“Right. Well, I was just telling Jake about my audition, and — ”
“What’s the film about?” Jake interrupted. “The Massacre at Standish Crossing? No, wait — the dynamiting of the Underground Railroad near Spencer’s Bluff?”
Gideon Kozaar cocked his head toward Jake. His face was wrinkled and thin, his hair brittle and almost white. “I don’t know about those,” he said in a soft, deep voice.
Jake nodded. “I know. The Battle of Dead Man’s Trace, right? Where the Union Army got slaughtered by the Confederates because of their own stupidity. That’s the one everyone knows about.”
“Oh?” said Gideon Kozaar.
“You don’t hear about the others. I have, but I know just about everything about the war. It’s like a hobby, I guess — ”
“Jake’s the history buff in the family,” Byron quickly interjected. “I’m the actor.”
“My great-great-great grandfather on my mom’s side died in the Battle of Dead Man’s Trace,” Jake barreled on. “Well, supposedly. We don’t know his name. People around here have sort of forgotten the details about that battle — even exactly where Dead Man’s Trace was. They’re still sort of embarrassed about the defeat — which is weird, I know, because it was so long ago, but — ”
“So! Uh, would you guys like to
see
our authentic Civil War house?” Byron interrupted.
“ — Anyway, to be honest,” Jake went on, “in my opinion the Standish Crossing Massacre would be a
much
better idea for a movie than — ”
“Jake!”
Byron snapped. He turned quickly to Gideon Kozaar. “We have antiques and everything. I mean, if you want to do research, hey, this is the place. I can show you around and — ”
“Mom said no one’s allowed in while she and Dad are in Chicago,” Jake said.
Byron glared at him. “She won’t mind if Gideon Kozaar visits. So, you guys want coffee and doughnuts?”
The two set designers looked at Gideon Kozaar.
He nodded.
“Great,” Byron said. “Jake will get them from the deli.”
“What?”
Jake protested.
“A dozen assorted. Chocolate cruller for me. Take your time. ’Bye!”
The two set designers followed Byron as he started back toward the house.
“But —but I — ”
“I’ll give you a ride,” rumbled the voice of Gideon Kozaar.
Jake spun around. “You will?”
Gideon Kozaar removed his sunglasses.
Jake’s breath caught in his throat.
Silver.
Green.
Yellow.
Kozaar’s eyes seemed to be changing color. Slowly, like tinted shades drawn across a window. Jake tried to look away but he couldn’t.
“Tell the driver the address,” Kozaar said, opening the back door of the limo.
“Hey! Aren’t you coming?” Byron shouted.
Jake didn’t answer Byron. He felt numb.
He’s a stranger.
He’s world-famous.
He’s creepy.
He’s interesting.
And you don’t say no to Gideon Kozaar.
“The Corner Pantry,” Jake said, climbing into the backseat. “Take a left when you get to Main.”
Gideon Kozaar went around and slipped in the other side.
Jake caught a quick glimpse of Byron’s bewildered face as the limo pulled away.
Jake swallowed hard and sat back. The car was dead silent. Not even a radio. Gideon Kozaar stared straight ahead.
“Thanks,” Jake finally said, “for the ride, I mean — ”
“What would you have done?” Gideon Kozaar interrupted.
“Done?”
“At the Battle of Dead Man’s Trace. If you were alive then, fighting for the Union.”
Good question.
Jake thought a moment. He tried to remember the details of what he’d read. It wasn’t much.
“Well, I don’t know exactly where it happened,” he finally admitted, “or the details of the battle. No one does. But if I were there, and I knew the geography and the Union plans, I would have figured out the ambush. I just know it. And I wouldn’t have let the Confederates anywhere near the camp. I would have fought them bare-handed if I had to.”
A slow smile spread across Gideon Kozaar’s face as the limo began to slow down.
“Here’s the Corner Pantry,” the driver said.
The car stopped at the curb, and the driver got out to open Jake’s door.
“Do you want anything?” Jake asked as he climbed out.
“Yes,” Gideon Kozaar said. “But I can wait.”
Then he gave a signal, and the car drove off.
Byron was pacing the living room alone when Jake got back.
“Delivery!” Jake shouted. “Where is everybody?”
“I can’t believe what you did,” Byron murmured.
“They left already?” Jake asked.
“You drove away with him. You stole him.”
Jake put down his bag on the coffee table, where an old brass oil lamp used to be. “Uh, Byron? Something’s missing here.”
“I rented it to them.”
“Rented?”
“They need props. For the movie. So I showed them around and — ”
“Are you crazy? Mom and Dad will kill you!”
“Why? They gave me receipts. They’re going to pay us.”
“What else did you give them?”
“Nothing. Just some junk from the attic.”
The attic.
Jake bolted upstairs.
The door was open. He flicked on the light.
The room felt different. Emptier.
The coat rack.
The old milk can.
Both taken.
He ran into the corner and opened the steamer trunk. A blanket lay on top, wrinkled. The uniform, cap, and dagger were gone.
Clever
As usual, one step ahead of us.
“B
YRON!”
J
AKE SHOUTED.
He flew out of the attic, then stopped short.
The journal.
Jake raced back to the trunk and flipped it open again. He dug his hand to the bottom, yanked on the secret-compartment door, and reached in.
Still there.
He shoved it into his back pocket and bolted downstairs.
“Who said you could give that uniform away, Byron?”
Byron was making faces in the living room mirror. “Is this a good nineteenth-century look?”
“It’s from the Civil War! Your great-great-great grandfather wore it!”
“Whoa, hold on, Jake. You
think
he did. No one knows for sure. Mom says it
might
have belonged to him. She doesn’t even know his name.”
“You had no right!”
“Says who?”
Me.
It’s valuable to me.
It connects me. To a place where you’ll never
g
o.
To a time I should have been born in.
To a fight. A real one. Bigger than this idiotic argument. Bigger than you or me.
It connects me to a part of myself.
The words formed clearly in Jake’s mind. But he didn’t say a word.
Byron wouldn’t understand.
And Byron was unimportant now.
Only the uniform mattered. The uniform and the cap and the dagger.
Without them, nothing mattered.
Nothing but the present. And that wasn’t enough. He had to find the stuff and bring it back. Jake bolted.
“Hey, where are you going?” Byron demanded. “I don’t know.” He let the door slam behind him.
HONNNNNK!
Jake’s bike skidded to a stop. His rear tire fanned out, sending up a spray of water.
A red pickup swerved across his path, missing him by inches.
The driver’s angry rant was swallowed up by the din of the downpour.
Jake caught his breath, wiping the water from his brow.
The rain had been sudden. It had started when Jake was biking by the Cranfield Mall. Now it was falling so fiercely he could barely see.
Why am I doing this?
No way would Gideon Kozaar be filming in this weather.
Time to cut bait, Jake.
Across the intersection was a steep wooded hill, the southern end of the Menoquan Woods that jutted into Hobson’s Corner.
The route home was a long ride around the woods.
The shorter way was straight through. Up and over the hill, through the trees. Muddy but direct. Dangerous, too. Blocked off by a rusted metal fence with
NO TRESPASSING
signs. No one ever went there, as far as Jake knew.
But the fence had a hole. And Jake was wet. And tired.
He looked up through squinted eyes.
No lightning. It would be safe.
Jake turned his bike toward the hill and began pedaling.
His treads dug in. The soil was wet but packed.
He stood. Pushed.
At the top, the bike slipped. Jake tried to right it. The tires gave out from under him.
Gritting his teeth, he hurtled over the handlebars.
And landed with a thud.
He jumped to his feet, picked up the bike, and looked back down the hill.
Uh-uh. Too slippery.
KAAAA-BOOM!
Great.
Now
it decides to thunder.
No lightning yet.
He pedaled over the top of the hill. Further into the woods.
The path meandered. Split. Split again.
The rain weighed down his eyelashes. The trees melded together in his vision.
Left here. Right. Right.
He was guessing now. Nothing was familiar.
The path petered out, then stopped.
KAAAA-BOOM!
The sky flashed a dull white.
That
was close.
Jake let his bike stop. He wiped his brow.
Fog billowed around the pines. To his left and right, the ground seemed to be sloping upward.
The valley.
South of Hobson’s Corner, the woods led to a wide valley between two low-lying mountain ranges.
Wrong way, you fool.
Or was it?
He looked for the mountain silhouettes, but the distance was swallowed up in the gathering darkness.
No.
Not all of it.
To his left. A bright patch. The outline of a building.
Shelter.
Jake ran with his bike, tripping over roots, pushing aside branches.
A clearing became visible. Just beyond it, a small hill.
And halfway up the hill, a run-down, wood-shingled hut. Lopsided and windowless. Standing on four stout wooden corner posts.
Jake ditched his bike at the clearing’s edge and ran to the hut. The door was secured by a huge rusted padlock. The windows were boarded up.
He slid under the hut, in the space formed by the posts.
The ground was cold but dry. A salamander skittered away, vanishing under a rock.
Jake pulled back his hair. Rivulets of water cascaded down his neck.
Another boom sounded. Loud. Close. Shaking the ground. But this time Jake saw no flash of light.
Weird.
He lay on his stomach and gazed back into the clearing.
A ring of tall pines surrounded the area.
Tall dead pines.
SSSSNNNNNNNNNAPP!
A flash.
An explosion.
A falling tree.
And a shuddering shock wave of heat that seemed to rip across the ground, traveling through the moisture, searing the soil.
Electricity.
It was Jake’s last thought before he blacked out.
C
RACK!
CRACK!
Musket shots.
Ambush.
Man the cannons.
Shoot first, ask questions later.
Don’t worry, Colonel Weymouth. I’m here.
You won’t lose this time.
You can’t.
CRRRRRAAAACKKK!
The sound pierced Jake’s consciousness.
Close. Loud.
Too loud.
He jolted upward.
His head smashed against something hard. Wooden.
Ow.
His body ached all over. He felt as if he’d been slammed against a rock. His fingers twitched uncontrollably.
Electrocution.
I should be dead.
With a groan, Jake pulled himself out from under the hut.
He stood on shaky legs and leaned against the wall.
He tried to focus. Blurred, gray-blue images swam before his eyes.
Grass.
Pine trees.
Through their spindly top branches, the sun was attempting to break through.
The rain was now a drizzle. The ground had dried a bit.
A fallen tree lay across the clearing. The tree’s stump jutted out of the ground, jagged and white-brown.
A swath of scorched, blackened earth led from the stump to the hut. On a straight line to where Jake had been lying. Like a shadow that had remained after the tree had fallen.
The lightning hit the tree, then traveled toward me through the wet ground.
And I lived.
How much time had passed since then? An afternoon? A week? A year?
Jake glanced at his watch. Three-seventeen. An hour and a half. That was all.
Leave.
Byron doesn’t know where you are.
CRACK.
He froze.
The sound again.
The shot.
Not a dream.
Real.
Coming from behind him. From beyond the ridge.
He looked over his shoulder. A puff of bluish-gray smoke rose in the distance.
Go ahead. Just a peek.
He turned, then began to climb.
Toward the top he began hearing voices. A faint whinny of a horse. The clanking of metal. Another shot.
He dropped to his knees and peered over the ridge.
Below him lay a broad valley, dotted with scrub brush. In its midst was a sight that made Jake’s jaw drop.
It was a vast encampment with clusters of canvas tents arranged around log cabins. Men swarmed about, carrying crates, grooming horses, cleaning muskets.
Men in blue uniforms.
Dead Man’s Trace.
This is it.
The movie set.
To the left, across the valley, a line of soldiers took turns shooting at a metal can on a distant tree stump. Directly below Jake, a group of soldiers sat around a campfire, cleaning muskets. Laughing. Relaxing.
From behind one of the tents a burly guy emerged, wearing a stained white apron and dragging a bloody hunk of meat about three feet long.