If Onions Could Spring Leeks (14 page)

“One second,” he muttered as he pushed keys and different images flashed over the screen. “Hang on.”

I looked over his shoulder and marveled at his command of the technology in front of him.

“Found him! And you won't believe this one,” he said.

“Who is he?”

“Let it print.” He stood and hurried over to the printer that was, for some reason, on the other side of the room. He smiled mischievously at me as he put one hand on his hip and one at the ready for the paper spitting out of the printer.

Not soon enough he hurried back to where I stood and plopped the two papers down on the table in front of me.

“Look. At. This,” he said.

The papers had information printed on them about someone named Justice Adams—Justice being the man's first name, not his title. And there was no doubt that he was the man in the second sketch.

“Justice Adams was not a killer, Betts,” Jake said. “I have no idea why Miz is seeing him that way.”

“Who was he?”

“He was an amazing man—a well-respected one. He was a leader. He was the one responsible for creating the Frankland mining economy. Here, read this.”

I focused in on the article that Jake pointed at. It was a short couple column inches about a ground-breaking ceremony to be held for a new building on the mining company's land, but it was not conservative in its praise for the special man who would be landing the first shovel. He was exactly what Jake had said, and more. “He created jobs, he was the mayor. Yes, he was something.”

“Yes.”

“What in the world is he doing in Gram's nightmares?”

“I have no idea,” Jake said. “You know, there's a small museum devoted to Justice in Frankland. Coincidentally—or not—it's attached to the building that used to be the train station. I know, could all be connected. I know the curator of the museum—well, that's a big word for the person who unlocks the doors and lets people in, but that person is a descendant of Justice's. Her name is Mariah. I think you and I should go talk to her right away.”

“Right now?”

“Yes. I don't think we have time to waste, do you? Nor do we have any reason. Let's go!”

“Your shows?”

“I'm canceling them. It's okay. I'll deal with any complaints later. Betts, I don't like that your life might be in danger . . .”

“I don't think it is.”

“Still. Now's a good time.”

“Uhm. Okay.”

“Come on, I'll drive.”

Jake didn't change out of his costume. He led us authoritatively (just like any good sheriff from the Old West) out to his old VW Bug that was parked in the back. He always behaved a little differently, maybe even looked a little taller, when he was in his costume.

Despite being a millionaire, Jake still loved his old Bug though. I always wondered if we'd make it to whatever destination we had in mind when we were in it. Today was no different than any other day. Or so I
thought.

The route to Frankland wasn't complicated. A quick twenty-minute-or-so jaunt down Highway 44. The last time I'd been to these parts was to pick up a book from the Frankland library for our own Broken Rope branch a few years earlier. I'd first stopped by our library to pick up the latest from one of my favorite authors, but it hadn't been delivered yet. The Broken Rope librarian, Sarabeth, somehow convinced me to make the drive to Frankland to pick up one of their extra copies. It had been a beautiful summer day so I'd gone without even feigning resistance. Sarabeth would have won anyway; she always does.

The highway this time of year was lined with Missouri woods made up of full, green trees and the occasional wide river. As Jake steered his Bug—going only slightly over the speed limit—I looked out the passenger window and watched the woodsy world go by, sometimes stretching my neck to see
over a bridge or into a deep gully or upstream one of the rivers. Missouri didn't have mountains like those found in the western United States, but this part of the state was plenty hilly as well as dotted with tall, rocky cliffs—the Ozarks: not like the Rockies, but still stunning in their own way. I always thought it felt primitive and wild, and though I preferred the small-town life, I was still intrigued by the backwoods.

“Jake!” I said after we passed over a bridge. “What did I just see?” I turned around and tried to look out the back of the Bug but the only things in my line of vision were trees.

“I don't know.”

“You have to go back,” I said.

“We're on the highway, Betts,” Jake said.

I remembered an exit not too far back. “Take the next exit, turn around, and then take the exit behind us. Go under the freeway to the frontage road and we can snake our way back to the building.”

“Wow, Betts, what do you think you saw?” Jake asked as he peered out the front windshield, probably looking for an exit.

“I saw an old building, but it was next to a train—a locomotive that was puffing steam. And I would put money on the fact that it was the Broken Rope station. It was clear and real, though not in as good a shape as I've recently seen in the pictures. I think.”

“That's not possible. The train part I mean. There might have been tracks over there, though, and maybe an old building that resembled the station.”

“I saw a train. Look, there's an exit.”

Jake veered the Bug off and then back onto the freeway, taking us back the other direction. From the other side of
the freeway it was impossible to look down and into the lower area where I'd seen what I'd seen, but it wasn't too long before we found the other exit.

“One step up from a dirt road, at least,” Jake said cheerfully.

The road was pocked but paved, and it seemed no one had intended for it to move in a straight line or be wide enough to allow more than one vehicle. Fortunately, there wasn't a lot of traffic and we were left alone to snake our way back around to the other side toward the old building.

“This is reminding me a lot of
Deliverance
. You saw that movie?”

“Of course.” I laughed, but he did have a good point. The freeway wasn't far away, but we were below it, and unless at least one of us could jump up about a hundred feet, getting to civilization wouldn't be quick or easy.

“There it is,” I said as we came around a curve.

“I see the building, Betts, but I'm not seeing a train,” Jake said.

“There's no train anymore,” I said.

“You can see the tracks next to the building but they're old, overgrown, and unusable. Trains used to run here,” Jake said as he steered the Bug off the road and onto a dirt road that led directly to the front of the building. He slowed substantially but the Bug was jolted every direction as it rode over the uneven ground.

“That was the old Route 66, wasn't it?” I said as I nodded back toward the road.

“Yep. The one and only. Though I can't see ghosts, I think Route 66 must be one of the more haunted places anywhere. It saw lots and lots of people.”

I looked at the building. “Jake, this is the station building
that I met Robert at, the Broken Rope station. Or at least it's very close to it. This one's older, in worse shape, but still the same place. Maybe this was just the style of buildings they used for train stations.”

“It's obviously not the Broken Rope station because it's not in Broken Rope.” Jake stopped the Bug, its engine putter the only sound until he turned the key.

“It's beautiful,” I said. “Even if it is in bad shape.”

“Shall we explore?” he said.

“Absolutely.”

We both stepped out and into a patch of low weeds. We high-stepped our way closer to the building.

“Oh, look,” I said as we veered to our left and I looked toward where the tracks extended into the distance.

“That really is beautiful.” Jake pulled out his phone and snapped a couple pictures.

About a hundred feet back, the tracks moved over a bridge, the bridge presumably over a river, but we couldn't tell from where we were. The bridge was train tracks only, and had steel beam arches on each side of it, which made it seem more modern than it probably was.

“Should we go and check it out?” I said.

Jake looked at his cell phone. “I've got no reception out here. You?”

“No,” I said as I looked at mine.

“Everything looks pretty sturdy, but I'd hate to find out something wasn't. It's just you and me, and we didn't tell anyone where we were going. Even if we had, no one would look over here. Let's think about it. Maybe after we explore the building.”

“Deal.”

A closer inspection of the building showed that though the outside was in rough shape, it wasn't dilapidated. Both stories had been trimmed in gold paint. The gold was still there, though flecked in places on the decorative bumpy trim. In my mind, I saw the pictures, the ones with the people wearing the uncomfortable looking clothes. The men were smoking pipes and the women fanning themselves with real fans.

An old brass bell lay on its side on the porch, but nothing else was there.

The double front doors hung a little funny from their loosened hinges, and neither of them had knobs or handles.

The other outside paint, some red, some white, was in decent condition, though. It was as if someone a few years ago thought a new coat of paint or two might hide the other blemishes.

Jake cautiously stepped onto the porch and put his face up to the window.

“Oh. My,” he said, his voice deep with awe.

“What?” I said as I carelessly hurried up next to him. The boards under my feet moved too much to be totally safe, but they held us both.

“Wow,” I said.

The inside of the building was stunning. I'd never seen anything like it. The ticket counter on the right wall had a glass window at the top of it that was still totally intact, and from where we stood seemed only a little dusty. The sign above the window that said
TICKETS
must have been made of carved wood. There were a number of benches throughout the rest of the lobby/waiting area. They were the ornate variety, with curlicue armrests and sloping backs that curled under at the tops.

“The benches are even in their right spots,” I said. “How can that be? You would think that someone would have
broken in and moved things around or stolen them altogether. The doors aren't on the hinges well. You don't have to break in—anyone could just walk in at any time.”

“It's way off the beaten path. Or it was restored not too long ago,” Jake said, but I heard the doubt in his voice again.

“Should we go in?” I asked.

“I haven't seen a No Trespassing sign, so yes, definitely.”

The doors might not have been upright and working properly, but it was still difficult to get inside the building. Neither Jake nor I wanted to move the doors too much just in case we caused more damage, so we slipped ourselves through the available space, which resulted in Jake tearing his shirt and me falling ungracefully to the floor inside.

“Plenty of dust on the floor,” I said after he helped me up and I wiped off my knees and hands.

“Yeah, no other footprints,” Jake said as he looked inside the lobby.

He stepped forward and touched one of the benches, riding his finger along the top of its back. “Plenty more dust here, too. It's hard to tell because the place isn't sealed shut, but I don't think anyone has been here for a while, though I'm hesitant to think this is all original. It just couldn't survive—what, maybe a hundred years or more—in this condition. Could it?”

I shrugged. “You'd know more than I would.”

We opened the narrow door that led to the space behind the ticket counter. Inside were an old chair and a slotted box that must have at one time held money. The items were less dusty than those in the lobby, and in just as good shape.

“I'm not touching those,” Jake said.

“Me either.”

We left the small room, closing the door gently.

“This way,” Jake said.

On the other side of the lobby was another open space, like a foyer. At its far end was a staircase that led both up and down.

“Which way shall we go first?” I asked.

“Up, but let me lead the way.”

“My hero.”

“Not really. Cliff would shoot me if I let you get hurt. So would Jerome, probably, but since he could never aim well, I'm not as worried about him.”

My laugh bounced off the walls and echoed slightly.

Every step that Jake took was accompanied by squeaking wood, but nothing seemed dangerously rotted.

The stairs were both narrow and steep, but there weren't many. We reached the next floor quickly and without any problems.

We were greeted by more dust and more things, though the things weren't as organized as those on the first floor. Packed together were what looked like a dentist's chair, some shelving, some old file cabinets, and more, but less impressive, chairs.

The area was open and fairly spacious, but the ceilings were sloped so that there wasn't much headroom. There were three windows on the front wall, and four windows on the back wall.

“Was this a dentist's office? I thought you said the Broken Rope station had a salon and barber shop,” I said, trying to put together the idea of a train station and a dentist's office.

“I don't know, I guess. I'd say it might have been one
after
it was a train station, but that's an old dentist's chair and at the time it was used I bet trains were still running. I just don't know.”

The chair was brown, looked uncomfortable and wicked.

“Any ghosts present?” Jake whispered.

“No,” I said. But I was creeped out. I rubbed the goose bumps on my arms. “The ghosts aren't as creepy as the mere idea of ghosts. Well, they haven't been up to now. This place is weird, Jake. I feel like we're missing something here, but I have no idea why I feel that way.”

“I know. Let's check the basement quickly and then get out of here,” he said.

He led the way again as we climbed down the two flights of stairs that took us only somewhat below ground.

“This is more like it,” Jake said as we stopped on the fifth step up from the basement floor. We couldn't go any farther or we'd have stepped into a dirty lake that had become the basement. The entire back wall was missing, which was a reason, I suppose, to question the integrity of the building, but we ignored that as we looked at the dilapidation.

“It's stinky down here—old, dirty water,” I said.

“Look at the fish.” He pointed.

A school of small fish was in the dirty water, swimming together in a nonsensical but interesting pattern.

“And,” Jake continued, “look at everything else down here. The wood in the ceiling is completely rotted. The walls are barely walls. I don't understand how this foundation is holding up the rest of the building.”

Jake's vocalized observations must have been some sort of cue. A snap that was louder than any tree branch breaking sounded from somewhere above us.

“What the . . . ?” Jake said.

“Let's get out of here,” I said as I grabbed his hand, turned, and led us both back up the stairs.

But the way up was suddenly missing. The three top stairs had disappeared; perhaps fallen away into the murky indoor lake below. And yet, we were still able to stand on the step, but I thought that was about to change.

“What's going on?” I said.

“I don't know, Betts, but we can still get out over there.” He nodded to the back of the basement where the wall was missing. “We have to swim through the water. Maybe walk—it can't be too deep.”

“Jake, we'll die from some sort of bacteria in there.”

One of the rotten pieces of wood that had been part of the basement ceiling fell off into the filthy water, causing it to splash up and all over us.