Chapter 11: The Part of Omaha That’s Not Nebraska

The hour flew by, and by the time it was up, Sarah wished it was still going on.  It had been a while since she’d seen Under Fiesta Stars, and she enjoyed the rest of the movie—the exciting, funny tale of how Gene and his foster father’s niece, Barbara, defended a mine from some outlaws trying to get control of it.  Actually, the whole plot’s a lot more complex, but—well, you can watch the movie yourself, and then you’ll see why Sarah liked it so much.

Once it was over, though, Sarah had made up her mind what to do next.  She was through trying to figure out riddles for today—through running places—through staring at everyone she met and wondering, Are they out to get me?  She was going straight to that hotel Tracy had told her about, and she wasn’t going to get anyone’s help to take her there.  She’d walk all the way there, by herself, speaking to no one until she arrived.

Of course, the sun had set by the time Sarah left the theater.  Omaha was a pretty big city, and chances were, it wasn’t the safest place at night—but Sarah wasn’t worried about that right now.  After what she’d been through that day, a city at night wasn’t going to daunt her.  She traipsed her way north until she found Abbott, then hooked a right and continued towards her destination—on foot.

Her walk took a couple of hours, during which time, she had time to slow down, relax, and take a look at Omaha.  It actually seemed to be a pretty nice place.  She’d been around the downtown part already, but once she’d passed the stadium, she found herself crossing more railroad tracks.  This time, no one waited on the bridge to throw her over the side, and Sarah took advantage of this opportunity to look up and down the tracks.  She saw rows and rows of hopper cars parked outside some factory—one of many, no doubt, that kept Omahans employed.  Then, she was walking past a park by the river—the perfect place for an early-morning jog, it looked like.  The walk put her in good spirits, and she was smiling as she wandered past a sign that read, “The People of Iowa Welcome You.”

Wait…The People of Iowa?

Sarah did a double take.  She started back, then examined the marker.  That’s what it said, alright.  Only, Sarah was pretty good at geography, and she was pretty sure Iowa was on the other side of the river.  This sign wasn’t at a river crossing—the street she ran on was parallel with the river.

“This can’t be Iowa!” she muttered to herself.  “It’s still part of Omaha—still part of Omaha—Omaha—Omaha—oh, my goodness!”

She had no idea that there was one little part of Iowa that was on the Nebraska side of the river.  Carter Lake.  Originally, it had been on the east side of the Missouri River, but a bad flood in the 1800s had redirected the river’s course.  A number of legal battles had been fought, but in the end, the two square miles of territory had remained a part of the Hawkeye State.  It was, however, completely encircled by Omaha, and that fact didn’t escape Sarah for an instant.

The part of Omaha that’s not in Nebraska!

“It must be this!” Sarah exclaimed to herself.  “I’ve found it!”

The discovery brought newfound vigor to the girl, and in spite of her harrowing day, she began to run, looking eagerly around for her friend.  “Tracy?” she called.  “Tracy, Tracy.  Where are you?  Oh, never mind,” she told herself.  “I don’t need to call—I’m sure Tracy will spot me first.”

She’d found the part of Omaha that wasn’t in Nebraska, but where was Tracy Turner?  Carter Lake wasn’t a big place, but suddenly, it seemed big to Sarah.  She ran along, past an empty field, past an office building, past a hotel, over another railroad track, past a U-Haul place—

Then, up ahead, she saw the Sleep Inn Tracy had told her about.

“Ah, I see,” she muttered to herself.  “I’ll bet Tracy’s waiting for me there!”

The Sleep Inn was across the street from her, and she stopped at the intersection while she waited for the light to change.  Restlessly, she paced about, kicking at whatever pebbles happened to get away.  Then, her foot hit a yard sign, and she quickly brought it back.

“Oops,” she said, looking down at it.  “A yard sale, I’ll bet—oh, my goodness!”

The sign was just a little slab of posterboard, white, with something written in black marker and an arrow underneath.  Only, it didn’t say “Yard Sale,” it didn’t say “Garage Sale,” and it didn’t even say “We buy junk cars.”  No, the sign was completely blank, except for the arrow two words that formed a name.  “Charles Follett.”

The name I heard on the plane!  Sarah stared excitedly down at the sign.  Then, she glanced at the arrow.  It pointed across the intersection, west along the intersecting road that cut her off from the hotel.

So, Sarah waited for the light to change again, and this time, she headed west down Avenue H.

She went past another hotel, a gas station, another hotel, and several large industrial buildings, all the while keeping a look out for the name Charles Follett.  Several blocks passed, and she didn’t see any trace of it—until she hit Ninth Street.  Then, there was another one of those signs, this one pointing north.

Now, Sarah broke into a run, so eager was she to reach her destination.  She ran past more industrial buildings, a salvage yard, a little house—without seeing any sign of Charles Follett.  She checked the names on all the businesses, but they were always something else—

Until she came to Locust Street.  At this little intersection, the residents of Carter Lake had erected four stone pillars, each of which bore a lightpole and a thinner, brick pillar with the letters CL inset within.  And there, on the northwest corner of the intersection was a little yellow house with this sign in front of it—

“Charles Follett, Injury Attorney.”

Sarah’s heart began pounding as she saw it.  “That must be it!” she cried.

She looked around.  No cars were coming, and she sped diagonally across the intersection, across the driveway, and up the sidewalk to the front door.  Quickly, she grasped the knocker and pounded it.  The door swung open, revealing—