The Mechanical Mind of John Coggin (14 page)

Miss Doyle gave him what might have been a smile, or might have been a pang of hunger.

“Fight with your brains, boy, and you won't go wrong.”

And off she went.

F
OR REASONS HE
couldn't quite decipher, the story of Hom made John as testy as a bear with an ulcerated molar. He found himself thinking about the way the Medapandac might have cut the stone, or how they might have harnessed the oxen, or what kinds of wood they used to reduce the plaster.

Page was the first to notice the change.

“You look funny.” It was the day before their departure, and Page was helping him harness Heraclitus to the water wagon. They were headed down to an outlet of the Chimchi River to wash their laundry. Or at least, three of them were. Security duty had finally proved too much of a strain on Boz's limbic capacity. He had disappeared on the night after the discussion of the temple. Miss Doyle had taught John and Page a few new words for
“ruddy flipping fool” that day.

“How do you mean, funny?”

“You've got that thinking look on.”

John heaved a bucket into the back of the wagon. “And what does that mean?”

“I don't know,” Page said, scratching Heraclitus between the ears. “It's this look you get. You had it a lot when we were in the caravan.”

John heaved another bucket. Page watched him carefully.

“You're not building something new, are you?” she demanded.

“No.”

“Because if you are, it better not blow up.”

John scowled and climbed into the wagon. “I'm not going to build anything ever again. So why don't you leave me alone?”

Page stuck out her tongue at him.

“Stop your squawking,” Miss Doyle warned, appearing at John's side and twiddling the angle of her umbrella to block the sun. “We've got a lot to do.”

On the long drive that followed, John kept harping on the idea of the temple. There was something important in what Miss Doyle had told them, something he needed to acknowledge. But what?

It wasn't until they had reached the riverbed and John was rinsing his socks away from the others that he finally
understood. And when he did, he let out a small, but thoroughly heartfelt, war whoop.

A red head popped up over the opposite embankment.

“'Allo,” Boz shouted, sending John sprawling backward with surprise into the water.

“My dear boy, my most profuse apologies,” Boz jabbered, climbing down the embankment and wading across the shallows as John stumbled to his feet. “Here, let me assist you.”

This effort, of course, resulted in both of them tumbling facefirst into the river.

John shook him off. “I'm fine, Boz, really. I
don't
need any help.”

“Well, if you insist. I was only attempting to be of some service.”

“Where have you been?” John asked, pouring silt out of his shoe.

“Reconnaissance,” Boz replied.

“You mean you skived off because you hated having to work.”

Boz smiled. “Well, that too.” He sat down on the bank and fished a fish out from his pocket. “And what was the cause of your gaseous bellow of a
casus belli
?”

“What?”

“Your whooping, my dear boy.”

John hesitated. “Do you promise not to tell anyone?”

Boz stood up and raised his hand. “I solemnly swear—”

John pulled him back down. “No, don't do that again. Just be quiet and listen.”

Boz said nothing but tilted his ear suggestively.

“Well,” John said, his excitement getting the better of him, “I think I've discovered how to keep the generator in the chicken poo oven from exploding.”

Boz made a motion to leap to his feet in joy but caught himself by the top of his trousers and returned to a seated position.

“I figured it out while I was thinking about the Temple of Froom. It wasn't the pellets that were the problem with the oven,” John continued eagerly. “Well, apart from the cans of gasoline next to them. It was what was holding the generator together. We were using the wrong mortar!”

“Euripides!” Boz blasted. “By George, I think you've got it!”

John grinned, happiness rising in him like yeasty bubbles.

“If we had built the oven with the mortar that people use to make fireplaces, then the generator might have been strong enough to contain the heat of the first reaction. It wouldn't have spread to the other accelerants.”

Boz clapped his hands in glee.

But John had forgotten. They were leaving the country tomorrow. The bakery was destroyed. And, as his great-aunt had so helpfully pointed out, Maria never wanted to see him again. He could build eighteen new ovens, and it
wouldn't matter. Their life here was over.

“Never mind.” John sank down. “Forget I even told you about it.”

“Only listen to what I have been attempting to convey to your cochlea, my dear boy! In my perambulations I happened to poke my head in at the station and . . .” Boz reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wad of paper. With a flourish, he flipped it open.

In big bold letters, it read:

MISSING!

HARRY
and
NORA

PERSIMMONS

Eleven-year-old boy and six-year-old girl last seen near Riverton Station.

Boy in red sweater. Girl in pajamas and carrying a bear.

May be in the custody of a cunning businesswoman with birds in her hat.

Will be in Riverton Station on May 15 at 3 p.m. to investigate leads.

LARGE REWARD FOR

ANY KNOWLEDGE OF

WHEREABOUTS!

Maria Persimmons

John's hands began to shake as he reread the notice.

“She gave us her last name.”

Boz grinned. “Seems your sweetness of nature made quite an impression on the taste buds of our culinary goddess. And today, it appears, the gods have seen fit to grant her prayers.”

The faint jingle of a warning bell rang in John's head. What had Miss Doyle said? Fight with your brains? Those phrases—“cunning businesswoman,” “investigate leads”—had a weirdly ominous tone.

“I want to show this to Miss Doyle.”

“My dear boy, do you think that wise? She might object to losing the inestimable joy of your company, and I—”

John cut him off. “I'm telling Page and I'm telling Miss Doyle.”

Unfortunately, Miss Doyle was of John's opinion.

“Quite right,” she said, inspecting the notice. “It's obvious bait.”

“But it's signed by Maria!” protested Page.

“It could be signed by the president, for all I care,” Miss Doyle countered. “We're not walking into a trap. Besides, how do you know that Maria isn't being compensated by your great-aunt to lure you back?”

That hit home for John. “She would never do that!”

“You'd be surprised at how low human nature can stoop. You destroyed her business, John. She may be in need of the cash.”

It was too much. Believing that Maria would betray
them was tantamount to saying that stars were made of coconuts or the tides were governed by the decrees of houseflies.

Unless, thought John, she hates me even more than I realized.

“That's why we should go,” insisted Page. “So you can explain things to her!”

John squeezed the notice in his fist and shook his head. “Miss Doyle's right, Page. It's too dangerous.”

“But if we don't go now, we'll never see her again. This is the only chance we'll get to have a family! I don't want to keep running away. I'm tired of running. I've done everything you told me to do, Johnny. Now it's your turn. Listen to me!”

It was the most passionate speech John had ever heard his sister give. She stood as tall as her spine could stretch, eyes straight and head lifted, demanding an equal share of the adventure.

And, oh, how he wanted to give in. How he wanted to tell her that words were true and people were honest and the clear, straight soul of a six-year-old girl could conquer the world.

Yet he knew life wasn't like that. Even in fairy tales, he realized, queens morph into witches and vows turn into traps. Yes, Page deserved to be happy. But no, he could not run the risk of destroying of what little safety she had left.

“No, Page. I won't let you go.”

Page stomped her foot. “You know what your problem is? You're scared!”

She picked up a laundry basket and huffed off over the bank.

“Let her be,” Miss Doyle advised. “She needs to simmer down.”

John tightened his grip on the notice. In a way, Page was right. He was scared. But what about caution? And common sense? Wasn't that the lesson of the Autopsy and the oven of poo? How
do
you lead a life of risk without leaping into the abyss?

His thoughts were interrupted by a tap on his shoulder.

“Ahem, I hate to disturb your introspection, but I am having some difficulty establishing the coordinates of your sister.”

“What?”

Boz pointed to the north. “I think she may have scarpered to the station.”

All his nightmares burst into fresh life. John scurried over the embankment, dirt slipping and slopping beneath his feet. There was the wagon, precisely where they had left it.

But there was no Heraclitus the mule.

And there was no Page.

“Page! Come back!” John bellowed to the wind. The wind did not deign to answer.

Out of the clear blue sky, his companions sprang down beside him. Miss Doyle's umbrella was blown upward with the force of her landing.

“Does she know how to get to the station?” demanded John.

“'Twas the way we came on the day we rescued you,” moped Boz.

Miss Doyle glanced at the sun.

“She's only been gone ten minutes. We may catch her if we run.”

“How far is it to the station?”

There was little mistaking Miss Doyle's grimace. “Miles.”

T
HERE MAY BE
more beautiful things than a spring afternoon by the side of the Chimchi River, but they are few and far between. The birches were breezing, the waters were gossiping, and an unseen bird was singing the “Hallelujah Chorus.”

If John hadn't been pursuing his misguided sister up the switchbacks of a trail, the vista would have been splendid.

Then, unexpectedly, disaster struck. Attempting to vault over a root, Miss Doyle fumbled her landing. Her foot twisted sideways, and her body cartwheeled over the edge of the path. Both she and her torqued umbrella came to rest in a puddle of mud.

“Miss Doyle!”

“I'm okay.” Miss Doyle's attempt to stand was pun
ished with what appeared to be a poker of red-hot pain. “I'm not okay. I've twisted my ankle.”

“We can come down—” began John.

“You don't have time!” Miss Doyle rejoined, using her hands to push herself onto her knobbly knees. “Get to your sister—I'll follow as soon as I can.”

John hesitated. What if he didn't make it back? He had visions of lions and tigers and unspeakable things done to injured prey.

“I'm fine!” Miss Doyle yelled, reading his thoughts. “Look!” She gingerly put her weight on her feet. “Not broken, just twisted. I'll use a stick and limp. And if you don't get after your sister,” she said, starting to struggle up the bank, “I'll get after the pair of you!”

On John ran, with Boz hard on his heels. In an uncertain world, you had to respect the oaths of a woman of uncommon talents.

It was funny, but as he ran, John could feel his blood shifting from his head to his heart. For months he had lived with the fear of his old world reclaiming Page. Now that the moment had arrived, he found, to his surprise, that he wasn't afraid. He was
mad
.

Finally, just as John was thinking his body might burst into flecks of rubbery flesh, Boz jerked his arm.

“Over there!” he whispered. “The station is through those trees!”

John slowed to a stealthy shuffle. As he crept closer
and closer, wading through a carpet of pine needles, his adrenaline began to surge. Whoever was waiting for him at the station, be it Great-Aunt Beauregard or the entire subwestern police force, he was ready.

At the edge of the pines, he paused to assess the situation. There were a couple of antiquated geezers sitting outside the front, drinking beer and playing dice on an upturned barrel. There was a freight train hissing and sighing on a sidetrack. There was a plump chestnut of a woman making her way out of the building. It all looked ridiculously normal.

“Now what?” John murmured to himself.

“One might suggest a two-pronged assault with a feint to the starboard . . .”

“Boz, let me think.”

“Mum's the word. From henceforth, I'll be as garrulous as a stone, as talkative as a tomb, as loquacious as a mock turtle . . .”

“Boz, shut up!”

Boz shut up.

John examined the front door once more and came to a decision.

“I'll go ahead,” he said, “and see who's in there. You check the freight train. If I don't come back out, fetch Miss Doyle as quick as you can.”

Boz nodded.

“Boz, whatever you do, find Page. If something should
happen to me, your job is to make sure she's safe. Got it?”

Boz nodded. “Be of cautious action, my dear boy.”

John didn't need to be told twice. Shadowing the shadows, he hugged the far corner of the building and peeked through a window. Nothing. No Great-Aunt Beauregard. No Page. No police. Only a trimly manufactured stationmaster, checking his watch.

Clenching his fists, John boldly walked toward the door, braced for flight if the men with the dice should happen to morph into his great-aunt's henchmen. They ignored him.

“Afternoon, son. If you're 'specting to meet someone, the next train to Pludgett arrives at quarter past.” The stationmaster placed his watch back in his waistcoat.

“Excuse me,” said John, taking a deep breath, “but have you seen a large lady wearing a hat with dead birds?”

The stationmaster regarded John with a stare of considerable skepticism.

“No.”

A fillip of hope propelled John into the waiting room. Could it be that Maria had written the notice after all? Could it be that Page was right?

“How about a woman named Maria Persimmons? She put up a sign that she said she would be here at three p.m.”

“Oh, that,” the stationmaster said. “Private room—over there.”

He pointed to an innocuous door under a sign that read “No Spitting or Gratuitous Swearing.”

John paused. As much as he wanted to believe in the possibility of redemption, he knew too well what lengths his great-aunt would go to. This could still be an ambush.

Clenching his fists again, John strode over to the private room, turned the knob, opened the door, and—

“If I was going to arrest you, Hornblower, I would have done it a lot sooner.”

Leslie crossed his pimpled ankles on the edge of the desk and crammed a cream puff into his mouth.

What was the Pig doing here? Keeping himself planted in the doorway, John inspected the room. There was only one other door—presumably leading to the platform—and an odor of oily dust. Bar the desk, two chairs, and Leslie's pink and perspiring presence, it was empty.

“Where's Maria?”

“Coming. She sent me on ahead to make sure we didn't miss you.” Leslie licked his fingers one by one. A gobbet of cream clung to the wiry strands of his mustache.

“You hate me,” John spat out. “Why would Maria send you?”

Leslie burped.

“Paperwork. I can't get ahold of what's left of the property without Maria's sign-off. And she wouldn't sign off until I promised to help her find you.”

“So
you're
the one who posted the notice?”

Leslie nodded.

“Don't mistake me,” he said, helping himself to another cream puff. “I'd much rather have you thrown in jail, but apparently baking accidents aren't an arrestable offense.”

John's ribs expanded a hairbreadth.

“Where's Page?”

“Bathroom. She said something about putting flowers in her hair before Maria arrived.” Leslie sniffed. “And cleaning her fingernails.”

John's ribs expanded another inch. Leslie's rudeness was reassuringly familiar.

“So when is Maria coming?”

“Next train from Littlemere. She's taking the pair of you back today.”

John would have leaped on the desk for joy if he hadn't been afraid of squishing the box of assorted plain and chocolate cream puffs. For a boy who had been surviving for six weeks on a diet of canned beans, they looked mighty appealing.

“Did she make those for us?”

Leslie licked his lips. “She might have.”

Quick as a skink, John darted forward, seized a chocolate-covered puff, and returned to the open door. Leslie merely snorted. Tentatively, oh so tentatively, John took one tiny bite.

It was heaven. It was pleasure and peace and memory
encased in a delicate, delectable shell. John leaned against the frame and devoured the rest.

Leslie brushed his hands. “There now, that ought to do it.”

“Ought to do what?” John asked dreamily.

“Take you off to la la land,” replied the desk.

Except desks couldn't talk, John knew that. But the world was feeling so awfully funny.

“Bring him in and shut the door,” instructed the desk.

John wanted to protest, lash out at Leslie with his newly acquired arts of self-defense, but the bones in his arms appeared to have liquefied. He could only smile sheepishly as Leslie hauled him into the room.

“He'll be out in a couple of minutes,” said the desk. “I told you he'd go for the chocolate.”

The warning bell that John had heard near the river now struck a solemn dong.

“Great-Aunt Beauregard,” he slurred as his vision grew blurry.

A rain-slicked rock face came into view. “Thought you'd have more sense, John Peregrine Coggin. But what can you expect of the father's son?”

John twisted his tongue—a tongue that felt like it had been packed in ice cubes—into a few precious words. “What did you do to me?”

Leslie's laugh came from far, far away. “Not so dumb after all, eh, John? Who was it that got Maria out of
the way? Who was it that thought of writing the notice? Who was it that packed the chocolate puffs with sleeping pills for little boys to eat?”

Great-Aunt Beauregard harrumphed.

“With a little direction,” Leslie added.

A cold scurry of air fanned John into temporary consciousness. The outer door must have been opened.

“Where's Page?” A sickly odor of cologne told him that Leslie was the one dragging him toward the platform. “Boz, help me!”

“You shouldn't put your faith in friends,” echoed his great-aunt. “They'll always let you down.”

“But I don't want to go back to Pludgett!” John managed to croak.

The train whistle sounded a long, snickering shrill.

“Oh, you're not going back to Pludgett.”