TWELVE

Sherlock’s initial instinct was to run back to the door and jump off the train. He grabbed Virginia’s arm and pulled her towards him, but she resisted.

“We need to get off!” he hissed. “We haven’t got tickets, and we’re leaving your father behind!”

“We can get tickets from the conductor on the train,” she replied, “or tell him that our pa has the tickets and he’s in another compartment. And we can telegraph back to Pa when we stop and tell him where we are. The important thing is that we don’t lose the men who have Matty. If we do, we’ve lost them forever. We need to track them until they settle in another hotel, or a house, or something.”

“But—” he started.

“Trust me! This is my country, I understand how it works. I’ve made train journeys by myself before. We’ll be okay.”

Sherlock subsided. They’d ended up where they were by accident, but they ought to make the best of it, now they were there. Getting off the train and going back to the hotel would waste all the effort they’d gone to in getting to America so far.

“Very well,” he said. “We’ll stay.”

“We don’t have a choice now,” Virginia pointed out. She indicated the window. Outside, the platform had vanished and the train was speeding up as the line cut across wide dirt streets. He could feel, as well as hear, the clack-clack clack-clack as the wheels of the carriage passed over the joins in the track every hundred yards or so.

Sherlock glanced back down the aisle, towards the men who were holding Matty. “They’re all settled down,” he said. “We should find a seat and work out what we do next. Are we just following them, or are we going to try to get Matty away from them?”

“Depends on what happens,” Virginia replied. “Why do you think they ran for the train so fast?”

“That’s my fault,” Sherlock admitted. “One of them saw me on the street but I managed to hide so he headed back to their hotel. They must have decided to clear out. That’s when Matty managed to tell me where they said they were taking him.” He paused, looking around. “There’s two spare seats over there. Let’s sit down at least.”

The seats were facing backward, away from the group of men who were holding Matty captive. An elderly conductor came by and collected their fares. As they sat, Sherlock glanced out of the window. The train was heading around a curve up ahead, and he could see the engine that was pulling them. Naïvely, he’d expected it to look like the ones back in England that ran from Farnham through Guildford to London, but this one was different. The basic cylindrical boiler shape was the same, but the small funnel that British trains had was replaced with a massive thing with sloping sides, sticking up from the front of the boiler. And there was some bizarre object attached to the front of the train: a metal grille with a pointed front that seemed to be designed to sweep things off the tracks.

“Buffalo,” Virginia said succinctly, following his gaze.

“What?”

“Buffalo. And cows. They wander across the tracks and sometimes just stay there. The train has to slow down and that thing pushes them out of the way.”

“Oh.” He thought for a moment. “What about telling the ticket collector?”

“Telling him what?”

“That Matty’s being held hostage.”

“What’s he going to do?” Virginia shook her head, copper-coloured hair swirling around her. “The ticket collector’s an old man coming up to retirement. He won’t be able to do anything.”

The train pushed on. As Sherlock watched, the buildings and roads outside the window gave way to open ground and patches of trees. The bright sunshine made the green vegetation seem to glow of its own accord.

“How long does the journey take?” he asked.

“To Richmond?” She thought for a moment. “The better part of a day, maybe. Depends if we stop anywhere. And we might have to change trains somewhere.”

“A day?” This country was big. “What about food?”

“There might be a restaurant car at the back. If not, there’ll be people selling food in the stations we stop at. The train stops for long enough that we can get off and grab a bite to eat. And we might even be able to send a telegraph message to Pa at the hotel, or via the Pinkertons, especially if we write it out first and just hand it in. Most stations have a telegraph office attached.”

“We’ll have to be careful we’re not seen,” Sherlock pointed out.

“We’ll manage,” she said reassuringly.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to check that the men hadn’t moved. One of them was coming towards him, down the aisle. Sherlock quickly turned back, hoping the man hadn’t seen him. It was Berle, the balding doctor. He passed by, and Sherlock watched his back as he moved off down the carriage. He’d have to watch out for the man coming back in the other direction. He’d be facing them then, and he would certainly recognize Sherlock if he saw him again.

It occurred to Sherlock that the most obvious way to disguise his face would be to turn around and kiss Virginia when Berle came back. That way, all Berle would see would be the back of his head. He turned to Virginia and opened his mouth, ready to propose the course of action. She glanced at him, her eyes bright and violet in the sunshine.

“What?” she asked.

“I was just thinking…” he said hesitantly.

“Thinking what?”

It was a simple thing to say—“I might need to kiss you so we don’t get recognized, so don’t be surprised if I do”—but for some reason he couldn’t get the words out. Her face was just a few inches away from his, close enough that he could count the freckles. Close enough that he could just lean forward and touch his lips against hers.

“Nothing. Don’t worry.”

She frowned. “No, what?”

“Really, it’s nothing.” He turned away, keeping an eye out for Berle’s return. If he saw the man he would just look out of the window or something. He realized he was still wearing the flat cap he’d bought in the notions shop. He could just slide it down over his eyes and pretend to be asleep. That would work. Probably.

He glanced out of the window again. Telegraph poles were flickering past, one after the other, paralleling the track. Idly, he counted seconds between the poles—one, two, three, four—and then again—one, two, three, four. The poles were spaced equally apart, as far as he could tell. If he knew how far apart they were, then he could use the information about the time between them to work out how fast the train was travelling. Not that the information would be any more than just interesting, but it would pass the time.

A small town flashed past, gone as soon as it appeared. All Sherlock had was a sense of low wooden buildings and four-wheeled carts, and lots of horses.

The movement of the train was making him sleepy. He’d used up a lot of energy in running back to the hotel earlier, and the constant tension was beginning to get to him. His body craved rest.

He might have dropped off to sleep for a while, because the next thing he knew he was looking out of the window onto a long drop down to the glittering water of a river. The train was on a bridge, crossing a ravine. From what he could see, the bridge was made of wood, and barely wider than the train.

Virginia sensed his sudden tension. “Don’t worry,” she said, “it’s perfectly safe. These bridges have been around for years.”

Shortly after that, the train began to slow down.

“Coming into a station,” Virginia said.

“Or there’s a buffalo on the line,” Sherlock responded. His mind started sorting through possibilities. Arriving at a station gave them a whole series of options, from just getting a bite to eat, through sending a telegraph message to Amyus Crowe, and all the way to making an attempt to rescue Matty. If they could get him off the train somehow, then they could either wait in the town until Amyus Crowe got to them or they could just get a train back again—assuming they ran more than one a day, or one a week. It occurred to him that he had no idea of the timetables in this country.

“We need to get out on the platform,” he said. “If we get a chance, we need to separate Matty from those men.”

The train slowed down even more. They were passing a huge field of tall plants with bulbous tops. The only fence Sherlock could see stretched from the train line to the horizon. The sound of the train’s steam whistle suddenly cut through the air: a mournful hoot like the call of some mythical creature. They passed by a smattering of barns and houses, then more houses, and then a whole town materialized as the train gradually heaved itself to a halt alongside a boardwalk that was barely raised above the ground.

“Let’s get off,” Sherlock said as the voice of the distant ticket collector bellowed: “This is Perseverance, New Jersey. Ten-minute stop, ladies and gentlemen; ten-minute stop. This is Perseverance.”

Sherlock pulled Virginia out of her seat and towards the door. Someone outside opened it, and the two of them jumped to the boardwalk.

“You get food,” he said. “You’ve got the money. I’ll check that they haven’t got off here.”

The boardwalk was crowded with people in dusty clothes made of denim, cord, or some kind of patterned cotton that looked a bit like a summer tartan. Sherlock pushed his way through them and moved into the shade of a wall. Some people were leaving the train for good, some were just leaving for a few moments, and some were getting on.

Ives exited the train with Matty. Berle, the doctor, was probably looking after the half-mad John Wilkes Booth. Matty was looking pale, but Ives seemed to be treating him reasonably well. He wasn’t pushing him around or hitting him at least, but his hand was resting on Matty’s shoulder. He pushed the boy towards a row of small wooden buildings, little bigger than a garden shed, that sat off to one side of the track. Toilets, Sherlock assumed. Probably just holes in the ground, shielded for privacy.

Ives pushed Matty into one of the outhouses and closed the door. He stood there for a moment, then walked away, grimacing and holding his hand across his face. The smell was obviously driving him away.

Sherlock ran around to the back of the outhouses and counted along to the one he thought Matty had gone into. The wood at the back was almost rotted away at the bottom. Ives had been right. The smell was nauseating.

“Matty!” he hissed through the cracks in the wood.

“Sherlock!” Matty’s voice shouted. “I saw you and Virginia on the train!”

“Did they see us?”

“No. They would have said.”

“Right.” Sherlock tested the wood at the base of the outhouse. “Help me make a hole.”

Together, with Sherlock pulling and Matty pushing, they snapped enough bits of wood off to make a hole big enough for Matty to scramble through. Sherlock grabbed his hand and pulled. Within moments the two boys were standing together.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked breathlessly.

“Better now.” Matty frowned. “I was scared on the ship, but they treated me pretty well, and they fed me. And I knew you’d come for me.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

Together they snuck along the back of the outhouses. Sherlock peered around the side. Ives was still standing off to one side, waiting.

“Where’s Virginia?” Matty asked.

“She’s getting food.”

“What about Mr. Crowe?”

“He’s back in New York,” Sherlock admitted.

“How did that happen?”

Sherlock shook his head. “A whole set of circumstances, all coming together at the same time. It wasn’t part of the plan.”

Ives wandered away, holding his nose. While his back was turned, Sherlock grabbed hold of Matty’s arm. “Come on!”

Together, the two of them ran across the open ground to the simple clapboard building that housed the ticket office and waiting room. Sherlock led Matty around the side, out of sight if Ives turned around. Virginia was there waiting for them. She handed Sherlock two twists of paper with something hot inside, then grabbed Matty and gave him a huge hug.

“I’m so glad to see you again!” she said.

Matty squeezed her back. “Me too,” he said, heartfelt.

Sherlock peered around the edge of the building. The crowd was thinning out now—people who were getting on the train there had already boarded, and people who were getting off there had already dispersed. Only a few passengers who had got off to stretch their legs and grab some food were left. The conductor was standing beside the train, looking up and down its length and checking his pocket watch. Up at the front, the driver was refilling the engine with water from a tank by the side of the track, raised up on stilts.

“All we have to do,” Sherlock said, “is wait here until the train goes, then we get the next train back to New York.”

“It’s not going to be as easy as that,” Virginia warned.

“Why not?”

She pointed back towards the outhouses. “Look!”

Berle and Ives were standing together. Ives was obviously explaining something, and Berle was looking furious.

“They’ve realized Matty has gone,” Sherlock said. “They’ll start searching.”

He was right. Berle and Ives split up, heading off in different directions. Berle went back down the length of the train, looking underneath to see if anyone was standing on the other side, while Ives stalked towards them. No, in fact he was stalking towards the station. He went inside, checking the waiting room.

“Quick!” Sherlock said. “This way!”

He led the other two back towards the train.

“We can’t get back on there!” Virginia protested.

“We have to,” he said. “Ives and Berle will check all around the station and the outhouses. If we can get on the train and then off the other side, we can make a run for it, then come back when the train has gone.”

He scrambled up the steps leading onto the train. Virginia and Matty followed. He could sense their reluctance.

Sherlock quickly moved across to the other side of the carriage and tried the handle of the door.

It was locked.

He twisted harder. No result.

Virginia was at the other door. “They’re coming back!” she called.

Sherlock glanced down the carriage. “We can get to the next door,” he said urgently. “Come on.”

Fortunately they had boarded a different carriage from the one they had left. As they pushed through the central aisle, past people who were standing up, checking their luggage, or just wandering up and down, they didn’t see any of the men they were trying to avoid.

At the far end, Sherlock checked the door leading off the train and away from the station. This one was unlocked, but as the door swung open and he prepared to jump off, he caught sight of the burly, blond Ives standing on that side of the train. He was looking away from Sherlock, out into the countryside. Sherlock pulled the door closed quickly.

Virginia was checking the station side. “The bald man is still there,” she called. “He’s checking both sides of the train.”

Outside, the conductor blew his whistle. “All aboard!” he called.

Sherlock’s brain was whirling. There was no way off.

“We’ll just have to try again at the next station,” he said decisively. “At least we’ve got Matty off them.”

The conductor’s whistle blew again, and seconds later the train jerked and began to move, slowly at first but accelerating gradually. Virginia glanced out of the window. “The bald man has got back on,” she said.

Sherlock checked out of his side. “So has Ives.”

“So everyone’s back on,” Matty pointed out. “Great. And I didn’t even get a chance to go to the toilet like I needed to.”

“At least we’ve got food,” Virginia said.

“Let’s find some seats,” Sherlock said. “Preferably as far away as possible from those men. The other end of the train, if we can.” He turned to head away, towards the rear of the train, but something in the silence behind him made him turn back.

Berle and another man whom Sherlock didn’t recognize were standing behind Virginia and Matty. They must have come along from the other carriage without their noticing.

Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder.

Ives was striding down the aisle of the carriage Sherlock had been planning to head into. He wasn’t looking happy.

“Don’t be a fool, kid,” Berle said. “Ives is angry enough already. Don’t make him worse. He kinda gets … out of control sometimes. Bad things happen then.”

Sherlock glanced back and forth between Ives and Berle. Between the devil and the deep blue sea.

His heart felt leaden in his chest. No way out. Two choices, each of which led to captivity.

No, he told himself. What would Mycroft say? What would Amyus Crowe say? When you’ve only got two choices, and you don’t like either of them, make a third choice.

He opened the door of the carriage and stepped out into the open air.

The green, lush landscape of the New Jersey countryside flashed past in a blur. He heard Virginia gasp behind him, and Ives curse. He kept his left hand gripping the door frame and his left foot wedged against the point where the frame met the floor, and as the wind whistled past him it pushed him backwards, and he swung out and around, into the area between the carriages. He’d spotted a ladder there earlier, leading up to the roof of the carriage, and he grasped for it with his right hand. His fingers closed on a rung, and he stretched with his right leg, trying to get purchase on the ladder. After what seemed like minutes but was probably only a second or two, his foot hit a rung. Releasing his grip on the doorframe, he pulled himself up the ladder.

A hand closed on his left foot before he could pull it up. He kicked downward, feeling his heel hit someone’s face. The grip released abruptly, leaving an ache behind where the fingers had clamped down hard.

Within a moment he was on top of the train.

He had to crouch and keep one hand gripping the guide rail that ran along the roof from front to back.

Ahead of him he saw the train curving away. Smoke from the funnel was streaming backwards. It made his eyes water and breathing difficult.

He hesitated for a moment. Rather than be captured he had taken the only other option—escape—but his escape was limited. He was still on the train—literally on the train—and he didn’t have a plan. No matter where he went, Ives and the other men would find him. Find him and probably kill him. And he couldn’t just escape, just jump off the train into a convenient river or something. He had to rescue Virginia and Matty.

He felt despair looming over him like a black wave, but he pushed it backwards with a massive effort of will. Time for that later. Now he had to think.

If he could scramble along the roofs of the carriages to the front of the train, then maybe he could alert the driver. Maybe he could find a way to get a message to the authorities, or get the points switched around to take them back to New York, or something. Anything!

Still crouching, he scrambled along the roof of the carriage. The wind was against him, pushing on him like a giant hand in the centre of his chest, but he pushed back. He had to. His eyes were streaming with tears where the steam was stinging them, and his breath was catching in his chest, but he couldn’t stop. Matty and Virginia depended on him.

The train shuddered over some rails, and Sherlock nearly lost his grip. He swayed back and forth for a moment or two, trying to get as low as he could, before he thought he was safe.

Well, safer, he thought, glancing around at the landscape that flashed past in green and brown blurs.

A river was coming up. He could see it ahead of the train, which was curving around towards a bridge that looked like it was made out of matchsticks. He felt his heart pounding.

And then it threatened to explode completely as Ives’s head and shoulders appeared at the junction between the carriage Sherlock was climbing along and the one ahead of it. The man must have doubled back along the carriage and climbed up the next ladder.

He pulled himself up to the roof and stood upright. The steam from the engine, pushed backwards by the wind, billowed around him like a white cloak.

“You’re not thinking straight, kid,” he yelled. “Where are you goin’? You’re safer down there with the others.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You only need one of us to threaten Amyus Crowe with,” he yelled. “And I don’t think you want to be saddled with three hostages.”

“Amyus Crowe,” Ives said. “Is that the big guy, the one in the white suit? Never knew his name till now, but he’s persistent. An’ so are you.”

“You have no idea,” Sherlock yelled, but he was scared. He glanced over his shoulder. No sign of Berle or the other man, but the chances of his being able to get away in that direction were slim. They were probably waiting for him at the next couple of carriage junctions, one of them holding Virginia, the other holding Matty.

When he turned back, Ives was holding a gun.

“You’ve got moxie, I’ll give you that,” Ives said, raising the gun to take aim.

Part of Sherlock was wondering what “moxie” was, while another part was noticing that the train was just shifting from land onto the bridge that he’d seen a few moments before. The ground below suddenly plunged away into a chasm of rock with a glittering blue ribbon at the bottom. And a third part of his brain was trying to tell him something.

Ives fired. Sherlock flinched, but the wind and the vibration had knocked Ives’s aim off, as he knew that they would, and the bullet passed harmlessly to one side.

Ives moved closer, trying to maintain his balance, and Sherlock tried to latch onto the thought that hovered just out of reach. Something he’d done recently. Something he’d bought.

The sling! Desperately he scrabbled through his pockets looking for the leather pouch with the two bits of leather thong attached that he’d bought at the notions store. Right-hand trouser pocket—no. Left-hand trouser pocket—no. Ives was getting ready to fire again. Left-hand inside jacket pocket—no, but his fingers brushed against the collection of cold ball bearings the storekeeper had given him. Ives was pointing his gun again, bracing it with his other hand. Left-hand outside jacket pocket—yes! Sherlock pulled out the sling and quickly slipped his right hand through the loop, then closed the other loop in his palm, leaving the leather pouch to hang loose.

Ives fired. The bullet whistled past Sherlock’s ear.

He delved into his pocket with his left hand, pulling out a ball bearing, and quickly slipped it into the pouch. Before Ives could react, Sherlock whirled the weighted sling around his head twice, then released the thong he was holding. The ball bearing flew towards Ives, making a gleaming line in the sky. It caught his left ear, tearing a chunk of flesh away. Ives cried out in surprise and shock as blood splattered. His eyes went wide with disbelief.

Sherlock grabbed the loose thong again and slipped another ball bearing into the pouch.

The train was in the middle of the bridge now, and Sherlock thought he could detect a sideways motion as the bridge rocked under the weight.

Ives lurched forward and shuffled towards Sherlock, hands outstretched to grab him. He appeared to have forgotten the fact that he still had a gun.

Sherlock whipped the sling around his head again, twice, and let go of the loose thong. The ball bearing shot across the narrowing gap between them, hitting Ives in the centre of his forehead and staying there, in the dent it had created. Ives fell backwards, eyes so wide that Sherlock could see white all around his pupils. His back hit the train roof and he rolled sideways, then vanished over the edge. Sherlock heard a despairing cry as he fell, and then there was nothing but the whistling of the wind and the mournful call of the train’s whistle.

Sherlock let his breathing settle and his heart calm down before he stood again and moved backwards to the junction where he had climbed up.

One down; several more to go; but he had a weapon now.

The track clattered beneath the train’s wheels as it reached the other side of the ravine. The whistle sounded again. Sherlock glanced forward, towards the engine, and saw that the line ahead split into two. One led onward, straight, while the other curved away, along the edge of the ravine.

And the train was taking the curving branch, slowing down as it passed through a gap in a fence and headed towards a station that Sherlock could see up ahead.

Not a station, he realized.

A house. A large white house. And beyond it, what looked like a series of fenced enclosures, walled areas and cages, like a private zoological exhibition.

He scrambled down the ladder as fast as he could and swung himself back into the carriage. The conductor was moving down the central aisle, pushing past the uneasy passengers, calling, “Unscheduled stop. Please do not alight. This is an unscheduled stop.”

The train drew to a halt in a long chuff of escaping steam. It stopped alongside a long veranda that was attached to the back of the house.

A group of eight or nine men were standing on the veranda.

Any hope in Sherlock’s mind that they were police, or army, vanished when Berle and the other man stepped off the train, holding Virginia and Matty firmly by the arm, and joined them.