Chapter 10

The old jail squatted like a toad, leaning wearily back against the hillside. A false Grecian front crumbled away now, but it never resembled the Parthenon even when it was new. Gilbert parked the steam car a half block away. The Fernwoods climbed out and stamped their feet and hugged themselves against the cold.

The black truck still squatted by the old jail entrance, its back doors open and a tongue of a ramp extending into the interior of the jail. Tucked to one side, moonlight paled the yellow Hillman Tourer to an even more nauseous hue.

"They weren't tramps, were they, the man and the woman?" Jillian asked.

Gilbert said, "Oh, no. They had black gloves and hats and coats. All black. Everything matched."

Their mother raised her chin and marched ahead, though still not able to keep to a straight line. "Good. So they're civilized. They'll behave."

Gilbert rubbed the back of his neck. "Um. I suppose so." Then he scrambled to catch up.

The teens and their mother approached the crumbling façade of the abandoned jail. Dim candlelight flickered behind dirt-encrusted windows. They saw no people.

The open back of the truck squared off against the open door of the jail with space enough for a person to squeeze by.

"Where's Roy? This is trespassing." Jillian jerked a thumb to the truck as she shuffled past it and into the dim interior of the jail. Gilbert and Vivian followed, taking in the eerie scene.

Vivian pointed a finger at the rear of the truck. "See those rubber seals all the way around? Must be one of those refrigerated trucks I read about."

Gilbert's eyes strayed to the interior of the truck, barely lit. "Vivian? It's heaped with coal in the back."

Vivian stopped short and pivoted to look. "Coal? B-anthracite, maybe?"

Gilbert bent and picked up a black wedge from the floor. He hefted it. "Very light. Yes. B-anthracite."

Jillian showed no interest in such details. She entered the decaying front office like a conqueror, though her rapid breathing gave evidence of her mix of fear and exhilaration. Two candles cast wavery light from the rubble-strewn floor. Three black rectangles marked doorways ahead. Jillian wedged her feet wide and planted hands on her generous hips. None of the three doorways showed a clue. In a clear voice that quivered, she called, "Clem Seville? You come out here!"

The twins hastily scrambled to flank their mother in a united front. They stood tall, their hearts hammering in their chests, eyeing the black doorways.