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“The Georges?” Henry said, confused.
“I’ll explain later. Right now, you need to board. Train’s about to leave the station. You made it just in time.”
Behind him, Henry heard a passenger calling for Nelson. “Oh, George, I need this on board, please.”
“Yes, ma’am. Right away.” He whispered to Bill and Henry, “Go!”
Once they were on board, another porter named Coleman directed them to a private sleeper car at the back of the train. “You should be safe in here,” Coleman said.
Henry whistled. It was nicely appointed, with two long seats facing each other, a slim table in between. Above each seat, hidden behind drapes, was a sleeper berth that could be opened up into a bed.
Bill deposited Memphis onto one of the seats.
“He okay?” Coleman asked.
Bill nodded.
“Just sit tight for now,” Coleman told them and pulled the door closed.
The train lurched forward. Henry watched the platform receding as the train chugged into the darkened tunnel. In his own seat, Bill breathed heavily and stretched out his arms. He hadn’t seen the South in nearly ten years and had vowed never to go back.
“Guess I’m headed home whether I like it or not,” Bill said.
“Yeah. I guess we are at that,” Henry said.
They looked over at Memphis, who was still out. He’d be powerful mad when he woke, Bill knew. But for now, he was safe. They were all safe. For how much longer, he couldn’t say.
Over cups of hot tea with plenty of honey and lemon, Ling and Jericho told Alma about everything that had happened during the memorial.
“We need to get out of New York,” Ling explained. “We have to get to Bountiful, Nebraska.”
Alma made a face. “Nebraska? Why would anybody wanna go there?”
“There’s another Diviner like us, made during Project Buffalo. We need her help to stop the King of Crows. And we have to get to her before the Shadow Men do. We were hoping maybe you could smuggle us out with your band,” Ling said meekly.
It took Alma a second to understand, but then her eyes grew wide as she looked first at the six-foot-four-inch Jericho, with a face like a Nordic farm boy’s, and then at tiny, half-Chinese, half-Irish Ling, her crutches resting in her lap. “Oh, sure. You’ll blend right in with the Harlem Haymakers.”
“Please, Alma?”
Alma sighed. “Well, I can’t very well leave you here. We’ve got a bus. It’s leaving at nine thirty sharp tomorrow morning. Though Lord knows what to tell the Haymakers. And you can’t use your real names. We’ve got to give you aliases. Something bland and boring.”
“Sure. How about Laurel and Hardy?” Jericho said, straight-faced.
Ling frowned. “Was that a joke?”
“Yes. It was supposed to be a joke.”
Alma snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it! Ling, you’re now Mary. It’s the most common girl’s name I can think of.”
“Mary… Chang,” Ling announced.
“Perfect. And, Jericho, you are now…” Alma bit her lip as she scrutinized Jericho’s face.
“Hans Andersen,” Jericho shot back, flicking a sideways glance at Ling.
Alma put a hand to her hip. “Didn’t I just say you needed something bland?”
“Hans is bland. If you’re in Denmark.”
