The Peculiars (30 page)

Passel, Lena thought. Where he did ever learn a word like “passel”? It didn’t matter; she could hug them both. “Well, I wanted a little adventure.” She could play the part as well.

“We’ll just take her home with us—” Merilee’s voice was commanding.

“Now, wait a minute here. What proof do you have that this lady is your sister?” The sheriff blocked the doorway to the cell with his massive frame.

“Birth certificates.” Miraculously, Merilee reached into her purse and pulled out two official-looking documents and thrust them under the sheriff’s nose.

He grabbed them in his meaty hands and studied them carefully. “Lena Mattacascar and Gina Mattacascar Quiggley. Well, I . . .” He unlocked the door, and the two missionary ladies rushed out, followed by Lena, head held high.

“I’m very sorry, Miss Mattacascar, but you can see that it was a natural mistake.” He looked at her feet.

“My family will hear about this,” Merilee said. She grabbed back the certificates, then took Lena firmly by one arm and Jimson took the other. They propelled her toward the door.

Never had fresh air been so appealing. Lena took a deep breath. It took the greatest effort to keep from running. As the three of them stepped onto the boardwalk, followed by the two missionaries and the sheriff, a horse pounded up. Despite the cold, his coat was flecked with sweat. The rider, in his blue jacket with brass buttons, also shone with perspiration. His fair hair dripped with melting snow. “Pony Express with an urgent message for Sheriff Jack Spaulding.” He jumped from his horse, gathering the reins in one hand and thrusting a large envelope toward the sheriff with the other. His breath made little puffs of steam as he spoke.

Lena looked at Jimson, who pinched her arm and continued to drag her from the boardwalk. Beyond, the steam from the wash house mingled with the heavy fall of snow. The entire world was white and swirling.

The sheriff laid a hand on Jimson’s shoulder. “This might be important, son, something you might need to know to protect your family. I don’t want you leaving until I’ve read it.”

With that, he unfolded the single sheet of paper and read out loud.

WANTED: Tobias Beasley, for collaborating with Peculiars and for the death of Abel Guthrie. Escaped October 30th in a flying machine with three other persons of interest, one young male and two females—maybe Peculiars. Consider all four armed and dangerous.

The two matrons punctuated the message with shocked exclamations. The sheriff took another look at Lena. “How’d you say you arrived in Ducktown?”

“I—we—” Lena’s brain felt sticky and slow. She thought she might faint, but her name wasn’t mentioned in the telegram.

Jimson breathed into her ear, “Go. Go now.” He looked at the sheriff. “My wife and her sister have suffered a terrible shock. They need to get out of this cold. If you could use my services in any way to help capture these scoundrels, I will do everything in my power to assist you.”

Lena let her head fall onto Merilee’s shoulder as if completely exhausted. Sheriff Spaulding looked at Jimson’s tense face and then at the downcast gaze of the girls. The wind picked up, whipping the snow into a frenzy. “Don’t leave town. I’m not through with you yet. Where are you staying?”

Jimson blew on his hands to stall. Lena tried to imagine a reasonable place to stay in the mining outpost. Nothing came
to mind. She couldn’t very well say they were staying in an aerocopter in the woods. If she invented an accommodation, the sheriff would be sure to check it out.

“We just arrived and haven’t secured accommodations yet,” piped up Merilee.

Mrs. Fortinbras was not about to let this opportunity pass. “We found rooms with one of the Great Northern Improvement foremen and his family. I’m sure I could put in a word for you.”

The streets of the outpost were emptying. Everyone was fleeing the cold and night was approaching fast. Jimson nodded. “Thank you. We appreciate it.”

The two missionary ladies beamed and then, arm in arm, headed back toward their accommodations.

The sheriff looked as if he would like to return to somewhere more hospitable as well. He turned up the collar of his jacket and stomped his feet. “I’ll be in touch, but if this storm comes in, I doubt you’ll be going anywhere.” And he lumbered back to the warmth of his office.

“Can you point me in the direction of the stables?” The Pony Express rider brushed a dusting of snow from the arms of his jacket.

Jimson indicated down the main street toward the church.

“Can you imagine? A flying machine. I’ve heard about ’em. But wouldn’t I like to ride in one! You bet! Have you ever seen one?” He stroked the nose of his mount.

“As a matter of fact, I have,” said Jimson.

The rider looked at him with envy. “That’s the wave of the future, you know—steam-powered flying machines. In a few years they’ll be as common as trains. I hear the army’s got dirigibles now. Won’t be long before convicts got nowhere to run.”

The boardwalk was deserted, and the noise from the mine was drowned by the rising wind. Jimson had rescued her! Lena felt an overwhelming desire to laugh.
Hysteria
, she thought, but it didn’t seem to matter.

“This way.” Jimson plunged into the snow in what Lena hoped was the right direction.

“Why wasn’t my name in the message?” She spoke close to Jimson’s ear before the wind could snatch away the words.

“The marshal’s crafty. If he left your name out, he had a reason. We’ve got to get out of here before the sheriff figures it out.”

The wind stung Lena’s face and snow sifted into the top of her alligator boots. Was the marshal trying to protect her, after all? She could barely feel her hands. Merilee trudged along in silence, her face determined, one arm still linked with Jimson’s.

Despite the snow, Jimson’s sense of direction prevailed. But it took them twice as long to make their way back to the clearing, where Mr. Beasley was waiting with the aerocopter. He had worn a path smooth with pacing. When they came into view, he bounded forward. “I knew you could do it!”

All four hustled into the coach of the aerocopter, where
Mrs. Mumbles sat washing her fur. One leg was splinted, but the cat purred with contentment.

“Oh, Mrs. Mumbles, you’re alive!” Lena threw her arms around the cat, who drew back from the undignified embrace. “I saw the bounty hunter shoot her. I was sure she was dead!”

Mr. Beasley lifted the cat onto his lap. “She dragged herself back to the clearing with a broken leg. The shot must have missed her. There wasn’t any bullet hole, but something must have hit her.”

“A rock splintered. I remember that.” Lena reached over and stroked the cat’s fur. “She tried to save me. The bounty hunters heard her and thought someone had found them.”

“I’ll never berate felines again,” Jimson said.

“I can’t thank you enough for rescuing me.” Lena looked from Jimson to Merilee.

“It was Merilee’s idea. Mr. Beasley had already made the fake certificates before we left in case there was trouble crossing the border.” Jimson beamed at Merilee.

The press of bodies in the small space made it almost comfortably warm. Mr. Beasley handed around tin cups so they might draw from a pot of soup.

“Wait a minute—it’s warmer than it should be in here,” Jimson said, looking suspiciously at the boiler.

“That’s right! While you were having your own adventures, I was able to get a little help at the foundry. I’ve modified the old firebox—for coal.”

Mr. Beasley looked as delighted as a child, Lena thought.

“The good news is that the storm will keep us hidden a while longer,” he continued.

“The Pony Express arrived.” Jimson filled a tin cup from the pot. “And you were mentioned by name. The rest of us were just described.”

“Just as I feared. But I do have a solution.” He climbed out of the Aeolus. Then reappeared at the window.

The three looked at him quizzically.

Mr. Beasley held up a single pair of long wooden skis in triumph.

“BUT THERE’S ONLY ONE PAIR.” MERILEE’S BROW FURROWED. “AND
they’re longer than any skis I’ve ever seen. When we lived in Scree, we used snowshoes.”

“Snowshoes would never work for our purpose. These are for the Aeolus. I had them made at the foundry as well.”

“So we’ll strap them on instead of wheels!” Jimson’s face was ruddy with excitement.

“These will allow us to leave despite the snow, unless the visibility keeps us grounded, which just may be the case.”

The warm soup and coal heat made it difficult for Lena to concentrate. She closed her eyes just for a minute. Her head slumped against Jimson’s shoulder. They would have to sleep sitting up all night. Voices blurred, a great heaviness infused her limbs. Just before falling asleep she thought she felt the brush of lips against her cheek.

In her dreams, they were gliding through the snow on
long skis pursued by the sheriff and the two bounty hunters, who were riding the fearsome wolves of Scree. Ahead was the entrance to a darkly gaping maw. They were swallowed, and Lena awoke.

She and Merilee were alone in the coach. Merilee still slept, her head thrown back on the stem of her long neck, her mouth open. Lena’s own neck was stiff, and her long feet ached in the confines of her boots. First light revealed a world buried in snow, but the whine of the wind had stilled. Jimson and Mr. Beasley were loading the tent and a shovel onto the Aeolus.

“Nothing like a snow fort to keep one warm! We were quite snug!” Mr. Beasley shouted. Without his eyebrows, his smooth face reminded Lena of an overgrown baby.

“Didn’t sleep a wink; he and Mrs. Mumbles snored all night.” Jimson leaned in the coach window. “You got the best deal.”

But Lena wasn’t so sure. She was unaccustomed to sleeping in her clothes and boots. Her hair needed brushing and her face washing. A handful of snow to wash the sleep from her eyes would have to do.

“My plan is to leave immediately,” said Mr. Beasley. “The wind is still, and the visibility good except for a little fog. It’s November first. Who knows how long our luck will last.”

Excitement and expectation permeated the air. There was nothing quite like the start of an adventure, Lena thought. No matter how bleak the situation looked, each beginning
promised new hope; expectations rose like mist from the snow and carried them until the next complication arose. A little thrill of anticipation shot through her. That was the problem with most people, she mused, they were so busy planning for the complications that they missed out on the anticipation.

Merilee was up now, braiding her hair into a single plait. There would be no time for tea. Mr. Beasley urged them on, as he explained what was needed for them to become airborne.

“We have to have a running start. The Aeolus needs a bit of a downhill while the rotors get fired up. Then she’ll glide with much less resistance than when we relied on the wheels.”

“It will give us a lower roll-resistance coefficient!” Jimson added.

“Exactly. But there is one task before we leave. Merilee, it’s time for your injections. Lena, if you will assist me. Jimson, go outside and make sure everything is secure for takeoff.”

Merilee turned a bit pale, but she obediently turned her back to Mr. Beasley and Lena. “They were itching something fierce last night,” she said. She unbuttoned the top of her wool dress and slid it from her shoulders.

“That’s because the wings will keep trying to reassert themselves until the entire root is killed.”

Lena found that her squeamishness was overcome by a strong curiosity. From the top of the scapula a track of red scar ran, ending just under the shoulder blade. Merilee’s skin was very white, her shoulders thin and sharp. In the center of the scar, where it stretched tightly over swollen tissue, the buds of
new wings were about to poke forth. Why, it reminds me of a baby’s gums when the teeth are about to poke through, Lena thought.

Mr. Beasley removed a precious syringe from a pack of medical supplies. “This is a hypodermic syringe used to inject a chemical to kill the fledging,” he explained.

The only time Lena had seen a syringe before was in Mr. Beasley’s laboratory at Zephyr House. Now she examined the instrument carefully. She marveled as she looked at the long, thin needle.

“I’ll inject each side. Lena, please clean the area with this cloth dipped in alcohol. The nuns at Cloister had quite good success with sterilization techniques that involve alcohol. It prevents infection from bacteria.” He stuck the tip of the needle into a vial of liquid and drew back the plunger until the cylinder was almost full.

Lena carefully poured alcohol onto the clean cloth and, taking one thin shoulder in her hand, blotted the scar. Merilee trembled under her grip. “Does it hurt?”

“Not now, but it burns when the medicine goes in.”

Lena expected to turn her eyes away when Mr. Beasley stuck the needle into the swollen skin, but she found that she could not.

Merilee shuddered and gave a little hiccup.

“You’re doing just fine. Things look just the way they should. Only one or two more rounds of injections and you’ll be done until they reassert themselves again—but that may not
be for years.” Mr. Beasley carefully repacked the syringe while Merilee slipped her dress back over her shoulders. “If there had been any infection, the swelling would have been aggravated. Now, Lena, in case anything untoward should happen on this adventure, you know how to carry on in my place. Just be sure to sterilize the syringe before using it. Germs are the enemy.”