One Last Time (5 page)

“I’m sorry,” he begins with an apology, which is never a good sign. “Like I said, you are in over your head. It’s not your fault, though. He should have at least warned you before asking you to sit at the table.”

The oddness of his statement does nothing to calm my trembling. Why, oh why, did I let money cloud my thinking and agree to have dinner in a cursed dining room?

“What are you talking about?” I choke, barely able to whisper. Deep inside, I hope he doesn’t answer me.

“When you found the clock, and we pushed past the painting…” He stops a moment, and I hold my breath. “We went back in time, Averie. Those people we saw in the tunnel weren’t ghosts. They were as alive as you and me.”

I laugh and stand to leave. Game over, I’ve had enough.
I don’t care how cute this guy is. I’m outta here. With determination, I walk away, high-stepping through the grass, heading toward the front of the plantation. I’ll wait inside the catering van until Mike is ready to go. There is no way I am going back inside that mansion. If by chance I see Mr. Brackett sneaking around outside, pulling bells and whistles, fabricating thunderstorms and conjuring up ghostly apparitions, I will personally place my foot in the seat of his pants.

My trembling is gone. I’ve worked up quite a sweat power-walking all the way across the property. My legs are itching something fierce due to the chiggers making a midnight feast of my flesh. I pull at the hem of the stupid dress that keeps riding up my backside as I walk. The air is hot and heavy with moisture, making my thick curls stick to my neck. I am pretty miserable right now. As soon as we leave, I’m demanding Mike take me to the Dairy Queen for the biggest iced Coca-Cola on the menu. Super-size me is all I can think right now.

I reach the driveway and stop. The van is gone! How could Mike leave me? Now, I am really pissed. He has my backpack, my money for the bus, my cell phone. “Ahhh!” I scream, balling my hands in a fist and giving a frustrated stomp. This has to be the worst night of my life. Pulling my hair off my neck, I notice the driveway is empty. The cars are gone. How could the guests have left so quickly? I turn toward the house. It’s dark, quiet, and empty. I try not to panic, but the thought of being alone on this property during the midnight hour is terrifying. I spin around, not sure what I’m looking for. My head is swimming, and I can’t stop shivering. Could it be an omen? A foreshadowing of all the possums that will soon scamper over the shallow grave of my dismembered body parts? I swallow to gain control, but I am terrified. Something has gone terribly wrong.

I run down the cobblestone driveway and take a quick detour, tearing across the front yard, dodging gray Spanish moss hanging from the branches of the massive oaks. The moon is lighting my path. I should be nearing the old two-lane highway any moment now. It’s too late to catch a bus, so I’m looking at a good, long walk before I reach the 7-Eleven on the outskirts of town. It’s one of the few places that still have a pay phone outside.

Boy, am I going to give Mike a piece of my mind for leaving me. It brings comfort to verbally assault him in my head as I plan everything I intend to say. Then, I realize I don’t even have a quarter on me. So much for the big two hundred dollars I was supposed to earn tonight. I sigh and keep on power-walking. Damn it, where is the highway?
I know I should have reached it by now. I wish I could call my momma. She’d come right away and pick me up, even if she was already in bed. She would drive me home, and I would tell her everything that happened. She would shake her head and tell me how she was going to call Mr. Brackett and give him a piece of her mind for scaring her daughter. After that, she would make me the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the world and pour me a frosty glass of Coke while I changed out of this damn dress and into my comfy sweats. I’d curl up on the couch and eat while she told me the latest gossip at the salon today. God, I really miss her right now.

I force back the tears stinging my eyes and stop for a moment. I look far into the distance, scanning over the endless sea of grass. Where the hell is the damn highway?

“Averie?”

I jump, startled, and whirl around. I cannot believe Quillan has followed me this far.

“What are you doing here?” My question sounds like an accusation.

“It’s not here, Averie.” His gaze searches my face. “You can run till morning and you’re not going to find the highway.”

The overwhelming fear that consumes me is not because I believe Quillan’s harebrained story of traveling back in time, rather it stems from the fact I am out in the boonies, all alone with a madman. He’s probably some serial killer working with Mr. Brackett. They lured the lot of us here, planning to rob and murder the wealthy couples, and I was stupid enough to agree to sit in on the massacre. After all, where could be a more appropriate place to carry out such a diabolical plan? My heart drops with the realization that they’ve more than likely murdered Mike and disposed of the van. No wonder he didn’t come running when I pounded on the wall. My hands shake and my knees buckle as I back away from Quillan.

“Don’t run away from me again,” he pleads. “We need to find a safe place to spend the night.”

I continue my retreating, all the while keeping my eyes on him. “I’m going home,” I say again. This time there is finality in my statement.

“It’s not there, Averie.” He steps toward me.

Deep down inside, I fear he’s right, but it doesn’t make any sense.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it worked this time.”

A slight breeze brushes past us, tousling his hair and moving the gray beards dangling from the mighty oaks. I’m surrounded by an improbability, taunting me, unwillingly drawing me into a world I never intended on visiting.

“What worked?” I keep my voice steady even though my hands are trembling uncontrollably now.

“I was able to go back to August sixteenth, 1859.”

To prove his point, we take the hour walk to town. There is no 7-Eleven, no pay phone, no Dairy Queen, only wooden sidewalks paving the way to the few stores in town. On the left side of the street are a tobacco shop, the L. Fredrickson Feed and Grain, the Lamp Light Kerosene and Oil store, a dress shop, a haberdashery, and a grocer’s market. Across the street on the right are a small hotel, the telegraph store, a post office, the county jail, the courthouse, and a bank. The numbness of seeing my beloved hometown in such a manner is nothing like the shock of a genuine slave store with a large hand-painted sign,
Auction and Negro Sales
. I stand in front of the business, shaking my head in disbelief. Although I’ve heard about the atrocities of slavery my entire life, it never actually sank in, the fact it actually happened. History is now a tangible reality, confronting me face-to-face and multiplying my fears.

“I want to go home,” I whisper.

“In time.” Quillan takes my hand and leads me away from the hideous store.

We walk in silence. I don’t cry or berate Quillan, neither do I demand explanations to something I can’t begin to fathom. I’m spent right now. Shell-shocked from these traumatizing events, walking along in a haze of confusion.

My body feels numb, other than my aching feet. Those two babies have experienced their share of torture tonight, from being forced into a narrow pair of stilettos to running a marathon through thistles and weeds. I don’t want to talk or be forced to think. All I want to do is fall asleep and then wake from this horrific nightmare.

Half an hour later, we’re deep in the woods, standing in front of a dilapidated old shack. Quillan refers to it as a “station.” It’s a secret place used by the Underground Railroad, a safe house of sorts, where the fleeing slaves can rest until their conductor moves them along to the next one. No one is using the safe house tonight, so we slip in.

Quillan lights a lantern and turns the wick down low, giving just enough light for us to see, but not enough to shine a beacon through the weathered boards, announcing our presence. The hovel is small, dirty, and smells of urine and body odor. In one corner is a water pump, and in the other, a rickety looking full-size bed with a thin mattress covered with soiled blankets. I turn my nose up and want to cry. This is unacceptable. I cannot sleep here. I’m ready to pound Quillan on the chest and demand something better when I picture the little girl in the tunnel, clutching the hand of her guide, trusting him to lead her to a safe place. It must be the craziness of the night, I’m not sure, but I can see her sleeping peacefully on this bed, dreaming of a better day, a better life, a world without hate, a world without fear. Suddenly, the bed looks very inviting, and I crawl alongside her and drift off to sleep.

I’m burning up, and the annoying fly buzzing around my ear will die a slow, painful death as soon as I get out of bed and grab the flyswatter from the kitchen. The swamp cooler in my room must have gone out again because I don’t hear the motor running, nor do I find relief in the frigid air blowing on my face. On the contrary, I am sweating profusely. I lay still a few moments longer, collecting my thoughts and reminding myself of everything I need to do today. First on the list is to call maintenance to repair the air conditioning. Second is to figure out what today is. Yesterday was what? Saturday…that’s right. So what did I do yesterday? I told Mike I would help…

No!
Panicked, I sit up fast and look around. The heat inside the tiny shack is suffocating, blanketing the putrid stench against my face. My stomach churns, causing me to gag. Quillan is quick to pump water into a dirty tin mug for me. I tip the cup under my nose and retch at the smell of sulfur.

“Sorry.” He helps me outside for fresh air. I sit in the tall grass and want to cry. If I’m awake, why am I still having this nightmare? It’s time for Quillan to give me some answers.

“Who are you, and what did you mean last night when you said you were able to go back to 1859? How is any of this possible?” As the words leave my mouth so does the prime rib from last night. He waits until I finish depositing the contents of my stomach in the grass before squatting down beside me.

“Like I said before, you’re in over your head. I’m sorry. I never meant for anyone to travel back here besides me.”

“You pulled me inside the passageway with you.” I wipe the bile from my chin and catch his bluff. “Why did you do it if you didn’t intend for me to come? I would rather face a few ghosts than this!”

“I pulled you in to save your life Averie. The time exchange started taking place the moment the lights went out and Mr. Brackett disappeared. We were allotted a certain amount of time to find safe passage. Once we were inside the tunnel, and the floor dropped from under us, we fell back another month. August sixteenth, 1859. Our intended destination.”

As the realization hits, I shiver and gag, dry heaving as I relive the shrieking, the screams of the other guests.

“Did everyone else…” I can’t say it.

The look on his face answers my question. A fury rises from deep inside me, the heat of my anger overpowering this hot August morning. I have no desire to be with this inhumane creature. I stand and give him a swift, roundhouse kick to his jaw. Unfortunately, I didn’t nail him as hard as I would have liked, seeing I landed the blow with my bare foot. Still, it is enough to send him sprawling on his backside. He retaliates by grabbing my ankle as I stomp past. The next thing I know I am laying on top of him. My anger boils hotter as I struggle to stand, but he won’t allow it. My strength is no match to his. In a flash, he rolls on top of me, pinning me to the ground.

“Listen to me,” he growls as blood oozes from his lip. “You need me to survive here.”

“I don’t want to survive here!” I scream, struggling against him. “I want to go back home to my own time.”

“I’m going to send you back,” he yells over my screaming and then spits a stream of blood into the grass.

I stop struggling a moment. Did he say what I thought he did? “You will?” I ask hopeful, wishing I hadn’t kicked him so hard.

“Yes.” He releases one of my hands so he can wipe the blood running off his chin. “I promise I’ll send you back, but I need your help first.”

“Ugh,” I groan and push against him, but he’s holding me with both hands again. As much as I hate to admit it, I am helpless.

“Help you do what?” My tone reams with hostility.

He spits another stream. “I’m here to change history. We have one month to stop the Faulkner Estate Massacre.”

Deal breaker! I struggle against him like crazy now, fear fueling my fight. He has my arms pinned, but my legs are free, so I kick with everything I have inside of me, but to no avail.

“There is no way in hell I’m going to help you do that.”

“Why?” He grimaces against my struggles.

“You seriously have to ask?” I stop tussling to take a breather.

“Yes. Why wouldn’t you want to save sixteen lives?”

“Because,” I go into a hysterical rant, “I am scared of my own shadow, that’s why. I am a card-carrying fraidy cat. I have these paralyzing fears I can’t explain. I can’t even watch scary movies, so how do you expect me to help you stop a gruesome massacre? Besides, it’s thirteen lives not sixteen.”

“You’re forgetting Lunar’s murder and Emily’s suicide,” he reminds me. “I’m here to stop James Faulkner from hanging Lunar. If I can keep it from happening, then I save the others.”

“Still it’s fifteen, not sixteen.” I correct him on a minor detail to keep myself from committing to something I am terrified to do.

“You’re stalling.” He pegs me right, and I catch a twinkle in his eyes when he does.

“Damn straight, I’m stalling.”

He loosens his grip and raises me to a sitting position. It’s quiet for a moment, and neither one of us says anything. The only sound is the deafening chorus of cicadas tuning up for their morning song. A hundred and fifty-three years, and those little boogers still sound the same. Quillan is staring at me. I wish he wouldn’t. I must look terrible. I can feel my natural curls fuzzing with all this humidity. His eyes are smiling, though. I’m starting to feel bad for the swift kick I gave him. He’s got a good motive for this mess he dragged me into. I guess I can’t fault him for trying to save some lives. It’s a noble mission, for sure.