The Peculiars

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  “But what about the library? And all his inventions?”

  Jimson shook his head. “You didn’t think they’d let him go free, did you? It’s now a federal crime to help Peculiars. They aren’t going to just let him promise to be good and stay on here. And he’s just discovered how to work with titantum!”

  Lena ran her fingers over the keys of the gleaming typing machine, wondering if she could possibly feel any worse.

  “What about you, Lena? Where will you go? You can’t go to Scree.” Jimson climbed down the ladder. His voice grew kinder. “The marshal’s not going to give you a guide now that you’ve tipped us off.”

  Mrs. Mumbles leapt from the floor onto Jimson’s desk, turned around twice, and curled into a ball.

  “I can’t go home. I still have to find my father. Besides, I don’t fit in anywhere else.” She looked out the window. “Look, it’s starting to snow and it’s still October!”

  The sky had met the sea. A wall of white was moving toward the house, the first individual flakes skittering on the windowpanes.

  A sharp clattering and banging reverberated overhead.

  “It sounds like someone is on the roof!” Jimson opened the window, and a cold blast of air rushed in. He craned his neck out as far as he could. “It’s coming from the widow’s walk. But I can’t see it from here.”

  “Where’s Mr. Beasley now?”

  “I dunno. I haven’t seen him since breakfast.”

  Someone was pounding on the front door, almost as if they wanted to knock it down. At the same time, the whistle on the side door shrilled. Jimson and Lena ran into the hallway with Mrs. Mumbles at their feet. The heavy library doors clicked shut behind them. Jimson’s hand closed over Lena’s arm. “Wait. Let’s see what’s going on first.” They peered around the corner into the entryway, where Leticia Pollet stood, hands on hips, blocking the way of the marshal and two deputies, who had their guns drawn.

  Lena pressed her hand over her mouth before a gasp could escape.

  Thomas Saltre was flashing a piece of paper. “We have one warrant to search the premises and one for the arrest of Tobias Beasley. And who may I ask are you?”

  He stood directly under the gaslight, strong and formidable, close enough that Lena could see flakes of snow glittering on his mustache and on the shoulders of his tan trench coat. Behind him, on either side, two deputies in pin-striped jackets were pointing Colt Peacemakers at Mrs. Pollet. Their boots left pools of water on the wood floor.

  Leticia looked down on the marshal. “Mr. Beasley is not in. I’m Mrs. Pollet, the housekeeper. Your men are ruining the floor.” Her voice never quavered.

  The marshal straightened up to his full height, but he was still a good three inches shorter than Mrs. Pollet.

  “They weren’t supposed to come until tomorrow!” Lena’s wail was a whisper.

  Jimson put a hand over her mouth. Lena considered biting it.

  “Ma’am, if you’ll just step aside so my men can conduct their business, we’ll try to be as careful as we can.” Thomas Saltre gestured for his deputies to lower their guns and begin the search.

  Two more men rushed in from the side door. One of them carried a shotgun.

  “Quick—let’s go!” Jimson nudged Lena, but her feet felt as if they had been nailed to the floor. Jimson grabbed her hand and pulled her behind him down the hall and away from the men.

  “We need to find Mr. Beasley and warn him. But first I need my knapsack.” They flew to the library and tumbled through the great doors. Jimson grabbed his pack, and Lena reached for her valise. “Leave it,” Jimson said. “It will slow you down.”

  “But—” She unclasped the lock and grabbed the sketchbook and a pair of gloves. She shoved the gloves deep into the pocket of her jacket, but the sketchbook was too large. Lena reached for Jimson’s pack. He nodded and she slipped the sketchbook inside.

  “We can lock the library from the inside, but it means going out the window.” Jimson looked at her.

  Lena could hear footsteps rushing up the stairs. “Do it.”

  Jimson set the locking mechanism while Lena ran to open one of the leaded glass windows that faced the sea.

  The narrow sill was slick with icy white flakes. Tiny crystals spun from the sky. The temperature had fallen. Some four feet below the window was the basalt edge of the cliff. The cliffs dropped thirty feet to the water below. Just beyond the windows to the south was the brick terrace where Lena had enjoyed such happy dinners during her first days at Zephyr House. To reach it, they would have to balance on the window ledge and jump. Lena drew back, dizzy with the thought.

  “You can do this, Lena.” Jimson’s voice was next to her ear. She could feel the warmth of his breath. “It’s five feet at the most to the terrace. We balance on the ledge and jump.”

  Lena looked at the ledge, and then she looked down at her impossibly long feet.

  “I can’t do it. You go and get Mr. Beasley. I’ll be safe in here.”

  Jimson climbed onto the window ledge and heaved the knapsack to the far side. “For how long? No, you’re going with me, Lena. We’ll do this together.” He held out his hand to her.

  Lena stood on his desk chair. She had never been good at climbing. Her feet were too long and inflexible.

  “Give me your hand.” Jimson’s voice was firm, commanding.

  Lena stretched out her gloved hand, and Jimson grasped it. “Step up on the ledge. Turn your feet sideways so they’re pointing toward the terrace. I’ll hold you. You can’t fall.” He braced one hand on the window transom. Lena placed one foot on the sill. She put all her weight on it as she lifted her other leg. Her foot skittered. Jimson braced her with his leg. “Watch your skirt.”

  She nodded because she could form no words, and then she gathered the skirt up with her left hand, leaned heavily on Jimson, and lifted her left leg. The snow stung her face as it blew in from the ocean. She angled her feet, clutching Jimson’s hand in a death grip. “Hold on to the window frame. I’m going to jump first so I can reach for you.”

  Blood was rushing in her ears. Jimson had to pry her fingers from his hand. Lena grabbed for the frame and dug her fingers in. And then he was jumping out into the white. He landed easily on the brick terrace, sliding some when his feet touched down.

  “OK, now it’s your turn. I’m going to reach out as far as I can. Jump and I’ll steady you. It’s not far.”

  But his voice sounded as if it were coming from a million miles away. Lena stood frozen, snow crystals icing her hair. There was pounding on the library door, followed by raised voices she could hear faintly.

  “This one’s locked.”

  “What the hell kind of doors are those?”

  “Shoot the lock off if you have to.”

  Mrs. Mumbles sprang lightly onto the sill next to Lena and without a pause leapt into the snow. Lena closed her eyes and followed. As she pushed off, her feet lost traction. For a minute she felt as if she were running in the air. Her eyes popped open. Jimson was reaching out for her. She leaned as far forward as she could, but her jump was not as powerful as Jimson’s. Her feet landed half on the brick terrace and half on rock. She slid back. Jimson lunged; his hand dug into one shoulder and he was pulling her toward him. Pain shot through her feet and she tumbled into Jimson’s arms, knocking him onto his back, her long skirt tangling around her legs just as a shot rang against the library door.

  The fall took her breath and then she was laughing with relief, laughing to still be alive. Jimson was buried somewhere underneath her, but she could hear him laughing too.

  She struggled to her feet. “They’ll see how we escaped!”

  “Come on! We’re going to the south wing.” Jimson grabbed his knapsack with one hand and took her hand with the other. Lena stepped forward and winced; needles pricked the soles of her feet. But she ran, slipping across the terrace toward freedom.

  THEY RAN OVER THE THIN CRUST OF SNOW ALONG THE SEAWARD side of Zephyr House. Mrs. Mumbles ran by
their side, appearing and disappearing as she streaked behind bushes. The snow continued falling.

  “We can get into the laboratory through the back door. That’s my best guess where to find Mr. Beasley.” Jimson kept a tight grip on Lena’s hand.

  “He must know what’s happening by now.” Lena’s words were ragged. The cold bit her lungs.

  They plowed through the messy winter garden, trampling old heads of lettuce and stepping on blackened tomato vines, running down the length of the south wing to a small door.

  Jimson pulled a ring of keys from his pocket. The damp sea air made the door stick. He shoved with his shoulder until it gave way, and he had to strain to push it open. They stumbled inside—and found themselves face-to-face with a single-barrel shotgun.

  Redheaded Abel Guthrie waited on the other end.

  Jimson spoke first. “Where’s Mr. Beasley?” he demanded.

  “I heard she was the one who brought the lawmen in.” Abel pointed the gun at Lena.

  Lena’s legs trembled and threatened to buckle. “I made a mistake. I didn’t understand.”

  “Didn’t understand that they’ll kill us all one way or the other?” He was short and bandy-legged, just as Lena remembered him from the train. “Get inside and close the door.”

  Jimson and Lena eased through the door, almost closing it on Mrs. Mumbles’s tail as she dashed back outside.

  “Abel, does Mr. Beasley know the raid’s begun?” Jimson was speaking very slowly and Lena wondered if that would anger Abel even more.

  “Of course he knows. Best thing for us is to use traitors as a hostage, a bargaining chip. Get against the wall.”

  Lena, never taking her eyes off Abel, inched back until she could feel the wall of the laboratory against her shoulder blades.

  “You used to live here before, when it was a farm, before you went to Scree,” said Jimson.

  He’s babbling, Lena thought. This crazy Peculiar is going to shoot me, and Jimson is making conversation.

  “My daddy’s farm. He died in Scree because of what they said he was. Shot him dead in his own mine right in front of all of us.”

  Lena gulped. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s not gonna happen to me. Mr. Beasley’s going to get us all out of here. We were almost ready, and then you opened your mouth.” The eyes that flicked over Lena were a flat brown, as if there was no life behind them at all.

  “Lena and I are helping Mr. Beasley. We’ve got everything from the library that might be incriminating.” Jimson held up the knapsack. “We need to get anything out of the laboratory that could be used against him.”

  But Abel never took his eyes from Lena. “Don’t matter. By then we’ll be gone, flying away. We’ll give ’em the girl in exchange. Or I could just shoot her now.”

  Lena slid a few inches down the wall. Inside her gloves, her hands grew damp.

  Jimson spoke faster. “What do you mean ‘flying away’?”

  “Beasley’s flying machine. It’s ready to go. We’ve been working on it for months. I helped build the frame . . . If they try and stop us, I’ll shoot her.” His voice was so calm that Lena began to think it was all some terrible dream.

  Without turning his face from Abel, Jimson looked at her from the corner of his eye. But Lena had no idea what Jimson wanted her to do.

  “Is that what you are working on in here? Something for the flying machine?” Lena asked.

  “Titantum. Pure titantum. Mr. Beasley’s a genius, you know. It’s gonna save us.”

  Jimson jumped in. “How’s titantum going to save you?”

  “It’s a magic metal. Boiler’s made from it, so the machine’s not too heavy to fly.”

  There were footsteps in the hallway outside the door and a voice. “Open up in the name of the law!”

  Abel giggled and cocked the hammer.

  Lena closed her eyes and sank all the way to the floor.

  A shot.

  The door flew open. A deputy, black bowler cocked on the side of his head, burst into the room and pointed his revolver at Abel.

  “I’m going to kill her unless you put your gun away,” Abel announced. “Maybe I’ll kill her anyway!” Again, he giggled.

  Lena opened one eye. Jimson was directly in her line of vision. He was white, both fists clenched.

  “Drop your gun, you filthy Peculiar.” The deputy didn’t waver.

  “I can kill her now.” Abel sounded way too eager. Lena put her hands over her ears.

  The deputy countered. “The marshal won’t care. He said she’s one of them too. It will be one less Peculiar for us to round up for Scree.”

  Lena choked.

  “You—” The word exploded from Jimson just as the back door burst open. Cold air rushed in.

  Milo stood in the doorway with Mrs. Mumbles at his side. “What’s going on here?”

  Abel started at the sound of the door, and as he turned, one of the deputies fired. Abel jerked, his arms spread wide as he tumbled backward. The shotgun, still clutched in his hand, fired as it hit the floor.

  As the deputy dodged the random shot, Jimson grabbed Lena’s hand and dragged her through the door to the outside.

  “Wait, Milo’s still in there!”

  But Jimson didn’t wait. Mr. Beasley called from the roof. “Up here! Use the stairs past the garden!”

  The snow had stopped falling, but the stairs to the widow’s walk were still covered with a fine powder. Jimson, with Lena in tow, ran through the garden to the base of the wooden stairs. They began to climb two steps at a time toward Mr. Beasley. From the north wing of the house, the other three deputies rounded the corner. Lena’s feet, numb with cold, slithered on the narrow treads. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Jimson supported her by one arm. Three floors to the roof, and there, just a few steps above them, was Mr. Beasley. He was leaning out from the most remarkable contraption Lena had ever seen.

  “It’s the aerocopter!” Jimson shouted, but the words made no sense to her.

  Mr. Beasley hung out the window of what appeared to be a gleaming red Concord coach detailed with yellow trim. A metal pole like a ship’s mast topped the roof with a circle of wooden blades. Another, smaller, rotor was attached to one end of the coach. Crates and boxes were stacked inside and tied to the sides.

  “Get in. Quickly now.” Mr. Beasley, in top hat and tails, reached for Lena’s arm.

  Below, the three deputies had reached the base of the stairs. The laboratory door crashed open. Thomas Saltre appeared behind Leticia Pollet. She pointed toward the roof and raised her voice. “There they are! He’s escaping with the rest o’ the bad ones!”

  Jimson hoisted Lena though the door of the coach and scrambled in behind her.

  “She’s already fueled and waiting to go!” Mr. Beasley lowered a pair of goggles over his eyes. The blades on the end rotor began to whirl. Lena dropped onto a leather-tufted bench and found that Merilee was already seated, leaning against one wall of the coach. Once inside, Lena realized that what appeared to be the walls of a Concord coach was really painted fabric stretched over an interior frame. The snug interior space was filled by two leather benches that faced each other, with a metal boiler in between. It had been installed in place of the middle bench and radiated delicious heat.

  “It’s the same coated fabric used by dirigibles,” Jimson told her proudly. “But Mr. Beasley modified the frame by using titantum.”

  The coach rumbled and shook as the rotor blades whirred faster and faster. On one wall a gleaming instrument panel displayed a variety of brass levers and knobs. “What do those do?” Lena asked.

  “Altitude indicator, boiler-temperature dial, fuel gauge, steam-pressure valve.” Jimson pointed from one indicator to another so quickly it made Lena’s head spin.

  Mr. Beasley spoke. “If my calculations are correct, when we reach the end of the ramp we will become airborne and experience sustained flight. Of course, there was no time for a practice run.”

  Lena stuck her hea
d out the window. A wooden ramp sloped all the way from the widow’s walk down onto the roof of the south wing. Lena had never noticed it before. It must have been installed when she heard the clattering and pounding on the roof.

  Then she had a terrible thought. She turned to Mr. Beasley. “What about Mrs. Pollet?”

  “The marshal believes she’s nothing more than a housekeeper. And that’s what she is. She’ll be fine until we send for her. That’s been the plan all along. It’s why she’s playing at turning us in.” His voice was pitched to a shout above the whirring blades. As the spinning rotor accelerated, Mr. Beasley used two hands to pull up on a lever.

  The aerocopter lurched forward. Lena grabbed on to the window frame. Jimson braced his arms on the window opening as he leaned the entire top half of his body out one window.

  “We’re moving. It’s takeoff!” he shouted.

  “Get yourself back inside,” Mr. Beasley shouted in return. “They may not be the best shots, but it’s better not to give them a clear target!”

  Mr. Beasley’s last words were drowned when, with a sudden lurch, the coach rolled forward and shot down the ramp on rumbling wheels. As they hurtled forward, Lena stuck her head out the window just in time to see the end of the roof approaching. Beyond, the ramp dropped off into nothingness. At Lena’s side, Merilee Pollet worried a wooden rosary as she mumbled prayers. Merilee’s eyes were shut, but Lena couldn’t look away. They were about to shoot straight off the roof!

  Mr. Beasley held on to his top hat with one hand. “Don’t worry! The upper blades are spinning as a result of the head wind! That should keep us aloft! But it may be wise to brace for impact just in case.”

  A shot rang out from the marshal’s gun below and glanced off the roof of Zephyr House. Lena dropped flat on the bench and peered over the window frame. Freezing air stung her face. Far below, Thomas Saltre threw his head back, the bowler tumbling behind. Above the noise of the wheels, over the faint roar of the sea, Lena could have sworn she heard him laughing.

  And then the clattering of the wheels stopped. There was another terrible lurch, and they dropped. Lena’s stomach rose. She pressed her hand to her mouth. Never mind the marshal and his deputies; they would be crushed on the ground like insects.