“I SHOULD HAVE BROKEN character. What a jerk I was. Can you ever forgive me?”’
James Nickerson sat at the edge of the Branfords’ living room sofa. His red hair was swept back, moussed. His chin was smooth, the grime gone from his face. His skin was bright red — because of embarrassment this time, not anger.
Jake gently fingered the cut on his cheek. It was still sore and the scab was starting to harden. “It’ll heal.”
“I would have backed off,” Byron murmured sullenly. “If he’d have hired me.”
“You know what Kozaar told us?” Nickerson hunched his shoulders and lowered his voice to a pitch-perfect imitation: “ ‘You may not act. You must be your character until I say “Cut,” and not a moment before — whether it takes an afternoon, a day, a week.’ All we know is that a kid is coming, and we have to do two things: react to whatever he does and protect him from the explosives. Plus, when the kid says he wants to go home, we have to take him to the Hobson’s Corner set. We have these little chips behind our ears for whenever Kozaar needs to direct us — which is practically never.”
“I don’t get how he builds a whole village that no one knows about,” Byron grumbled.
“The cops knew,” Nickerson said. “The Hobson’s Corner Chamber of Commerce. The local government. They made sure no planes flew overhead, stuff like that — and they were sworn to secrecy. Anyway, so we’re in this camp, this huge outdoor set. The cameras and mikes are hidden away — everything’s wireless — and it’s magic. Like we’re in the war. But it doesn’t take an afternoon or even a week. Two weeks go by before Jake actually shows up.”
“And you just stayed?” Byron asked.
“No choice. We’re pros. We can’t bathe or brush our teeth or watch TV or say anything our characters wouldn’t say. But the weird thing is — no one complains. Because we’re not ourselves anymore. Slowly we’ve become the characters. Only they’re not characters. Not really.” Nickerson’s face darkened. “They’re parts of ourselves. Hidden inside. Parts we maybe don’t know about. Maybe for good reason. So … what I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry about what I did. Jake was the one who showed courage.”
Courage.
Jake didn’t know what the word meant anymore.
At this point he just knew what it didn’t mean.
It didn’t mean strategy. Or tactics. Or arms or training.
In the end, none of that mattered.
All of it was as fragile as a thought.
In the end, you were left with only chaos.
And death.
Unless you’re lucky, and it’s all a fake.
After Jake said good-bye to James Nickerson, he walked upstairs. Into the attic.
He felt for the green steno journal in his back pocket.
It was there, but the urge to write wasn’t.
The mood — the feeling — was gone.
Only numbness was left.
Numbness and confusion.
Jake flicked on the antique lamp and sat by the steamer trunk. A mournful sadness settled over him. In the excitement and horror of the movie shoot, he’d forgotten to ask about his cap and the uniform.
Too late now. Gideon Kozaar had disappeared. A check had already arrived to cover the cost of the “antiques.” No return address.
Jake yanked open the old trunk. The moldy sweet smell of the past wafted upward.
What?
There, on top of the pile of clothes, was a Civil War uniform.
And a cap.
And a dagger.
Jake smiled.
Feverishly he dug his hands under the clothing and pulled on the handle of the secret compartment.
Inside was a book. Crumbling and brittle. Held together by a faded satin cord.
Jake carefully took it out. It was some kind of scrapbook, stuffed to the brim with photos, letters, and newspaper clippings.
On the soft cloth cover he could feel an embroidered inscription.
He held it to the light and read:
Jake opened the book and quickly leafed through … photos, news clippings, pages from a personal journal …
There.
Under the heading “The Battle of Dead Man’s Trace”:
Jake looked around the attic.
No cameras.
Hesitantly, he continued to read.