Flight to the Lonesome Place (19 page)

Ronnie said angrily, “You mean money comes first, above everything. But not in my book. I'm
not
going with you.”

“You have no choice,” Thomas Church reminded him.

Pardo Green said, “Have you a paper giving you legal possession of him?”

“My orders are enough. I'm taking custody of him. He's a minor, and in danger. He'll need protection—”

“Protection!” Ronnie cried. “What kind of protection did I get in New Orleans when you were Peter Pushkin?”

Thomas Church stiffened. “I'm surprised you recognized me. And I'm sorry about New Orleans. But at the time we had no idea you were the key to the case. Anyhow, you were foolish to run away.”

“What did you expect me to do? Stand around and be shot? Did you know that the same nice pair were waiting to greet me in San Juan? You walked right by them when you crossed the dock.”

Before Thomas Church could get over his astonishment, Ronnie turned to the inner stairway door. With his hand on the knob, he glanced knowingly at Pardo Green and said, “While I get my bag, why don't you tell them about Wally?”

The lawyer instantly understood and began talking swiftly while Ron stepped through the opening and quietly closed the door behind him.

With his heart suddenly pounding furiously, he tiptoed down through the blackness and eased the lower door open. At the sight of the bright moonlight streaming through the patio grillwork, he paused a moment in dismay. Then he caught up the oilcan, moved to the patio door, and drew from his pocket the key he had thrust there hours before.

Slowly, carefully, he turned the key in the lock, opened the door, and slipped through. Just as carefully he closed and locked it again.

The night was alive with the happy singing of the coquis as he began creeping through the palm grove, but the one sound he wanted to hear did not come. It was the reassurance of Marlowe's small, sharp voice. With every step away from the cottage he moved a little faster. Soon he was running.

He was almost at the upper corner of the grove when he heard a faint shout behind him. It sent him racing madly across the sand and up the narrowing beach. At this hour the moon was over the sea instead of the mountains, making the beach nearly as bright as day, and offering no protective shadows to hide him. So bright and clear was it that he could make out every detail of the rocky area ahead.

The tumbled rocks offered the first break in the low cliff that flanked this part of the beach. Once there, he had only to dart to the right and find safety in the tangles that stretched on to Black Luis' mountain. And somehow, in spite of the danger he knew awaited him, he was certain he would reach safety. His first two dreams had taught him that.

But what of Black Luis and Ana María Rosalita?

Something had already happened ahead. As his flying feet brought him closer to the rocks, he felt a sick fear of what it had been. At a sudden shout behind him he risked a quick glance over his shoulder. The man he had once known as Peter Pushkin was hardly fifty yards away, gaining rapidly.

At that instant, just as in the dream, he stumbled and went sprawling in the sand. And there, directly in front of him—as he had known it would be—was Ana María Rosalita's smaller bag.

Scrambling to his feet, he unconsciously caught up the bag in his left hand—for he still clung to the can of oil with his right—and whirled to dart into the tangle.

“No!” Marlowe screamed abruptly, from somewhere near. “The other way! To the left!”

Before Ron could turn again, he saw Wally Gramm, a very grim and determined Wally Gramm, step quickly from the shadow of the rocks with a weapon in his hand. This was where the dream had ended. Only now did he understand why Wally happened to be here at this hour. It was the bag.

In a flash he realized that Wally and Josip had seen the others leave the cottage, that Josip had recognized Ana María Rosalita and guessed she could lead them to the person they sought. They had escaped at the cost of the bag—so the bag had been watched.

All this went through his mind as he flung the oilcan into Wally's face. But even as he flung it, the man dropped his weapon and cried out hoarsely as if something had bitten him.

Whirling away, Ronnie glimpsed Thomas Church pounding close and heard Marlowe urging frantically, “
Dive under the line! Hurry! Dive!
”

If he had been looking at it directly, he would have missed it, but he saw it out of the corner of his eye—the vaguest sort of a shimmering near the water's edge, something that might have been only a drifting cobweb. All at once he knew that
this
was the route the others had been forced to take. He dove and rolled frantically under that gossamer thread of light. There was the momentary sensation of being caught between a whirlwind and a thunderclap. Then everything vanished.

Wally Gramm was unable to protest as Thomas Church slipped handcuffs over his wrists. He was a frightened man. “A ghost bit me!” he gasped.

“Don't be a fool!” Thomas Church said angrily, shaken by what he had seen but could not believe. “Where's Ronnie?”

“I don't know! He was right in front of me—and then he wasn't. Maybe that ghost—”

“There's no such thing as a ghost! Where's the boy? He
has
to be somewhere!”

“I'll tell you where,” Wally Gramm muttered. “He's still nine jumps ahead of everybody, like he always has been. And don't talk to me about ghosts. I was bitten by one. I left that fool Josip here to keep watch, but it scared him away. Me, I don't scare easy—but when a voice yells at you out of nowhere, and then bites you.…”

Very near them, if the distance could have been measured, but an immeasurable space away except by Prynne's mathematics, Ronnie got to his feet and looked slowly around with a mixture of growing wonder and delight.

Dr. Prynne had mentioned that conditions here probably would be opposite, and obviously they were. It had been after three in the morning when he left the other beach, and here it seemed about that time in the afternoon. The sea, which had been on his left, was now on the right. As for people …

There were none. The race of man hadn't evolved here yet. He was aware of that instantly by the cleanliness of the beach and the untouched look of everything. Black Luis had said this was a lonesome place, but that was because Black Luis had been the only human here that first time.

It wasn't lonesome now. Ronnie saw the footprints leading across the sand to the trees. “Hey, where's everybody?” he called happily.

“Probably stuffing themselves on mangoes,” said Marlowe from somewhere behind him. “Follow the tracks, brother Blue, and I'll show you the camp. And
don't
turn around, for I'm terribly exposed here.”

“But isn't it about time we—”

“No!” Marlowe shrieked. “Don't you
dare
look back! Or haven't you learned that ghosts can bite?”

About the Author

Alexander Key (1904–1979) started out as an illustrator before he began writing science fiction novels for young readers. He has published many titles, including
Sprockets
:
A Little Robot, Mystery of the Sassafras Chair
, and
The Forgotten Door
, winner of the Lewis Carroll Shelf Award. Key's novel
Escape to Witch Mountain
was adapted for film in 1975, 1995, and 2009.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1967 by Alexander Key

Cover design by Jesse Hayes

ISBN: 978-1-4976-5253-8

This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com

EBOOKS BY ALEXANDER KEY

FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA