Spirits in the Park (6 page)

“I already said! If you want to know the truth about the Trap, the real truth, you gotta ask Harry Meester.”

A crash sounded behind them, and Nicholas and Alexa spun to see one of the last standing lodging houses collapse in on itself, sending up a shower of dust and mortar. When they turned back to Aberto, he was gone. And try as they might, they couldn't find the drunken man again.

It didn't take long for Rory to realize that he'd made a bad decision. The light from the trapdoor faded behind him and soon he couldn't really see at all. If there was a manhole, he could easily have passed by it unknowing. Somehow, he kept from bouncing into the invisible walls, but who knew how long that would last. The farther he walked the closer he came to becoming truly lost, but onward he trudged, telling himself that the way up was practically in front of him. But soon the truth could be denied no longer and Rory had to admit he was lost.

He should have waited by the open trapdoor, he chastised himself. He should turn around now, before he was lost for good, doomed to wander beneath the streets of Manhattan forever. He had to turn back, he decided, and spun in place to do just that. But before he could move, he felt a rumble in the air. Something was coming, something big.

Gradually he noticed that the dark had lightened and he could see where he was. He stood in a long tunnel, lined with metal and rock. Rails ran along the ground on either side of him down the length of the tunnel, though no third rail as far as he could tell. How old were these rails? The light brightened further and Rory realized with a sinking stomach the source of the rumbling. A train was coming, and he had nowhere to go.

Tucket began to bark as Rory spun in a panic looking for a place where he could wedge himself, but there wasn't enough room on either side to hold him while the train passed. He had no place to hide. Tucket jumped in front of him, barking at the oncoming train. Out of time, Rory braced himself, throwing it up to higher powers as the wheels began to shriek as if someone had pulled the emergency lever and the subway train was fighting itself to come to a stop. It slid along the rails, sending bright sparks in every direction as it headed right at them, its headlights growing brighter and brighter until Rory was blinded. The squeal of metal on metal coupled with Tucket's barking blended into a deafening racket, until he could neither see nor hear. This was it, he thought. It ended here.

And then the squealing cut off, leaving only Tucket's barking. The lights of the train had stopped maybe two feet away. Rory let out a long breath of air.

“Hello, there!” a voice called out. “Are you dead? If so . . . well . . . sorry!”

Rory cleared his throat, putting a hand on Tucket's neck to calm him; the dog quieted, though a growl still rattled his jaws.

“I'm not dead, thanks,” Rory said.

“Excellent!” the voice returned. “Then we owe you a ride!”

Rory stepped to the side to get out of the reach of those blinding lights and took a good look at the train that had almost killed him. Oddly enough, there seemed to be only one car; Rory had never heard of a subway train so short. It was tough to tell in the darkness of the tunnel, but the train appeared to be built from wood and riveted steel with a rounded roof that made it seem more like an old trolley than one of the subway trains Rory knew. A small terrace, enclosed by a metal railing, jutted out from the front. On the terrace stood an unassuming man in a nineteenth-century suit and top hat, a small mustache resting impishly atop his thin mouth. His open face appeared delighted to find Rory in front of him. He smiled.

“Why, you're just a boy!” he exclaimed. “Please, come aboard. It's the least we can do.”

“Who is ‘we'?” Rory asked warily.

“We are losing precious minutes, Alfred!” a heavily accented voice yelled out form within the car. “Either bring the boy aboard or run him over, but we have a schedule to keep!”

Alfred shrugged apologetically with a little smile. “I bet I can guess which you'd rather.”

Rory didn't wait to take the bet. He climbed aboard, lifting Tucket up behind him. The man held out his hand for Rory to shake, which Rory did.

“Alfred Beach,” the man said, pumping Rory's arm with enthusiasm.

“Rory,” Rory replied, than winced inwardly. So much for secrecy.

“Wonderful to meet you, Rory,” Alfred said warmly. “Welcome aboard!”

Alfred opened the door for Rory and Tucket, inviting them into the train. Rory let his dog in before following, still distracted by his near-death experience. Once inside, however, he couldn't keep his eyes from widening as he gazed around in wonder.

It was as if he'd stepped back a century. The seats were made of wicker and they smelled like musty lawn furniture left under a house all winter long. Everything was wood: the doors at either end of the car, the trim that lined the walls, even the frames surrounding the windows, windows that easily lifted open as if they looked out on someone's backyard rather than the pitch black of a tunnel deep underground. Straps made of cloth hung in loops from the ceiling, ready to give commuters something to cling to as the train roughly rattled its way along the rails. Advertisements lined the panels between the windows and the ceiling, touting strange products from another age: long-forgotten soda pop and hair-restoring ointment and ancient cameras sold for ridiculously cheap prices.

“Is this the first subway car ever built or something?” Rory guessed. “It's beautiful.”

“Not quite the first,” Alfred replied, pleased at his reaction. “Someday you will have to see the first subway car I built. If you think this is something, then that beauty will knock your socks off.”

“What are you two yammering about?” the heavily accented voice demanded. A man detached himself from the corner of the subway car, striding over to meet Rory. This man was dressed completely differently from Alfred Beach; in fact, he appeared to be wearing a light suit of armor, which clanged as he walked. His bushy beard hid most of his face, but his large nose stuck out prominently and his eyes were fierce. “We're wasting time.”

“Giovanni, this is Rory,” Alfred said to the man in armor before turning back to Rory. “Rory, you have the extreme good fortune to be in the presence of the famed Giovanni da Verrazano, explorer and adventurer . . .”

“I go where no man has gone before!” Gionanni exclaimed proudly. Rory snorted at the Star Trek reference, but judging from his face, the explorer meant what he said.

“Nice to meet you,” Rory said. “Thanks for picking me up.”

“It was not my idea!” Giovanni told him. “We are on a schedule! But Grace must have heard the barking of your dog, so you owe your life to her.”

“Who's Grace?” Rory asked, glancing around. “Your conductor?”

Alfred laughed. “You could say that. Have a seat, you don't want to fall. Grace, shall we?”

The train lurched forward and Rory stumbled, dropping into a wicker seat. Tucket curled up beneath his feet, apparently certain that the threat of imminent death was over for the time being. Alfred and Giovanni sat across from him, the former smiling at him while the latter glared.

“I'm sorry I knocked you off schedule,” Rory said, hoping to appease the angry Italian in front of him.

Alfred chuckled. “I wouldn't call it a schedule. We're simply exploring some new tunnels, trying to find our way down.”

“There is indeed a schedule!” Giovanni insisted. “Soon the other explorers will tire of the ocean and the sky and they will come down here in search of new discoveries. Our window is short to find new lands and give them names that will last forever. You are the train man, Alfred. Leave the exploring to me.”

“Of course,” Alfred said, placating him. “But we can't take this poor boy down into the depths with us. We have time for one stop before we forge ahead with our journey down.”

Giovanni reluctantly grunted his assent. Alfred gestured for Rory to take a seat, which he did, and the subway car gradually picked up speed as it raced into the dark.

Alfred made small talk as they traveled, but soon Rory noticed that Giovanni was giving him a strange look. Finally, the explorer leaned forward, his eyes searching. “Do I know you, boy? Have we met?”

“No, I'd remember,” Rory answered, suddenly uncomfortable. He had no clue if either of these men could be trusted.

“So familiar,” Giovanni repeated. “You never sailed with me?”

“Definitely not,” Rory answered. He didn't like where this line of questioning was leading, so he quickly steered the conversation away from his identity. “You were a sailor?” he asked.

“Sailor?” Giovanni scoffed, taking the bait. “I was a great captain! In my mortal days, five centuries ago, I guided my ship across the great sea, traveling up and down the coast of the New World, claiming huge tracts of land for France!”

“France? I thought you were Italian,” Rory said.

“France paid me a great deal of money to be French, so, for that voyage, I was French. It was I who discovered the untamed shores of Francesca!”

“Where's Francesca?” Rory asked, confused.

“His name for North America,” Alfred cut in, winking slyly. “It didn't quite take.”

“America has such a pedestrian sound to it,” Giovanni complained. “Now, Francesca, that is the name of a great land!”

“It's a done deal, Giovanni,” Alfred told him, his tired tone making it obvious that this argument came up a lot. “Francesca just isn't going to happen.”

“No respect for the man who discovered the isle of Manhattan!” Giovanni announced, his voice ringing with centuries of resentment.

“But I thought Henry Hudson discovered New York,” Rory said. “Did you sail with him?”

“Oh boy,” Alfred muttered, putting his head in his hands. “Now you've done it.”

“How dare you!” Giovanni exclaimed, his voice quavering with indignation. “As if that bumbling nincompoop of an Englishman were even fit to lick my boots! Henry Hudson.” The name came out drenched in disdain. “He followed in my footsteps almost a century later. A century! So why does his name go on all the good stuff? Just because he decided to sail up the river, while I, who was very busy, remember, discovering everything for the first time, stayed out by Staten Island—just because of that, he gets the Hudson River, the Hudson Valley, the Hudson everything! It should be the Verrazano River! The Verrazano Valley! I was here first! All I get is a stupid bridge!”

“Easy, Giovanni,” Alfred soothed his cohort. Indeed what little of the Italian explorer's face that showed through the beard had turned bright red. “You don't want to pass out again.”

Pouting like a kid who lost at Candyland, Giovanni crossed his metal-encased arms with a frown. “That is exactly why I gave up on discovering new lands beyond the mists. Everyone is trying it. The true discoveries await belowground! So I recruited Alfred here to help me explore the depths of the island. My only competition down here is Caesar Prince, and who knows what that man is looking for . . .”

“So you'll be kind of an underground Columbus?” Rory asked.

“Columbus!” Giovanni spat. “Let me tell you about that imbecile Columbus . . .”

Giovanni raged on as the train sped through the dark tunnel, Alfred Beach shaking his head the entire time. Finally, light streamed through the windows as the subway car pulled into the familiar 207th Street station, the end of the line.

“Here you go, Rory,” Alfred said, gesturing outside. Glancing out the window, Rory wasn't surprised to see that no one even looked in their direction. He thanked his benefactors and stepped off the train, helping Tucket down onto the platform. He gave a wave as the train began to pull out of the station, on its way back to exploring the depths of the island. Then, with a screech, the car shuddered to a halt. One of the windows flew open and Giovanni stuck his head out, his beard hanging over the sill.

“Two's Boys!” he yelled.

“What?” Rory asked, thoroughly confused.

“That's where I know you from! It finally came to me. You look like one of Two's Boys! You sailed with me into the mists a few times, including that last voyage to Fletcher's Island. Don't you remember? It was about seventy-five years ago.”

“He's a mortal, Giovanni,” Alfred said from inside the train. “He never sailed with you anywhere.”

“What are you talking about?” Rory asked, feeling bombarded. Giovanni squinted at him, sticking his head farther out the window as he peered at Rory intently.

“Maybe you're not him,” he admitted. “You look like him, especially around the cheeks and chin, but you don't have his eyes. Two's Boys all have those eyes that never smile. You can't mistake it. Strange. That man could have been your brother.”