed over the railing and onto a narrow ledge running along the neighboring building. Rose followed before Dirk could object. The ledge was perhaps eighteen inches wide and two stories above an assortment of metal trash cans capable of making a fall both fatal and unnecessarily noisy.

“Is there another way?” Dirk asked.

Elena was already moving. “Not anymore.”

Dirk stepped over the railing. The ridge beneath his arch still felt wrong, but he did not dare stop to investigate it. With his back pressed against the brick, he moved sideways behind Rose while trying not to look at the alley below. Several feet ahead, the ledge ended at a rusted fire escape. Between the two was an open space wide enough to require a deliberate step and narrow enough to tempt a careless one.

Elena crossed it easily.

Rose reached the gap and froze. “I cannot do that.”

“Yes, you can,” Dirk told her, although he had no evidence to support the claim.

Elena reached back. “Give me your hand.”

Rose stretched across the gap. Elena caught her wrist and pulled with surprising strength. Rose stumbled onto the fire escape, striking one knee against the railing but remaining upright.

Dirk looked back. The broad man was moving along the ledge much faster than a person of his size had any right to move. Dirk placed one hand against the wall and stepped across. The edge of his shoe slipped against the metal. He recovered, landing hard enough to send pain through his ankle.

The fire escape descended into a fenced courtyard behind the adjoining building. Elena moved quickly down the stairs, occasionally glancing below as though expecting someone to meet them. At the bottom, a chain-link gate blocked the only passage to the street.

She grabbed the lock and pulled. “Mateo was supposed to open this.”

The broad man appeared at the top of the stairs.

Rose searched along the fence. “Can we climb it?”

A coil of barbed wire ran across the top. Dirk was preparing to suggest returning up the fire escape—a plan that offered no advantage except postponing the inevitable—when the gate rattled from the other side.

Mateo stood there with a ring of keys. He tried one, then another, glancing repeatedly toward the stairs. The first key failed. So did the second. The third entered the lock but would not turn.

The broad man descended another flight.

“Hurry,” Elena said.

Mateo selected a fourth key. The lock opened.

Elena pushed through before the gate had swung completely clear. A broken bottle lay just beyond it. She stepped beside the glass, cried out and collapsed against the fence.

“My foot.”

Rose knelt beside her. “You’re bleeding.”

Dirk looked but saw no blood, only a thin red line that might have been a cut or the impression left by the edge of the glass. Elena tried to stand and immediately lowered herself again.

“I cannot run like this.”

Mateo pointed toward the delivery truck waiting at the end of the alley. “We have to reach the truck.”

The broad man was halfway down the final staircase.

Dirk did not think about the shoes for more than a second. He pulled off the one he was wearing, retrieved its partner from his hand and placed both beside Elena.

“They’ll be too large, but they’re better than broken glass.”

She pushed her feet into them and tightened the laces. When she stood, the limp had nearly disappeared.

Mateo grabbed her hand, and they ran toward the truck.

Dirk followed in his socks, discovering immediately that an urban alley contains considerably more texture than anyone wearing shoes has reason to imagine. Rose stayed beside him, favoring the knee she had struck against the railing. Behind them, the gate slammed open.

“Marta!” the broad man shouted.

The woman faltered for half a step before continuing toward the truck. Dirk wondered who Marta was, but there was no time to ask.

Mateo reached the delivery truck first and steadied the woman as she climbed into the cargo area. Instead of following her, he ran around the cab and pulled open the driver’s door.

Dirk was only a few yards behind them when the engine roared and the truck began to move. Rose caught his arm and pulled him away as the rear corner swung toward them.

For a moment, the woman stood framed between the open rear doors, wearing Dirk’s green suede shoes. Her expression had changed. The fear was gone, replaced by something Dirk could not identify from that distance. She held his gaze as the truck gathered speed, then reached for the door.

The last thing he saw was her pulling it closed.

The broad man stopped beside them, bent forward and placed both hands on his knees. He stayed that way until the truck turned out of the alley and disappeared.

Dirk braced himself for whatever came next. The man was larger up close than he had appeared on the platform, with thick forearms and a pale scar along the right side of his jaw. He reached inside his jacket.

Rose stepped between them.

The man withdrew a leather case and opened it. A metal badge reflected the afternoon light.

“Charlottesville Police,” he said. “Are either of you hurt?”

Dirk looked at the badge, then at the empty alley. “You are the police?”

“Yes.”

“Elena said you were guarding her.”

The man straightened slowly.

“Her name isn’t Elena.”

To be continued…

Until next time,
George

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