Cragbridge Hall, Book One: The Inventor's Secret (12 page)

In a moment, Grandpa began repeating his message. Abby couldn’t help but feel heartbroken as she saw him again.

“I have a secret that others would go to extreme measures to obtain. Therefore, I have given you this entry to tell you that I need your help. No police, no investigator, no government can solve the large problem that faces you.” Abby immediately felt guilty for giving the police her locket. But should she have really done anything differently? What else could she have done when the officer asked for it?

“You see,” Grandpa said, “I’ve opened a Pandora’s box of sorts. I have kept it controlled, but others will not.”

Abby remembered that Pandora was a Greek myth about a woman who opened a box full of plagues. She was pretty sure Grandpa meant that he’d invented something that could cause some serious problems.

“But I can’t tell you everything about it here. The situation may not merit it, or this message may have been intercepted. If I have passed away by natural causes, I want you to know that I loved and trusted you, which is precisely why you are listening to this now. I must pass my secret to someone. Sooner or later, someone else will discover it, and I’d much rather it went to someone I trust.”

He inhaled slowly, then closed his eyes as he exhaled. “If foul play is involved, whoever is against me will probably not be kind enough to leave much of a trail. They will most likely be professional and determined.”

Abby remembered the police describing how proficient the criminals must have been.

“They may,” Grandpa continued, “even be ruthless in their efforts to accomplish their goals. In that spirit, I feel that I must warn you. Be careful about who you trust. Some people would do absolutely anything to know my secret and use it for their own purposes.”

Again Abby thought about Ms. Entrese.

“My secret cannot die with me. It is too dangerous. But it would be foolish and irresponsible of me to give it to you all at once. In a way, you must earn it and that process will help you be ready for what the secret is. And I need those I trust to be ready. To discover more about my secret, you’ll have to decipher a clue and retrieve another key.”

Abby grimaced and twisted her hair into a ponytail. Another key? The first had to be the key in her locket, which she’d given away. Hopefully the police would give it back soon. At least Derick still had his. “I have tried to make the clues something specific to you, so that if this information is intercepted, it will be burdensome for someone else to figure out. But I’m afraid I’ve had to make the clues a little difficult as well, to keep at bay those who seek my secret without the right intentions. Please insert your key into the small opening on the Bridge console.”

So there was a need for the keyholes after all. Abby waited in the Bridge for Derick to retrieve his key from his room. She thought through everything again and again. A clue was coming, and it would be specific to them. But what was the secret? Why couldn’t Grandpa just come out and say it?

Finally Derick returned, panting and holding a small key. Abby could make out a glimpse of the chain underneath his T-shirt. Apparently the locket wasn’t too girly anymore. Derick put the key into the hole in the console and turned it. Grandpa appeared again, but this time he looked as he had yesterday. No longer was he young and stronger, but his normal elderly but happy self. He must have recorded it recently.

“Dear Derick and Abby, I decided years ago to give you both the same clue. If you are going to succeed, I believe you’ll have to work together. Here it is: When Derick turned twelve, I gave him a book. In books we often begin a journey to find freedom.” Grandpa began to walk away, but stopped. “Oh, and check the top of the armoire.”

“That’s it?” Derick asked. “That doesn’t make much sense.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Abby agreed. “What do books and an armoire have to do with Grandpa’s secret?”

12

Douglass

Abby repeated Grandpa’s clue. “‘In books we often begin a journey to find freedom.’ There is no way Grandpa is asking us to search for clues in every book in the world.”

“No,” Derick said. “It must have something to do with the book I got when I was twelve. He’s given me quite a few—
Lord of the Flies, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,
biographies of Thomas Edison and Benjamin Franklin.”

Abby tried to think through the clue. Grandpa always gave them old-style hardcover books for every birthday, holiday, and special occasion she could remember. Over the years, both of the twins had gained quite a collection. “Wait,” Abby said. “When we turned twelve—that was when he gave us books about the people we’re named after.”

“You’re right,” Derick agreed. “You got a biography of Abigail Adams, and I got Frederick Douglass.” He smiled. “When I was really young, I couldn’t figure out how Derick came from Frederick.”

“Maybe you aren’t such a genius,” Abby suggested.

Derick ignored her. “And it fits. Douglass was a slave who escaped and became a famous speaker and writer against slavery during the Civil War—that might be why the clue has to do with freedom.”

“Makes some sense,” Abby admitted.

“‘In books we often begin a journey to find freedom,’” Derick repeated.

“Maybe we’re supposed to study how he got free,” Abby suggested. She pictured a dark-skinned man running through the forest with barking dogs chasing him and men following behind with glowing lanterns.

“I guess so,” Derick said. “But I remember that in his autobiography, Douglass didn’t tell us how he became free. He didn’t want to give away any secrets that would keep other slaves from being able to escape the same way. I’m sure the way he escaped is out there somewhere, but I never got around to researching it.”

Abby activated her rings. She searched, her fingers moving quickly and sharply. She read over the bites of information presented in a series of three-dimensional windows. “Yeah. He wrote more than one autobiography. Eventually he wrote the whole story, but even better, I think it’s logged on the Bridge. See if there is an entry for Frederick Douglass, September 3, 1838.”

Derick moved his hands along the screen of the Bridge. “Here it is,” he said and pushed the button.

The first thing Abby saw was a large steam-engine train. She’d seen them in pictures—and one old one in a museum—but never one that actually worked. It was a long mass of metal with a huge steel grate on the front and a series of long wheels attached by strong bars. It must have weighed tons. When a tuft of steam came out the top of a funnel, Abby wondered how the heat could really power such a heavy machine. Abby walked a few steps back and forth, inspecting the ghost of a train from the past.

Men in suits and women in dresses gathered in clumps on the platform. Wives hugged their husbands and business partners gave final advice. Every now and then one of them said good-bye and boarded the train. Several black men waited to board. They were all gathered near a back car, away from the others. It seemed strange to see them completely separated from everyone else. Derick searched them, hoping to find Frederick.

“Can you find him?” Abby asked.

“None of them look quite right,” Derick said. His eyes wandered for a moment more, searching. “I think that’s him,” he said, pointing to a black man leaning against the wall of the train station. Derick moved the perspective of the Bridge to better see the man. He was tall and strong. Years as a slave must have built some decent muscle. His thick, wiry hair stood up several inches. Abby guessed he was in his late teens or early twenties. He wore a red shirt, a sailor hat, and a black scarf tied around his neck.

Abby eyed the group of black men waiting to board the train, then Douglass. “What’s he doing here?”

“I think he’s going to get on that train,” Derick guessed.

“Then why is he waiting by the wall?” Abby asked. “And where are his bags?”

“I don’t know,” Derick said. “But this is the day he escapes from slavery, right? Maybe he’s just nervous.”

Abby tried to imagine what it would be like to try to escape from slavery. She’d read enough to know that when slaves were caught, they were whipped and beaten, sometimes to the point of being killed. They were valuable property, so they weren’t usually beaten to death unless a master wanted to use a slave as an example to scare the others.

Abby saw determination in Frederick’s eyes. He knew the risks, and he was trying to escape anyway. He looked calm and collected, but every now and then, Abby thought she caught a twitch in the leg, or shift of the eye that betrayed some nervousness. In his shoes, she would have been terrified.

Abby turned around to survey more of the situation. Her eye caught a different black man approaching a uniformed man at the ticket window.

“One ticket please, sir,” the black man said. “North-bound to Wilmington.”

“Papers,” the man in uniform said gruffly, holding out a hand.

The black man quickly produced some folded papers. Abby guessed they were proof that he was free and not a slave. Papers like that were a precaution against escaping slaves. The train station employee read part of the papers, then said, “It says here you have a scar on your left leg.”

The black man quickly lifted his pant leg, revealing a long, pink scar that ran from behind his knee to a few inches above his ankle.

“And another scar on your right arm, just above the elbow,” the man in uniform said. The black man rolled up his sleeve. “And you have whipping scars on your back?” The man raised his shirt to show an array of grooves and lines.

Abby gasped. She could hardly imagine the whip and pain it would have taken to make such scars. The man had passed all the tests, so the worker finally took the black man’s money.

As the worker leaned out of his window to give the man his ticket, he noticed Frederick. “Can I help you?”

“I don’t know yet, sir,” Frederick responded. “I have a friend delivering my bags. I’d better not buy a ticket until I know I can travel.”

“The train leaves in minutes,” the man said.

“Yessir. I hope he hurries,” Frederick said.

Frederick waited for the man to leave his window and go back to his work station. Then he pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. Abby circled around to get a better look.

“Pause it here, Derick,” Abby said. The image froze.

She looked closely at the document. It was a sailor’s paper, which made sense with the way Frederick was dressed. The emblem of an American Eagle graced the top of the page, making the whole document look official.

“What’s he looking at?” Derick asked.

“His identification papers, I think,” Abby said.

“Are they really his? I mean, if he’s escaping, there’s no way he has his own papers, right?”

“They’re definitely real,” Abby said, reading over Frederick Douglass’s shoulder. “But they aren’t his. Look at this,” she said, motioning for Derick to join her. “I don’t think he fits this description.” She pointed to a few lines on the page.

“No, he doesn’t,” Derick said. “Douglass was a mulatto—his mom was black, but his dad was white. That’s why his skin isn’t as dark as some of the others, but the papers describe someone with a lot darker skin. Definitely not Frederick’s papers.”

“If that conductor looks over his papers like he did that last guy’s, he’s busted,” Abby added.

The whistle blew. More and more people hugged their relatives or shook hands with their business partners and said their good-byes. The lines at the entrances of the train grew longer. Frederick looked up at the clock on top of the train station.

“I still don’t get it,” Abby said. “Is he going to miss the train?”

“What, did I see this before you?” Derick snapped. “All we can do is watch and find out.”

The train whistle blew again.

A horse and carriage pulled up to the side of the road beside the station. The driver leapt from the seat and tethered his horses. He pulled two bags out of his coach and ran toward the train station.

The train lurched forward, the huge heavy machine toiling to get any momentum.

The man from the carriage brought the bags to Frederick. “Perfect timing,” Frederick whispered. He then looked at the man who sold tickets.

“You can buy a ticket on the train,” the man said.

“Thank you sir,” Frederick said and ran toward the train.

“Have a nice trip,” the carriage driver said. “And you’re welcome.”

The last of the crowd waved to those at the station and jumped onto the train. Frederick hurried to catch it, his strong body moving quickly—Abby couldn’t run that fast while carrying bags. As the train reached the end of the platform, Frederick jumped onto the train car. He had to lean on the handrail to keep from falling back off. A few other latecomers jumped on behind him.

Derick flicked his fingers, ordering the Bridge to follow Frederick. The runaway slave set down his bags and waited for his turn with the conductor, who was dealing with the last-minute rush. Frederick asked to buy a ticket. Busy, the man quickly glanced at his paper.

“Sailor, huh?” the conductor said, speaking loudly over the sound of the train.

“Yes sir,” Frederick said. “I know ships from stem to stern, and from keelson to cross-trees.” The man nodded and took Frederick’s money.

A moment later, he handed over a ticket. “We appreciate our sailors and the free trade they encourage,” the conductor said. There was no smile, no ‘have a good trip,’ from him, but Frederick was on the train.

“He did that on purpose,” Abby said. “He waited until the train was moving so they wouldn’t look as closely at his papers.”

“Yeah,” Derick said. “And the book Grandpa gave me said that Frederick worked repairing ships, so that’s how he knew how to talk like a sailor. This guy is smart.”

They watched as Frederick walked through the car filled with other dark-skinned travelers. They probably weren’t allowed anywhere else on the train. She watched as Frederick stored his baggage and found a seat.

Frederick looked across the car, then immediately turned his head the other way. He must have seen someone he recognized. He turned slightly and tilted his sailor hat. Abby watched as a man farther down the railcar gazed at him for a few seconds, then looked away.