Shadow Train (33 page)

The Toppers came in, then, and were passing the nurse's station when a police officer walked in and called them back. Nass groaned. It was Johnny the Cop.

Josh's eyes were shut, his body slouched, and his head tilted back against the chair next to Nass. Nass elbowed him now and pointed across the room to the spot where Johnny stood talking to the Toppers. Josh followed his gaze and the color drained from his face.

“They're telling him I'm a killer, Nass. They're going to lock me up, man,” he said, his voice rising. “What's my family going to do? My little brother? My job pays for his clothes. I can't go to prison—”

Nass put a hand on Josh's shoulder. “You need to calm down,” he said, serious and quiet. “It's going to be okay, you hear me? But you gotta stay cool—and stop talking.”

Across the room, Johnny the Cop was glancing over at the Flatliners.

“We'd better go and give them our side of the story,” Beet said.

“Yeah,” Nass agreed. “Let's go.” When they got within earshot, however, he couldn't believe what the Toppers were telling Johnny.

“It was an accident,” D'von said.

“He didn't mean to shoot anybody,” Dax Avery put in.

“He was just showing us the gun, and it went off,” Cle'von added.

“Yeah,” Michael Ponder agreed. “It wasn't Josh's fault.”

Johnny looked at Zhai.

“It was an accident,” Zhai said.

Nass heard Josh draw in a quick breath and glanced over at him. He was struggling to contain his emotions.

“Josh,” Johnny the Cop said. “Let's step outside and have a little talk.”

Josh nodded and followed him out the automatic doors that led into the parking lot, leaving the Toppers and the Flatliners alone together. Nass went weak with relief. The last thing he'd expected was for the enemy to protect Josh.

“Thank you,” he said. “Josh has been through so much. He really didn't mean to—”

“We know,” Zhai interrupted. And he reached out a hand. Nass clasped it and shook it, and the Flatliners and the Toppers all sat down together to wait for news on Bran.

* * *

They were in total darkness. Aimee switched the flashlight on and saw that they had landed right where she'd hoped. They were standing on the X of the crossed railroad tracks, at the center of the Wheel of Illusion. The Wheel was a massive round platform made of age-darkened brass with railroad tracks running across it. Directly in front of them stood the Wheel's wooden control panel.

“Everybody okay?” she asked.

“That was awesome,” said Maggie.

“Incredible,” agreed Miss Pembrook. “Where are we?”

“Inside the tunnels,” Aimee said. “We're right in the middle, where the tracks cross.”

They all turned, looking around at the massive dome above them.

“In the tunnels to be sure,” said Kate. “But what is this place?”

“In the olden days when the trains were still running, it was a switching station. The big metal plate we're standing on was once used to turn the locomotives around,” Aimee explained, and she had a quick spark of memory. She had come here before—with that boy they were always talking about, Raphael—but she couldn't remember why. “It's called the Wheel of Illusion.”

“What's it for?” asked Dalton.

“For one thing, it sort of controls time,” Aimee said. “Or at least the layers between times. I don't know what else it's supposed to do.”

Miss Pembrook and the other girls were staring down at it. Aimee saw that its control panel, once lit with an amber glow, was now dark. Attached to one side was a lever that looked like it belonged on an old-fashioned slot machine.

“Okay, so what now?” Dalton asked. Aimee noticed that she didn't look impressed like Maggie or intrigued like Kate and Miss Pembrook. She looked worried. “How is this going to work?”

“I'm not sure,” said Aimee. She had another quick memory flash. The first time she'd been here someone—she thought it was that Raphael guy—had fitted an old pocket watch into a circle that was molded into the Wheel's console. Moving closer so she could get a better look at the control panel, she spotted the concave circle. She took the three pieces of the shattered ring out of her jeans pocket and looked at them in her open palm.

“When I first found the ring, it was underground, in the middle of a bunch of machinery that's right beneath us. Its energy was used to power the Wheel,” she said. “When it blew apart, the Wheel stopped working.”

Orias had told her that. He knew a lot about this stuff, and she wished with all her heart that he was here now. The last time she'd been in the tunnels, she'd had his voice directing her, which had made her feel safe, and suddenly she longed to be with him, to run back to him, and hide in his house, in his arms. She missed him like crazy, but she had to keep her mind on her mission. Fixating on Orias was what had made her forget about finding her mom in the first place, and she wasn't going to let that happen again.

“We only have three shards,” she continued. “If we can somehow connect them to the Wheel, that might power it up enough for me to teleport us all to 1877.” She thought all she'd have to do was keep the shards closed in her fist and then put her fist in the circle. And then, when they were ready, use her other hand to pull the lever.

It was as if Miss Pembrook could read her mind. “I think you're the conduit, Aimee,” she said.

“Let's hope,” Aimee replied. “Grab hands and somebody hang on to me. And it's really, really important that we all think about where we want to go. Like, we have to visualize Middleburg in 1877 and my mom there in that time. We get that fixed in our minds and then I pull the lever. I think it'll work.”

“And how do we get back if the Wheel stays here, in this time?” asked Dalton.

Aimee was about to say she didn't know when Miss Pembrook spoke up again. “No—it'll be okay,” she said. “The Wheel was there in 1877, just like it is now.”

“Okay, then,” Aimee said. “Everybody ready?” They all assured her they were, and Maggie and Dalton each put an arm around her waist. Miss Pembrook held Maggie's hand and Kate took Dalton's hand.

Aimee clutched the crystal pieces and placed the hand holding them against the circular indentation on the Wheel's console. As she reached for the lever she reminded them all, “Think about Middleburg in 1877. Think of my mom. Try to imagine the old town, the way it was then, but with her trapped there. . . .”

But when she pulled the lever, she was still thinking about Orias, wanting to be with him, and wondering what he'd done to make Azaziel so angry. She tried to force her thoughts back to her mother as they slipped through a whirling, multicolored vortex of light, falling . . . falling . . . falling . . .

* * *

And landing with a thud on a sawdust-covered floor. Honky-tonk music was playing, and the only thing louder than the piano was the raucous laughter of the dance-hall girls.

Dalton opened her eyes. They were in a bar—or rather, a saloon that looked like it belonged in a movie about the old west. It was complete with spittoons and a long counter where a few cowboys were slugging back mugs of beer and shots of whiskey—and at the entryway, it had the same kind of swinging doors that Rack 'Em Billiards had.

“Wow,” Maggie said. “I think we did it.”

“Indeed we did,” said Kate. “But where's Aimee?”

* * *

An hour and a half after they'd gotten Bran to the hospital a doctor came through the set of double doors and into the waiting area. Zhai had called Bran's family, and they had wasted no time in getting there.

Zhai glanced at the faces of the guys around him. The Toppers looked miserable, inwardly freaking out as they wondered if their friend was alive or dead. The Flatliners looked equally tense, and Josh was as pale as the moon outside.

The doctor nodded and shook Bran's father's hand and walked away as Mr. Goheen fiercely embraced his wife. She was crying, but Zhai couldn't tell if they were tears of joy or tears of grief.

“What happened?” Dax whispered. Zhai only shook his head.

After a moment, Bran's father noticed them watching, and he walked over to them.

“Hey, kids,” he said, his warm Southern drawl even more pronounced than Bran's. “The doctor said he'll be okay. The bullet didn't hit any major organs or anything, and they were able to patch him up pretty easily. He lost a good bit of blood, but they have him on a transfusion now, so he should be feeling better in no time. He's gonna have to stay on the bench for basketball this season, but he'll be okay.”

In unison, it seemed, every Topper and every Flatliner released the collective breath they had been holding and relaxed. Zhai didn't know if he wanted to laugh or shout or just go home and go to sleep, but he was relieved and it felt amazing.

“Now, how did this happen, anyway?” Mr. Goheen asked, his hands on his hips.

The guys all exchanged a quick look, and then Zhai spoke up. “It was just an accident, Mr. Goheen,” he said. “Josh was showing us the gun. We didn't know it was loaded. It was a stupid mistake, and it won't happen again.”

Mr. Goheen looked at them, Zhai thought, as if he was trying to figure out if they were telling the truth. “You boys weren't fighting?” he asked.

“We were messing around. Wrestling and stuff—but we weren't really fighting,” Nass said quickly.

“No,” D'von Cunningham agreed. “We're all friends.”

“That's good. Life is too damn short for fighting.” Mr. Goheen's eyes swept over them all once more, coming to rest on Nass's forehead. “You better have that looked at, son,” he said.

“I'm okay,” Nass told him. “It's just a scratch.”

Mr. Goheen nodded, satisfied.

Nass added, “Did Bran say anything—about what happened?”

“He says he doesn't remember. The doctor said that's not unusual with a traumatic injury. That cop wants to talk to Bran and then he's going to rest for a while. You kids should go home now and come back tomorrow to visit him.”

* * *

Kate was right. There was no sign of Aimee. “Maybe she landed outside,” said Dalton.

“Let's go out and see,” said Miss Pembrook. “We're already attracting too much attention in here.” She gave a slight nod toward the bar where a rough-looking cowboy eyed them suspiciously. He had a gun on each hip and his right hand rested lightly on one of them. “Come on,” she finished and led them through the swinging doors, out into the moonlit night.

“Okay, I'm gonna say it,” Dalton warned them.

“What?” Maggie asked.

“Something tells me we're not in Kansas anymore.”

“Yeah, we are,” said Maggie. “Like . . . about a hundred and forty years ago.”

Amazed, Miss Pembrook added, “Not a telephone pole in sight—and no paved roads. I think it worked. I think we really did go back in time.”

“I hope Aimee came with us,” said Dalton.

“Maybe we got separated when we slipped,” offered Maggie.

“So now what should we do?” asked Kate. “How will we get back?”

“Okay—look,” said Dalton. “We'll find her—or she'll find us. She wants to get to her mom. Aimee's here somewhere or she will be soon. We've just got to keep the faith. In the meantime, we should lay low and try to blend in. And we need to stay out of sight until we can find some other clothes.”

“Dalton's right,” said Miss Pembrook, and then she spotted a boarding house across the rutted dirt road. The sign out front read
rooms to let
and beneath that a smaller sign swinging on two hooks declared there was a vacancy. With Miss Pembrook leading the way, they hurried to it and the teacher knocked on the front door. When there was no answer, she turned the knob and found it unlocked and they stepped into the foyer, which seemed to serve as the reception area. There was a desk with a registry book on it. Beside it were a little silver bell and a sign:
Please ring for service.

Dalton picked up the bell and shook it.

“I'm back here!” a voice called. “Please come through!”

They walked into a pleasant sitting room furnished with a tall corner cabinet and a writing desk that both looked like they were made of oak, and a beautiful sofa with a mahogany frame and green cut-velvet upholstery. The fireplace was broad and the mantle was stained black at the top from constant use.

From there they went through a lovely dining room, and they could hear a rhythmic sound:
scrape, whack, scrape, whack.
Dalton moved cautiously, as quietly as she could, in that direction. “Hello?” she called out, and the sound stopped.

“Constance—is that you?”

Dalton thought she recognized the voice. “Mrs. Banfield?” she said and peered through the door, into the big, old-fashioned kitchen. A woman sat on a wooden chair in the middle of the room. She was wearing an ankle-length dress topped with an apron almost as long, and she was plunging a wooden paddle up and down into a long, thin barrel. Maggie and the others came in quietly to join Dalton.

“She's churning butter,” said Miss Pembrook, her voice a whisper.

The woman had beautiful youthful features, bright playful eyes, and long blond hair she wore pulled back in a bun.

“Mrs. Banfield?” Dalton said again. “It is you!”

Emily Banfield looked up, surprised, and then she rose and hurried to them. “Dalton? My goodness!” she exclaimed. “How did you get here—and Maggie?” She sounded stunned. “Oh, I am so glad to see you girls—but I don't understand.”

“We don't either—not really,” said Miss Pembrook. “It seems your daughter has a rare gift for travel. She brought us here—and she can get us back—but she can explain it better than we can. I'm Anne Pembrook, Aimee's history teacher.”