Here by Mistake (23 page)

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 through 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.

Sarah slipped off her jacket and tossed it on top of Brandon’s. “Okay, that makes sense,” she said. “That’s the basement with the lights off. So . . . we can go, can’t we? Even I’m not afraid of the dark, if it’s just the dark.”

“It’s not just the dark,” Brandon said grimly. “I think Stephen’s right, and if he is, we’re in trouble. The niche was covered with slats when we got there that day.” He pointed to the recess. “They’ve got to be there. We just can’t see them.”

Stephen’s head snapped up. “That’s right.”

“Can’t y’just knock ’em out of the way when y’go through?” Quint asked.

“You don’t go through, Quint, you fly through, head first,” Brandon said. “It’s some ride.”

Quint looked from Brandon to the recess and back. “Well . . . hell. We can’t let
that
stop us. We need . . . wait a second.” He ran over to the storage cabinet he had hidden the chain behind. It didn’t budge when he pushed it, and he shined his flashlight at the base. “Bolted down,” he said bitterly. “Damn it.”

“What is it?” Brandon called.

Quint kicked the cabinet and ran back to his companions. “Find a wrench t’unbolt that chest.”

“What for?”

“So we can throw it in the niche and smash through the damn slats.”

Brandon, Stephen, Sarah, and even Reginald looked at him as if he were crazy.

Quint growled, “Y’all have a better idea?”

They set out to find the wrench.

Brandon and Reginald searched the west wall, checking shelves and drawers with the flashlight. Quint and Stephen covered the east wall, inspecting similar places as best they could in the shadows. They walked the rows of tables, benches, and machines and met in the middle of the floor, with no luck. It was Sarah who, while rummaging through the cabinet they sought to move, came up with a pair of basic pliers. Quint clamped them around a bolt in the base and tried turning it. The head barely moved before the pliers slipped off.

“Damn it, it’s not the right tool.” Quint looked up at Brandon and Stephen. “This’ll take awhile.”

“What time is it?” Brandon asked.

Quint shined the flashlight on his watch. “Twenty after nine. Lots of time before tomorrow’s shift, but . . . maybe we can speed things up. While I work on this, see if y’all can find something not nailed down. Something that’ll fit through the niche but heavy enough t’break the slats.”

They hurried off to look.

Time passed with little progress. They found nothing suitable for throwing into the niche. After ninety minutes Quint had twisted loose only one of four bolts. Brandon and Stephen were standing over him, asking to take a turn with the pliers. Sarah was pacing up and down the west wall. Reginald was sitting cross-legged in front of the niche, flicking it occasionally and watching the waves.

After one such flick a soft glow emerged from the recess. Reginald watched in wonder as the glow gathered focus and formed an image. It was an image crossed by wide black bars, and he had to look between them. He saw a large area with crates stacked up and stairs way down at the end. Then, to his amazement, he saw three figures come down those stairs. He jumped to his feet.

“B! B, come quick.”

Everyone came running.

“Shush, Reginald,” Quint said. “Someone’ll hear—” The sight of the image silenced him.

“The picture . . . it’s moving,” Stephen gasped.

“It’s us,” Sarah exclaimed.

“Two weeks ago,” Brandon whispered.

Sarah leaned in so close her nose touched the recess and made a few ripples. She jumped back and rubbed her face. “But it wasn’t like this last time,” she said. “Last time it showed us that room in New Orleans, but nothing was happening.”

The reason struck Brandon like a thunderbolt. “Sure something was happening,” he said excitedly. “Time was going by, we just didn’t know it. There was no one in the room.”

“Right,” Stephen said. “Now we know . . . the niche doesn’t just give a point in time. It starts at a point and plays out time from there.”

“Plays out time t’when, exactly?” Quint asked.

“Probably to when they go through the niche,” Brandon said, pointing to the figures in the image. “Forget the bolts, Quint. In a minute I’ll be taking off the slats from the other side.”

Reginald reached for the Brandon in the image but drew his hand back. “B,” he said anxiously, “if the you in that picture comes out here there’ll be two of you. You’ll burn up.”

“No,” Brandon said. “When they go through they won’t come out here. They’ll come out two weeks ago, in New Orleans.”

“This is nuts,” Quint said. Everyone looked at him, and he threw up his hands. “I’m not sayin’ I don’t believe it. I believe it. I’ll believe anything at this point. But it’s still nuts.”

“So . . .” Sarah asked, “when can we go?”

Transfixed by the doings in the image, Brandon barely heard her. “What? Oh, um . . . we’ll go through right after they do so there won’t be doubles of us when we get there.”

“Right,” Stephen said.