A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children, #4)(64)

“If this place is dangerous, why did H send us here?” Bronwyn asked.

“Maybe it’s a test,” said Millard.

“I’m sure it is,” I said. “The question is, did we pass? Or was that just the beginning?”

As if on cue, I glanced at my rearview mirror to see a police car coming up fast behind us.

“Cops!” I said. “Everyone act normal.”

“Do you think they know about Millard stealing from that store?” asked Bronwyn.

“No way,” I said. “That was too far back.”

Still, it was clear they were following us. They rode my bumper so hard I thought they might tap it. Then the road widened into a passing lane, and they poured on the speed and pulled up alongside us. But they didn’t turn on their siren or their roller lights. They didn’t shout over the loudspeaker for me to pull over. They just stayed even, the driver’s elbow out his window, real casual, and stared.

“What do they want?” Bronwyn said.

“Nothing good,” said Emma.

The other strange thing about these cops was their patrol car. It was old. Thirty, maybe forty years old. They didn’t make them like that anymore, I pointed out. Hadn’t for a long time.

“Maybe they can’t afford new ones,” Bronwyn said.

“Maybe,” I replied.

The cops braked and fell back. I could see the driver speaking into a CB radio as he receded in my mirror. Then they made a sharp turn, off onto some dirt road, and were out of view.

“That was so strange,” I said.

“Let’s get out of here before they come back,” said Enoch. “Portman, quit driving like my nan and stomp that rightmost pedal.”

“Good idea,” I said, and sped up. But a few miles later, the engine developed an alarming rattle and a red light flashed on the dashboard.

“Oh, what the hell,” I muttered.

“Could be simple to fix,” Enoch said. “But I won’t know until I have a look.”





We had just passed a sun-faded billboard that read WELCOME TO STARKE, POP. 502.

Beyond it was a handmade sign that read SNAKES 4 SALE—PETS OR MEAT.

The car’s rattle grew steadily louder. I really did not want to stop in the town of Starke, pop. 502, but it seemed we had little choice. So I pulled into a truck wash with a mostly deserted parking lot and we all got out to watch Enoch poke around under the hood.

“It’s the strangest thing,” he said, emerging after a brief investigation. “I see which part failed, but I can’t understand what happened to it. It should last a hundred thousand miles.”

“Do you think someone tampered with it?” I said.

Enoch scratched his chin, transferring a smear of engine oil to his face. “I don’t see how that’s possible, but I’m not sure how else to explain it.”

“We don’t care how it broke,” Emma said. “Only whether you can fix it.”

“And how fast,” Bronwyn said, glancing at the darkening sky.

It was getting toward evening, and thunderclouds were gathering in the distance. It was shaping up to be a nasty night.

“Of course I can do it,” Enoch said, puffing his chest, “though I might need a bit of help from the human blowtorch here.” He cocked his head toward Emma. “How long depends on a few things.”

“Evening,” said a new voice, and we turned to see a boy standing a little ways away, on a rise where the parking lot met a field of wild grass.

He looked about thirteen. He had brown skin and wore an old-style shirt and a flat cap. He spoke softly and walked more softly still—so much that none of us had heard him approach.

“Where’d you come from?” Bronwyn said. “You scared me!”

“Over yonder,” the boy said. He pointed to the field behind him. “My name’s Paul. You need some help?”

“Not unless you have a twin-choke downdraft carburetor for a 1979 Aston Martin Vantage,” said Enoch.

“Nope,” said Paul. “But we’ve got a place you can hide that thing while you tinker with it.”

That got our attention. Enoch drew his head out from under the hood.

“And who are we supposed to be hiding from?”

Paul studied us for a moment. He was engulfed in shadow, silhouetted against the sky’s last light, and I couldn’t read his expression. He cut a strangely authoritative figure for a boy his age.

“Y’all ain’t from here, are you?”

“We’re from England,” said Emma.

“Well,” he said. “Around here, folks like us don’t want to be out after dark unless they’ve got a damn good reason to be.”

“What do you mean, like us?” said Emma.

“You’re not the first out-of-town peculiars to have an automobile breakdown along this particular stretch of road.”

“What did he—” said Millard, daring to speak for the first time. “Did you just say peculiar?”

The boy didn’t seem at all surprised to hear words emanating from the empty air. “I know what you are. I’m one, too.” He turned and began to walk into the field. “Come on. You don’t want to be here when the people who sprung this trap come to see what they caught. And bring that car, too,” he called over his shoulder. “I reckon the strong one can just push it.”