Bridget screamed with excitement as her dad wrenched their car around another hairpin turn. With the wind in her face, she felt like she was flying, which, in a way, she was, since the only thing holding her in her seat was her fingertips. She was glad for the goggles her dad had handed her, as the dirt came flying at her, and even worse, yucky bugs splattered her eyewear. If those things hit her paper eyeballs, she'd never get the stain out.
Her dad was a pretty good driver, swerving from side to side as he urged number 13 to gain ground on Vanderbilt's number 14. She couldn't help smilingâthis was what she'd always wanted: to go on an adventure with her dad. And this roller coaster of a race definitely qualified.
The spectators had thinned along this part of the track, and they now seemed to be driving through an old, ramshackle neighborhood lined with ancient clapboard houses. With a shock, Bridget realized that real cars, present-day mortal cars, were driving up ahead. They were on a real road! And they were going to crash!
But Vanderbilt deftly swerved to the right, just whispering by a large pickup truck rattling down the street, its driver completely unaware of the crazed road race that was occurring around him. Her dad followed suit, but on the other side, sliding between the pickup and an old Toyota, before slotting right back in on Vanderbilt's tail. Bridget could almost hear the cocky Vanderbilt cursing when he realized he couldn't shake the Hennessys. Maybe they could win this after all.
She glanced over her shoulder to check if Rory's car was anywhere behind them. She couldn't see it, but she did spy two black torpedo-looking cars, driven by dark men in black goggles, and she didn't like the look of them one bit. They came up fast behind number 13, and before Bridget could say a word, the lead car clipped their back wheel.
A loud screech sounded as Mr. Hennessy struggled to hold on to the wheel. The entire car slid sideways, sparks flying, and Bridget feared they'd flip over like cars in the movies, only worse since this would be for real. But her dad forced the wheel back around, regaining control.
“Who are they?” he yelled.
Bridget threw up her hands. “I'm guessing bad guys!” The two black cars were pulling up alongside them now. “Twin bad guys! They're right next to us!”
“Hold on!” her dad screamed, and gunned it, shooting up onto the sidewalk just as an old Pontiac in front of them slowed to make a turn. They just made it past the car, shooting out into an intersection like a bullet from a gun. Bridget let out a whoop and glanced back. One of the black cars had spun around, falling over on its side. The other, however, deftly avoided the crash and continued on their trail.
Her dad slid them back onto the road proper, and she noticed that they'd nearly caught up to Vanderbilt, who was looking over his shoulder, checking their progress. A burst of exhaust washed over Bridget as the remaining black car shot right past them and then braked suddenly, trying to cut them off. Dad spun the wheel, just maneuvering around in the nick of time. Vanderbilt glanced back again, this time yelling something to the black car. Bridget thought it was something like “Play fair!” She shook her head. These guys would never play fair, not in a thousand years.
As they sped up toward Vanderbilt's car, Vanderbilt was looking behind more frequently, obviously confused. The black car pulled up alongside Bridget's car, and the driver smirked before flooring it, pulling ahead. Bridget had no idea what he was doing. Vanderbilt screamed at the car as it passed him, calling the driver a maniac.
As if in response, the black car suddenly swerved in front of Vanderbilt's car, causing him to turn his vehicle wildly. The rear wheel clipped the Hennessy car, and this time Mr. Hennessy couldn't keep control. Their car spun crazily. Bridget screamed as she was flung from the car, landing heavily on the ground, where she skidded for a good twenty feet before hitting a parking meter. She scrambled to her feet just in time to see her car and Vanderbilt's car push the black car, which could not escape the carnage it had instigated, right into the side of a little grocery store. The black car was crushed into scrap metal and Vanderbilt's car immediately burst into flame.
“No!” Bridget cried, running over to beat at the flames. She spied Vanderbilt lying on the ground, legs pinned beneath the front hood. He was barely conscious, and kept muttering “Not fair” under his breath.
“Get the journal!” Mr. Hennessy screamed. He was pulling himself from the wreckage of their car, and he appeared unharmed. “It's going to burn up!”
“But, Vanderbilt!” Bridget stood frozen, before making a decision. She ran up to Vanderbilt, putting her weight against the fallen engine. The flames licked her hair, setting one or two strands aflame, but she did not pay attention. She pushed and pushed, with everything she had, until she'd lifted the car off the pinned-down driver. Vanderbilt weakly pulled his legs free and then collapsed. She dropped the engine back to the ground with a crash and grabbed Vanderbilt around the waist, pulling him across the street to safety.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “You're a good egg.” Then he passed out.
Bridget turned to run back to the car to grab the package when the entire vehicle suddenly exploded into flames. “No!” she screamed, but it was too late. She ran across the street to the burning car, ready to leap into the center of the flames.
“Bridget! Stop!” Her dad rushed to her side, grabbing her shoulders. “It's over.”
“But it's all burned up!” she cried, collapsing in his arms.
“It's okay. Do you think I'd let you down?” With that, Mr. Hennessy handed her a slightly charred, but completely readable journal and smiled. “I pulled it out from under the floorboards just before she blew.”
Bridget opened her mouth to say thank you, but instead she just collapsed into dry sobs, clutching at her dad as if she never wanted to let him go.
“Honey, we've got to move!” Mr. Hennessy suddenly screamed. Looking up, Bridget saw the other black car, which she'd thought was out of the race when it fell over, roaring down the street, gunning right for them. Her dad started to pull her to the side, out of the car's path, but there was no time. Bridget pushed her dad behind her, bracing for impact.
“GERONIMO!” a familiar voice screamed as a loud car horn blared. From out of nowhere, Simon Astor's car appeared from a side street, barely holding itself together. Simon was bent over the wheel, honking the horn and yelling at the top of his lungs. Her brother and Soka were holding on for dear life, terrified, as Simon drove his car directly into the oncoming vehicle, smashing into the black car's hood from the side right before it could hit Bridget, sending both automobiles careening into a nearby store.
Bridget and her dad ran up to Simon's car to see if they were all right. To their surprise, not only were Simon, Soka, and Rory unharmed, though a little dazed, but Simon's car was still running. The black car, on the other hand, was totaled. Simon looked at the wrecked vehicles all around him.
“Told you my car was the best,” he said in a sprightly tone as he hopped out. Right on his heels, Rory ran over to the burning shell of number 14, muttering “no” to himself. Bridget ran up to him.
“It's okay!” she told him. “We grabbed the package before it could get burned. We got it!”
“What about Vanderbilt?” Simon asked sourly. “I hope you let him fry.”
“He's fine.” Bridget pointed across the street to where Vanderbilt lay, unconscious. “We pulled him to safety.”
“Bridget saved him,” Mr. Hennessy said. “It was amazing.” Bridget blushed.
“I couldn't let him burn up,” she said. “That would have been gross. But it was Dad who made sure to pull the journal from the burning car!”
“Wow,” Rory said, looking surprised.
“Did I just impress my son?” Mr. Hennessy said drily. “What a day it is for me!” He sounded flippant, but his eyes shone as he said it.
“Well, let's see what you've got there,” Rory said, taking a step forward. Suddenly he crumpled to the ground.
“Rory!” Soka cried, dropping down to his side. Bridget quickly knelt down and instantly noticed the blood in his hair.
“He must have hit his head on impact,” Mr. Hennessy said, brushing by her to examine Rory's wound. He looked shaken. “He's out cold. We need to get him away from here.”
The sound of revving engines floated in and Mr. Hennessy glanced up the street. “Robert Moses will be along soon, as will others of Kieft's allies,” he said. He stood up. “I'll take care of them. You need to get Rory to Brooklyn. I'll stay behind.”
“No!” Bridget cried. “You have to come with us.”
“I can delay Moses long enough to give you time to cross the borough line,” Mr. Hennessy said, looking over Bridget's head at Simon. “Can you get them there?”
“You can count on me, sir,” Simon answered. Together, Mr. Hennessy and Simon lifted Rory and placed him in the back of Simon's car. Ashen, Soka climbed in next to Rory, cradling his head in her arms. Simon hopped into the driver's seat and gestured to Bridget. “Come on, girl!”
The sound of engines was getting closer. Bridget grabbed her father's waist, hugging him for all she was worth. “You have to come!” she cried. “I just found you!”
“I'll see you again, I promise,” her dad told her, kissing the top of her head. “I won't let anyone hurt you.” He lifted her up and placed her in the seat next to Simon. “Go!”
Simon guided the car around the wrecks, taking care not to get too close to the burning vehicles. Then he gunned it, picking up speed as they raced away from the scene. Bridget spun around to watch her father as they sped off. Mr. Hennessy waved, once, before turning to face their pursuers. Then Simon made a hard left and her father was gone.
9
THE OLD STONE HOUSE
I
n his dream, Rory was standing in a circular room, with a roaring fire burning in the middle. The smoke drifted up toward a hole in the ceiling. Glancing around, he realized he was in some kind of tepee. Strange, crude paintings covered the curved walls, the colors disquieting and ominous. The pictures depicted demons wearing feathers and holding knives, bending over the screaming forms of women and children. The hints of red in the paint made Rory shudder. On the other side of the fire hung clumps of what appeared to be wigs. Looking closer, he realized that they were scalps. He felt sick.
“This room always soothes me,” a voice said. Jumping back, Rory spun to find the man with the black eyes stepping into the tepee. A cloth bag was slung over his shoulder. He dropped the bag to the dirt floor, where it landed with a clatter. “It reminds me of who I fight.”
“This isn't right,” Rory told him. “This isn't a Munsee place. They don't even have tepees, they have wigwams, which aren't round.”
The man with the black eyes shrugged. “A small detail. The god whose room this was didn't cater to such literal truths. He was the God of the Savages, and epitomized every fear the Europeans had about the natives. He was the one they prayed to when they went out into the wilderness, afraid of the dark forests and the dark people who inhabited them. He did not need to be true, for those who worshipped him didn't care to know the truth themselves. I always liked him. I felt a twinge when the mortals no longer needed his particular brand of slanderous terror, which is why I like to frequent his room now that he is gone. I like to think I keep his memory alive.”
“I think it's disgusting,” Rory said. “Why would you want to live in some dead guy's room anyway?”
“Because it is the perfect place to do dark deeds,” the man with the black eyes said. He bent over and upended his bag. Knives fell out with a clang, landing in a big heap on the ground. He picked one up, running his finger lightly along the blade with a smile. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to perfect these? Centuries! First, I had to learn the Munsee magical arts, which was not easy. I had a devil of a time finding a savage who would teach me! Thankfully, I am not without powers of my own and I finally captured a medicine woman to be my tutor. She did not last long under my care, but I learned much before she died. I still miss her . . . she was a feisty one.”
“You're a monster,” Rory snarled.
The man with the black eyes shrugged again. “Perhaps. I don't really care. It is exhilarating to finally be able to share a little of my story! Of course, you won't remember this, and even if you did, you will not survive the week, so I am free to brag a bit.”
“You keep threatening to kill me, but you haven't been able to yet,” Rory answered, refusing to show fear. “Isn't that a little cocky of you?”
“I knew I needed a weapon if I wanted to kill gods,” the man with the black eyes continued, ignoring Rory's question. “Munsees could kill gods, so I had to somehow instill the essence of a Munsee into a weapon of some kind. I picked a knife, since those were the easiest to both fashion and wield. The hardest part was finding the right mix of metal to blood during the forging, which I did right here, over that fire. I âborrowed' some Munsees and experimented with them. A few of them lasted until well after the Trap was sprung. The last one, the one who finally helped me forge my first blade, lived until last year, when I buried my first finished knife, the fruit of his suffering, into his heart. A clean deathâI like to think of it as my way of saying thank you.”
Rory tried not to picture those poor prisoners being experimented on by the First Adviser. He could almost hear their screams. A wave of dizziness washed over him, suddenly, and he staggered back. In a moment the feeling passed, but when he turned back to the First Adviser, the black-eyed man was staring at him with a sharp look in his eye. He began to spin the knife in his hand.