Mr. Bateman put the comb in her hands. It was just an old tortoise comb, something you could get at any drugstore. Nothing special. Evie closed her eyes. She rubbed her thumb over the tips of the teeth. Then, when she was ready, she held it between her palms, pressing gently, and waited for information.
But the comb didn’t seem to want to yield its treasures to her. To get at its memories, she’d need to go deeper. That was unpredictable on the radio. But Bob Bateman was a war hero, and everyone was waiting. Evie would not send him away with nothing. Gritting her teeth, she dove further under, concentrating so hard that she could feel sweat prickling along her upper lip and trickling down her spine. Evie forgot caution. She cared only about getting a read, no matter what it took.
Her head jerked back as the vision flared. The sensation was a dizzying one. She was running. No. Something was moving. The scenery. Trees. Rocks. More Trees. Seen through a window. Ah! She was on a train. Evie breathed through, searching for her footing in the memory, and was rewarded with a steadier picture. Yes, she was in a train compartment crowded with soldiers. A card game was in play on the small tray table. A skinny, dark-haired boy sprawled across his seat, writing in his diary. There was no girl in sight. Perhaps she was elsewhere on the train. Evie would find her.
“Anybody know where we’re headed?” the diary writer asked. He seemed nervous. His eyes. There was something familiar about his eyes. Brown. Sad.
“They never tell us nothin’,” the card dealer answered around the cigarette in his teeth.
“Just seems funny they didn’t tell us.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” the dealer said. “Who’s in?”
The longer Evie stayed under, the more she felt that there was something strangely recognizable about all the men, something she couldn’t quite place. Stay light. Don’t go too deep. That was the name of the game on the radio. But Evie was in deep already. She needed to know.
Outside the windows, the land rolled on. Trees. Hills. Light snow fell.
The dealer flattened a card against his forehead, facedown. “What am I holding, huh? What is it? Who can call it? Joe? Cal?”
“It’s the Ace of Spades,” came a new voice, so shocking in its familiarity that Evie could scarcely breathe.
With a grin and a head shake, the dealer threw the card on the table, faceup. Ace of Spades.
“Son of a bitch,” a freckle-faced soldier said. “Right again.”
“That’s our Jim,” the diary writer said. Evie went cold inside. She’d placed his face. The soldier with the gun. The one who’d tried to shoot her on Forty-second Street. Her arms shook and her legs trembled. Nausea crept up into her throat. It was too much. She needed to quit, but she couldn’t—not yet. She had to see the soldier’s face. The one who’d guessed the card. She had to know who…
And then he was there. Right there. Smiling and bright-eyed and so young. Just the way she remembered him.
“All right,” her brother said, grinning. “Which one of you wise guys took my comb?”
In the next moment, Evie slipped to the stage floor. She was vaguely aware of a commotion around her, voices that sounded as if they came from underwater.
“Miss O’Neill? Miss O’Neill!” cried Bob Bateman.
“Please, stay calm!” said Mr. Forman.
Excited murmurs from the audience. Anxious voices: “Make her stop!” “How?” “Do something!”