by Dave Barry
“Probably?” said Aidan.
Sarah ignored him. “The point is, we’re in danger,” she said. “And a whole lot more people are probably in danger too. And all we’re doing about it is running away. We don’t know what else we can do. But we can’t keep running forever. We really, really need to find somebody who can help us. So if you can, or if you know somebody who can, or if you know anything, please…” Sarah stopped; she was determined not to cry.
The phone was silent for several seconds. Then Mac said, “You’re right, Sarah. I apologize. The John Aster I knew would have wanted me to help.”
“Thank you,” whispered Sarah.
“I warn you,” said Mac, “I don’t know how much use this information will be,” said Mac. “But here goes. J.D., did you ever hear the name Pete Carmoody?”
J.D. frowned, then said, “Yeah…my dad used to talk about him. He was a maintenance man, right? Kind of a legendary character, worked for the Physics Department?”
“He was more than a maintenance man,” said Mac. “Much more.”
“How so?”
“Pete Carmoody held degrees in physics, mathematics, and electrical engineering. He forgot more about quantum mechanics than most professors will ever know.”
“Then why on earth did he work as a maintenance m—oh. He wasn’t a maintenance man.”
“No. That was a cover, an excuse to be around the physics lab, so he could work on Rosey.”
“Rosey?”
“That’s what they called the device. I’m talking about Einstein, Pete, and your grandfather. They were working on modifying it, totally hush-hush, when I joined the faculty. After your grandfather got to know me, he swore me to secrecy and asked me to help them with some calculations. It was a great honor.”
“Why were they modifying it?” said J.D.
“It had already served its original purpose, which was to relocate the island. But they no longer needed it for anything that massive. They wanted to make a smaller, more transportable version to be used purely as a portal to the island.”
“How small?” said J.D.
“I never saw the finished version,” said Mac. “After I’d done the calculations, they thanked me and told me, politely, that I was no longer needed. I’d gladly have done more—it was a fascinating project—but your grandfather wouldn’t hear of it; he said the less I knew, the safer I’d be. But if I had to guess, based on the early plans, I’d say the new Rosey would be about the size of a household refrigerator.
It couldn’t have been much bigger because of where they kept it.”
“Where was that?” said J.D.
Mac chuckled. “I wasn’t supposed to know,” he said, “but I have good reason to believe that it spent the next few decades in Pete Carmoody’s basement.”
“What?”
“Yes. He had a room down there, very well secured, never let anybody in, not even his wife. I found that quite amusing, especially as time went on—the most astonishing technological achievement in human history, sitting in a basement that belonged to a guy who walked around in grease-stained overalls.”
“Is it still there?” said Aidan.
“I don’t believe so. Einstein died in 1955. The year after that, Pete quit and moved south. I’m pretty sure he took Rosey with him.”
“Why do you think that?” said J.D.
“Because he drove the moving truck himself. I saw him off; he had a big rig, looked to me like a custom trailer—all reinforced steel, massive locks. Pete’s wife, Fay, was most unhappy about it. She wanted professional movers. But he insisted. Gave me a wink as he pulled away. I think he knew I knew.”
Sarah and J.D. asked the next question simultaneously: “Where did he move to?”
“Florida,” said Mac. “Little town called Kissimmee.”
J.D. said, “And that was in nineteen…” “…fifty-six,” said Mac. “And how old was he then?” “Mid forties, I guess.” “So he’s probably not still alive.” “I assume not, but I don’t know. I don’t even know if he stayed in Florida. I sent him a couple of letters. Never heard back.”
“Professor,” said Sarah. “Let’s say the machine…Rosey…still exists. Would it still work?”
“I don’t know,” said Mac.
“But if it did work,” persisted Sarah, “would a person be able to use it to get to the island?”
“I suppose so,” said Mac. “Theoretically, at least. The problem would be the energy source. Rosey doesn’t run on electricity. To establish a stable bridge, you need something far more powerful.”
“An exotic substance,” said J.D.
“Yes.”
“The kind of substance that could, even in minute quantities, cause a police van to fly?” The speaker emitted a chuckle. “Something like that, yes,” said Mac. J.D., Sarah, and Aidan were all looking at the backpack now.
“One more thing, professor,” said Sarah.
“Yes?”
“How dangerous would it be? Using the bridge, I mean.”
Mac paused, then answered, “I don’t know. As I said, I was removed from the project before they finished the modification. I don’t know whether they ever actually used it.”
“So,” said Sarah, “you don’t know whether anybody ever got from here to the island alive.”
“No,” said Mac. “And there’s something else you might want to consider.”
“What’s that?”
“Even if you could get to the island,” Mac said, “I don’t know if there’s any mechanism there for getting you back.”
“Yikes,” said Aidan.
“Exactly,” said Mac. “If you’re even thinking about trying to use the bridge, you must…excuse me, I think there’s somebody at the door.” From the speaker came the sound of pounding and voices shouting.
“Mac?” said J.D. “What’s happening? Are you all right?” There was no answer from the speaker; only a crashing sound, and more shouting.
“Mac!” said J.D. “Are you okay?” Mac’s voice was low, rushed: “I have to hang up now.” “Why?” said J.D. “What’s going on?” “The police are here. Don’t call back.”
CHAPTER 23
CLOSING IN
DUSK CAUGHT THEM IN CENTRAL GEORGIA, headed for Kissimmee, Florida, where, according to directory assistance, there was one listing for the name “Carmoody,” first initial F. They’d stopped at a public library in an Atlanta suburb and used the Internet to look up the address. They decided, after some discussion, not to call ahead, but to simply show up and hope for the best.
They’d been using back roads, avoiding the interstate, assuming that since the police knew about Mac, they also knew about the Volvo. As darkness fell they stopped at a gas station to buy gas, Cheez-Its, Ding Dongs, and Red Bull. Back on the road, Aidan and Sarah resumed a debate they’d been having, on and off, since they left Mac’s cabin.
“I think it’s crazy,” said Aidan, not for the first time.
“Fine, then you don’t have to do it,” said Sarah, also not for the first time.
“I’m not afraid, if that’s what you’re saying.”
“I’m not saying that.”
“But we could get killed,” said Aidan. “Or stuck there. Right, J.D.?”
“That’s what Mac said,” said J.D.
“Fine,” said Sarah. “So neither of you has to go. I’ll go alone.”
“But why?” said Aidan. “There has to be some other—”
“Listen,” snapped Sarah. She turned to face Aidan in the backseat. “I’ll make this as simple as I can.” She lifted the backpack. “He wants this. It’s my fault he found out about it. He won’t stop until he gets it. If he gets it, he could do very bad things. So I’m going to put it in the one place where he can’t get it. Understand?”
The car was silent for a few moments, then Aidan said, “I still think it’s crazy.”
“If you guys keep arguing about this,” said J.D., “you can walk to Florida.”
“All right
,” said Sarah. “But just tell me—do you think I’m crazy?”
“I think we need more information. We don’t know if the bridge still exists, or if it does, what condition it’s in. We have no idea how it works. We don’t even know who this F. Carmoody is in Kissimmee.”
“Mac said Pete’s wife was named Fay,” said Sarah. “It has to be her.”
“Not necessarily,” said J.D. “It could be a daughter or son who doesn’t know anything about any of this. Or some random person who happens to be named Carmoody.”
Sarah stared out the window and watched a mile marker, lit by the headlights, flash past.
“Whoever it is,” she said, “I hope they can help us.”
Despite the alertness and prompt action of TV-watching toll attendant Sam Cleavy, it had taken nearly three hours for his report to work its way through various turnpike and law-enforcement bureaucracies to the FBI, which was now handling the investigation because it involved interstate flight—not to mention a flying police van.
The owner of the green Volvo was quickly identified as a retired Princeton professor, who was brought in for questioning, but was not cooperating. The FBI had also put the license plate of the green Volvo onto a watch list; computers were screening tens of thousands of digitized license plates captured over a seven-state area by cameras like the one at the toll booth, looking for the Volvo plate.
They got one hit fairly quickly; the Volvo had been caught on camera heading southbound on I-81 in Maryland. But the photo was hours old; by the time it was discovered, the car was presumably long gone from the area.
The next day brought two more hits: one in South Carolina, then another in Georgia, both times on less-traveled roads. Again, the timing was delayed too much to pinpoint the Volvo’s current location. But it was clearly still headed south.
The fourth hit was taken just outside Daytona Beach, Florida. Then came a lucky break; an alert cashier at a Chipper Whipper gas station near Orlando recognized both J.D. and Sarah, and called the police quickly. The FBI notified its Orlando office and the local police; as a courtesy, the FBI also informed the police in Princeton. The trail was hot again. The investigation was closing in. Apprehension was imminent.
The sergeant, wearing dark sunglasses, stood in the back of the crowded briefing room of the Princeton police station house. He had not left the station—for that matter, had not slept—since the investigation began into the abduction of the two children. Some of the other officers, noticing his odd behavior, as well as the glasses, had asked him if he was okay; he had brushed them off with a grunt. But he was not known as a talkative man anyway; nobody paid much attention to him amid all the excitement.
The sergeant listened intently to the briefing. The green Volvo had been tracked to central Florida; the FBI was hot on the trail. An arrest was expected soon. At the end of the briefing he went outside and wandered, apparently aimlessly. It didn’t occur to him to look down, but if he had he would have seen he didn’t cast a shadow.
He turned a corner onto a deserted street. He came to a large oak and stopped beneath it, waiting—he wasn’t sure why, or for what. There was a sound above him, and suddenly he was surrounded by a swirling storm of black birds, the beating wings forcing him to close his eyes, the sound deafening him. He wanted to run but could not move. He felt as if something was being sucked from inside him, as if his brains were being drawn out of his skull.
The birds were gone as quickly as they’d come, rising like a column of twisting smoke. The sergeant slumped to the sidewalk, moaning, unconscious.
He lay there for a minute, then moaned and opened his eyes. He looked around, blinking. He had no idea how he got there—in fact no memory of the past day, or more.
He rose unsteadily and began stumbling back toward the police station.
Lester Armstrong had been living in his Escalade, waiting for something to break. At the moment he was behind the wheel eating a cheeseburger, trying to keep the juice from dripping onto his lap.
His cell phone rang in mid-mouthful.
“Hrr-urr?” he said.
“It’s me.”
Armstrong recognized the whispering voice of his new pal, a Princeton police corporal he had befriended by means of a pair of excellent tickets to a Knicks-Heat game.
“Whaddya got?” said Armstrong, swallowing.
“They’re in Florida. Orlando. This guy is baked. It’s only a matter of time. My guess is sometime tonight, maybe tomorrow.”
“The parents?” Armstrong asked.
“Being briefed now, as I understand it. Mother is pretty upset. Not so sure she could travel like that even if she wanted to.”
“So they extradite back to New Jersey, or what?”
“That right there is for the lawyers. Listen, I gotta get off the phone.”
“So do I.”
Armstrong disconnected and hit the speed-dial number for the Coopers. He glanced at his watch as he listened to the phone ringing.
C’mon, answer, he thought. I got a plane to catch.
CHAPTER 24
FEED THE BIRD
AFTER STOPPING AT A CHIPPER WHIPPER for gas and junk food, they drove the rest of the way to Kissimmee, reaching it just before dawn. They pulled to the side of a rural road and dozed in the car, waiting for a decent hour to go calling on F. Carmoody.
The blazing sun awoke them. It was only mid-morning, but almost ninety degrees. Hot, sticky, and grumpy, they drove to the address they’d gotten from the Internet—a one-story brick house set amid a clump of trees in an older neighborhood along Old Dixie Highway. The mailbox said carmoody.
J.D. pulled to the curb, killed the engine, took a breath, let it out. “I’ll talk first,” he said.
Sarah and Aidan followed him up the walk. He rang the doorbell. They waited. Nothing. He rang the bell again, longer. Nothing. He was about to ring it again when they heard shuffling footsteps approaching and a frail voice calling, “Coming, coming.”
The door was opened by a tiny old lady. She had paper-white hair and piercing blue eyes, and was wearing a prim, navy-blue dress. She regarded the sweaty trio doubtfully.
“Is this about magazines?” she said. “Because I have too many magazines already.”
“No ma’am,” said J.D. “This is about Pete Carmoody.”
The woman frowned. “What about him?” she said. “Who are you?”
“I’m John Aster’s grandson.”
The suspicion disappeared from the woman’s face, replaced by a radiant smile. “John Aster’s grandson! My goodness, you do look like John.” She looked at Sarah and winked. “He was a very handsome man.”
“So you’re…Mrs. Carmoody?” J.D. said.
“Pete was my husband, yes. He’s passed on,” she said, extending a frail hand. “Fay.”
“J.D. Aster,” he said. They clasped hands; he could feel the delicate bones beneath her skin.
“And these young people are…”
“These are, uh, family friends,” said J.D. “Sarah and Aidan Cooper.”
“Well, you just come right in,” said Fay. “I’ll make us some lemonade.”
It took her a while; she did not move quickly, and she used real lemons. But the lemonade was delicious; Aidan, Sarah, and J.D. quietly savored it and the welcome sanctuary of the cool and peaceful house while Mrs. Carmoody chatted happily about her memories of Princeton.
“But listen to me, going on and on,” she said, finally. “Tell me, what brings you young people to Kissimmee?”
J.D. said, “We wanted to ask you about something your husband might have brought down here with him from Princeton.” Something flickered in Mrs. Carmoody’s eyes, and for a fraction of a second her smile faded. When it returned it looked just the slightest bit forced.
“What do you mean, something he brought?” she said.
“Um, the thing is, I don’t really know what it looked like,” said J.D. “But it would have been a machine of some sort. A special machine, very unusual.”<
br />
Mrs. Carmoody shook her head. “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” she said. “Pete didn’t talk to me about his work.”
Sarah leaned forward and said, “But do you know if maybe he kept a…special machine, here? In this house?”
Mrs. Carmoody was looking down at her hands. “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she said. The room fell into an uncomfortable silence.
J.D., Sarah, and Aidan exchanged Now what? looks. Mrs. Carmoody looked up, her smile gone. “Well,” she said. “It certainly was nice of you to stop by.” She stood and began shuffling toward the front door.
They had no choice but to follow. The visit was over.
Mrs. Carmoody opened the door. “Good-bye,” she said.
“One more thing,” said J.D., stalling.
“Yes?”
“Um, did Pete…I mean, Mister Carmoody, did he ever mention anything about a bridge?”
She shook her head.
“What about ‘Rosey’?” said Aidan. “Did he say the name ‘Rosey’?”
“No,” said Mrs. Carmoody. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She opened the door wider.
J.D. stepped out, followed by Aidan. Sarah started to follow, then stopped in front of Mrs. Carmoody, looking down into the old lady’s eyes.
“Please,” she said. “We’ve come a long way, and we really need to know…”
“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Carmoody. “I can’t help you.”
Sarah sighed. “All right,” she said. “Thank you for the lemonade.”
She stepped outside. Mrs. Carmoody started to close the door. As she did, Sarah caught a glimpse of something glinting just below the high neckline of Mrs. Carmoody’s dress. She stuck her foot out, stopping the door. “Wait a minute,” she said.
“Please remove your foot,” said Mrs. Carmoody, anger creeping into her voice. Sarah didn’t answer; she was fumbling with her T-shirt collar.
“Young lady, if you don’t remove your foot, I’m going to call…” She stopped, staring openmouthed at Sarah, who held, dangling from its chain, the golden locket J.D. had given her.
