Page 67 of By Any Means

Laurie murmured something to Mrs. Leonard, who had just appeared, accompanied by Mikhail, the left-behind chauffeur. He had his cap in his hands.

“I’ve done it before,” Laurie said to Chary, as Mrs. Leonard flew away down the hall. (It seemed all of the staff were firmly Team Laurie.) “My first time was on the Erie to Gotham as a boy. It’s not so bad. You’ve got the longest legs I’ve ever seen. You could step on if you wanted.”

Chary doubted that in the extreme. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“I can drive youse in the old carriage,” Mikhail said sheepishly. As though it were his fault the Caddy had been stolen by its owner.

“Thank you, Mikhail.” To Laurie: “New York’s such a big city—surely, August won’t be found within the twelve hours’ difference.”

“Do you know what he’ll do? Where he’ll go?”

Chary flushed. After a day-long train ride, after eight months living in mid-south-nowhere Maine as a dead man, in hiding from his socialite ex-lover? Yes. He had a pretty good idea where August would go.

“Yeah,” Laurie said. “You can bet Raberding knows, too.”

Mrs. Leonard returned, a knapsack in her arms, which she handed to Laurie. “Thanks, Mrs. Leonard.” He turned back to Chary. “It’s a half a day to Bangor. Eight hours ’til the next departure out of Berryfield. But if we hop the next freight that I know will be there… an hour, maybe.”

“Oh, Lord.”

“It’s up to you, Chary. If I get you to New York in time,” he said softly, “and I can—I bet we can catch August before Raberding does.”

“How can you possibly know that? I have an idea what he might do on arrival but not more than that. There are several options.”

“Bathhouses, right?”

Chary goggled. “How?”

Laurie smiled. “Brasher told me exactly where they’re going.”

Mikhail the chauffeur was almost as fast with the team as with the automobile. Even so, they made it with very little time to spare.

The steam engine chuffed slowly past the platform only minutes after Mikhail had turned the horses and they’d crouched down into the bushes like grouse. Then the conductor had gone far enough out of sight, and Laurie was hand-in-hand with Chary, pulling him urgently out of the weeds; he wove forward and then back, parallel to the vibrating tracks as he considered the long line of cars. There were a lot of loggers.

He stopped and pointed far down the line. “Sand hopper,” he yelled into Chary’s ear. “Your blessed quarry!”

Oh, dear God, Chary thought. They would be buried alive.

“Not sand!” he hissed. “Laurie⁠—”

“I’m kidding you,” Laurie said, laughing. “The boxcar, farther along. Look.” He pulled.

The boxcar was red, and rusted, and approaching fast despite its distance. They ran. With Laurie’s astute distraction, the early electric jolt of fear to his heart, Chary didn’t have time to panic; he was just dragged along. Then Laurie let go his hand, ran sidelong to the cars, crablike, and leaped—hooked his arm⁠—

“Chary!” He was up, beckoning.

Chary ran faster. The train moved slower than he’d expected compared to his churning legs. It was almost manageable but gaining speed. At last, he got a handhold on a rail, which jerked him forward—a scrabbling foothold—and then it was like the swing at Coney Island, breeze in his eyes, weight suspended, steel briefly cold against his cheek as he slammed into the side. Laurie’s hands pulled hard on his shoulders, hauling him in.

Chary tumbled gracelessly onto the boxcar floor.

“Lord protect us,” he choked. His heart felt as though it would burst through his throat, and he couldn’t quite breathe yet. But he was alive. Hadn’t been crushed beneath sparking steel wheels.

He rolled onto his back. The floor vibrated beneath him; there was a sucking rush of air through the planks. Sunlight peeked through the cracks in the sidewalls. It smelled like an industrial yard: raw metal—iron against the skin—and oil, burnt coal, lumber.

Laurie’s laughter, another’s trickled into his dazed consciousness. They weren’t alone.

“First time?” a very young voice said.

Chary looked up. A boy, white, thirteen or so, cheeks still soft and unhollowed despite the clear glint of hunger in his eyes. Chary sat up, feeling positively ancient and oddly shameful.