Chasing the Falconers

by Gordon Korman

  Meg’s foot snapped out of the darkness and connected with the side of Miguel’s head. The blow knocked him off Aiden and into the station door. In a lightning-fast move, he was on his feet again, brandishing a sharpened screwdriver at Meg.

  Aiden jumped in between them. “It’s only my sister! She didn’t know it was you!”

  The dark-haired boy lowered the weapon. “Little sis packs a wallop!” He squinted in the darkness from face to face. “I’m impressed, Eagledink. I thought a wimp like you would be back at Sunnydale, helping the supes clean up the mess.”

  “That shows what you know!” Meg said belligerently.

  Miguel nodded. “I was worried. After what I said that time about the farm being a firetrap, I figured you’d be diming me as the pyro.”

  “I know you didn’t do it,” Aiden muttered, tight-lipped.

  “Yeah? How?” Miguel’s mouth dropped open. “Eagledink — you? I was just bluffing! You must be bugging to really try it!”

  “It was an accident,” Aiden insisted.

  “However it happened,” Meg put in, “we’re not going back there.”

  “Amen to that,” Miguel agreed fervently. “Hope this train’s going to Jersey. The sooner I get to my brother’s crib, the better. Where are you guys headed?”

  “Delaware,” said Aiden, at the same time as Meg said, “Virginia.”

  “Oooh, you don’t trust me.” Miguel grinned, taking mock offense. “Who can I tell without giving myself up? Like I care where you losers go. Hey, anybody hungry?”

  “You’ve got food?” Meg asked anxiously.

  Miguel pointed to a dark shape beside the information kiosk. “Candy machine.”

  “We don’t have any money,” said Aiden.

  “My treat.” Miguel jammed the screwdriver into the tool slot of the coin box and pried open the metal plate. Quarters cascaded onto the floor.

  Aiden and Meg exchanged a look. They weren’t thieves. Their honesty was what separated them from people like Miguel.

  He read their minds. “You’ve got a lot of integrity for arsonists,” he commented, investing some of his ill-gotten gains in a Snickers. “Remember, nobody’s going to give you a reward for not robbing this machine.”

  Aiden hesitated. Was he crazy to think of himself and Meg as being better than Miguel? The three of them were fugitives, wanted by the law. And they were all guilty of stealing. The civilian clothes on their backs proved that. What was to be gained by denying themselves a couple of Mars bars? He and Meg were in a desperate situation. The odds against reaching Vermont had to be astronomical. It made no sense to tip them further. Why refuse nourishment just to preserve the fine line between themselves and Miguel? It probably didn’t exist anyway.

  “Why not?” he said with a twisted smile.

  Meg had already scooped up a handful of coins and was stuffing them into the machine.

  Miguel watched in amusement. “That’s the spirit. It’s a long way to Delaware. Or Virginia.”

  The four forty-eight pulled into Gibbon station a few minutes early. Truck farmers were spread along the road, their bushel baskets ready for loading onto the boxcars. The train crew was in position to open up cars five and six in the powerful spotlights of the work area. To anyone inside that brighter-than-day zone, this train had no engine, nor any caboose. The lights were blinding, the night around them inky-black.

  Far behind the loading area, nearly a quarter mile to the rear, three shadowy figures slipped out of the underbrush and stole over to car forty-one, the third last on the long freight.

  A hand reached up, released the latch, and slid the heavy metal door slightly open. An athletic silhouette hoisted itself up and inside, then bent down to assist two companions.

  When the corrugated metal was pulled shut again, it left no sign that anyone had ever been there.

  The interior was pitch-black, darker even than the Nebraska night, and soundless, except for the ragged breathing of the three runaways.

  Suddenly, a match blazed, illuminating all three of their faces. Miguel shone this temporary light into the four corners of the car. It was empty except for a few tattered sheets of newsprint and a single large crate pushed up against the front wall.

  “Looks like we got the presidential suite,” he said cheerfully.

  “Let’s just hope we don’t get fleas,” was Meg’s comment.

  “Let’s just hope we don’t get caught,” Aiden amended. “What’s in that big box?”

  Miguel lit another match and went over to investigate. “Hey, Eagledink. What does T-N-T spell?”

  “Put out that match!” rasped Aiden in a panic.

  Miguel nearly choked on his laughter. “You are such a sucker! It’s just some old tarps. Our beds, dummy.”

  Beside him, Aiden heard Meg snicker.

  There was an abrupt lurch and a screech from the steel wheels. The train began to creep forward.

  Miguel shared out the tarpaulins. They were rough and stiff and smelled strongly of cabbages. To the fugitives, they were the softest of perfumed feather beds.

  All three were asleep before the train had gathered full speed.

  * * *

  “Aiden — time to get your shoes on.”

  Six-year-old Aiden Falconer sat cross-legged on the shag carpeting of his small bedroom in the summerhouse. Spread out on the floor in front of him were a dozen color photographs, the boy’s pride and joy. He had taken them himself, using his own camera, and his very first roll of film.

  “Come on, Aiden. We have to be at the Colchester Grill at six.”

  “I’m busy,” he called down the stairs. He hated restaurants where you had to sit in your chair the whole time, waiting forever for people to bring food you weren’t going to like anyway. They never had hamburgers. And pretty soon Meg would be crying.

  “Uncle Frank and Aunt Jane will wonder what happened to us.”

  “I’m not going.” He selected a single picture out of his array — Uncle Frank and Aunt Jane. They were nice enough, he supposed, but so boring. Whenever they were around, all Mom and Dad wanted to do was talk. And eat dinner for three hours.

  He prepared to rip the snapshot into a billion pieces. But he could hear his mother’s footsteps starting up the stairs. Quickly, he collected his pictures, stuffed them into the cigar box that held his summer treasures, and stashed that in his secret hiding place. He got the loose piece of panel back in its slot just as his mother burst into the room.

  “What is the matter with you, Aiden? We are going out to dinner, and that’s that.”

  She reached down and hoisted him high in the air. As he swung around past the window, he saw the gleaming waters of Lake Champlain on a summer afternoon. The dock was festooned with hundreds of colored flags. At the near end, the ferry was boarding for its trip to the New York side of the lake.

  “Come on, sweetie,” his mother coaxed. “You’ll have fun.”

  As she held him, he had a strange feeling that he should be hugging her harder, never letting go….

  * * *

  Aiden awoke sucking air, because someone had taken his mother away, and she was never coming back.

  “Hey — Eagledink!” Miguel was shaking him.

  Aiden sat up in the darkness of the boxcar. The dream was still very real in his mind. Colchester. The house was in Colchester, Vermont.

  Miguel brayed a derisive laugh. “You were crying for Mommy. You’ve got some serious hang-ups about your folks. What gives?”

  Aiden looked around, orienting himself. A thin line of light showed at the edge of the sliding door. Daylight. He checked his watch: 4:05.

  We’ve been asleep for eleven hours!

  “Meg?”

  “Still snoozing,” said Miguel.

  “No, I’m not,” came her drowsy voice. “Where are we?”

  “Stopped,” Aiden said. It was only then that he realized it himself. The train was standing still. He turned to Miguel. “How long have we been stopped?”

&n
bsp; “Don’t know. I’ve been sleeping like you.”

  They could hear voices outside — Aiden listened — strident voices, barking orders. The rumble and slam of boxcar doors kept repeating itself, and — was that a siren?

  “Something’s up,” Meg said nervously.

  Miguel slid the door open a few inches and flattened himself so he could peer up the length of the train. “Cops,” he said.

  Aiden was horrified. “Searching the train?”

  “No, dancing the hula. Get a grip!”

  “You get a grip!” Aiden hissed angrily. “This is your fault! They probably saw the busted candy machine in Gibbon and knew we were on this freight!”

  “Can we run for it?” Meg interrupted.

  Miguel shook his head. “They’re too close. We’re trapped.”

  Trapped in a boxcar.

  Something frantic rattled around in Aiden’s head. He should know about this! This was familiar.

  That’s crazy! You’ve never been on a train that wasn’t a commuter. What do you know about escaping from a freight car?

  Then he remembered. Mac Mulvey, Dad’s recurring detective hero, had once broken out of a locked freezer car via —

  He looked up and there it was. The shaft of light from the open slider shone on an emergency hatch in the ceiling. He rushed over to the wooden crate and began positioning it in the center of the car.

  “What are you going to do, Eagledink?” scoffed Miguel. “Mail yourself out of here?”

  Aiden pointed straight up. Instantly, he had two helpers. When the crate was in place, he scrambled up the wooden side and balanced on the narrow rim. The trapdoor was held in place by a small latch. He popped the hatch, reached up, and took hold of the roof of the car.

  Here goes, he thought. If the police were watching the top of the train, this would be his last act as a free person. One … two … — a silent prayer — three!

  He heaved himself up through the opening and flopped flat onto the metal surface. He could see tall buildings in the distance — a skyline. They were outside a big city. But their immediate surroundings were lower and leafier. This was a suburban station. To his left, about a dozen cops patrolled the platform, searching the train. And they were only two cars away!

  “Hurry!” he hissed, reaching down to help Meg and then Miguel to the roof of the boxcar.

  He looked around desperately. To his right was an empty track. There weren’t any officers on that side. But it was a twelve-foot drop to the ground.

  A broken ankle — not a good idea for a fugitive.

  “Follow me,” he whispered.

  Keeping low, he slithered forward on the metal roof, scrambling over the four-foot gap to the next car. Over his shoulder, he could see Miguel and Meg following him. The three snaked silently ahead, barely daring to breathe. Soon Aiden found himself on a different kind of surface — a thick lattice cage.

  The powerful farm odor reached him almost immediately. A livestock carrier. Animals lowing wafted up from below.

  He peered down through the bars. Didn’t it figure?

  Cows.

  He slunk to the edge of the car and eased over the side. Using the steel struts as ladder rungs, he began to climb down. The cows mooed at him; one even pressed its snout right up to the opening and licked him. But he was able to clamber low enough to jump to the ground.

  Miguel landed beside him a few seconds later. Meg came last. As her sneakers made contact with the gravel, she lost her footing and lurched toward the open track. Miguel grabbed her arm and propped her back into balance.

  He gestured meaningfully at the spot where she had almost fallen. This was a commuter line. It had an electrified third rail. Had Meg touched it, she would have been seriously injured or even killed.

  Her mouth formed the word “thanks,” but she allowed no sound to come out.

  Hidden behind the bulk of the train, they scampered the length of the station. A small metal ladder provided access to the outbound platform. They scrambled up, trying to look like local kids and not fleeing felons.

  They were in luck. The vacant side was nearly deserted. At this time of day, people returning from a day’s work in the city just wanted to get home. No one was hanging around.

  They strode purposefully toward the stairway to the parking lot. It was a hundred yards away — a single football field. For the first time, Aiden allowed the notion to enter his mind that they might survive this latest close call.

  They were halfway there — the fifty-yard line — when the bathroom door opened and out stepped a pudgy, middle-aged policeman. It was too late to turn, too late to hide. The only plan of action was to keep walking. As they drew close, Aiden noticed the fax in the officer’s hand. The page was dotted with photographs — murky mugshots of the Sunnydale runaways.

  Strangely — amazingly — the cop let them pass. They forged on, eyes fixed straight ahead. Was it possible that he simply hadn’t noticed them?

  Leather soles scraping against concrete — the sound of someone turning around. Then: “Hey! Hey!!”

  They ran, flying across the platform and down the stairs. The cop gave chase. “Police! Hey! Stop!”

  In addition to being tougher than the Falconers, Miguel turned out to be faster as well. He blasted through the parking lot, opening a gap between himself and Aiden and Meg.

  He’ll get away and we won’t! The thought brought Aiden hidden reserves of power, and he turned on the jets and kept pace. Meg was hot on his heels.

  Luckily, the policeman wasn’t much of an athlete. They could hear him puffing into his walkie-talkie: “Lewin to Caldwell … Chris, I’ve got ’em … fast little rats.”

  The parking lot was bordered by a small strip of stores and restaurants. Beyond that, subdivisions began.

  Miguel never hesitated. He barreled headlong down tree-lined roads, wheeling left and right, navigating as if he’d lived here all his life.

  The Falconers followed like the tail of a comet. They had no loyalty for Miguel Reyes; they didn’t like him, and trusted him zero. But he ran with the kind of cool self-assurance that inspired confidence. Besides, if anybody was an expert at fleeing the police, it had to be this juvenile delinquent. For good or ill, their fates had become intertwined.

  Aiden looked over his shoulder. He could no longer see Officer Lewin. It brought some relief, but reinforcements couldn’t be far behind.

  Miguel sensed that, for the moment, the coast was clear. He selected one of the scores of identical homes and dashed for it, hopping the fence with an effortless vault.

  Aiden was practically babbling as he scrambled over the obstacle. “What are you doing? There’s nowhere to hide here!”

  Miguel indicated the house, a well-tended brick colonial surrounded by sculpted bushes. “What do you call that?”

  Meg jumped down beside them. “A houseful of people,” she panted. “With a telephone for calling the police.”

  “For a couple of Eagles, you guys are blind as bats. There’s a pile of newspapers on the front stoop. They’re on vacation, brainiacs. Nobody home. No alarm, either.”

  “How do you know?” puffed Aiden.

  “No stickers in the windows. Alarm people love stickers.” He pulled a grapefruit-sized stone out of the garden and headed for the patio doors.

  The Falconers exchanged uneasy glances. Taking clothes from a drying rack or bikes that you planned to return was one thing. This was breaking and entering.

  But pretty soon the whole neighborhood will be crawling with cops!

  Amazing, Aiden marveled. The only way to survive as a fugitive was by breaking even more laws.

  If the police really want to reduce crime, they should leave us alone.

  Miguel hefted the rock and deftly punched out a single pane of glass from the French doors. He reached inside and flipped the latch.

  They were in.

  They cleaned up the glass and took in the telltale newspapers. The next order of business, according to Miguel,
was their appearance.

  “What’s wrong with how we look?” asked Aiden.

  “Well, you’re both pretty ugly,” Miguel wisecracked, “but that’s not the problem. We match our mug shots, yo. Cops’ll make us in a heartbeat.”

  He rustled through a few kitchen cabinets and drawers and came up with a pair of scissors. “Who’s first?”

  “No way,” Meg said firmly. “I’m not letting this lunatic touch my hair.”

  Miguel shrugged. “No skin off my back, little sis. More time for me to split while the cops are cuffing you.”

  “There’s too much at stake to risk getting caught,” Aiden told her.

  Meg hesitated. “You ever cut hair before?” she asked Miguel.

  “I’m Vin Diesel’s personal barber.”

  “Aiden — ”

  Aiden sighed. “Just do it.”

  Meg sat on a kitchen chair, biting back rage, as clumps of her long dark hair scattered on the floor. When she finally regarded herself in the mirror, she almost cried. She looked like a geek, with a Buster Brown cut that exposed her ears.

  “You should stick to murder,” she mumbled bitterly, “because as a stylist, you stink.”

  “Hey!” Miguel was upon her in an instant, grabbing a fistful of T-shirt and pushing her hard against the refrigerator. She felt the scissor blade pressing on the skin of her neck. “Don’t you ever call me a murderer! You hear me?”

  With cold steel against her throat, Meg was too petrified to reply.

  “Let her go, man!” cried Aiden, struggling to remain calm. “She didn’t mean it!”

  Miguel’s eyes burned feverishly. “It was man-slaughter!”

  “We know that,” Aiden soothed. “We’re all friends here. We’ve got to stick together if we’re going to get out of this, right?”

  “They don’t send murderers to milk cows!” Miguel made no move to release her. “You do hard time for that!”

  “We know!”

  The scissors hit the tile floor with a clatter. Meg fled to her brother’s arms. The message flashed between them: Who’s the real enemy — the police or Miguel?

  “It was manslaughter,” the olive-skinned boy repeated to no one in particular. Then, his voice barely audible, he added, “Jerk had it coming, anyway.”