The Nine Pound Hammer Read Free

asked, her head leaning against hisshoulder, “do you think our new family will mind if we read Papa’s book?”
    “No,” Ray said, opening
The Incunabula of Wandering
to a chapter on rabbit warrens. “I’m sure they won’t.”
    Their mother had never liked them reading the
Incunabula
, though Ray had not known why. His father had scribbled notes in the margins, covering any blank space. Ray had tried over the years to understand the book, to learn something more about his father from the notes. But he could barely decipher his father’s cursive script, and the bits he could read were too bizarre to gather their meaning. He wasn’t even sure what the book was about; it seemed to be composed of random and unrelated chapters. It was full of poems and articles on animals, wild herbs, topography, and more complicated subjects.
    It wasn’t just the book that had caused their mother to act secretive. She had never wanted to discuss anything to do with their father. After eight years, after all they had gone through, Ray had to assume that his father was dead. Why else wouldn’t he have come back?
    But what had happened to him?
    In the night, the only sounds on the train were the rumbling of the metal wheels on the track and the soft breathing of the children. The lights had been dimmed, but Ray couldn’t sleep. He watched the moon race behind the trees as he tried to quiet his thoughts.
    He squeezed the lodestone, feeling its heavy pull. Would Sally be better off without him?
    Ray’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening behind him. Footsteps thumped down the aisle, and Ray quickly feigned sleep. A figure passed him, the crisp knocks of leather boots alternating with the clunk of a walking stick on the wooden floor. Ray peered up in time to see the black and reptilian-green suit disappear out the door. Through the window, the vestibule was dark but for an orange glow that illuminated Mister Grevol’s face as he lit a cigarillo.
    Mister Grevol had left his car at the back of the train. Sally and Miss Corey and the orphans were all asleep. If Ray wanted to leave, he would never have a better opportunity.
    Ray’s heart felt mashed; his throat constricted. He reached for Sally’s coat and bundled it. Sliding to the edge of the seat, he tucked the coat under Sally’s head and stood up. Her nose twitched, but she did not wake. He glanced out at the vestibule. Mister Grevol was drawing on his cigarillo, causing a red glow like a phantom eye to form at the tip.
    Ray turned away from Sally and Mister Grevol and headed down the aisle. He opened the door onto the vestibule and went into the next car. Ray was momently stunned by the luxury of Mister Grevol’s parlor, with its silk-upholstered furnishings, thickly carpeted floor, and crystal decanters of wine secured on an ebony hutch. Theman with the gold tooth was sleeping in a chair, his head propped on one cupped hand.
    Ray tiptoed through to the next door, crossed the vestibule, and went down the hallway of a sleeper car; the walls were paneled with detailed marquetry, and brass lamps cast warm yellow light down the expanse. When he reached the caboose, Ray peered through the beveled glass of the door and spied the brakemen up in the cupola, watching out the high windows above the train.
    Ray entered quietly, backing against the caboose’s wall, out of the brakemen’s line of sight. The two were idly chatting above, smoking cigars and sipping coffee. Moving carefully, as close to the walls as possible, Ray made his way out the open door to the balcony at the end of the train. He stepped into the rushing night air, hoping that the wind would blow away the tears in his eyes—if he was going to jump from the train, he needed to be able to see clearly.
    Ray tried to steady his shaking hands by clamping them to the railing. The caboose’s balcony was dimly illuminated by a single electric bulb. Beyond the rail was little more than the swirl of moving