James Grippando - Leapholes

Hopefully, neither did Jarvis.

They were about to cross the street when Ryan suddenly shoved Abigail into a narrow alley.

"What is it?" asked Abigail.

"I just saw Jarvis."

"Where?" she asked.

"Just ahead, at that restaurant on this same side of the street. He's having breakfast with a man outside on the terrace."

"You sure it's him?"

"Have you ever seen another human being with a face as flat as his?"

"Good point. Who's he talking to?"

"I don't know. But I'd sure like to find out."

"We can't let him see us. If he does, he'll know Hannah's in town. He might try to turn her in."

Ryan thought for a moment. "Let's see if there's a rear entrance to the restaurant. Maybe we can sneak up from the backside and get a closer look at him and his friend on the terrace."

They continued down a back alley. It was so narrow that their shoulders practically rubbed against the red brick walls on either side. The back end smelled like most alleys. Funny, but garbage always seemed to smell the same, whether it was yours or your neighbor's, whether it was from the nineteenth century or the twenty-first.

They rounded the back corner and found a rear entrance to the restaurant. Ryan entered first. Abigail followed. As it turned out, the restaurant was only on the front terrace, outdoors. The inside of the building was a general store.

"Can I help you find something?" asked the store owner. He was a kindly old man wearing a white apron and pince-nez eyeglasses that clipped to his considerable nose.

"No, thank you," Abigail said softly. "Just looking around."

"Take your time," he said. Then he grabbed his broom and started sweeping the floor.

Pretending to browse, Ryan and Abigail worked their way toward the front of the store. It was a mild spring day, and the front windows facing the terrace were open. The store was packed with merchandise. The aisles were not the perfectly straight, tidy aisles of modern-day supermarkets. Ryan and Abigail moved in almost zig-zag fashion to the front. They went from shelves of canned goods, to stacks of cornmeal, to a variety of things that were part of life before the Civil War. Ryan saw drip candles, bottled ink, and whale oil for lamps.

They stopped near a display of new chimney sweepers, then stopped. Standing just ten feet away from the open window, they couldn't see Jarvis, but they could hear his voice. It was coming from the outside terrace.

"What's he saying?" whispered Abigail.

"Can't hear."

"You think he found that leaphole you two are looking for?"

"Don't know." Ryan strained to listen, but Jarvis's voice was just noise. "I need to get closer."

Ryan checked over his shoulder. The store owner was still busy sweeping the floor. Quickly but quietly, Ryan stepped toward the window. Jarvis and his guest were seated at a small table on the terrace, just on the other side of the open window. Ryan hid behind a tall stack of jarred preserves, so they couldn't spot him. He could see them, however-and he could hear every word they were saying.

Abigail came to his side and whispered, "That man he's talking to is a federal marshal."

Ryan noted the badge on his vest. He was gnawing on a fatty slice of bacon. "I just don't think I can do it," the man said.

"Sure you can," said Jarvis. "All I'm asking you to do is arrest him, that's all."

"But on what charge?"

"I did some research over at the courthouse," said Jarvis. "The Fugitive Slave Law of 1850 makes it illegal to interfere with a slave owner's right to recover a runaway slave. Every chance he gets, this boy is interfering with Old Man Barrow's lawful right to recover his property."

Ryan went cold. The boy he was talking about was him.

Abigail whispered, "He's trying to get you arrested for aiding runaways."

Outside, the federal marshal took a long drink from his coffee mug. It was either too hot or too bitter, judging from the sour expression on his face. Then he looked at Jarvis and said, "Won't work."

"Why not?"

"Technically, you're right. The Fugitive Slave Law does spell out some pretty severe penalties for people who help slaves escape. But the fact is, that part of the law just isn't enforced all that much in this part of Illinois. Not anymore, anyway. People around here just don't support it."

"But the law is still on the books, right? You could enforce it."

"I could. But why would I?"

Jarvis was silent for a moment. Then he removed a little bag from his belt loop and placed it on the table. It was the bag of silver that Old Man Barrow had given him for turning in Hezekiah.

"Why wouldn 't you?" said Jarvis as he pushed the bag toward the marshal's side of the table.

The marshal looked at the bag, saying nothing. It was as if the men came to a silent understanding. He took the bag of silver and tucked it into his pocket. "Well, maybe just this once I could enforce it."

"Good man," said Jarvis.

"Just so you understand," said the marshal. "Ain't no judge or jury who's gonna convict this boy for helping runaway slaves."

"All I want you to do is keep him behind bars for a few days. Just long enough to keep him out of my hair awhile."

Abigail leaned toward Ryan and whispered, "Just long enough to keep you from finding the leaphole before he does, is what he means."

"Let's go " whispered Ryan. "I heard enough."

"What are you two sneaking around about?" said the store owner.

The old man's accusatory tone startled both of them. As they backed away from the stack of preserves, Abigail tripped. She fell in the direction of an even bigger stack of jars behind them. Ryan tried to catch her, but the disaster was unavoidable. Abigail went down. Eight-dozen jars of sweet preserves came crashing to the floor with her. Many of them shattered, leaving gobs of sticky jam everywhere.

"You'll pay for those!" shouted the store owner.

The front door flew open, and the marshal rushed inside to check on all the racket. Jarvis was right behind him.

"That's him, that's the boy!" shouted Jarvis^But as the words left his lips, both he and the marshal stepped right into the slippery mess of spilled preserves. Their feet went out from under them, and they landed hard on the messy floor.

"Run for it!" shouted Abigail. She and Ryan raced out the front door.

"After him!" said Jarvis. But the marshal was too groggy to stand, having banged his head on the floor in the fall. Jarvis shook him, and the man groaned. He sat up and rubbed his head, still unable to climb to his feet. Jarvis grumbled and gave chase alone, his shirt and pants dripping of strawberry jam.

Ryan and Abigail rounded the corner. They continued at full speed down a side street. Jarvis was about twenty yards back, right on their trail. They cut behind a carriage and then around a team of horses. The alley beside the hotel looked like a good place to hide. They ducked behind a wagon and waited in silence.

A minute later, they saw Jarvis hurry past on the street. He didn't even look in their direction.

"He missed us," Ryan said with relief.

Abigail said, "We need to get Hannah out of town. This is getting too dangerous."

"But I can't leave Springfield until I find that leaphole."

"That's impossible. The minute you show your face on the streets, that federal marshal is going to arrest you for aiding a runaway slave."

Ryan knew she was right. Jarvis had totally fixed the race in his favor. Then something occurred to him. "I need a lawyer," he said.

"I don't see what good that'll do you. That marshal took a bribe. The best lawyer in the country couldn't keep him from arresting you."

"That's not why I need to find a lawyer. I was thinking about Hezekiah's clue. He said go to Springfield and look for a stovepipe. Then we'll find a leaphole. But maybe we've got it backwards."