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They didn't argue with me. Mom had sounded so cheery when she picked up the phone, so relaxed and happy, giggling with Dad, who was in the background teasing her about something. They were disappointed that we were leaving, but after a few questions (which I put off) they seemed to accept it. They knew that this trip was for Grandpa's requests; that was why we were in France and other things were secondary. Obviously, my call meant that either I had been successful, or I was giving up. I suppose they also relented because they were interested in what I might tell them when I got to Marseille. I knew they'd have many more questions about what I had accomplished.

At that point, I wished I had some answers.

I met them at their hotel room door. Mom opened it with a happy expression, calling out my name and moving to hug me, but when she looked at my face, she stopped. I knew I appeared anxious but didn't know how bad I looked to others. I'd been feeling so tense that I'd spent the whole cab ride to Marseille scrunched low in the backseat so my face wasn't visible to anyone passing by. The cabdriver had looked at me suspiciously and that worried me. Every siren I heard made my heart thump. And even when I'd reached the hotel, I was checking out everyone who looked at me. I'd noticed that my voice was trembling when a bellman asked me if he could help me with my suitcase.

Still, I was surprised at Mom's expression. I must have looked terrible.

“Adam, are you all right? What's happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” said Dad, getting up from his laptop at the room's desk. As he looked at me, he seemed almost as concerned as Mom.

“Everything is fine. I'll tell you later. Have you booked the flight?”

“Booked it?” asked Mom, “I thought we'd go tomorrow or the next day.”

“Tomorrow or the next day!” I almost shouted at her. “We
have
to go today! Are you guys packed?”

“Today? Packed? Honey, it's ten o'clock at night! We can't leave tonight.”

I had to give in. We got online and booked an early morning flight out of Lyon. For some reason, Grandpa had asked that we fly home from there. I wondered why he had insisted on that, why we couldn't just take a fast train up to Paris and then get the heck back to America, land where you didn't need to know anything but American things, land of Vanessa Lincoln. I could hardly wait to get home.

Though Mom and Dad tried mightily, they were unsuccessful at getting much out of me. We had planned to spend some time in Paris at the end of the trip, but I pleaded that I was too tired to do that now. I told them only vague things about what had happened during my assignments, saying that I'd simply done “okay.” That word kind of hit me hard when I said it out loud.
Okay
. That's what I still was, or maybe worse.

They had two beds and offered to sleep in the smaller one, which was pretty funny, since it was obvious to me that they'd been sleeping in it during their holiday anyway.

I tossed and turned all night, very afraid, listening for the sirens in the streets of Marseille and sensing that all the footsteps that thundered up our hallway were coming right to our door. When I lay on my side, in the fetal position, I could hear and feel my heart beating. It really seemed like it wanted to burst from my chest. I was overwhelmed with a sense of failure too. I had tried to steal the painting, I didn't have St. Ex's rock anymore, and I had not only barely gotten into the Chauvet Cave and not truly sensed its meaning, but I had been chased from it and had become a wanted criminal. The poor Noels, so sweet and nice, likely now hated both my grandfather and me. And what would I tell Vanessa about these supposedly glorious adventures? If I told her the truth, would I have any chance with her? And did having a chance with her really matter?

Only a few things calmed me, and then only partially. That hug of friendship with Rose, the feeling it had given me; the way I had felt when I gave up the rock; and the fact that I had returned the painting.

I also kept thinking about Leon. I wanted to see him, and hoped that he was doing well. I knew that if I could talk to him now, he would help me too. He would put everything into perspective. He would tell me the truth.

I was the first one up in the morning. We'd set our alarm for 5:00
AM
, but I'd been watching the clock like a hawk all night (I doubt I slept a wink), and I roused Mom and Dad before the buzzer even went off.

They kept trying to get more out of me while I stood at the door with my suitcase, my legs actually shaking, waiting for them to finish packing. I couldn't believe how long Mom took in the bathroom. Dad and I have this thing back home where we sit in the car waiting for her whenever we are going anywhere and joke about how long women take to get ready. (Of course, we wouldn't dare ever tell her we did that.) Now, Dad sat on one of the beds, trying to engage me in the same sort of man-to-man chat. But he couldn't raise a smile out of me. I could see that it worried him.

Lyon was a couple of hours up the road. When you go that way, you have to drive along the highway I took to Vallon, and there's a turn-off to the Ardèche that is marked prominently. I couldn't even look at it when we passed. I had been allowed to sit in the front passenger seat beside the cabbie, my parents in the back together, holding hands, smiling at each other like I hadn't seen them do in years. At least someone had gotten something out of this trip. The cabbie actually tried to engage me in conversation, but after about ten one-word responses on my part, he gave up. Mom and Dad didn't seem as worried about me during the car ride; they were kind of cooing at each other all the way to Lyon and not noticing much else. Normally, that kind of conduct on their part would have made me gag, but I didn't care. I kept my eyes focused on the road, willing the cab past the Ardèche turnoff and on to Lyon.

The airport, thank goodness, was a little south and east of the city, so we got there even sooner than I thought and didn't have to drive through too much traffic.

There was major a surprise when we got there. I couldn't believe what I saw on the sign as we approached. The place was called the
Aéroport Lyon
Saint-Exupéry
!

It didn't mean anything to Mom and Dad. They just kept on whispering to each other like high-school sweethearts, not even aware that we were nearing the airport. In the midst of my fear, it made me smile. Now I knew why Grandpa had insisted on us flying out of here.

The airport itself was pretty cool-looking too. Then again, I'd come to expect nothing less from the French. A good portion of it was very long and thin, like a massive hallway, silver on the outside and with an awesome roof designed to look like it had huge slashed vents in it. Right in the middle of that long stick, a really wicked feature rose above it. It was sort of in the shape of a gigantic sail, or two sails, or an artistic interpretation of a jet plane of some sort. It was hard to describe, but it was stunning. St. Ex would have been proud. It actually made me forget my situation for a little while. Inside, the airport was even more amazing, its ceiling rising up in a billowing crescent shape above us.

But soon I wasn't even looking at the building. My fear returned. We were near the finish line but still not there. I tried to press my parents to move as fast as they could. We marched off across the hard, gleaming marble floor, announcements echoing in the building the way they always do in airports, me very much in the lead, guiding us toward the checkout counter. We had loads of time, but I didn't care. My goal was to get through security as fast as possible. I wondered if the authorities could do anything to me once I was in the departure lounge. Was I in international territory by then? Was I back in America?

Then I heard something that sent a shiver down my spine.

“ADAM MURPHY,” said a voice in English over the airport loudspeaker, “PLEASE REPORT TO THE SECURITY DESK ON THE DEPARTURES FLOOR.”

EIGHTEEN

WAIT HERE

I couldn't believe it. I froze where I stood. We had been just about to check in. We were so close. I wanted to run.

“That's strange,” said Dad.

“I wonder what they could want with you?” added Mom.

“Adam?” said Dad. “You look awfully white. Do you want to sit down?”

“I'll speak to the security people,” said Mom. “This must be some sort of mistake.”

“NO!” I cried out.

“Adam? Why are you shouting? You don't look right. I insist that you sit down,” said Mom. “Why are you so pale? I'll do this for you.”

“No, you won't,” I said, staring right into her eyes. I had to face this. I couldn't involve my parents in my situation unless it reached the point where I absolutely had to. I was going to go over there and see if I could get out of this. The authorities had no proof. Not now. But then I remembered something. I glanced down at my bag. The coveralls were in there, and the Chauvet shoes, and Mermoz's hair. I couldn't dump them now. Security would be watching me. My heart sank.

But I walked over to the counter on my own, rolling my suitcase, my parents watching from a distance. Dad was getting on his cell, likely calling some of his connections at American Airlines.

“I am Adam Murphy,” I said to the uniformed woman at the counter, who looked tough and mean. Her face was broad like a man's, her chin wide with a dimple cleft into it, a noticeable fuzz of dark hair on her cheeks.

She looked at me sternly, her mouth a straight line. “
Une minute
,” she said and got up from her stool behind the counter. Then she looked back. “Stay there,” she said in a low voice. Then she turned, took a few steps and opened a door behind her. She began whispering to someone, looking back at me. Then she returned to the counter.

“Wait here,” she said.

I could hardly stand. I began to rehearse what I would say. I'd say I was simply staying in a hotel with my parents in Marseille and didn't know anything about Vallon-Pont-d'Arc or the Chauvet Cave, and only admit to even being in Arles if they knew about my hotel there. I was trying to convince myself that they had no way of tracing me to the Ardèche region. Then I started thinking about all the people who had seen me there—the tourist kiosk woman, the guys who gave me rides, the patisserie owner, the two Canadians and, of course, Mermoz himself. His word was likely bond in France, likely beyond bond. Then, of course, there was the evidence in my suitcase, held in my very hand at this very moment. I started thinking that my best bet was to run. Maybe I could make it into the departure—

The door behind the counter opened and a man stepped out. He was huge. He had to turn his shoulders to get through the door. He, too, was dressed in a uniform, but he also had a helmet on, as if he had been outside doing something. It looked similar to what the Nazis wore. He seemed a little out of breath. He had probably just arrived, perhaps from the Ardèche. He had something under his arm, a package.
What had I left behind?
What evidence did he have? It looked awfully small. He stared at me.

“Are you Adam Murphy?” he asked without expression.

“Yes,” I said. It was barely audible.

The woman leaned toward the man and whispered in his ear. She seemed to be saying something about identification, that I must be thoroughly identified.

Now seemed like a good time to run.

Then the man smiled. “No need for identification,” he said in English. “There is a note with this package, saying what you look like, sir. I had to go outside to search for this in another building. It has been here a long time. We were instructed to give it to you when your name appeared on a flight manifest. Here you go. Just sign on the line.”

I signed the paper he gave me, barely able to hold the pen, scrawling my name so badly that it was almost illegible.

“But…what is this?” I managed to ask. “Who is it from?”

“What it is, I do not know, but it comes from a man named David McLean. He said in his letter that you would know him.”

“Grandpa?” I said out loud and nearly fainted.