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sight the two struggling up on the fog-shrouded tracks, lit
only by the glaring light of the approaching train.
BECKA! Ryan arrived beneath the trestle. Pepe jumped
up to the nearest girder and started climbing toward the tracks.
Ryan raced to the hillside and started scampering up the grade.
As she fought her brother, the train s roar filled Becka s head.
Everything was exactly like the dream. Exactly. She knew her
power and the train s power were the same. They were one.
She could not be hurt. She could only absorb the power and be
absorbed by it. Everything was perfect . . . except for Scott.
She knew he was trying to help to save her from the fate
of the other kids who had played chicken up here and lost. But
those were stupid pranks. Childish games. Kids who d been
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destroyed because they weren t prepared. Because they weren t
chosen.
She had to get rid of her brother. Finally she twisted one arm
free.
The train blew its whistle blasting, shrieking, screaming.
There was no other way. Becka was prepared. She could
absorb the power. Scotty could not. With all of her strength,
she leaned back and hit her brother in the stomach as hard as
she could.
OOOAFF! he gasped as the air rushed out of him. He stag-
gered backward until his heel caught the rail. He tripped and
tried to regain his balance, but she was immediately there to
push him the rest of the way. He fell and tumbled down the
grade, rolling over and over, arms flailing.
BECKY! her mother screamed, but Becka did not hear. At
last she was free.
She turned to face the blinding light. It filled her vision.
She could feel the power encompass her. Her power. The power
she had sensed so many times before. The power for which
Maxwell had prepared her.
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Once again the tunnel formed.
The whistle screamed, but she did not hear. Voices shouted,
but she paid no attention. This was her moment. It was time to
receive the power, to step into the light. She would become the
power, and the power would become her.
Then she saw it. Movement out of the corner of her eye.
Rebecca! It was Ryan. The fool was practically at the top of
the grade, scrambling toward her!
She had no choice. She began to run. Straight toward the
light.
Rebecca!
She arrived on the trestle and continued running. The light
grew brighter. The center tunnel grew wider. Once again she saw
Maxwell inside, reaching his hand to her.
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The trestle jolted as the train reached the other side, pound-
ing the tracks, shaking the steel girders.
Maxwell and the tunnel filled her vision. She could feel
the wind, smell the diesel, hear the massive steel wheels on the
tracks. She reached her arms toward Maxwell. As she ran, she
tilted her head back, waiting for contact, waiting for the tunnel
to swallow her and make her one. And at the peak of anticipa-
tion, at the moment of total freedom . . . she was struck.
But not by the train.
A small form had leapt off the bridge and almost knocked
her out of the way. Almost, but not quite. A steel rail from the
front of the locomotive caught both of them, flinging them off
the bridge and into the gravel grade, sending them bouncing and
rolling and tumbling down as the machine thundered past.
Becka remembered nothing after that. Only a blur of spin-
ning sky and ground. And a small, dark-haired boy with blood
spewing from his mouth and a look of horror frozen on his
face.
Pepe.
And then there was nothing.
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t was nearly three days before Becka started to remember. Oh
sure, there were vague recollections of IV tubes, heart moni-
tors, and concerned faces looking down at her. But nothing really
came into focus until three days after the accident.
Hey, crash, welcome back. It was Scott. He was grinning
from the left side of the bed. As always, he was trying to lighten
the moment.
Becka started to move, but the sudden throbbing in her head
made it impossible. Oooo . . ., she groaned.
Take it easy, sweetheart. It was Mom, leaning above her
from the other side.
Where am I . . ., Becka mumbled. What happened?
You played tag with a train and lost, Scott answered.
Becka groaned again as the memories rushed in. Memories
of the Death Bridge, the train, the little form leaping at her from
the side of the bridge. What about Pepe? She struggled to sit
up. That was Pepe who saved me. Is he okay?
Guess you ll have to ask him. Mom smiled as she glanced
over her shoulder.
Pepe hobbled into view. His face was still pretty bruised, and
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the crutches made his movements a little jerky. But it didn t stop
the smile. Hello, pretty lady.
Pepe! It s you!
The boy grinned. Mostly, it s me. He reached up and
tapped his front teeth. These are brand-new, though. Some
sort of plastic. What do you think? Do they make me even more
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irresistible?
Pepe . . . I m so sorry.
No tenga pena, he said, shrugging. He threw a glance over
to Scott and Mom. Realizing they d want some time alone with
Becka, he grinned at her. Ryan s downstairs grabbing some-
thing to eat. He wanted to know as soon as you woke up. I ll get
him and be right back. With that he turned and hobbled toward
the door.
Pepe?
He stopped and turned back to her.
Thanks, she said.
For a lady of your beauty, he answered with a mischievous
smile, what else could I do?
Becka couldn t help smiling back. The boy was a flirt to the
end. He turned and headed out the door.
As she watched, more memories returned. It was as if she had
awakened from a dream . . . a dream that began not long after
her first experience in the library. She groaned. I can t believe
I was so stupid.
Mom and Scott exchanged glances.
I m just glad he s okay, she continued.
Which is more than I can say for you, Mom answered.
Becka looked up to her. Concussion, broken collarbone, bro-
ken leg.
Becka looked down to her body to confirm the fact. Sure
enough, she was wearing a few more casts and wires than the last
time she remembered. She leaned back on her pillow and sighed.
What was I trying to prove?
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I don t think it was just you, Scott said. I think you had a
little help from Maxwell and his buddies.
Becka turned to him.
He continued. I had a long talk with Z. He said the junk
you experienced with the light and power and stuff isn t all that
unusual especially for occultists. A little extreme, maybe, but
nothing that unusual.
By occultist, you re talking about Maxwell?
Scott nodded. Oh yeah, big-time. Z says the guy was play-
ing off your desire for power you know, your wanting to be
somebody. He says that s pretty common too.
So all that King Louis stuff?
Counterfeit. The devil using Maxwell to con you.
But what about I mean, he said he believed in Jesus. He
even prayed with us. How can you pray to God if you don t
believe in him?
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Mom shook her head. I ve been thinking about that, honey.
It could be Maxwell was praying, but to his god, not to the real
God. Or it could be he just knew the right things to say and do to
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