James Grippando - Leapholes

Ryan understood the plan, but that didn't make him feel any better.

"He's gone," said Ryan, not wanting to believe it. "Hezekiah is gone."

Abigail came to him. The two of them stood quietly in the darkness. They were unable to tear their eyes from that fading blur in the night. It would be their last memory of an old lawyer named Hezekiah.

"That man sure lives up to his name," said Abigail.

"What do you mean?"

"'Hezekiah.' It's Hebrew. It means 'God gives strength.'"

A flood of images suddenly ran through Ryan's mind- the first time he'd met Hezekiah, their amazing trips down the leapholes, and Ryan's argument to the Court of International Justice with Hezekiah at his side. But no single memory stood out. It was as if his mind were shutting down and his feelings were taking over. He felt sad, to be sure, but he was stronger than ever.

Above all else, he felt proud to have known Hezekiah.

"Come on," he told Abigail. "Hezekiah left us a job to do. Let's get Hannah and her boy back on the railroad." He started toward the sod house, then stopped. Jarvis was on horseback, ready to ride.

Ryan said, "Where'd you find the horse?"

"It was a gift. From the posse."

For a moment, Ryan couldn't speak. "What did you say?"

"You heard me," said Jarvis. "Don't worry, I got nothing against Hannah and her baby. I didn't even tell Old Man Barrow that she's here. Hezekiah was right. He's the one Barrow really wants. So Hezekiah's the only one I gave him."

"You snake. You turned in Hezekiah?"

Jarvis smiled thinly. "You didn't really think I was out fetching water in the middle of the night, did you?"

Ryan's blood was ready to boil. "You followed me and Hezekiah to the camp, didn't you? You told the posse where Hezekiah was. That's how you knew they were on their way."

"Such a clever boy. You know, you should be a Legal Eagle."

"I should have known not to trust you. Ever since I saw you on the slave owners's side of the street in St. Louis, stuffing your mouth with ribs and chicken. How much did Old Man Barrow pay you? What was the price on Hezekiah's head?"

Jarvis patted the bulging pouch of silver on his belt loop. "Quite a handsome price, I'd say. Anyway, good luck to you, Hannah, and her baby. Sure hope you keep your promise to Hezekiah and bring her to safety up north. Meanwhile, I'll be speeding on horseback to Springfield. I aim to find that stovepipe Hezekiah told you about. I'd bet every ounce of this silver that I get my hands on that leaphole before you do."

"Is that your plan? Leave me here?"

Again, he just smiled. "Have fun in the nineteenth century, Ryan. It's where you and Hezekiah belpng."

With a deep, sinister laugh, he turned on his horse and galloped into the night.

Ryan and his troop traveled all night. Hannah couldn't walk so soon after giving birth, but Abigail's underground railroad connections were already paying dividends. They borrowed a horse and wagon from an abolitionist who ran a tavern along the St. Louis-Vincennes Trace. Then they headed north. Hannah and her baby rode in comfort (nineteenth-century comfort, that is) all the way to Litchfield. Ryan, of course, hadn't forgotten what Hezekiah had told him about finding another leaphole.

They were halfway to Springfield. Just before sunrise, they found the house with the oil lamp burning in the window.

"That lights the way," she said. For many years, lamps were used all along the secret routes of the underground railroad to tell runaway slaves where it was safe to stop.

The Litchfield abolitionist was an old woman named Whitmore who baked the most delicious walnut bread Ryan had ever tasted. They ate their fill and then spent the daylight hours sleeping in the cellar. At nightfall, they were back in the wagon headed north again. Around midnight, Hannah's baby started to cry. And cry. And cry.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Hannah. She was riding in the back, trying to console her child.

"Ain't nothin' wrong with him," said Abigail. "He's two days old. That's what babies do when they got something to complain about."

"I don't know what he's fussin' about," said Hannah. "He ain't wet, and he ain't interested in eatin' none."

Ryan recalled how car trips seemed to put his little sister Ainsley right to sleep, but a wooden-wheeled wagon on a rutted dirt road was an entirely different ride. "Maybe it's all this bouncing around in the wagon that has him so upset," said Ryan. Let's stop a minute and see if he'll fall asleep."

Ryan steered them off the road. The wagon stopped behind a cluster of elm trees. Traveling with a runaway slave was risky any time of day, so it made no sense to be out on the open road if they weren't moving. They had to be on constant lookout for slave catchers.

"I'll take the south watch," said Ryan as he climbed down from the wagon.

"I'll take the north," said Abigail.

The two of them walked back to the road and then split. They positioned themselves about twenty yards apart, Ryan looking south for slave catchers, Abigail looking north. The wagon was completely hidden from view in the forest, but Ryan could hear Hannah's voice in the wind. She was singing her baby to sleep. Every time she stopped singing, however, the newborn started to cry again. Putting little L'new to sleep was going to take longer than expected.

Alone in the moonlight, Ryan's thoughts turned toward Hezekiah. He missed him, and it turned his stomach to think that he was back in the unmerciful hands of Old Man Barrow and his slave catchers. Hezekiah didn't deserve to be a slave. No one deserved that. Even criminals were protected from "cruel and unusual punishment," and Hezekiah was hardly a criminal. He was a hero who had sacrificed himself for his friends. For that, he would live the rest of his days in slavery. Ryan didn't know whether to feel sad or angry. He felt both.

His emotions, however, were more complicated than that. They stemmed from something deeper than the fact that Hezekiah was gone. Ryan wished he could feel the same sense of pride about his own father.

That hurt more than anything.

Ryan scanned the forest around him. The wagon was surrounded by tall, straight trees. In the darkness, they reminded him of iron bars. Prison bars. If he squinted, he could almost see his father standing behind those bars in the orange jump suit, his eyes filled with sadness, as he looked Ryan in the eye and said, "I didn't do it, son."

Ryan shook his head, trying to free his mind of the image. But he couldn't fight it. He hadn't slept well since losing Hezekiah. He was mentally and physically exhausted. His thoughts kept bouncing back and forth from Hezekiah's being hauled away by slave hunters to his father sitting alone in some prison cell. Slowly, against his own will, his thoughts took an even deeper turn toward his father. Ryan didn't want to go there, not even in his memories, but in his mind's eye he was reliving that awful day when the police had come to take his father away.

A swirl of blue lights swept the yard outside Ryan's bedroom window. He peered out from behind the curtain and saw two squad cars pulling into the Coolidge driveway. The car doors flew open, and men in dark blue police uniforms raced up the walkway.

Next came the pounding at the front door, the firm knock of authority.

Ryan hurried from his room and stopped at the top of the stairs. His father was already at the door. "What's going on, Dad?" said Ryan.

"Just go back to your room, son."

Ryan started down the hall, but he didn't return to his room. He ducked around the corner and kept watching and listening as his father opened the door.

Two police officers flashed their badges, along with an older man who was wearing a white shirt and red tie with the knot loosened at the throat. He looked like one of those detectives on television. "Is Dr. Coolidge at home?" he asked.