More than a Memory

Chapter 3: Finding Answers

When he meal was done and she had handed him the check, he flipped it over to see she had written her name and number on the back. "Claire," he mumbled to himself with a smile as he stood up and paid for his meal, leaving her a generous tip.

As he walked back out to the truck, he pulled out pack of cigarettes to see he had only smoked three from the new pack. He stuck a new one between his lips and lit up, carefully tucking the pack and Claire's number into back pocket of his jeans. As he got behind the wheel, he could feel his nervousness return. He swallowed hard and took a long drag on his cancer stick as he started the car. With shaky hands, he griped the wheel and turned in the direction the GPS was pointing him.

The sight before him made his heart sink as he slowed the truck. Not only did the salvage yard look unloved and unkempt with weeds a mile high growing around the piles of rust, there wasn't anything by cars on the property. As he pulled under the "Singer's Salvage Yard" sign, his mouth dropped open at the scene of destruction before him. He stopped the truck and quickly got out, walking over to the charred remains of a house. Judging by the looks of it, the house had burnt down several years ago. He slowly knelt down, putting his face in his hands and sighing heavy. Whatever he was expecting to see, this was the furthest thing from it. He almost felt like crying.

"Now what?" he said to himself as he looked around at the mess before him. A few moldy, wrinkled pages of what used to be books flapped in the slight breeze. A piece of charred siding moved every now and then. A wind vain squeaked from the top of a barn. He slowly stood up, looking around the area. Other than sky high piles of rusting cars or a barn and shed, there really wasn't much to the property. He supposed he could just leave, but something was pulling him towards the barn. As he started to walk in that direction, he noticed a back part of the house that was untouched. It was a bit underground and made completely out of metal. It looks as though the rest of the house burnt around this strange, circular room. Ben slowly walked towards it, stepping over the splintered remains of house. He almost stumbled a few times as he got closer to the weird room. As he got closer, he saw that the door was buried. He sighed and began to pulling away at the remains as best as he could.

Ben continued this for the better part of an hour, his hands bleeding by the time the metal door was uncovered enough for him to open it. He went to grab for a handle and pulled hard, the door being much heavier than he expected. The door squeaked in protest as pulled. Just as he was about to look behind the door, he heard a gun cock behind him.

"Hold it right there!" a strong female voice said from behind him.

Ben swallowed hard and held his hands up, not turning around. He knew that tone too well and cursed under his breath. The cops back home were pushovers and he could talk himself out of just about anything, but how was he going to explain what he was doing now. He had seen the signs for private property and no trespassing, but chose to ignore them. What was he supposed to say? Oh yeah, I don't know who my dad is but I think he lived here.

"Turn around slowly," the voice behind him commanded.

Ben sighed and did as he was told, stumbling on the rubble under his feet. He looked up to see a sheriff pointing a pistol at him. Before he can say anything, she takes a few steps closer, pulling a metal flask out of her pocket. She splashes water on his face and he sputters, shocked, confused but feeling a little bit of relief as the cool liquid hits his sweaty face. She lowers her gun and looks down at him.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" she asked as Ben slowly lowers his arms.

"My name is Benjamin Braeden," he slowly says, trying to think of what to say to her second question.

"Ok, Benjamin Braeden, that doesn't answer both of my questions. You're on private property."

Ben began to move, trying to climb out of the pit he had made. She made no movements to stop him, so he continued until she no longer had to look down into a hole to see him. He went and leaned against his truck, trying to remain calm and collected when the opposite was going on inside. "I saw the signs, but I came to see the owner."