“Rain check!” said Lynch. “Our ride is waiting.” He motioned upward toward the helicopter.
The helicopter appeared between two container stacks almost directly above them, stirring the air into a frenzy of motion and noise, all black rather than red and white. The FBI had trumped the Coast Guard. Winston saw a rope ladder waving snakelike just beyond the freighter’s railing.
Winston knew that if he tried to escape, Lynch would kill Shade. He had no choice. With despair filling his heart, he did as the agent asked.
Winston slowly walked in front of Lynch, passing so close that he could have reached out and grabbed the giant. If he’d still possessed Little e, that’s exactly what he would have done. As it was, Lynch kept the barrel of his gun pressed against Shade’s temple. Rubber bullets or not, Winston guessed that any .40-caliber shot at a one-inch range would be lethal. Everything in Lynch’s face and body said that was exactly what the man wanted.
With one hand against the containers to steady himself, Winston emerged from the cool shadows and into the lowering afternoon glare. For a second, what he saw seemed baffling. They were much closer to the Astoria shore now, and the freighter was no longer pointed downriver but sharply toward land. Just beyond the freighter’s prow lay a strange strip of water that refused to flow and ripple like the river around it. The ship was headed straight for this line of calm. They were nearly on top of it.
The helicopter’s ladder swung closer to him and banged against the ship’s railing once, twice. All he had to do was climb.
Winston faced Lynch, who held Shade between them. His friend’s lip was split and bleeding. The skin to the right of his chin was already swelling.
“Try not to worry, Shade!” he yelled. “Things could change!”
Shade’s eyes narrowed slightly. He knew something was up.
“No, I would worry!” yelled Lynch over the helicopter. He shoved Shade at Winston, and the two held weakly to each other. “Now, either move or else!”
Winston spread his legs in an apparent act of belligerence and put his back against the railing. “How do I know you won’t just kill us?”
Lynch rolled his eyes. “If I wanted you dead, you’d already be—!”
The freighter lurched as it collided with the sandbar. Winston felt the deck heave up and forward beneath him, throwing everything toward the bow. Fortunately, he was mostly ready for the impact and grabbed the railing in time. Lynch wasn’t prepared at all and half stumbled, half flew off his feet. Winston was able to get one shoe up just in time to catch the bottom of Lynch’s shin. Lynch’s gun fired, but the shot went wild over Winston’s shoulder.
Shade had enough presence of mind to grab on to Lynch as the ship’s collision shoved them both sideways. However, Shade had already picked his target. Two steps away, one of the red support girders rose from the deck to help lift the crossbeams above them. As Shade and Lynch toppled, Shade pulled down on the larger man’s lapels. Once again, Shade’s football skills made the difference, allowing him to sense where his target was even while off-balance. He hit the deck on his back but guided Lynch forward and over him. The top of the agent’s head bashed into the girder, and he was limp and unconscious even before landing awkwardly on his left arm, which gave a muted snap under his formidable weight.
Meanwhile, the shock of impact had dislodged many of the top containers, jerking them forward and toward the starboard rail. One by one, they rolled from their perches and crashed down. From the deck, it was like listening to gods rip apart the sky and beat their fists into the world. The sounds of shearing metal and thirty-ton steel containers grinding and tumbling was earsplitting. Huge gouts of water splashed up and over the far railing as cargo toppled into the river.
Winston stumble-ran to the still-struggling Shade and helped to pull him out from under Lynch’s legs, never mind the searing pain this caused in his own chest. In the process, Lynch began to stir, the pistol still held inside his limp fingers. Winston seized the opportunity, yanked the gun out of Lynch’s hand, and threw it over the side railing.
The helicopter pilot had moved off, probably wanting to stay clear of the accident in progress — an accident Winston realized he had caused by sabotaging the freighter’s engine systems. The guilt over that would have to wait.
He saw what he wanted about twenty yards down the railing and jogged over with Shade right behind him. Five white life preserver rings rested on hooks along the railing. The boys each grabbed one.
Glancing over the side, Winston guessed it was still fifty feet from the deck to the surface. This felt like an instant replay of dangling from the Astoria Bridge, staring at the gray water far below. He knew a two hundred–foot jump could be fatal, but what about fifty feet? Was that enough to break bones or shatter organs if they landed wrong, especially for Shade?
Probably. Yet didn’t cliff divers top that height all the time? Winston wasn’t sure. There wasn’t much opportunity for cliff diving in Oregon.
“Feet first,” said Winston as he threw one leg over the rail and balanced precariously. “Be sure to keep your legs together when you hit, and point your toes.”
“What if I can’t keep my legs together?” asked Shade.
Winston shook his head at him. “You really want to know?”
Shade’s brow crinkled as he slid through the railing. “Nope.”
Lynch emerged from behind a fallen container, red faced and cradling his arm. He spotted the boys and searched for his gun. His face contorted in confusion and pain, but he worked quickly to get his legs under himself.
“Now!” cried Winston.
Shade didn’t even bother to balance on the deck’s lip. They let go and jumped away from the freighter into emptiness.
21
Rock and Roll on the Road
The boys crawled ashore behind a long stand of trees that screened the water from the lumberyard beyond. They scrambled to a gap located between two towering stacks of creosote-treated logs likely destined to become telephone poles. Safe from immediate discovery, they set about wringing out their clothes and taking stock of their belongings.
There were few surprises in Winston’s two packs. Apart from his scant spare clothes and alien artifacts, he discovered a small pocketknife, a pen flashlight that held more water than charge, and a small container that hid several still-dry matches and a magnesium rod for starting fires. Winston slumped in disappointment when he confirmed that the two leather pouches containing his money and blue energy marbles were gone. All he had left was what remained in his pockets.
For his part, Shade spread out most of an outdoor sporting goods department: small, stackable pans layered with hand towels to keep them quiet; Sterno cans; three kinds of nylon string; solar panels; a disposable film camera; wet wipes; multiple knives; a blow gun; a paperback copy of Frank Herbert’s Dune; and seemingly scores of other oddities. Much of it was sealed in Ziploc baggies to safeguard against a drenching exactly like what they’d just endured.
“What didn’t you bring?” Winston asked.
Shade surveyed the ranks of knickknacks before him and shook his head. “A hair drier.”
As soon as they repacked, Shade led them along the back edge of the pier, where they would be shielded from most lumber workers and the attention that continued to mount around the grounded freighter. They kept to the gravel shoreline until they were within easy view of the Oregon Coast Highway bridge, whereupon they cut through the trees and found themselves behind a Best Western hotel. After backtracking east along downtown Astoria’s side streets, the boys found the Sunset Empire Transit station, which ran weekday buses at the top of every hour south to Cannon Beach. The last bus back to Portland had left over an hour ago. Thus, as flat, steel-gray clouds crept ashore behind them, the boys ended up on the pavement between a black pickup truck and an old, dented Honda Accord in the parking lot near the corner of Sixteenth and Commercial. At their backs squatted Custard King, a lavender-painted shop small enough to make Winsto
n’s home feel palatial.
Shade had made them walk the extra few blocks to Custard King, because “One, we need food, and, two, Custard King is a religious experience.” They both ordered King Burgers, fries, and root beer. Winston took his custard cone topped with Butterfinger sprinkles, and after the first bite, he had to lean back in his chair and admit that Shade had been completely right. If something like his beloved Burgerville’s ice cream shake was Tim Burton’s 1989 Batman, then this was Christopher Nolan’s masterful 2005 Batman Begins. This was how all soft serve should be, even if it meant shivering in damp clothes and eating huddled between cars with the FBI on their trail.
“We don’t know how far we need to go,” said Winston between mouthfuls, “but we do need to get out of here. We should consider hitchhiking.”
Shade’s eyes grew very large. “I am not comfortable with hitchhiking. Not at all. Hasn’t your mother ever warned you? Don’t you know how many crazies are out there looking to pick up boys like us?”
No, his mother had never warned him about hitchhikers, probably because he and his mom hardly ever left home. The idea that Winston would someday be in Astoria trying to thumb a ride in order to go hunting for time travel machine pieces while simultaneously avoiding any authorities must have slipped her mind.
“I’m not sure we have much choice,” said Winston. “Don’t buses have security cameras that will flag us?"
Shade thought it over, then waved a hand in dismissal. “Cameras for sure. But this is a small-town operation. I bet they’re not streaming video out wirelessly. It’ll be stored in a hard drive on the bus for at least a week, maybe even a month. We’ll be long gone, one way or another, before anyone ever looks at those files.”
As if nature had heard them and wanted to reinforce their plan, rain began to spatter all about them. The temperature had dropped ten degrees as a low-pressure front moved in. This was definitely no time to stand on a roadside, wet and shivering in the breeze, with a thumb out. The trees might have still hung thick with green fullness, but leaf edges were curling with yellow and amber. Cars passed slowly, as if weighed down by the weather’s shift.
Shade took his last bite of custard, rubbed his hands up and down his thighs for warmth, and glanced at his apocalypse-proof Casio Pro-Trek watch. “The next bus leaves in twelve minutes. We should be on it.”
The boys stuffed their garbage into the nearest trash can and backtracked five blocks to the Sunset Empire Transit station. They huddled within the covered bus shelter, an acrylic-sided stand with one bench and an opening that faced the river a mere two hundred feet away. To the west, the Astoria-Megler Bridge sat beneath a gathering swarm of press helicopters that had caught the scent of a photo-worthy ship disaster. Winston saw no sign of the black chopper that had presumably deposited Agent Lynch just before Winston’s return to 2013, but two Coast Guard vessels had already pulled up alongside the freighter, which canted awkwardly on its container-strewn sandbar. Out of almost superstitious concern for stray cameras, the boys kept their backs to the water.
After two minutes that felt like twenty, a vehicle pulled into the transit center’s crescent of bus lane. Shorter than a school bus, the vehicle was white topped, with sides depicting the Columbia River on a beautiful, sunny day. The double-peaked green bridge dominated the center. Ships, fir trees, crab rings, and colorful coiled ropes decorated the periphery. A digital sign over the darkened middle window read ROUTE 101…ASTORIA…SEASIDE…CANNON BEACH. Winston guessed that related to Highway 101, which ran along the Oregon coastline.
When the bus door slid open, three people exited, and the boys quickly tromped up the steps. The driver, a portly man with a white beard and a vest and glasses that made him look something like a green Santa Claus, gave them a keen once-over. All too aware of their disheveled appearance, Winston asked how much the fare was.
“Depends where you’re going,” said the driver.
Shade jumped in. “Seaside. We’re visiting my brother.”
“Three bucks.”
Shade pulled out his wallet, paid for them both in cash, and pocketed their tickets. The boys made their way past rows of heavily padded blue seats, and Winston couldn’t help but reflect on what an upgrade this was from their daily school bus and its bone-jarring benches. The three people they passed barely gave them a glance. In the back row, two figures slumped against each other, knitted caps pulled over their eyes, apparently sleeping. Winston and Shade took the next row up from them on the opposite side.
The driver stood, stretched, and checked the time. Winston tapped his foot impatiently and tried to be inconspicuous about searching the surrounding streets for unwanted attention.
“Relax,” said Shade quietly. “It’s forty-five minutes to Seaside.”
“Where we’ll visit…your brother?”
Shade gave a melancholy sigh. “I always wanted a brother. Had to settle for you.”
Winston couldn’t fathom how Shade managed to sit there for three minutes, hands in his lap, relaxed. He even yawned once. Winston watched every street corner, sure that some agent in a dark suit and tie would dart out at any second. When their driver lumbered down the aisle to do a final check, Winston felt his throat and chest constrict.
“How are you two doing today?” the man asked, lips barely moving behind that bushy white beard.
“Pretty good, sir,” Shade said without even the barest pause. “It’s nice to finally get some rain. Keeps Oregon green.”
The driver nodded approvingly, but his eyes crinkled. Was he suspicious of them? After all, it hadn’t rained enough to explain how damp they still were.
“That’s right,” said the man. He cast a quick glance at the still-napping pair in the back row. “Well. Should be a quick run to Seaside. Let’s get to it.”
Winston managed a faint smile. He didn’t even realize how rigid he was in his seat until the driver, with one last check of his watch, turned over the ignition and pulled away from the curb. Winston let out a long breath and felt his shoulders droop.
“Dang, dude!” Shade swatted at Winston’s leg with the back of his hand. “You need to chill. Maybe you should grab a nap.”
“Yeah, ‘cause I’m so sleepy.” Winston stretched his head from side to side, feeling his neck crackle through the tension. “How about we look at those pictures instead?”
Winston removed the Ziploc bag from his inside jacket pocket. After climbing ashore, Winston had been immensely relieved to find the baggie’s seal intact. Now, he opened the zipper and spread the three photos on his lap. Their color was somewhat faded, and each of the three-by-five-inch prints bore rounded corners in that odd 1970s style.
The first picture showed the blue, cloud-dotted sky with the letter V. Shade’s first response was to flash two fingers up and say, “Peace, man.”
“I doubt that’s it,” Winston replied.
He spread out the next two images, the candlestick on the altar and the bookshelves with their headphones and other odds and ends. They pored over this last one intently, as it seemed to hold the most possible clues. Why so many blurry background objects? Were any of the books significant? Why a clock, besides the obvious reference to time and/or time travel?
“Your old man,” grumbled Shade. “A little too clever for our own good.”
“I keep thinking about this red LED lettering,” said Winston. “Theo couldn’t think of anything, but I’m wondering if it means light-emitting diode. Did they even have LEDs back then?”
“That’s Led Zeppelin I, son!”
Both boys started at the raspy, almost musical voice behind them. The pictures tumbled from Winston’s lap, and he ended up flailing after them as if swatting at flies. Shade raised his hands defensively, shifting in his seat to face their possible attacker.
It was one of the two people from the row behind them. He couldn’t have been more than twenty, with a scraggly swath of week-old fuzz along his jawline and his knitted cap perched above eyebrows raised in surprise
and humor. Winston spotted his companion, still slumped in her window seat, but now watching them with an air of tired annoyance.
“Sorry, what?” said Winston. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Just a sec or two,” he said. “You guys sounded like you were working on a puzzle or something. I’m good with puzzles. That thing you were looking at? It’s the cover for Led Zeppelin’s first LP.”
“LP?” asked Shade.
“Long play.” The guy glanced to the heavens and gave a short hwa-hwa-hwaa chuckle. “Albums. Vinyl. Oh, kids these days.”
Winston and Shade exchanged a confused glance, unsure what to make of this newcomer.
“My name’s Elvis,” he said, giving them another expectant eyebrow lift.
Winston hesitated. “I’m…”
“Winston Chase,” Elvis finished for him. “I know.”
Both boys froze. Winston knew the shock had to be plain on his face. Elvis simply stood over them, one hand on each of their chairbacks, lips parted and eyes large with anticipation.
“How do you…?” Winston trailed off, still unsure what to risk saying.
“You’re famous, bro!” Elvis cast a glance back at his companion and winked. “Told you it was them.” He pulled out his phone, tapped a few times at the screen, and turned it around for them to see.
As much as Winston had dreaded discovery by the FBI or Bledsoe, in some ways, this was worse. The picture showed Winston and Shade next to their clothes baskets in the Shifford gymnasium locker room. The frame revealed Winston, dressed only in Shade’s Dallas Cowboys towel, eyes locked on the camera with an expression frozen in guilty panic. His right buttock glowed blue through the towel. Just behind him, the fully naked Shade had his critical parts blocked by Winston’s body. He had one arm reaching around Winston, perhaps to wave off their onlookers, but in the awkwardness of a still capture, he seemed to be groping for Winston’s bare waist. Shade’s eyes were caught half-closed, and, with his lips pursed in mid-word, he might have been leaning forward to give Winston’s shoulder a kiss. Superimposed on the image were the words: RADIOACTIVE DWEEBS… STILL A BETTER LOVE STORY THAN TWILIGHT.
Winston Chase and the Theta Factor Page 16
