"What's this about, officer?"
"We're here to execute the warrant, not answer questions. May we pass, please? Or are you resisting?"
"I'm not resisting. I just want to know what this--"
"Where's the master bedroom?"
"Upstairs to the right."
"Thank you." The detective and two officers blew past him and started upstairs. Two other officers suddenly appeared in the doorway, as if standing guard.
Ryan pinned his back to the wall and allowed the police to pass. They said nothing as they hurried by him and disappeared into his parents' bedroom. Ryan's father climbed halfway up the stairs, his eyes meeting Ryan's.
"Dad, what are they looking for?"
"Just don't worry, Ryan. It's going to be okay."
He spoke in that too-calm tone of voice that parents used to reassure themselves as much as their children. With a detective and two police officers rummaging through their house, Ryan had no reason to believe that everything was going to be okay.
Ryan stood behind his father outside the bedroom door. It took only a few minutes for the police to emerge. The detective was wearing latex gloves, and he was carrying something under his arm. It was Mr. Coolidge's camera bag.
"What do you want with that?" asked Ryan's father.
"Follow me, sir."
The detective led the way downstairs to the foyer. Ryan's father went with them. Ryan was watching from the top of the stairs as the detective laid the camera bag on the floor. One of the police officers was recording with a hand-held video camera.
The detective said, "Mr. Coolidge, would you please open the camera bag."
Ryan's father looked puzzled, but he did not object. The bag was about the size of a standard backpack, and it had a number of different zipper pockets on the front and sides. Mr. Coolidge unzipped the main compartment, which revealed nothing but a camera.
The detective said, "Open the side pocket, please. The one on the left."
Ryan's father obliged. This time, however, as he peeled back the open flap, his face turned ash white.
"Would you remove the contents, please?" the detective said flatly.
Mr. Coolidge had clearly heard him, but he suddenly couldn't move. "I--I don't know how this got here."
"Sir, please remove it."
His hand shook as he reached into the side pocket. He pulled out something that, from Ryan's distance, looked like a bright green piece of glass or a rock. A moment later, however, Ryan recognized it. His father was holding the precious stone that had choked that little girl on the beach. It was the same huge emerald that she had sucked off her grandmother's ring. Two weeks had passed since Ryan's mother saved the child's life, but Ryan would never forget a jewel like that one.
"Does this emerald belong to you?" the detective demanded.
"No, of course not."
The detective opened a small plastic bag and said, "Place it in the bag, please."
Ryan's father dropped the emerald into the bag, and the detective sealed it shut.
"Mr. Coolidge, do you have any idea how much this stone is worth?"
"I'm sure it's quite valuable "
"It's been appraised at thirty-one-thousand dollars, sir. You want to tell us how it ended up in your camera bag?"
"I don't know how."
"This is your camera bag, isn't it?"
"Yes, but I don't have any idea how that emerald ended up there. I really don't."
The officers exchanged glances, obviously skeptical. The detective said, "Would you mind coming downtown with us, sir? We'd like to ask you a few more questions."
"My wife is still at her mommy-and-me class with our daughter. I can't leave my son here by himself."
"Officer Tenet will be happy to walk your son over to a neighbor's house."
"Can't this wait until my wife comes home?"
The detective sneered. "I'm trying to be nice, sir. Don't force me to arrest you in front of your own child."
"Arrest me? For what?"
"For the last time, sir. Let's talk about it downtown. For your boy's sake."
Mr. Coolidge glanced toward Ryan, then swallowed the lump in his throat. "All right. Take my son to the Alvarez house. They live right next door."
The officer went to Ryan and led him downstairs. As they crossed the foyer, Ryan saw real fear in his father's eyes, which gave him even greater concern. "Dad, what's going on?"
"We'll talk more about this later, Ryan."
"But that's the emerald that flew out of that baby's mouth at the beach. What's it doing in your camera bag?"
"Ryan, be quiet."
"Are they saying you stole it?"
"I said we'll talk about this later," he said sternly. "This is obviously a mistake."
The police officer whisked Ryan out the door, as if he couldn't get the boy out of the house fast enough. Ryan was confused and angry at the same time. He had been so proud of his mother for saving that little girl's life. Dr. Coolidge had been the talk of the town. She'd been on the television news, her picture in the newspaper. She was a local hero. And now this? How could his father have spoiled everything? How could he have stooped so low as to steal the emerald that had popped from a choking baby's mouth?
As Ryan entered the neighbor's yard, he gave a quick glance over his shoulder. What he saw nearly knocked him off his feet--his father disappearing into the back seat of a police car, his head lowered in shame.
Ryan had seen plenty of cop shows on television. He'd seen criminals stuffed into squad cars on the nightly news. And he'd watched dozens of them look into the cameras and say exactly what his father had just told him: It was all "a mistake."
Yeah, right. They always said it was "a mistake."
He wanted to believe in his father's innocence, but he was already having doubts. How could a thirty-one-thousand-dollar emerald end up in his camera bag by "mistake"?
That was all Ryan wanted to know.
Chapter 34
Springfield was the state capital of Illinois.
Ryan was convinced that it was also the stovepipe capital of the world.
Their borrowed wagon had crossed the city limits around five a. M. Abigail linked up with a fellow abolitionist who was willing to hide Hannah and her baby. Ryan was dead tired, but he couldn't afford to waste time sleeping. Jarvis already had a serious head start on finding the leaphole back to the twenty-first century. They'd both heard Hezekiah say that the key to finding it was to go to Springfield and look for a stovepipe.
He might as well have said go the beach and look for a grain of sand. Ryan had never seen so many stovepipes. Of course, never before had he searched for one in the middle of the nineteenth century.
"What exactly do you want me to look for?" asked Abigail.
"I'm not sure. Any stovepipe that looks out of the ordinary to you, point it out to me."
Abigail was not entirely comfortable with the whole concept of leapholes. However, she couldn't deny their inexplicable trip from Missouri to Illinois with Kaylee's help. Suffice it to say that she'd seen enough to help Ryan in any way she could.
From Ryan's standpoint, a pair of nineteenth-century eyes couldn't hurt his search through old Springfield.
They continued down Main Street. Black stovepipes protruded from every rooftop. In 1857, pot-bellied stoves were in practically every home, every store, every office. Coal or wood burned in the stove, heat filled the room, and smoke went up the pipe. Ryan looked around, confused and overwhelmed. He was determined to honor the promise he'd made to Hezekiah: He would bring Hannah and her baby north to safety. But he couldn't let Jarvis find that leaphole before he did. The race was on, and he had no idea where the finish line was.
Hopefully, neither did Jarvis.
They were about to cross the street when Ryan suddenly shoved Abigail into a narrow alley.
"What is it?" asked Abigail.
"I just saw Jarvis."
"Where?" she asked.
"Just ahead, a
t that restaurant on this same side of the street. He's having breakfast with a man outside on the terrace."
"You sure it's him?"
"Have you ever seen another human being with a face as flat as his?"
"Good point. Who's he talking to?"
"I don't know. But I'd sure like to find out."
"We can't let him see us. If he does, he'll know Hannah's in town. He might try to turn her in."
Ryan thought for a moment. "Let's see if there's a rear entrance to the restaurant. Maybe we can sneak up from the backside and get a closer look at him and his friend on the terrace."
They continued down a back alley. It was so narrow that their shoulders practically rubbed against the red brick walls on either side. The back end smelled like most alleys. Funny, but garbage always seemed to smell the same, whether it was yours or your neighbor's, whether it was from the nineteenth century or the twenty-first.
They rounded the back corner and found a rear entrance to the restaurant. Ryan entered first. Abigail followed. As it turned out, the restaurant was only on the front terrace, outdoors. The inside of the building was a general store.
"Can I help you find something?" asked the store owner. He was a kindly old man wearing a white apron and pince-nez eyeglasses that clipped to his considerable nose.
"No, thank you," Abigail said softly. "Just looking around."
"Take your time," he said. Then he grabbed his broom and started sweeping the floor.
Pretending to browse, Ryan and Abigail worked their way toward the front of the store. It was a mild spring day, and the front windows facing the terrace were open. The store was packed with merchandise. The aisles were not the perfectly straight, tidy aisles of modern-day supermarkets. Ryan and Abigail moved in almost zig-zag fashion to the front. They went from shelves of canned goods, to stacks of cornmeal, to a variety of things that were part of life before the Civil War. Ryan saw drip candles, bottled ink, and whale oil for lamps.
They stopped near a display of new chimney sweepers, then stopped. Standing just ten feet away from the open window, they couldn't see Jarvis, but they could hear his voice. It was coming from the outside terrace.
"What's he saying?" whispered Abigail.
"Can't hear."
"You think he found that leaphole you two are looking for?"
"Don't know." Ryan strained to listen, but Jarvis's voice was just noise. "I need to get closer."
Ryan checked over his shoulder. The store owner was still busy sweeping the floor. Quickly but quietly, Ryan stepped toward the window. Jarvis and his guest were seated at a small table on the terrace, just on the other side of the open window. Ryan hid behind a tall stack of jarred preserves, so they couldn't spot him. He could see them, however--and he could hear every word they were saying.
Abigail came to his side and whispered, "That man he's talking to is a federal marshal."
Ryan noted the badge on his vest. He was gnawing on a fatty slice of bacon. "I just don't think I can do it," the man said.
"Sure you can," said Jarvis. "All I'm asking you to do is arrest him, that's all."
"But on what charge?"
"I did some research over at the courthouse," said Jarvis. "The Fugitive Slave Law of 1850 makes it illegal to interfere with a slave owner's right to recover a runaway slave. Every chance he gets, this boy is interfering with Old Man Barrow's lawful right to recover his property."
Ryan went cold. The boy he was talking about was him.
Abigail whispered, "He's trying to get you arrested for aiding runaways."
Outside, the federal marshal took a long drink from his coffee mug. It was either too hot or too bitter, judging from the sour expression on his face. Then he looked at Jarvis and said, "Won't work."
"Why not?"
"Technically, you're right. The Fugitive Slave Law does spell out some pretty severe penalties for people who help slaves escape. But the fact is, that part of the law just isn't enforced all that much in this part of Illinois. Not anymore, anyway. People around here just don't support it."
"But the law is still on the books, right? You could enforce it."
"I could. But why would I?"
Jarvis was silent for a moment. Then he removed a little bag from his belt loop and placed it on the table. It was the bag of silver that Old Man Barrow had given him for turning in Hezekiah.
"Why wouldn 't you?" said Jarvis as he pushed the bag toward the marshal's side of the table.
The marshal looked at the bag, saying nothing. It was as if the men came to a silent understanding. He took the bag of silver and tucked it into his pocket. "Well, maybe just this once I could enforce it."
"Good man," said Jarvis.
"Just so you understand," said the marshal. "Ain't no judge or jury who's gonna convict this boy for helping runaway slaves."
"All I want you to do is keep him behind bars for a few days. Just long enough to keep him out of my hair awhile."
Abigail leaned toward Ryan and whispered, "Just long enough to keep you from finding the leaphole before he does, is what he means."
"Let's go " whispered Ryan. "I heard enough."
"What are you two sneaking around about?" said the store owner.
The old man's accusatory tone startled both of them. As they backed away from the stack of preserves, Abigail tripped. She fell in the direction of an even bigger stack of jars behind them. Ryan tried to catch her, but the disaster was unavoidable. Abigail went down. Eight-dozen jars of sweet preserves came crashing to the floor with her. Many of them shattered, leaving gobs of sticky jam everywhere.
"You'll pay for those!" shouted the store owner.
The front door flew open, and the marshal rushed inside to check on all the racket. Jarvis was right behind him.
"That's him, that's the boy!" shouted Jarvis^But as the words left his lips, both he and the marshal stepped right into the slippery mess of spilled preserves. Their feet went out from under them, and they landed hard on the messy floor.
"Run for it!" shouted Abigail. She and Ryan raced out the front door.
"After him!" said Jarvis. But the marshal was too groggy to stand, having banged his head on the floor in the fall. Jarvis shook him, and the man groaned. He sat up and rubbed his head, still unable to climb to his feet. Jarvis grumbled and gave chase alone, his shirt and pants dripping of strawberry jam.
Ryan and Abigail rounded the corner. They continued at full speed down a side street. Jarvis was about twenty yards back, right on their trail. They cut behind a carriage and then around a team of horses. The alley beside the hotel looked like a good place to hide. They ducked behind a wagon and waited in silence.
A minute later, they saw Jarvis hurry past on the street. He didn't even look in their direction.
"He missed us," Ryan said with relief.
Abigail said, "We need to get Hannah out of town. This is getting too dangerous."
"But I can't leave Springfield until I find that leaphole."
"That's impossible. The minute you show your face on the streets, that federal marshal is going to arrest you for aiding a runaway slave."
Ryan knew she was right. Jarvis had totally fixed the race in his favor. Then something occurred to him. "I need a lawyer," he said.
"I don't see what good that'll do you. That marshal took a bribe. The best lawyer in the country couldn't keep him from arresting you."
"That's not why I need to find a lawyer. I was thinking about Hezekiah's clue. He said go to Springfield and look for a stovepipe. Then we'll find a leaphole. But maybe we've got it backwards."
"What do you mean?"
"The only person who would have a leaphole is a Legal Eagle. We should find the best lawyer in town, and then look for the stovepipe."
"How do find the best lawyer?" said Abigail.
"Reputation, I guess."
Abigail considered it. "There's only one lawyer I've ever heard of from Springfield. He!s pretty well known. Three years ago he ran for U. S. Sena
te."
"Did he win?"
"No. But he bounced right back and sought his party's nomination for vice president at last year's national convention."
"Did he get it?"
"Actually, he got clobbered."
"Doesn't sound like much of a Legal Eagle to me."
"Oh, but he's real well liked, especially by folks who are against slavery. I believe his office is right above the federal courthouse. His name is--"
"Ryan Coolidge, you're under arrest," said the federal marshal at the end of the alley. Jarvis was standing right beside him. The marshal's uniform was still covered with jam, but he also had a gun. It was aimed right at Ryan.
"I thought your name was L'new," Abigail whispered through her teeth.
"That's a whole 'nother story," Ryan replied.
The marshal jerked his gun forward. "Quiet! Put your hands up over your head."
Ryan and Abigail raised their hands, but Ryan didn't keep quiet. "Is this your idea of justice, Marshal? Arresting people on bogus charges for a bagful of silver?"
The marshal's face was suddenly as red as his jam-smeared shirt. "What--uh. What are you talking about?"
"Don't play stupid with us," said Abigail. "We saw you take that bribe from Jarvis."
"That's right," said Ryan. "And the whole world is going to know about it, too. Unless you're prepared to gun us both down, right now."
Abigail cast a sideways glance, then whispered, "Not sure I would have put it quite that way, Ryan."
"Shoot them," said Jarvis.
"Now wait just a minute," said the marshal.
"You gotta shoot 'em. You just heard that little weasel say he was going to tell everyone about the bribe. Shoot him!"
"I can't just shoot a boy and a woman in cold blood."
"Then give me the gun. I'll do it."
Ryan said, "Have you gone crazy, Jarvis? Why do you hate me so much? I never did anything to you."
"Never did anything?" said Jarvis, groaning. "You are so clueless. For seventeen years I was a loyal apprentice. I did everything Hezekiah ever asked me to do. I studied, I worked overtime. I was just counting the days until Hezekiah would retire and name me his replacement. And then what does that ingrate do in the end? He says I'm not Legal Eagle material. He decides he's going to pass the baton to some school kid named Ryan."
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