The pavement beneath Sylvester’s wheels twisted and turned, taking him past businesses, into and out of neighborhoods, and finally onto the bike path that went through an area of rolling hills and empty fields. After a while, he looked up and realized he didn’t know where he was—or how he’d gotten there.
He stopped, wondering what he should do.
Just then, he heard a familiar sound. Thock! Somewhere nearby, someone had just hit a baseball; he was sure of it. But where?
Thock!
It’s coming from up ahead! He pushed off toward the sound. He figured whoever was hitting those balls could give him directions back to town.
He rounded a corner and spotted a man standing in a tree-rimmed baseball field. There were bases marking the diamond, but the area looked as if it hadn’t been in use for some time.
The field’s condition didn’t seem to bother the man, however. He hefted a wooden baseball bat above his shoulder, tossed a ball high in the air, and swung.
Thock!
Syl whistled softly. The man had an unusual grip, with his hands spread apart on the bat rather than close together, but his swing was powerful. The ball didn’t soar into the sky. Instead, it sizzled straight into the trunk of a big oak tree. When it hit, birds flew from the branches above and leaves fluttered to the ground below.
Syl barely noticed, however. He was too busy staring at the man in open-mouthed amazement.
The second after he’d hit the ball, the man let go of his bat and took off at a full sprint. He rounded first base and continued to second. Then he dropped into a classic slide—feet first, bottom leg bent, top leg stretched out to touch the bag. The metal spikes on the soles of his shoes winked in the late afternoon sunlight and then disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Syl waited until the man hopped to his feet before speaking. “Boy, I wish I could move like that!”
The man whirled around, a look of surprise on his face. Sylvester blinked in sudden recognition. It was the man from the game, the one with the jug-handle ears!
“Hey, weren’t you at the Orioles-Jackdaws…” Sylvester started to ask. But then he caught the man’s expression and left the rest of his question unfinished.
The look of surprise hardened into the same angry scowl that the man had worn during the game. Sylvester dropped his eyes. As he did, he saw something on the man’s pant leg that made him suck in his breath.
Spots of blood were mingling with the grass and dirt stains on the material. Syl realized that the man was wearing old-fashioned baseball pants—ones that had no padding whatsoever!
That slide must have scraped the skin clean off his leg! he thought.
“How you?” the man suddenly barked.
Syl started, looked up, and met a gaze so penetrating that he turned tongue-tied.
“S-s-sorry if I—I was wondering if you could point me back toward town?” he finally managed to say. “But I guess I could just retrace my steps.” He started to turn his bike around, feeling foolish for not having thought of that sooner.
“Stop right there!” The man had a slight Southern accent, like the characters in a Civil War movie Syl had once seen. But it wasn’t his accent that kept Syl rooted to the spot—it was his tone. He was a man who expected to be obeyed.
The man’s eyes bored into Syl as if he were trying to see into Syl’s mind.
“I know who you are,” he said at last. “You’re Sylvester Coddmyer the Third. You hit home runs.”
Syl’s mouth turned as dry as dust. “How do you know who I am?”
“How do I know who you are?” the man echoed Sylvester’s question mockingly. “I’ve got ears, don’t I?”
Sylvester remembered then how the photographer had yelled his name and mentioned his past home run history. The man must have overheard that back at the game. How else would he know who I am?
Unless… Syl felt a familiar tingling crawl up his spine. He eyed the man’s old-fashioned baseball clothes. Could he be another part of my mystery?
“So you were some kind of home run hitter once, huh?” The man shrugged dismissively. “Can’t say I’m too impressed by that. Any baboon can hit a home run. Now base hits, those are harder to knock out regularly. Bet a certain someone you know never told you that though, did he?”
Syl’s heart gave a sudden bang in his chest. “A certain someone? Do you mean… Mr. Baruth?”