Stebbins stopped the car, squinting. “Here?” he asked, but Call was already opening the door. Havoc immediately ran around in circles, clearly relieved to be free.

The kids got out and Stebbins put the town car in reverse, probably glad to be rid of them.

“Are you kidding me?” Jasper said when they saw the landscape of cars. “This is a junkyard.”

Call glared, but Tamara shrugged. “He is kind of right, Call.”

Call tried to see the familiar area through her eyes. It was pretty bad. It looked like a parking lot, except that the vehicles weren’t in tidy lines. Cars were haphazardly grouped together. Some had been driven in, but most had been towed and dumped wherever they fit. Rust bloomed along their hoods and along their sides, pocking the once-shiny chrome trim. Long grass had grown up around them, a telltale sign of how long they’d been abandoned.

“He keeps most of these for parts,” Call said, feeling uncomfortable. He’d always thought of his dad as eccentric. But he had to admit that having a lot of corroding vehicles seemed a little bit worse than eccentric. Alastair could never use all the cars he’d collected, not even for parts since so many had rusted through, but he’d kept on collecting them anyway. “The good cars, the ones he’s planning on restoring, are in the barn.”

Tamara, Aaron, and even Jasper looked hopefully in the direction Call was pointing, but the ominous gray building didn’t seem to give any of them any comfort.

A cold wind cut across the parking lot. Jasper shivered ostentatiously and hunched down into his jacket. He made a big show of rubbing his hands together as if they were climbing Everest and he was afraid of frostbite.

“Shut up, Jasper,” said Call.

“I didn’t say anything!” Jasper protested.

Aaron waved a peacemaking hand. “You really think your dad might be hiding out here?”

“It’s not a place most people would look for him,” Call said, no longer sure of anything.

“That’s for certain,” Tamara said, putting a depth of feeling into those words. She looked over at the farmhouse near the tree line, a gray clapboard building with a tilting, patched roof. “I can’t believe someone lets him do this to their property.”

“She’s old,” Call said. “It’s not like her house is in great shape either. And he pays rent.”

“Do you think he might stay in there?” Aaron asked hopefully. The yellow glow of the windows seemed inviting. “I mean, maybe she let him crash in her spare room.”

Call shook his head. “No. When he comes here, he always stays in the loft of the barn. He keeps bedrolls up there and a camp stove. Cans of food, too. Maybe she would have seen him, though. He usually stops by.”

“Let’s go ask,” Aaron said. “Is she one of those old ladies who bakes a lot?”

“No,” Call said. He couldn’t remember Mrs. Tisdale ever cooking anything. Aaron looked disappointed. Jasper just kept looking angry and staring up at the sky as if hoping to be saved by a helicopter or an air elemental, or maybe an elemental driving a helicopter.

“Come on,” Call said, setting off toward the house. His leg wasn’t just aching anymore; it felt like spikes of fire were shooting up through the bones. He clenched his teeth as he made his way up the front steps. He didn’t want to make a sound of pain in front of Jasper, not one.

Aaron reached around him and knocked on the door. There were shuffling footsteps and the door opened a crack, revealing tangled gray hair and a pair of bright, pale green eyes. “Kind of short to be door-to-door salesmen, aren’t you?” cackled an old woman’s voice.