بخش 19

CHAPTER 36

A FEW SECONDS

A HALF HOUR AFTER the troubling visit from Jenna, Molly was still at her window. On the street below, Mr. Jarvis stood under the lamppost, his thick form casting a thick shadow in the gas streetlight.

It happened in a few seconds, and although Molly was watching, her mind could not be certain of what her eyes had seen.

First there was movement to the right, a form emerging from the darkness.

The bobby. The same one Molly had seen twice before, the one with the ill-fitting uniform.

But this time the bobby did not walk past. This time he stopped directly in front of Mr. Jarvis and said something to him. Mr. Jarvis said something back. The bobby took another few steps toward Molly’s left, as though walking away, but then he stopped and said something else.

Mr. Jarvis turned toward the bobby to respond. Thus he didn’t see the other man emerge from the fog to the right.

Molly didn’t see the man clearly, either: even under the gaslight, he was strangely featureless, dark as the night itself. He moved swiftly, fluidly, to within two feet of Mr. Jarvis, who apparently did not hear anything, his eyes still on the bobby.

The dark man paused only for an instant before flowing back into the night, but in that instant something happened. Mr. Jarvis’s shoulders slumped—that much Molly saw clearly. But there was something else, something that she sensed but couldn’t quite see—something about the light, and the night. It wasn’t right, Molly was certain of that, but she didn’t know exactly why.

A second later it was over: the bobby turned and disappeared into the fog. Now Mr. Jarvis again stood alone in the circle of gaslight. Slowly he raised his head, and in a moment, he—and the scene outside—appeared just as it had before.

But Molly, watching from her window, felt a deep unease.

Something had happened. Something was wrong. CHAPTER 37

“I’LL FIND YOU”

THE ROOM WAS NEARLY dark now, the coal fire casting only a dull reddish glow. Peter stared at the dying embers, trying to think of a plan.

Tink stuck her head out of the top of Peter’s shirt. She looked around, her gaze taking in the sleeping forms of the man and the children. She eased herself out and stood on Peter’s shoulder, close to his right ear. In very soft tones, she said: We’re going to go now.

Peter looked at the man sleeping in front of the door.

“How?” he whispered.

Listen, said Tink, and, leaning close to Peter’s ear, she explained her plan. Peter frowned at first, then began to nod. When she was done, he couldn’t help but smile; it amazed him sometimes, the amount of thinking that went on inside Tink’s tiny head.

Ready? said Tink.

Peter nodded again and stood up quietly. Tinker Bell fluttered to the low ceiling and grabbed a wooden beam just above Peter’s head, pressing herself flat against it. Peter took a deep breath.

Then he began to shout at the top of his lungs.

“OWWWWW!” he yelled. “MY HAIR IS ON FIRE!”

Immediately the sleeping man was awake.

“What?” he bellowed, getting to his feet. “What is it?”

“MY HAIR!” yelled Peter. “YOWWW!”

The man blinked, his eyes seeking Peter in the gloom. Now Trotter was on his feet as well. They began moving toward him. Peter waited until he was sure they were both looking at him, noted their positions, then spun around, facing away from them, and closed his eyes tightly.

“NOW!” he shouted.

Even through his eyelids, Peter saw it, the flash of brilliant white light that filled the room for a full second, like silent lightning.

He felt Turk’s exhausted body drop to his shoulders, her energy, for the moment, spent.

Go, she chimed weakly. Go.

Opening his eyes in the once-again dark room, Peter spun and saw the man and Trotter both frozen statue-still, blinking, stunned, and blinded by the light. Running on tiptoes, Peter shot between them to the door. Their backs were still to him as he reached the door and found the latch. He lifted it and pushed the door. The latch rattled…but the door did not open.

The man, hearing the rattle, cocked his head.

Hurry, said Tink, clinging to Peter’s neck.

“He’s at the door!” shouted the man, suddenly turning. Still blind, waving his arms in front of him, he moved cautiously toward Peter, Trotter right behind him.

Hurry.

Peter yanked hard upward on the latch; this time he felt the door give. He pushed it open and lunged through it just as the man, roaring with rage, reached it.

Peter was in the alley now. He ran to his right. A second later, he heard footsteps behind him. His advantage was gone now: the alley was pitch black, so Peter was as blind as his pursuers. But unlike Peter, they were familiar with the alley.

Peter stumbled on something, sprawling forward on his face. He jumped up. The footsteps were upon him now.

Fly, said Tink, but Peter had already flung himself desperately upward. He felt his heels brush against something hairy—the man’s beard—and then felt a hand grab his ankle. He kicked hard and heard a grunt, and then he was free.

“Get him,” roared the man’s voice. “He’s climbing the wall. GET HIM.”

A scuffling noise, then Trotter’s voice. “He ain’t here.”

“I felt him!” shouted the man. “He went up right here.”

“Well, he ain’t here now,” said Trotter.

Above them, unseen and seeing nothing himself, Peter rose tentatively in the narrow space between two buildings. Finally he cleared the roofs and began drifting away toward the pale sphere of a gaslight in the distance. From behind and below, he heard the man’s enraged bellow.

“I’ll find you!” he yelled. “You won’t get away from me, not in London. I’ll find you!”