Текст книги "The Hell Yo "

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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By the power of He

By the power of Three

We call upon thee and CAST YOU OUT!

The tallest woman, a freckled, rawboned, red-haired lady, sprinkled water from a silver

bowl in three shakes of her hand.

Next to her, a plump, middle-aged woman in spectacles solemnly rang a silver bell

three times.

Holy moly. It was the Wiccans from Dragonwyck. Despite the early hour, their

performance was drawing quite an audience. The Sunday before Christmas is one of the

busiest shopping days of the year. People who normally react like vampires to cock’s crow

hit the streets early, shopping lists clenched tight in their sweaty paws. Several people poked

their heads out of shop doorways to watch.

The third woman, whom I did not recognize, made a production of pulling out a

decorative-looking knife. The crowd around the ring of candles backed away. She held the

athame in front of her and began to trace the outline of a pentacle over where I had scrubbed

and painted over the inverted pentagram.

“What are they doing?” one woman asked another bystander.

That bystander shrugged, but another answered knowledgeably, “A purification rite. I

saw this on the Discovery Channel.”

I edged around the crowd toward the front of the bookstore. Velvet must not have

arrived yet. The doors were still locked, the security gate pulled across the front. But the

lights were on inside.

By the power of the pentagram we lay

Protection here both night and day

We now invoke the Law of Three

This be our will, so mote it be!

Three more shakes of the bell, three more sprinkles of water, and the show was over.

The Wiccan I didn’t recognize pulled out a candle snuffer and went counterclockwise

around the circle of candles, putting them out. The other two began to shake hands with

people, murmuring those “Blessed be’s” as they worked the crowd.

I approached the plump lady who had given me Selene Wolfe’s business card. She

looked up, beaming. “There you are! Blessed be!”

“This is a surprise,” I said.

She took both my hands and squeezed them tightly in hers. “I know. But we tried, you

know. We had so little to go on.”

The tall one, who I seemed to recall had been named Ariel, reached us. She also took

both my hands and squeezed them warmly. It was hard not to feel touched by all this

apparent goodwill. “Blessed be!”

“Hi again.”

She shook her head at me as though I were a naughty little boy. “It took us such a long

time to find you,” she said. “You didn’t contact Selene for ages!”

The third woman approached, nodded gravely. “Blessed be.”

“Blessed be,” I said, giving up. “And…er…thanks.”

She nodded, like, Damn straight! And don’t let this demon stuff happen again! Then

she turned to the other two. “I’ve got to get home. I’ve got so much shopping to do, you

would not believe!”

There was a sudden flurry of activity while they gathered their candles and chalice and

bag of salt. The crowd had mostly dispersed by now. I glimpsed Velvet moving around inside

the store. Had she barricaded herself in?

I went to move my car. The last I saw of the three witches, they were squeezing into a

blue pickup truck. I pulled around the corner, parked in back, and slipped in through the

side.

Velvet was behind the counter. She glared at me.

“Give me ten minutes,” I told her, starting the stairs to my living quarters. “I want to

take a quick shower and change.”

“Forget it,” she said. “I quit.”

I stopped. “Huh? Why?” I came back down the stairs. “What’s going on?”

“What’s going on is that I quit. That’s all.” She was stuffing her personal possessions in

her knapsack as fast as she could jam them in.

“But why?”

She glared at me. “But why? Why? Because of that!” She beckoned toward the front of

the shop and the street now empty of bell, book, and candle. “Because every day is

Halloween around here.”

I stared, perplexed.

Wrong again, Adrien. Apparently she was not a foot soldier in the shock troops of The

Damned. What did I know? Maybe she really was just a freaked out and much put-upon sales

associate in a bookstore.

“Hey, but that’s over. From now on it’s strictly business as usual.”

As I told her this, I mentally crossed my fingers. I was pretty sure Jake would get a

search warrant, and I was pretty sure what a search of the Hobb Street building would

reveal.

“This is your usual business,” she said acidly. “I’m not stupid. I watch the news. The

first guy you had working here was murdered by a serial killer. The next guy was a serial

killer.”

“But –”

“Not only that, you’ve got reporters and detectives and police and all kinds of people

asking questions about you.”

“What kinds of questions?” I asked, distracted from my original argument.

“Who knows! I mean, I can’t get anything done without some weirdo walking in here.”

She was not rude enough to say so, but I had a feeling she was including me in that

category.

“Velvet,” I coaxed. “I know how it seems, but really, usually it’s not like this at all.

Usually it’s so quiet you can hear the dust fall. Truly. Hang in for a while longer. Life will be

back to normal.”

She straightened, slung her bag over her shoulder, and gave me a long, level look. “No

way. I don’t want to wake up dead one morning. Oh, and Adrien? Get some more help in

here!”

With that, she marched out.

* * * * *

So apparently Velvet White was just nosey and nervous – and maybe made more than

her share of personal phone calls. I’d been wrong before. I’d no doubt be wrong again.

I didn’t expect to be proven wrong quite so fast though. After a hellacious day of

serving irritable and tired holiday shoppers, I closed up, went upstairs, kicked off my shoes,

and dropped down on the sofa. I was drifting into an exhausted sleep, when the phone rang.

I rolled off the sofa and dived to grab it before the machine kicked in.

“Thought you’d want to know,” Jake said dryly. “Satan’s Grotto was a wash.”

I wiped my eyes with the heel of my hand, trying to focus. “You didn’t find anything?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you –”

“We tore the place apart. We sprayed with luminol. No blood stains of any kind

anywhere.”

I was trying to absorb this as Jake added, “And we dusted for prints. It’s going to take

awhile to get the complete results on those, but so far none of the victims’ prints have turned

up. Neither did Gordon’s.”

“I see.” I didn’t though. Not at all.

“Also there was no indication that anyone had been held prisoner there at any time.”

“Oh.”

He sighed. “So whatever your pet nutcase told you, it was a sack of shit.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I really thought there might be something to it.”

“Yeah. Well. Now we all know there wasn’t.” He was silent for a moment.

“Thanks for checking.”

“I’ve got to go.”

“Right.”

He hung up.

I put the phone down.

Don’t think about it, I told myself. You’ve got much bigger problems than that.

If my position had been precarious before, it was all the more perilous following a

police raid. Like all good sales people, Garibaldi believed in his product, and he had believed

that I was in the market for that product; he had been sincere during our conversation. But

now…I could always plead that I had, all unknowing, led the cops to their hangout, but I

was pretty sure any doubts Garibaldi and/or the Fifty-sixth Duke of Hell may have had about

my dishonorable intentions were gone.

I could come clean to the police, tell everything I knew, but it was so pitifully little. I

had zero proof of anything. The proof I had been counting on hadn’t turned up.

Did it even exist? Maybe I was letting my imagination run wild, reading threats into

innocuous conversations, jumping to the same bigoted conclusions about what I didn’t

understand, what didn’t fit into my preconceived notions of religion and spirituality.

The phone rang again. I ignored it and went into the kitchen. I hadn’t eaten all day. No

wonder I felt like something the cat dragged in. I opened the fridge.

The machine picked up.

Silence.

I felt a ripple of unease, but then Guy spoke, sounding reluctant. More. He sounded

grim. “Adrien, apparently I was wrong. Peter is not in Germany. I’d like to….” I missed the

next word or two. “Call me. Please.”

Dial tone.

Chapter Twenty-five

I called Guy. Unsurprisingly, he was out.

I tried him again in the morning. No answer. On impulse I called the university, and

was informed by an uncomfortable-sounding secretary that Professor Snowden was in his

office. She put me through.

“Snowden,” Guy said, sounding weary.

“It’s Adrien,” I said. “I tried to call you last night, but –”

“I was out last night.”

He sounded like that was my fault.

I said, “Well, one good thing. It looks like the university has cleared you of

wrongdoing.”

“Hardly. I’m here to clear out my desk.”

I didn’t know what to say. Into the silence that followed his words, he said, “Look, I’ve

reason to believe that Peter lied to me. I don’t know if that matters anymore. Angus has been

released.”

“Do you know where Peter lives?”

“Yes.”

I didn’t know how to ask. I was aware that Guy was torn over this apparent defection

by Peter Verlane. Assuming that Guy was on the level.

Instead I said, “Did you need help?”

He hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

So I closed the shop and drove to UCLA. I found Guy in his office, surrounded by boxes

and stacks of books.

“Is this official?” I asked. “I thought you were on suspension?”

“It’s inevitable,” Guy said, tying string around a stack of books. “I prefer the dignity of

walking away as opposed to being put out to pasture.” He pointed to a stack of photos. “There

are several snaps of Peter in there.”

I sorted through the photos quickly. Most of them were of Guy and people I’d never

seen in places I did not recognize. But toward the bottom of the stack were a couple of

photos of a tall, thin, dark-haired boy of about Angus’s age. I recognized the flyaway dark

hair and round spectacles.

“This kid who looks like Harry Potter, is he Peter?”

“Yes,” Guy said without pausing to glance at a photograph of himself, his arm around

Peter’s slim shoulders. They were both laughing. I peered closer. There was a glint of silver

on Peter’s chest – a star on a silver chain?

“He was at Hell’s Kitchen that night.”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t think he was involved?”

The green eyes held mine. “That club was packed with kids interested in the occult

who have absolutely nothing to do with this. Why would I instantly assume that Peter was

part of this…this madness?”

“He sent us there!”

“The girl – Betty Sansone – that you wanted to talk to was there. He didn’t lie.”

“He set us up.”

“No one could have known you were going to walk out into that alley. They just seized

the opportunity.”

Yeah, safe to say Guy’s feelings on the subject of Peter Verlane were mixed.

I said, “Guy, I’ve seen Peter with Betty Sansone a couple of times. He may not be

involved in murder, but I’m sure he took part in the abduction of Gabriel Savant.”

“Gabriel Savant!” Guy looked disgusted. “Please tell me you’re not a fan of that hack. If

Savant was kidnapped, it was by socially conscious literary critics.”

Literary snobbery, alive and well on the astral plane.

“Fine,” I said. “Why don’t we go ask Peter?”

He stared at me. “All right. Why don’t we.”

Neither of us moved. Guy reached out and touched my jaw. I blinked.

“Shaving cream,” he explained.

“Thanks.”

He looked past me. I glanced around. Detectives Rossini and Riordan stood in the

doorway of Guy’s office.

“Can I help you, detectives?” Guy asked frostily.

Rossini eyed me with open curiosity. Jake never looked my way. I could have been

invisible.

“Well, Mr. English, we meet again,” Rossini said cordially.

“Always a pleasure,” I said.

His smile was caustic. “We wanted to ask you a couple more questions, professor,” he

said, turning to Guy.

I said, “Why don’t I carry this out to my car?”

Guy nodded.

I lifted the nearest box, squeezed through the doorway past Rossini and Jake, who

barely moved out of my way.

* * * * *

Half an hour later, I watched Jake and Rossini walking through UCLA’s Sculpture

Garden, engrossed in animated discussion. They never noticed me sitting on the grassy hill.

When they were out of sight, I got up and returned to Guy’s office. He had made a lot

of progress in the last minutes. Practically everything was boxed or tied, ready to be moved.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“More of the same. I think their plan is to bore me into a confession.”

We carried the rest of Guy’s stuff to my car, which was better suited to hauling boxes

and a potted palm. I followed Guy over to his place. He suggested that we wait to unload the

Forester until after we’d seen Peter, which suited me, and we climbed into the Miata to drive

to Peter’s.

* * * * *

According to his roommate, Peter Verlane was not at home.

Guy and I returned to the car.

“We could wait?” I said doubtfully.

Guy considered this. “We could have a long wait.”

No lie, considering Peter’s active social life.

We waited.

A Miata is not the best vehicle for stakeout.

We talked.

“Are you hungry?” Guy inquired at last.

I looked at the clock in the dashboard. Three. Yeah, I was sort of hungry. As hungry as

I could get with that perpetual knot in my stomach.

I said, “We’re liable to miss him.”

“He may not come home this evening. He often doesn’t.”

I glanced at him. Guy shrugged. “I’m fond of Peter, but there’s nothing serious between

us.”

“That’s good, because if I’m right, and you’re wrong, Peter is going to jail for a long

time.”

He stared out the windshield at the apartment house. “You don’t trust me, do you?”

“I don’t know.”

His mouth curved wryly. “That’s honest – if indecisive.”

I said, “I want to trust you, Guy, because I like you. But I’ve been wrong about people

before. I don’t want to end up with my heart carved out.” Literally or figuratively.

We sat in silence for minutes more before Guy said abruptly, “We’re wasting our time.

Did you want to grab dinner?” He started the Miata’s engine.

Stakeout Rule #1. Bring your own car or rent your own car. Do not rely on other

people and their dwindling patience for your ride.

“Thanks, no,” I said. “I’ve got to get back.”

There was another way to do this, I realized.

* * * * *

Bam! Bam! Bam!

I nearly dropped the can of salmon I was opening for my supper.

The shop was locked for the evening. That meant my visitor was probably one of two

people – and that didn’t sound like Velvet’s knock.

I set the can on the counter, wiped the fish oil off my hands. I opened the door. Sure

enough, Jake stood there. Clearly this wasn’t a social call.

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” he said, brushing past me.

I was pretty sure he was not referring to the missing food groups in my evening repast.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “Guy was just helping me –”

“Yeah, I know what that faggot Snowden is helping you with. What part of stay the

fuck out of it don’t you understand?”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with your investigation,” I said angrily. Which was

not true, although as far as I knew, Peter Verlane had not materialized on the cops’ radar so

far, so technically I was not trespassing on Jake’s turf.

That’s what I told myself, but it didn’t fly as well with Jake.

“You’re not that stupid,” he said. “Then again, maybe you are. I go to the trouble of

lying – of falsifying police reports – to keep you out of this shit, and you turn right around

and walk back into it.”

My heart slipped into heavy, slow punches against my rib cage. “Give me a break,” I

said. “You didn’t lie to protect me. You lied to protect yourself. You never asked me what I

wanted. And I sure as hell never made you any promises about what I would or wouldn’t

do.”

His finger jabbed the air, punctuating his words. “Stay. Out. Of. It. Or this time, bad

heart or not, I will throw your ass in jail.”

“No, you won’t,” I said. “You wouldn’t want to risk anyone discovering the connection

between us.”

His face changed, grew ugly, dangerous. “Are you threatening me?”

I hadn’t been, but like an ember in dry grass, a self-destructive impulse flicked to life in

my mind.

“My existence threatens you.”

He shoved me back, hard. I crashed into the hall table, knocking it over, smashing the

jar of old marbles I had collected. Glass balls skipped and bounced along the corridor. I

landed on my back, my head banging down on the hardwood floor.

I lay there for a second, blinking up at the lighting fixture, taking in the years of dust

and dead moths gathered in the etched-glass globe. The silence that followed was more

startling than the collision of me and the table and the floor. I heard Jake’s harsh breathing

and a marble rolling away down the hall – which seemed pretty damned appropriate, since

I’d apparently lost all of mine.

He bent over me. Probably safer to stay submissively on my back, but I got up fast,

knocking his hands away. It was a protective instinct and maybe not a wise one. I hadn’t had

time to inventory what, if any real damage, I’d sustained.

Weirdly, neither of us spoke. There was plenty to say, but no words.

Jake stared at me. In his eyes, I read the urge to knock me down again, to punch, to

kick, to silence, to destroy. His hands were clenched by his side. I felt light-headed with

anger and outrage – and yeah, maybe a little fear. He could probably kill me by accident. My

heart was tripping in my throat.

I was afraid if I tried to speak I would cry. From rage.

He swallowed once, dryly. He looked sick.

“I won’t tell you again. Stay out of it.”

He went, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Chapter Twenty-six

“I’m not comfortable with this, Adrien,” Chan said when he returned my phone call

early Tuesday morning. “Why exactly do you want this information?”

“I’m curious.”

“Why wouldn’t you ask Jake to nose around, if that’s all it is?”

“First of all, because he doesn’t have time for it. He’s too busy with his big-league cult–

murder case. Secondly, as you probably know, the situation between us is awkward these

days.”

A lot more awkward than Chan knew.

But he said gruffly, “Okay. But promise me you’re not planning to do something

stupid.”

Like he thought I actually planned ahead when I wanted to do something stupid? I

said, “Paul, it was just curiosity. Jesus, if it’s that big of a deal, don’t tell me.”

He sighed. “No, I got the intel for you. Oliver Garibaldi owns a second home in Bel Air.

Do you have a pencil?”

I stopped doodling little devil faces on the pad in front of me, and took down the

address.

“Thanks, I owe you one.”

“You can pay me back by not misusing this information. Jake will have my balls if you

get into trouble.”

“He’ll only find out if you tell him,” I said. I thanked him again and rang off.

One last try, I thought. One last effort before I gave up and took my lame-ass story to

the cops and let them try to sort it out – whether it compromised Jake or not.

* * * * *

The house, located in one of Los Angeles’ most prestigious neighborhoods, was a gated,

pseudo-English Tudor mansion on a nice chunk of manicured real estate. It could have

modeled for cover art on The Dain Curse.

I parked far down the shady street and prepared to wait, sitting low in the Forester,

baseball cap pulled over my face. When there were no cars or people around – which was

most of the time – I used my binoculars to watch the front of the house – not that there was

anything to see. Trees effectively blocked most of the windows.

I listened to Rufus Wainwright’s Poses a couple of times. After the fourth time, I

wished I’d brought some other CDs.

No one came, no one went. No sign of life anywhere. The neighborhood was a quiet

one, reminding me of Lisa’s home in Porter Ranch, though here there was no pretense at

being rural. The houses all sat well back from the street behind tall gates and vigorous

foliage.

After a couple of boring hours that knotted up my back and gave me way too much

time to think about things I didn’t want to think about, I drove to a gas station, used the

restroom, and stocked up on bottled water, chips, Ding Dongs, and mini doughnuts. The tune

from “Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk” was playing in my head as I paid a small fortune for

my repast. Like Rufus, everything I liked these days seemed a little bit strange and a little bit

deadly.

When I drove slowly past the Garibaldi estate, the iron gates were wide open. A blue

sedan was parked in the circular front court. I kept on driving, parking far down the opposite

end of the street. I pulled out my binoculars.

Total void. I couldn’t see anyone. I swore. Talk about the world’s worst timing…

Was there a back entrance to the estate? The problem with one-man surveillance was

that I didn’t dare leave except when the call of nature got too loud. And I wasn’t quite

dedicated enough to the cause to try pissing into a bottle.

A cleaning van roared up, blocking my view of the house. I started the engine and

drove still further down the street, parking on the opposite side this time. I knew I was

pushing my luck. If I stayed positioned on this street much longer, the cops would be

checking me out. Even if the cops didn’t bother with me, I couldn’t afford to attract my

target’s attention. The afternoon wore on. My patience wore out.

The ring of my cell nearly sent me into cardiac arrest. I found the phone, verified the

caller ID. Lisa. That could wait.

Time for another pit stop. I returned to the gas station convenience store. Resisting the

lure of comic books and Jawbreakers, I gave Guy a call.

“I need your help,” I said. “Feel free to say no.”

He said dryly, “I think you know I’m not going to tell you no.”

“It involves doing something illegal.”

He was silent.

“The thing is,” I said, “if I’m right, then there’s a chance you can clear yourself with the

cops.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“We could both wind up in jail or dead.”

He said at last, “I take it you’re going ahead with this plan whether I help you or not?”

“If you won’t help, I’ll try to think of another way.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he said. “What is it you need me to do?”

Thirty minutes later the Miata pulled into the convenience store parking lot, and I

climbed in. After I had directed Guy where to drive, he said, “Why don’t we call the police?”

“We will, if I’m right. I want to make sure first.”

“Isn’t that for the police to determine?”

I didn’t want to explain to him that I’d pretty much used all my wild-goose-chase

credits with the cops on Sunday.

I directed Guy to a hill behind the estate. We had a better partial view of the front

courtyard, though trees effectively blocked the back of the house. I could see the glint of a

pool through the greenery.

“I’m not sure what good this is doing,” Guy said. “We can’t see a bloody thing.”

“We can see who comes and goes. When it’s dark we can park back on the street.”

“If they were up to anything illegal, would they have cleaners in?”

“Maybe.” I wondered about that myself. “They’re obviously getting ready for some

event.”

“The whole town is getting ready for some event. It’s called Christmas.” Guy turned on

the radio, and as though to illustrate his point, Bing Crosby babababooed “White Christmas.”

We listened in silence to the music. The cleaning van departed. The blue sedan still sat

in the driveway.

Guy cleared his throat, disturbing my thoughts. “This guy you’re seeing,” he began.

“That’s over.”

I felt his stare. I kept the binoculars trained on the house.

“But are you over it?” he asked finally.

I smiled. I knew I was not fooling anyone. “No.”

A beat.

“Any chance of reconciliation?”

“No.” I could hear the anger in that one tight word and figured Guy caught it too. That

was probably just as well.

He let it go.

Silence fell between us.

“If you want to close your eyes for a bit, I’ll watch,” he said after a time.

“I’m not tired.”

“No?” His tone was derisive, but there was an undertone of gentleness. I studied him

curiously. I wondered what it would be like to be with someone gentle. Civilized. Someone

not afraid to be who he was – even if it was a guy with a fake English accent.

Dusk fell. Behind the tall gates and Sleeping Beauty brambles, Christmas lights winked

on up and down the street – not at the Garibaldi estate, however – not even all red ones.

There was no sign of life at all.

“Let’s drive down.”

Without comment, Guy started the engine. We drove back and parked a few yards

down from the Garibaldi estate. I opened the car door – remembered that I had left my gun

back at the gas station in the glove compartment of the Forester.

“What is it?” Guy asked. “You have a weird look on your face.”

“Huh? Uh…nothing.”

I wasn’t crazy about walking in there unarmed. If I was right, these people had very

little to lose by adding one more body to the count. On the other hand, if I was wrong – and

let’s face it, my batting average was not high these days – and I ended up getting picked up

by the cops with an unregistered gun in my possession, it was going to complicate things.

“I think I should go with you,” Guy said abruptly.

I shook my head. “No. For two reasons. One, you’re the only person who knows I’m in

there. Which means, if I get into trouble…”

“I take it you’ve decided to trust me.”

“And two, you haven’t done anything illegal yet. So, if I do get myself arrested, at this

point, you’re still clean.”

“How long will you be?”

“If I’m not back in forty-five minutes…no, make it an hour…call the police.” I fished

out a card. “Call him.”

“Riordan? That asshole!”

“He is an asshole, but he’ll come, and he won’t waste time getting here.” If simply for

the pleasure of killing me himself.

“You’ve got forty-five minutes,” Guy said. “Too much can happen in an hour.”

I nodded, slipped out of the car, and started walking quickly toward the house. As an

afterthought, I reached into my pocket, turned my cell-phone on vibrate.

The dusk had deepened to indigo as I slipped through the gates, sticking to the fence

line and the blade-shaped shadows of the trees.

There was a long pool, the water as still as black glass in the twilight. A row of cypress

stood like spear points. At the far end was a strange, flat-topped marble slab. An ugly piece of

modern sculpture, I thought. Then I re-thought. I moved from tree to tree till I was close

enough to kneel and examine the slab. It was hard to tell in that light, but it looked like the

milky white stone was flecked and veined in black – as though ink had spilled into the

cracks.

No way, I thought, against the wave of revulsion.

But as I stared at the surrounding wall of trees – and considered the distance to the

nearest house – I realized that it was possible. I closed my eyes for a moment. Shaking off

the sickness, I got up and headed for the back of the house.

Two bulging trash bags sat at the top of the stairs. The door stood ajar. No light was

visible from outside.

I tiptoed up the steps, eased the door open, peeking in. An incongruously cozy light

shone from the stovetop, illuminating a long chef’s kitchen with an embossed tin ceiling.

Stainless steel appliances gleamed dully. The granite-topped center island was big enough to

support a double sacrifice.

Several cans of baked beans sat on the island.

Per Chan’s info, the house was supposed to be empty. I crossed to the stainless steel

fridge, opened it. Bottle upon bottle of champagne nestled there.

Champagne and baked beans? Talk about perversion.

I almost didn’t hear the rubber-soled approach of footsteps in time.

Just as the kitchen door swung open, I ducked into the pantry. Betty Sansone strode

into the kitchen carrying a tray. She lowered the tray to the granite counter, set a bowl and

glass in the sink. She walked out again.

I stole out of the pantry and took a look in the sink. Baked beans residue. I sniffed the

glass. Not champagne. Water with something medicated.

Cautiously, I swung open the kitchen door and gazed down an empty hallway. I

listened. My watch ticked away in the silence.

I had about thirty-nine minutes left.

I crept down the hall, freezing when a floorboard creaked underfoot. It sounded as

loud as a shot to me, but nothing happened.

The hall opened onto an elegant dining room. A chandelier sparkled overhead, but the

velvet draperies were drawn so that the light could not be seen from outside. A banquet–

length table was covered in black linen and set with crystal, china, and silver. Tall black

candles stood in ornate sterling candelabras. Don’t ask me why black candles seemed so

creepy, but a shiver slithered down my spine at the sight.

I counted thirty chairs and thirty place settings.

And canned baked beans for supper? I thought not. So there must be a caterer coming.

Could I somehow use that to my advantage? Like how? Dress up as a waiter and search the

house while balancing a tray of hors d’oeuvres?

Voices at two o’clock, approaching fast.

Damn, damn, damn.

I scrambled under the table and pulled the chairs back in position.

The thud of my heart in my ears was so loud I could hardly hear over it.

“How is that my fault?” a young male voice inquired. I thought I recognized the voice.

“I didn’t say it was your fault. Why does it have to be anyone’s fault? I’m just saying I’d

like to get my nails done.” That voice, I definitely recognized. Betty Sansone: She-Devil in

training.

Betty and Wilma – er, Wilmer, I thought. And all I needed now was for Fred and

Barney and Dino the Dinosaur to show up.