Shadow Train

by J. Gabriel Gates

  “Weird, huh?” Dalton said to Kate.

  Kate continued staring at it, as if entranced. “What about the fourth church?” she asked.

  Miss Pembrook looked at her, surprised. “There’s another one?” she asked, and Dalton heard her quick footstep as she and Maggie came up behind them. Slowly, Kate reached out and touched the picture of the church in Israel.

  “Back home, in Ballymore,” she said, her voice quiet with wonder. “There’s a church just like this.”

  * * *

  Rick was sitting in the Banfield’s living room, going into hour two of getting chewed out when the doorbell rang. He should have expected his dad to be pissed. First Rick had made it known in no uncertain terms that he didn’t approve of the upcoming wedding, and then he’d gotten himself suspended. Worse, because of the trouble with Josh, Rick was barred from participating in the next basketball game. It was school policy that players who’d been suspended had to sit out one game, and his dad was so angry that he didn’t even try to get Rick off the hook as he usually did. He’d just signed the suspension papers—without a word—and marched Rick out of the principal’s office.

  Well, Rick was equally pissed. It seemed to make no difference to his dad that the dumb-ass Flats punk Josh had attacked him. Jack was lecturing him about the upcoming wedding too—and as for that crap, Rick felt he was doing everyone a favor by telling them that he couldn’t live with Raphael. Wouldn’t it be worse if his dad’s new stepson reappeared and moved into the house, and Rick had to kill him? By warning them ahead of time, Rick was saving everyone a lot of trouble. But did he get any credit for it? No. All he got was an endless, meaningless lecture followed by the promise that if he didn’t shape up, Jack was going to break his will the way a trainer breaks a horse.

  Rick could think of a few things he’d like to break, starting with the finger his dad kept jabbing at him. Lately, thoughts of violence came to him more and more, simmering strong and hot just beneath the surface of his rigid self-control—a control that was increasingly difficult to maintain. His soul longed for release, and he stared at his father now with an anger and contempt that was dangerously close to hatred.

  Then, the doorbell rang.

  “You’d better make damn sure you’re still in that chair when I get back,” his dad said ominously, then left the room.

  * * *

  Jack opened the front door and found Aimee and Orias on the stoop. He greeted Orias with a hearty handshake.

  “Thanks for giving Aimee a ride home from school, Orias. I’m sorry to deprive you of her company, but I need her here to help with wedding planning. I’m sure you undersand.”

  “Of course,” Orias said. Aimee started to protest but Orias leaned close to her.

  “It’s only for a few days,” he said. He bent to her and quickly kissed her cheek. “Be a good girl. Listen to your father and do as he asks. No slips, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise me?” Orias asked, and she nodded. “Good. I’ll see you soon. Why don’t you head inside? I need to have a word with Jack.”

  “Okay.” Aimee shrugged and entered the house.

  Jack watched her go, amazed at how docile she was when she was with Orias. When she was out of earshot, he said to Orias, “You’ve worked a miracle with her. You’ve helped her more than they ever did at that . . . that boarding school. What’s your secret?”

  Jack didn’t want to come right out and ask Orias if he was sleeping with his daughter because if he got the wrong answer he’d have to slug him—and that wouldn’t be good for business.

  “It’s no secret,” Orias said. “It’s just a matter of sympathy, understanding, and some herbal tea to help her relax. Which reminds me—” He reached into his coat pocket and took out a small glass bottle with a silver top. “Put this in her tea or juice a couple of times a day and you’ll have no problems with her—but just a drop.”

  Jack eyed it suspiciously. “What is it?”

  “Don’t worry. I told you—it’s an herbal remedy for nerves. I don’t believe in drugs. This is perfectly natural—not harmful like that stuff they were giving her at Mountain High Academy.” He smiled at Jack’s surprise. “Yes—she told me all about her treatment there. Pills and injections and straitjackets. Barbaric if you ask me. This is completely homeopathic and harmless. Have it analyzed if you don’t trust me.”

  “Not necessary,” Jack said. “You say it’s natural?” Orias nodded. “Does she know you’re giving it to her?”

  “No,” Orias said. “I saw no reason to trouble her with that information. But if you prefer having the old Aimee back—” he started to put the bottle away, but Jack reached out and took it.

  “No,” he said quickly. “I would not prefer that. Twice a day, you said? Just one drop?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right then.” Jack pocketed the vial.

  “One more thing,” Orias said. “I heard Rick got suspended for a couple of days. I thought he might like to use the time to make some money.”

  Jack grinned. “A job might be good for him right now. Come on in and ask him yourself.”

  * * *

  Rick looked up, scowling as his dad returned with a fake smile on his face and Orias at his side. “Well, it’s your lucky day,” Jack told Rick as he and his guest sat down. “You want to tell him?” he asked Orias.

  “I have a small job I need done, Rick,” Orias said. “I think you’re just the man for it.”

  Rick looked at Orias. True, he liked and admired the guy, and he was grateful to him. Rick didn’t know how he’d done it, but he’d somehow reformed Aimee. In the time they’d been dating, his sister had gone from a total embarrassment to a tame little mouse who did as she was told. There was also the fact that Orias had healed Rick’s broken arm and saved his football season. The problem was, Rick remembered how Orias had healed him—the weird chanting, the levitation, the hundreds of invisible hands groping him, the chalky powder in his mouth that had turned into a hideous rat that he’d vomited out. The strange power Orias possessed had made Rick respect him—but he didn’t trust him.

  “What kind of job?” Rick asked.

  “I need you to help me out with something. A personal assistant sort of thing. We’ll have to take a little business trip.” Then Orias turned to Jack. “But I promise—I’ll have him back for your wedding on Saturday.”

  “Where do I have to go?” Rick asked, skeptical.

  His father looked at him with contempt. “You’re asking a lot of questions of someone who’s trying to do you a favor, don’t you think? Instead of sitting around the house getting bawled out by me, wouldn’t you rather be helping a friend and making a little cash?”

  The answer his dad was looking for was clear, but Rick still wasn’t ready to give in. “How much cash?” he asked sullenly.

  “You help me out, Rick, and I’ll pay you a thousand dollars,” Orias said.

  He looked at Rick, and for a moment his focus was so intense that Rick felt like there was no one in the room except the two of them. Rick suddenly wondered why he’d been so hesitant to accept Orias’s offer. How bad could it be? What was he afraid of?

  “What do you say, Rick?” Orias’s voice was soft, insistent. “You want to help me out?”

  “Okay,” Rick said. “Why not?”

  Rick and Orias were halfway down the front walk when Rick stopped short. Moments before, he’d felt a strong urge to get out of the house and away from his father’s wrath. But out here in the chill wind, beneath the bleached out, empty blue sky, his fear suddenly returned.

  “Wait,” Rick said. “Before we go any further, you gotta tell me what we’re going to do.”

  Orias turned to look at him. “That’s fair, I guess. We’re going to your girlfriend’s house. I want to have a look at those tapes
tries her mother weaves.”

  “Why?” Rick said. “I’ve seen them. They’re bizarre. And Maggie’s mom is a head case.”

  Orias smiled indulgently as if humoring a small, ignorant child. “Not at all,” he said. “Maggie’s mother happens to be a very powerful woman.”

  “Powerful?” Rick scoffed. “You gotta be kidding. She’s so powerful she hardly ever leaves her house? Her husband ditched her because she’s wacko. She has no connections, and she doesn’t own anything except that house. How exactly is she powerful?”

  “Maybe you’ll find out. Maggie could be a problem, though. She doesn’t seem to care for my company.”

  “Don’t worry about Maggie,” Rick said, resentment rising in him again like bitter bile. “She’s cheerleading at the basketball game.” It was a home game against Benton, and both he and Bran were missing it, thanks to those Flats rats.

  “Good,” said Orias. “Now we just need a reason for going over there. Any ideas?”

  “Leave it to me,” Rick said. He took out his cell phone and dialed Maggie’s home number. “Hey, Mrs. A,” he said, his tone friendly and inviting. “How you doing?” He waited for her answer and then said, “Great. Listen, is it okay if I come by and pick up some stuff Maggie said we could have? It’s for the team’s rummage sale to raise money for new uniforms. She said there’s some old tires and a bunch of tools that you guys never use, out in the garage.” Another pause. “Thanks. That’d be great.”

  “Excellent,” Orias said when Rick hung up. He reached into the inside pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a small scroll. The parchment looked like it was made of black leather, and the sticks used to roll it up looked like the bones of a small animal. “Now, while I’m keeping Mrs. Anderson busy, you’re going down to the basement—with this,” he continued, handing the scroll to Rick. “When you get to the bottom of the stairs—I mean the very bottom, and it’s quite a long way down—ask whoever you see there to find Dr. Uphir. When he comes to you, give him the scroll. But don’t open it. I’m warning you, Rick. If you break the seal you’re risking your life—and mine. You understand?”

  “Uh, no,” Rick said truthfully. “You’re saying the Andersons have a doctor living in their basement?”

  Orias’s features remained impassive. “It’s not a just a basement,” he said. “Now come along. Your dad wants you back in time for his wedding, so we’ll have to hurry.”

  Rick was starting to get it. This was no ordinary errand. It was a business trip in the same way that Orias fixing his arm had been a medical treatment—which meant it was probably going to be a freak show. The prospect filled Rick with a pins-and-needles feeling of giddy fear, but there was something else he was worried about, too.

  “Wait. You said I’ll be gone a few days?” he asked.

  “Probably. If it takes that long.”

  “Then I need to take my friend with me. Bran.”

  Orias looked at him, his eyes narrowing slightly. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “I can’t leave him here alone,” Rick said. “Not for days—not right now. He might—uh, he’s kinda going through a rough time.”

  “I see.” Orias moved closer to Rick, keeping his voice low. “So there was a witness.”

  Rick backed away. “What do you mean? Witness to what?”

  “Don’t try to play a player, my friend,” Orias said. “You’re the one who messed up that Flats kid. When I read about it in the paper I knew it was you. Rick . . . I know what you are, which makes you perfect for this job. I think you might even enjoy it.”

  “Well, I don’t know what you think you know—” Rick began, but Orias raised a hand, silencing him.

  “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. You can take your friend along. But understand this. He’s not like you. He will be in great danger where you’re going. There’s a good chance he won’t make it back.”

  Rick nodded. “Yeah, whatever,” he said, taking out his cell phone again. It would be a shame to lose his closest ally during whatever crazy mission this was. But at the same time, it might be a good idea to put someone between him and whatever was at the bottom of those basement stairs. And if Bran didn’t make it back, Rick wouldn’t have to worry about him running his mouth anymore.

  Bran picked up on the first ring. “Hey, man,” Rick told him, “I need your help with something. Meet me in front of Maggie’s house, ASAP.”

  * * *

  Aimee looked around the room that had been her refuge, after her mom disappeared and she’d realized how difficult it was to get along with her dad and her brother without Emily Banfield running interference. With a flop, she laid down on the bed and tried to settle down but found it impossible. She couldn’t believe her father was actually going to marry that woman from the Flats and that somehow, he’d managed to have her mother declared dead less than two years after her disappearance.

  She missed her mom so much, and she needed her. Her father was selfish, cold, and calculating and Rick was turning into the ultimate bully—or something worse. With her mother gone, there was no gentleness, no sweetness in Aimee’s life, except what she got from Orias.

  But there had been, once. There had been someone . . . someone she cared about, who loved her as much as (or maybe even more than) Orias did. Every now and then she got a quick mind flash of the happiness she’d found with that person, whoever it was, but then it would vanish as quickly as it had come, like a cork bobbing on a fishing line and then dipping under water before she could see what she had caught. Sometimes it seemed her mind had broken and had somehow become fragmented, like the crystal ring that had been so important to Orias.

  A nostalgic longing Aimee didn’t understand abruptly awakened in her. She somehow knew that if she could remember the person who had once made her so happy, the fragments would join together. The missing pieces would fall into place and everything would be clear and good again.

  Suddenly she felt suffocated. She wanted to get out of there and, surprisingly, she wanted to be with her friends, to be part of something again. She went downstairs to ask her dad if she could go over to Dalton’s to study. She had promised Orias that she wouldn’t slip this time, and she would be true to her word—unless it became absolutely necessary.

  * * *

  Raphael fought on. He could no longer count the number of enemies he’d defeated, step by step, blow by blow, through endless desert and unrelenting fog. He had no idea how much time had passed; the light above that masqueraded as the sun had to be counterfeit, he knew, because he’d been battling for what felt like weeks, but it had not moved at all. He didn’t know how many injuries he’d sustained, but every joint felt twisted, worn, and inflamed. Big drops of blood drizzled down his brow and the cracked, parched earth at his feet greedily soaked them up.

  He’d gone from being energized to exhaustion, and then new reserves of energy would shoot through him again in a cycle that kept repeating. The same had happened with his Shen energy; he’d felt such bountiful power rising within him that when a Napoleonic soldier in a French uniform charged out of the roiling gray, his bayonet raised, Raphael simply reached out a hand and blasted him into oblivion. Other times he felt his strength wane, and when he tried to call on the power of Shen he felt nothing but his own outstretched hand and the faintest flicker of a spark on his fingertips. At those times, he heaved a sigh, lifted his hands in a guard position, and fought on.

  In this strange place Shen seemed to fail more often than not, and he had a feeling that its power was somehow dimmed in the borderlands of the Dark Territory. But he didn’t really have time to think about it—whenever one enemy died, a new one appeared to take its place.

  In the beginning, which seemed like weeks ago now, there had been moments when Raphael felt he couldn’t go on. I’ll just stop, he thought. I can’t do this. I’m too tired. I’ll just lie down an
d let them kill me. But somehow he’d found the will to continue, and he’d come to understand that he really could go on forever. He seemed to possess reserves of strength he’d never known he had and his will was almost boundless. He would not lie down. He would not die. He would not give up. And he would not quit fighting until he came out safe on the other side of this desert or whatever it was—even if he had to fight every kind of ancient warrior he’d ever read about.

  And it was beginning to look like that’s exactly what he’d have to do.

  He’d gone through the ranks of every kind of historical combatant he’d ever heard of until he worked his way up to present-day foes. A man who looked like a U.S. Navy Seal, but who wore a shirt with Russian letters on it, now appeared out of the fog and almost gutted him with a huge knife. Raphael managed to dodge the blow and then landed a lucky kick, hitting the pommel of the Russian’s knife and jamming the blade into his shoulder. He fell to one knee with an agonized scream, and Raphael blasted him with a head kick, sending him spiraling out of sight, into the drifting gray.

  There was not a moment to rest. His next assailant stormed into sight wearing full Kevlar body armor. He also had some kind of headset and goggles that blinked with digital bits of information, like it was collecting battle data. Raphael’s new enemy wielded a short, compact machine gun. He turned it on Raph, fired, and missed. The gun’s report was like a cannon. Desperate, Raphael somehow summoned a surge of Shen from the soles of his feet and up through his body. He let it burst out of the palm of his hand, just before the tungsten bar the gun had fired streaked toward him (he didn’t know how he knew what sort of ammo the gun used, he just knew it, in the same way that he knew he could go on fighting forever). The Shen blast split through the projectile like a hot blade slicing through a soft stick of butter, and the two halves shot harmlessly past Raphael on either side as he went into a spring attack, shot forward, disarmed the enemy with a Bong Sau, and then slammed the butt of his gun back into his face. The info-goggles shattered, sending streaks of blood down the futuristic soldier’s cheeks. Raphael turned the gun on him and fired.