Here by Mistake Page 22

  Reginald shuddered at the story. “That could happen to me. But . . . I won’t see you anymore. After you run into the niche tonight, you’re gone.”

  “You’ll see me in 2005,” Brandon said uneasily. “You just won’t be nine.”

  “That’s no good. That’s too long. And you hate me in 2005.”

  The stabbing pain returned, and Brandon pressed his palms to his eyes. “I . . . didn’t tell you all of it,” he said quietly. “I ripped into you all those times you ripped into me. You’re fat in 2005, and I ripped you for it. I did it behind your back and I did it to your face, in front of my friends. The day we went through the niche I did it so bad you flipped out and cried. And you were fifty. If I think back, everything you ever did, I did too. I didn’t know you, and I didn’t want to. Now I know you and . . . I . . . know more than I used to. If we get back, I don’t know. But I won’t hate you. And I’m the one who’s sorry.”

  Reginald took in every word. “Zowie,” he whispered. “This time travel stuff’s no joke.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  They were quiet for a time. Reginald was twisting and untwisting his sneaker laces when suddenly he broke into a smile. “I’m lucky. Jack Halstead and the other kids never met time travelers, but I did. Maybe I’m a loser, but I know time travelers.”

  “You’re not a loser,” Brandon said. “Don’t ever say that. I don’t think you’re lucky, either. But for sure you’re not a loser.” He took the keys from his pocket and laid them across Reginald’s knee. “If you walk out now with those, we’re done,” he said, nodding at the front door. “If you let us use them, we might get home. Our time travel’s up to you. Show me the loser who’s got it like that.”

  Reginald gave a start and his keys hit the floor. He picked them up and set them on Brandon’s knee. “I can’t go to 2005,” he said sadly, “but I want to go to Kingsworth.”

  Quint, Stephen, and Sarah came into the room. Brandon stood up and tossed the keys to Quint. “Reginald’s not coming to 2005,” he announced, “but he’s coming with us to the factory.” He braced himself for an argument.

  “Sounds good,” Quint said. “We leave at six thirty.”

  The grandfather clock had not finished chiming the half-hour before Reginald had the front door open. Everyone pulled on their jackets. Stephen donned his backpack. “Okay,” Quint said, and they stepped into the freezing night.

  No one spoke on the walk up to Broadway. Brandon and Sarah were following Quint and Stephen. Then Reginald inserted himself next to Brandon, and Sarah dropped back to give everyone more room. Brandon watched Quint’s breath rising in the night air. Quint was the locomotive; they were the train. And this train was going all the way to 2005.

  Turning onto Broadway, they passed several closed shops and one open bar. The only people in sight were a few men inside the bar and one outside, leaning against the building. Then Kingsworth Shoes came into view across the street. The rooftop sign was brightly lit, but the front was dark except for a single light over the entrance. Quint made no move to cross the street.

  “Hey,” Brandon said.

  Quint beckoned him forward. “We’ll pass it and cut over t’the back,” he whispered. “Not so many street lights.”

  Two blocks on they crossed Broadway and continued north on Mill Street. At Springfield Avenue they turned right and headed back to the factory. Springfield Avenue was indeed much darker than Broadway. A sharp rise in the sidewalk stopped Reginald’s foot and sent him flying. Brandon caught him and set him back on his feet. Sarah craned her neck to see past Quint. Then she checked behind her. She saw no one.

  Brandon leaned to Quint’s ear. “Does the factory have motion detectors?” he whispered.

  “What detectors?”

  “Never mind,” Brandon said, grateful for once for 1965’s primitive technology.

  They crossed a driveway leading to the Kingsworth parking area and continued along the rear of the factory. Coming to a break in the wall, Quint stepped off the sidewalk to read a sign under a spotlight. “Employee entrance,” he whispered. They turned into the break.

  A walkway led them to a pair of steel doors, the handles of which were chained and padlocked. Quint took out Reginald’s keys and pushed the first one into the lock. It turned easily and the lock clicked. Quint carefully drew the chain through the handles and handed it to Stephen. Then he slid the second key into the right-hand door and released the deadbolt. “Go,” he whispered when he had the door open halfway. Everyone hustled inside. Quint followed and closed the door behind him.

  They were in complete darkness. Quint snapped on his flashlight and reset the deadbolt. Then he turned around and his light revealed a massive wood door. “It’s an anteroom,” he said, handing Brandon the flashlight. “Point it there, B.” Brandon aimed the beam at the doorknob, and Quint took Reginald’s last key in hand. The lock clicked and the door swung forward. Everyone stepped inside. Quint closed the door behind him and relocked it.

  They stood at the edge of the factory floor. Far down the center aisle the south wall’s frosted windows were glowing from Broadway’s lights. Lamps left on in cubicles along the east and west walls were throwing enough light for them to move about. Quint switched off his flashlight.

  “That was easy.” Brandon smiled.

  “Uh-huh,” Quint said, clearly in no mood for jokes. “My man, give me the chain.” Stephen handed it to him, and he tucked it behind a storage cabinet to the right of the wood door. “Remind me t’get it when we go,” he told Reginald. Then he looked about him. “Okay, where’s the space y’mom rents out?”

  “Over here,” Reginald said. He led the way past six benches of machines with stiff sheets stretched across them.

  “Leather,” Brandon murmured, smoothing his hand over one of the sheets as he walked by.

  “And machine oil,” Stephen said, sniffing the air.

  They followed a conveyor belt to the loading platform and turned into an area with no benches or machines. Reginald stepped through an opening in an unpainted plywood partition and pointed to the darkness ahead of him. Quint snapped on his flashlight and swept it over the area. The light danced across at least twenty crates, stacked three high.

  Brandon ran to the first stack. “I need the flashlight,” he said excitedly. Quint hurried over and shined the light where he was pointing. The scrawled word “BIRMINGHAM” jumped out at them. “Look,” Brandon exclaimed, “it’s Aunt Faye’s stuff.”

  “Keep y’voice down, B,” Quint said. “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.”

  They checked the stacks and searched the surrounding area. Then they checked the stacks and searched the area again. The niche was not there.

  Sarah covered her face with her hands. “Oh, no.”

  “Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Quint muttered.

  “It’s here,” Brandon insisted. “They must’ve put it out on the floor.”

  “Why don’t we just check the whole place?” Stephen said.

  Quint threw up his hands. “What the hell. We’re here.”

  They returned to the machine floor and walked the perimeter, shining the light into every space large enough for the niche. Then they worked their way up and down the rows of tables, benches, and machines.

  Twice Reginald exclaimed, “There,” when the light bounced off stainless steel.

  “No, Reginald,” Brandon said. “The niche is yellow.”

  They finished at the loading platform. Reginald took the flashlight and checked under the conveyor belt. Then he climbed up on the platform and swept the light over the wall. Wide, black strips hanging over the openings to the loading dock blocked the beam. “That’s okay, the niche wouldn’t fit in those,” Brandon said. Reginald gave him the flashlight and slid himself off the platform.

  Quint was leaning against the conveyor belt, head bowed and hands in his pockets. Brandon went up to him. “Hey.”

  Quint looked up, but his attention was drawn to the door t
hey had come in by. “Did y’all hear . . . ?” A muffled slam confirmed his fear. “Oh, no. Someone’s comin’. Quick! Up there.” He swung Sarah up onto the platform. Then he helped Reginald, who had slipped in a panic to climb back up. Brandon and Stephen hoisted themselves, and Quint did likewise. “B, get in there,” Quint said, pointing to the first opening. “Stephen, get in that one. Reginald, that one. Sarah, there.” Each pushed through a set of black strips. “Don’t talk, don’t even breathe,” Quint whispered frantically. He threw himself into the last opening.

  And just in time. The massive wood door opened, and two figures stepped onto the factory floor. Brandon peered between the strips and saw the bigger one point a flashlight at the wall. “Here it is,” he heard a husky voice say. The figure punched several buttons, and overhead lights turned the factory from night to day.

  Brandon’s heart sank when he saw the figure was wearing a blue uniform and a badge. The officer switched off his flashlight and pushed it through his belt, next to his pistol. His black crew-cut head turned slowly around. His companion, small and thin with wispy gray hair, unzipped his flannel jacket. Brandon recognized him as the man who had been standing outside the bar an hour before.

  “This is a wild goose chase, Robbo,” the officer said.

  The small man wheezed and waved his arms. “Off’cer Doug, I saw ’em. Dey looked odd when dey passed by, an’ sure ’nuff, when I cut troo da parkin’ lot, I saw ’em go inta da back door.”

  Officer Doug eyed him skeptically.

  “An’ I came an’ gotcha real quick,” Robbo said proudly.

  “You should’ve stayed at Mulligan’s and finished what you started. There’s no one here.”

  Robbo’s eyes bulged and he stuck out his chin. “Ya callin’ me drunk?”

  Officer Doug looked down at the floor and then got in his face. “Bingo,” he said loudly, sending Robbo two faltering steps back. “If I lit a match in front of you this whole place would go up.” He nodded at the general manager’s cubicle. “The payroll went out Friday. Anything else in here worth taking needs a forklift to move.”

  “Da chain’s gone,” Robbo insisted.

  “I don’t know anything about a chain. The doors were locked.”

  “Well, mebbe . . . mebbe dey got keeeys.”

  Officer Doug made his eyes bulge like Robbo’s. “Mebbe dey got keeeys,” he sneered. “And maybe you’re crazy as hell.” He thrust his palm in Robbo’s face. “Just shut up. We’re looking around, and then we’re getting the hell out of here.”

  Officer Doug turned on his heel and strode to the east wall. Robbo pushed his hands into his pockets and sulkily followed him. They checked the managers’ workspaces and the other cubicles along the wall. Then they walked the rows of tables, benches, and machines. Officer Doug kept shaking his head and muttering things Brandon couldn’t hear, and Robbo kept insisting he’d had “n’ere a drop” since four o’clock. By the time they reached the west wall Officer Doug had quickened his step. Brandon heard him mutter, “Drunk as a damn skunk” as he hastened past the loading platform.

  Robbo heard him too, and stopped at the platform. “I ain’t drunk,” he yelled ahead of him.

  “Right, Robbo,” Officer Doug called from the plywood partition.

  Brandon was crouched on metal rollers and his right knee was killing him. He tried shifting his weight, but before he could right himself his left foot flew back and hit the steel roll-down door to the dock. The bang spun Robbo around. Brandon dropped his face into his hands.

  “Off’cer Doug,” Robbo yelled. “Com’ere quick.”

  “What is it?”

  “Com’ere, I’earda bang.”

  Brandon’s chest was pounding. He forced himself to look between the strips.

  Officer Doug walked slowly back from the partition. “You heard a bang,” he said nastily. “I’ve got half a mind to shoot you. Then you’d hear a bang.”

  Robbo waved his finger at the openings. “It came frum dare.”

  Officer Doug glanced across the platform. Brandon was sure he was looking him dead in the eye. In a second he’d order him to come on out. With his hands up. Brandon felt the hot sweat on his face and closed his eyes.

  At that moment an unmuffled engine revved up out in the parking lot. The sound roared through the openings and filled the area around the platform. As it died away Officer Doug wheeled on Robbo. “A bang you say? Those let out to the loading dock. Some damn hot-rodder’s horsing around out in the parking area.” Then he checked his watch and muttered a curse. “That’s it, we’re going. Now.”

  “But . . . but . . .”

  “Now, damn it,” Officer Doug shouted. “I should’ve known better than to let you drag me over here.”

  “But . . .”

  Officer Doug marched to the door and hit the buttons on the switch plate. The factory floor settled back into twilight. “Coming?” he called. “Before I arrest you for trespassing?” He opened the door and stepped into the anteroom.

  Robbo scurried after him. Brandon heard cries of, “I ain’t drunk,” until the door slammed shut.

  “Y’all stay put ’til the outside door shuts,” Quint whispered from his opening.

  A few seconds later they heard the steel door slam. Quint, Brandon, and Stephen stepped out of their openings. Sarah had a little problem with the rollers and crawled out on her hands and knees. Reginald had a bigger problem with the rollers: he slipped on them and flew through the strips, landing face down on the platform.

  “Oh! Are you okay?” Sarah asked.

  Reginald rolled over on his back. “Zowie, that was neat,” he said, giggling. “That was the neatest thing.”

  “Zowie, neat, swell,” Brandon murmured as he slid himself off the platform. He went up to Quint but couldn’t look at him. “I . . . I almost got us c-caught.”

  Quint threw an arm over his shoulder. “It’s okay, B. Remember, I hate a borin’ life.” He looked around at the others. “Everyone okay?”

  Stephen hitched his backpack to his shoulder. “Yes, sir.”

  Sarah gave him several quick nods.

  Reginald was still on his back, giggling. Then he stopped and asked in a peculiar voice, “Mr. Coster, can I have the light?”

  Quint snapped on his flashlight and gave it to him. Reginald ran the beam across the ceiling to where the plywood partition joined the west wall. A large object in a wood frame had been hoisted and was hanging by ropes. The beam struck the object with a flash of amber.

  Brandon nearly fell over the conveyor belt. Stephen dropped his backpack. Sarah stared open-mouthed and Quint did the same.

  “Well, lookie there,” Reginald said, running the beam up and down the frame. The object glinted at them as if in greeting.

  “I’ll be damned,” Quint whispered, taking back the flashlight. “Let’s get t’work, folks.”

  They found the braces on the wall where the ropes had been tied off. Quint loosened the knots and, with Brandon and Stephen, slowly let the lines out. The object descended and came to rest on the floor with a heavy bump. Brandon, Stephen, and Reginald leaned it back against the wall. Quint shined his flashlight and the words NARRO SOMNIUM blazed back at him. Sarah squealed. Brandon and Stephen clasped hands. There was no question.

  They had found the niche.

  Brandon pulled off his jacket and threw it behind him. “These have to go,” he said. He grabbed the top slat on the frame and yanked the left end loose. He bent it to the right and twisted until the nail gave way.

  “Easy, B,” Quint said. “Don’t make pretzels out of the nails. I’ve got t’put it back together.”

  “Oh. Um . . . sorry.”

  Brandon and Stephen pulled off the remaining slats and set them against the wall. Then they stepped back to take in the object of their search. The niche shone darkly, its details visible even without the flashlight.

  “It doesn’t look like a time machine,” Reginald said. He peeked behind the frame. “How’d you go throu
gh that, B?”

  Brandon had been wondering the same thing. “I don’t know.”

  “What’s that writing say?”

  “‘To the young who believe and who search, speak the dream and breach the boundary,’” Brandon said without missing a beat. “Stephen figured it out before we went through it.”

  Reginald looked blankly at him. “What’s it mean?”

  “It’s a test, isn’t it?” Brandon said, with a telling glance at Stephen. “So I guess the question is, did we search and find out what we believe?”

  Stephen nodded once. “What do you think, B?”

  Quint was standing adjacent to the niche, his hands resting on Reginald’s shoulders. Brandon took a long look at both of them and felt he knew at last what his test had been. “I’m not saying,” he told Stephen. “But something tells me the niche will work this time.” He took out his wallet and withdrew the snapshot of Quint and himself. “Niche,” he said without embarrassment, “take us to this day— June 25, 2005.” He touched the corner of the snapshot to the recess. At once circular waves spread out over the surface.

  Reginald grabbed Quint’s arm. “What’s it doing?”

  “G-g-gettin’ fired up, I imagine,” Quint said.

  The waves dissolved into a general churn. Brandon touched the surface lightly with his finger. Then he pushed his hand through it.

  “B!” Reginald cried.

  “It’s okay,” Brandon said calmly. He moved his hand in a figure-eight and pulled it out. “It’s the same as before,” he said, wiggling his fingers. “Not hot. Not wet. And it still tries to pull you in.”

  “So . . . what now?” Quint asked.

  “We wait,” Brandon said, “’til it shows us where we’re going.”

  No sooner had he said this when the churn began to settle. In a few seconds the recess was completely smooth. It was also, however, completely black.

  “What the—?” Brandon said.

  Quint eyed him nervously. “Not what it’s supposed t’look like?”

  “I think I know,” Stephen said, taking the snapshot from Brandon. “I think the niche is working okay. That blackness is your aunt’s basement at the moment Sarah took this picture over at Mr. Coster’s. Remember? The basement was dark when we got there. And we got there maybe an hour and a half after Sarah took this.” He gave the snapshot back to Brandon.