The Secret of the Sacred Four

by E J Elwin

  “Um, hi,” I said into the opening in the glass.

  The man looked up from his magazine as though it required a great effort. He had a big round belly that rested partly on the desk where he sat. He was bald at the top of his head but had a full white beard that came down to his chest. He looked like a tired, bad-tempered Santa Claus, down to the little spectacles he wore and the slightly red nose that peeked out from under them. Rather than speaking, he simply raised his bushy white eyebrows in a look that clearly said what the hell do you want?

  “Um, could I please get two adult tickets?”

  “Where you headed?” he grumbled, as though every word were taxing him.

  “Seaside,” I said.

  “I.D. please,” he said, tossing his magazine aside onto the desk.

  I swallowed nervously as I handed over the fake I.D. through a small opening at the bottom of the glass. I was about to find out if Titus’s skills for making counterfeit documents lived up to his reputation. The man behind the glass held the I.D. up to the light and squinted at it, his tired eyes flicking to me and then back again.

  “Milton, is it?” he asked.

  “Mm-hm,” I said, with a weak attempt at a smile that came out more as a nervous smirk.

  The man sighed and lowered the I.D., then shoved it back through the glass. “That’s forty-four dollars for two,” he said, tapping some keys on his computer.

  Relieved, I reached into my pocket for the money and passed it through the glass. He slid the bills wearily into the drawer beneath the desk and then, with the most pained grunt I’d ever heard, lifted himself from his chair and hobbled to the other end of the little office where the tickets were noisily churning out of an old printer. I watched him go, thinking that I’d never seen anyone so jaded and drained. If tiredness were a person, it would look like him.

  The old printer was finally silent and the man reached for the tickets but then paused. He squinted down at something that I couldn’t see on the table next to the printer, then looked over at me, his bushy white eyebrows furrowed in what was unmistakably suspicion. Shit.

  “What was your name?” he asked, as he hobbled back to me. “Melvin?”

  “Milton,” I said, my stomach turning nervously.

  “Huh…” the man said. He slid the two tickets slowly through the opening in the glass, as though he was unsure if he wanted to give them to me. He scanned my face and looked me up and down, his former boredom now replaced with distrust.

  “Um, thank you,” I said, taking the tickets from the counter. I could feel his eyes on me as I returned to the metal chairs. I took my seat next to Connor, who was watching the rambling man in the suit and tie from under his hood with an enthralled look on his face.

  “Did you get them?” he asked. I held up the two tickets in response. “Dude, this guy’s some sort of Shakespeare expert,” he said, indicating the man in the suit and tie. “He’s quoting the plays, like, word for word!”

  I looked over at the man who did indeed seem to be in the middle of a dramatic monologue: “If thou remember’st not the slightest folly that love ever did make thee run into, thou hast not loved!”

  “That’s great,” I said distractedly. “I think we have a problem.”

  “What?” asked Connor, turning his attention away from the man in the suit and tie.

  “The guy in the ticket booth. I think he recognizes me.”

  Connor glanced at the ticket booth, at the man behind the glass, who was now squinting at both of us, his magazine forgotten. “You think he’s with the Brotherhood?” he whispered.

  “No,” I said. “No, I think it’s—” The man behind the glass picked up the phone on his desk and began to dial. “Sheriff Murphy,” I breathed. “He’s calling Sheriff Murphy! He must have called here and said that someone who looked like me might be trying to leave town!”

  “Okay, stay calm,” said Connor, “we don’t know for sure—”

  “No, it has to be, it has to be!” I whispered frantically. “The way he looked at me just now— Sheriff Murphy called and told him what happened!”

  The man behind the glass began to speak into the phone. He saw me watching him and swiveled his chair to the left so that I only saw the side of his head.

  “We have to leave,” I whispered. “Right now. Sheriff Murphy will be on his way.”

  “But how are we going to get to Seaside?” asked Connor.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But we have to leave. If Sheriff Murphy finds us here, it’s over.”

  The arrival of the Brotherhood and their assault on Harriet’s house had made me completely forget about Sheriff Murphy. We had been shortsighted to think that he would just go home for the night after interrogating Harriet without at least calling the bus station and alerting them of the runaway boy wanted for questioning. I imagined him pulling up outside the station in his squad car with its flashing red and blue lights, the triumphant gleam in his eye as he declared me under arrest, then the look on his face when he saw Connor and realized who he was…

  “Okay,” said Connor, “let’s just very casually get up and walk to the door…”

  The man behind the glass was still turned to his left, talking on the phone. We gathered up our backpacks and rose from our metal chairs. We were halfway to the door when a loud, high-pitched sound made us both jump. It was the man in the suit and tie. The sound had been one of his manic laughs, only ten times louder than his previous ones. All eyes in the room turned to look at him. The sleepwalking man sucking his thumb looked tearful and afraid. The man in the suit and tie looked directly at me and Connor with a wide, deranged grin on his face and shouted in a singsong voice:

  “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes!”

  “What’s going on?!” shouted the man behind the glass. He surveyed the room, saw me and Connor at the doors, and rose from his seat as the crazed man’s laughter filled the room.

  “Okay, run!” said Connor.

  We pushed open the glass doors and bolted out of the station, the wild cackles of the man in the suit and tie echoing after us. I knew the man behind the glass wouldn’t be able to chase after us, but Sheriff Murphy was definitely on his way. We ran at full speed for a few blocks before ducking behind a large clump of bushes on the side of the road.

  “Okay,” Connor breathed, “what now?”

  I shook my head, trying to catch my breath. My heart pounded from the running and from panic as I tried to think what to do. Sheriff Murphy would arrive at the bus station and learn I had just been there. I was sure he would start combing the streets in search of us. We had no place to hide from him or from the Brotherhood, who at any moment would enter Harriet’s house and see that we weren’t there.

  I looked up at the starry night sky, hoping that I’d see Harriet flying past on her broomstick, and she’d swoop down and rescue us. But there was nothing there but the moon and the stars. I had no idea how we would get to Seaside. There were no other buses or trains nearby. Connor and I both knew how to drive but had no car, and it wasn’t like either of us could just run home and ask our parents to borrow one of theirs.

  “Hey Arthur,” Connor whispered.

  I looked up at him. He was peering through the bushes at the convenience store across the street. He took my arm and pulled me close to him so I could see through the same opening in the bushes. This store was one of the few things in town open at this hour. It was run by a little old man who worked the night shifts all on his own. I could see him through the windows, standing perfectly still at the front counter and staring blankly ahead. He could have been a cardboard cutout. He only showed signs of life when the glass doors swung open and a man stumbled into the store, clearly drunk.

  “What?” I whispered, looking from the two men to Connor.

  “Look!”

  I followed his gaze and saw two cars parked beside the building. One of them, a dingy old Toyota, I was sure belonged to the old clerk; the other, an old Ford c
onvertible, haphazardly parked across two spaces, had to belong to the drunk man who had just walked into the store. He’d left the ignition running, and I could see the green glow of the dash light and hear the faint sound of country music coming from the radio. I knew immediately what Connor was thinking.

  “Are you serious?” I whispered. “You want to add grand theft auto to our crime spree?”

  “Do we have a choice?” he whispered back. “How else are we supposed to get to Seaside? It has to be past midnight already. They’ll be looking for us!”

  He was right. Even if we managed to make it through the night, there would be no hiding or getting out of town in the daylight. They’d find us. It was now or never.

  “Okay, let’s go!”

  The drunk driver of the Ford convertible was still occupied in the convenience store, digging through the refrigerators that held the alcoholic beverages, under the disdainful gaze of the old clerk. Connor and I sprinted across the street toward the small row of parking spaces where the convertible was idling. It was lucky that Wineville had very few streetlights. No one inside the convenience store, even the hawk-eyed clerk, could have seen us run across the street.

  It was also lucky that the car we were stealing was a convertible, as we were both able to quickly and silently climb into it without opening the doors. Then—

  “Shit!”

  “What?!” asked Connor, alarmed.

  “I can’t drive a stick!”

  Connor said something unintelligible but it was clear from his erratic gestures that he wanted me to switch seats with him. I leapt up out of the car and raced around to climb into the other side as Connor scooted over to the driver’s seat. He jerked the gearshift and backed us out of the parking area in a wide but graceful motion, then wrenched it forward, sending us sailing out onto the dark street.

  “My mom taught me,” he said simply, as we sped away from the gas station.

  “Seatbelt on,” I told him, pulling on my own.

  “Because it served me so well the last time I drove a car?” He laughed at my expression, but then looked apologetic. “I’m sorry!” He reached out a hand to caress my face. “I’m kidding!”

  He pulled on his seatbelt.

  **

  We couldn’t have chosen a more conspicuous car to steal, I thought, as we drove through the dark roads toward the highway. The old Ford convertible, now that I had a chance to see it clearly, was mint green with a bright red leather interior, and surprisingly well kept. It was what my dad would have called a “classic car”. It was strange that someone as seemingly reckless as the stumbling man who had driven drunk to the convenience store would own something that was so well taken care of.

  Maybe he stole it too, I thought dryly.

  One thing that did seem to be wrong with the car, and which only made it more conspicuous, was that the top was unable to close. We fiddled with the various knobs on the dash and Connor repeatedly flipped the lever he was sure was the one that would close it, but it wouldn’t budge. As we pulled onto the highway and increased our speed, we had to shout to hear each other over the cold night air whipping across our faces.

  “Maybe the guy liked it like this!” Connor shouted. “Maybe he made it be stuck this way!”

  “We won’t to be able to keep it long!” I shouted back. “We’ll have to find something else! They’ll report it stolen!”

  “Maybe not right away!” he shouted, shifting the car into second gear. “I think we’re lucky he was drunk! The cops will arrest him if they find out he drove like that! Or maybe he’ll be too drunk to remember he drove to the store?”

  His blond hair was blown this way and that by the wind and it reminded me of Harriet’s wild gray hair. I looked up again at the stars but there was no witch in sight. I was certain, though, beyond any doubt, that she escaped the house and was flying through the skies at that very moment, and that she would be waiting for us at her friends’ house in Seaside.

  I felt the warmth of Connor’s hand on mine and looked at him. He smiled and said something that I couldn’t hear over the wind but that I could read on his lips. “It’ll be okay.”

  I nodded and squeezed his hand, the wind roaring all around us. The red and white lights of the many cars on the highway raced alongside us, rising and falling as the highway dipped or rose, turning as one as it curved.

  “You know what we need?!” Connor shouted over the wind.

  He leaned forward and turned on the radio. The country music station that the drunk man had been listening to blared a raucous song full of banjos. There was a flicker of static as Connor changed the station, and a mournful blues tune came on. Another flicker of static, and it was a hyperactive pop song. Connor made a face and continued to turn the dial.

  I was amazed as always at his ability to remain so calm under stress. Despite the danger we were in, I was grateful for every minute that passed, my heart aching with love for him, watching him change the radio station as casually as if he were driving to the grocery store.

  We came around a bend, and the glittering buildings and bridges of Portland came into view. At the same moment, a beautiful and familiar song came through the car’s speakers.

  “Oh,” Connor sighed, leaning back in his seat. He looked at me, a dreamy smile on his face, and I smiled back. The song was “Tonight, Tonight” by The Smashing Pumpkins, a song and a group we both adored, and Connor had switched the station just as the song was starting.

  The night took on a new life as the song spilled out into the air. The city skyline vibrated with the pulse of the music and the bridges hummed with excitement, welcoming us. Connor held my hand as we crossed onto Marquam Bridge, and just like when he’d smiled in Harriet’s kitchen when Sheriff Murphy was at the front door, I experienced a full second where I forgot about the situation we were in. I looked out over the bridge at the city, at the twinkling lights and the thousands of people flitting about, and for a moment, I was just like them, and Connor and I were just out for a night on the town.

  The song came to its impassioned conclusion just as we reached the end of the bridge, and was replaced by the soothing voice of a late-night host announcing the upcoming songs.

  “Uh-oh,” said Connor.

  “What?!” I looked around, fully expecting to see a police car or the dark van that belonged to the Brotherhood bearing down on us.

  “We’re running out of gas,” said Connor.

  “Really?” I asked anxiously, leaning over to look at the fuel gauge. The red needle was just starting to graze the little white E that stood for Empty.

  “We’re going to have to stop somewhere to get some,” he said.

  I looked out beyond the highway at the buildings and the crowds of people. The city that had seemed so innocent and inviting only a few moments ago now felt dangerous and full of threats. I tried hopelessly to think of a scenario which didn’t involve us getting off the highway.

  “Can’t we just— I don’t know—” I stammered.

  “What, drive over an hour to Seaside on an empty gas tank?” asked Connor. “I’m afraid we’re fresh out of witches to help us with something like that.”

  His comment prompted me to look up at the sky again.

  “It’ll be fine,” he said, glancing up too. “We’ll be quick… Oh look!”

  I turned to where he pointed. A glowing orange sign for a gas station poked out from among a cluster of downtown buildings. Connor sped up and switched to the exit lane. Anxiety snaked through me. We were about to enter the busiest, most densely packed part of the city.

  “Just relax,” he said, pulling onto the exit ramp.

  I took deep breaths as he drove to the end of the ramp and stopped in front of a red light. The bright headlights of another car that had pulled off the highway shined on us from behind like a glaring spotlight, making me feel horribly exposed in the open-air convertible. I sunk down in my seat, squinting against the light that bounced off the rear and sideview mirrors.

&
nbsp; The traffic light turned green and Connor curved right onto the next street. The gas station, brightly lit and painted a lurid orange color, came into view at the end of the block.

  “See? We’re fine,” he said, pulling into the station. “Won’t take more than two minutes.”

  He pulled slowly up to a gas pump when the car made a sudden jerking movement, like a person hiccuping, and then stopped completely without Connor’s help.

  “Holy crap,” he said, turning to me in astonishment. “It just ran out of gas. We got here just in time. How lucky is tha—?”

  He broke off. We both saw it at the same time. About a block away from us, a massive crowd of people was packed into the street. It was some kind of party or festival because there were colorful lanterns hanging over the street, red and orange and yellow, strung up from the buildings on either side, and the street was closed off to traffic with a series of metal barriers.

  In front of the barriers, were the flashing red and blue lights of a row of police cars.

  CHAPTER 7

  Party in Portland

  I had a strong urge to throw up, like I’d just been punched in the stomach. I swallowed hard, resisting the panic-induced vomit I was sure was on its way. It was more than just the fear of being caught that was making me feel sick. I looked at the red and blue lights of the police cars, and for a second, I was back in the overturned car in the middle of the highway. Connor reached out and took both of my hands in his as I started to hyperventilate.

  “Arthur, look at me.” I looked into those ocean blue eyes which were so full of strength and resolve. “We just have to get gas and leave,” he whispered. “They’re just over there to watch— whatever’s going on over there. Can you stay out here and pump while I go in there and pay?”

  He gestured at the mini-mart a short distance away, where I could see through the window a heavily tattooed clerk with a long dark beard organizing a large display of cigarette cartons. I nodded feverishly, trying to compose myself.