CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
TAK COULD SEE THAT THE girl’s teeth were chattering as she huddled under the green blanket. She looked from Tayshawn to him, trying to ignore Popeye, who was staring at her from a few inches away.
“Your name…is…Tamara?” Tak asked. “You say…you worked…with Karen?”
The girl nodded. “We’ve gone over this already.”
“Let’s go…over…it again,” Tak said. Popeye extended a bony finger toward the center of her face. “Can I help you?” she asked him. Popeye grinned with filed teeth.
“Why did…you come…here?”
“I…ow! Do you have to touch it?” The girl said, slapping Popeye’s hand away from her nose, which he’d just probed to get a better look at the stud over her left nostril.
“Yes. I…do. Do you have…other…art?”
Tak looked to Tayshawn, who shook his head. He’d told Tak that they should have just stayed hidden until the girl got bored and left.
“My navel is pierced and I have two tattoos,” she said. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Show…me.”
“Why?” she said, but she was already shucking her shirt from her pants.
“I want…to see. Please? Pretty…please?” He straightened his dark glasses. He’d told Tak that he’d planned on removing his nose, but Tak talked him out of it, because it would make it hard to keep his sunglasses on.
Tamara exposed her stomach, where a star on a short thin chain hung from her belly button.
“Nice,” Popeye said, cupping the tiny star on the fingertip of his webbed hand. Tak hadn’t seen him so enthused since they’d emerged from the ice. His gills seemed to flare as he crouched near the girl. “What about…the tattoos?”
She shrugged out of her jacket and hiked up a sleeve, baring the Celtic ring around her upper arm.
“Ohh, pretty,” Popeye said. Tamara didn’t shudder or recoil when he grazed the line work with his fingers, Tak noticed.
“What about…the other one?” Popeye said.
“You can’t see that one,” she said, defiant. She tucked in her shirt.
He grinned with filed teeth. “Why…not? Tramp stamp?”
“No. You just can’t.”
“I’ll show you mine,” he said. He wasn’t wearing a shirt beneath his leather jacket, and he opened it fully so she could see the patch on his abdomen where he’d pared the skin away.
“Yuck,” she said, peering close.
“Check this out,” he said, showing her a latticework of stitches he’d put through the skin of his upper arm. She ran her fingertips down the black threading.
“But…wait, there’s…more,” Popeye said. He started unbuttoning his jeans.
“That’s enough,” Tak said.
“But…”
“Enough,” he said, thinking they had no reason to torture the girl, although she looked more curious than terrified at the moment. “You were…telling us…why you came.”
“Karen asked me to bring the mask here.”
“Here? She told you to bring it to this house?”
“She said to bring it to the Haunted House. I’d read about it when that boy was shot.”
“What were you supposed to do with it once you brought it here?”
“Just leave it, I guess. She said that I should leave it upstairs, by the Wall of the Dead. That’s all she had time to say.”
“Did she tell you we would be here?” Tak asked.
“No,” she said. “No offense, but I would have appreciated the warning. I thought you guys were all in hiding.”
Tayshawn, without saying anything, managed to convey to Tak that enough was enough and that they should let her go. There was something else here, though, Tak thought, some piece of the puzzle that was eluding him, and he didn’t want the girl to leave until he figured out what it was.
“Tak,” Tayshawn said, impatient. It was only a matter of time before the authorities came to the house; the fresh tire tracks in the snow would make them curious.
“And you say she’s…in prison…now?”
“I assume so. The cops took her.”
She doesn’t know, he thought.
The problem as he saw it was that the mask alone proved nothing. Maybe Karen had other evidence that she could divulge, but for him, the mask was only a reminder of how he’d been set up. If she did have information, it was unlikely that she’d have found a sympathetic ear to share it with.
Tak was regretting stabbing Adam. He regretted his loss of control for a variety of reasons, but chief among them was that Adam and Phoebe might have been able to help him sort this out. Tayshawn just wanted to get back to the lake, and all Popeye wanted to do was…well, it was better not to think about what Popeye wanted to do.
“Tayshawn,” he said. “Come…with me. Popeye…stay here. Give me her keys.”
“Aye, aye…Cap’n,” Popeye said, leaning down so the girl could get a good look at all of the fishhooks in his ear. “But be…quick. We should hurry…back…to the lake.”
“The lake?” she said, repeating after him.
Tak stared back at Popeye, and he heard Tayshawn curse softly. The girl turned away from Popeye’s leer, pretending she hadn’t said anything, but Tak could see in her eyes that she knew what Popeye’s statement meant, and what it meant for her.
“Oooops,” Popeye said, covering his smiling mouth with the flat of his hand as he looked back at his dead companions.
Tayshawn gripped Tak’s arm as he started heading down the stairs.
“Tak, we should…let her…go,” Tayshawn said, whispering so the girl couldn’t hear him. “We…”
“Popeye just…decided…for us, didn’t…he?”
“Screw the…freak, Tak. We can’t…”
“We’ll…have to. They are…counting…on us.”
“Tak, she won’t…say anything. She was…Karen’s…friend. She…”
Tak could actually feel the muscles in his face contort with rage, and Tayshawn stepped back. “The…beating hearts…tried to…reterminate her.”
Tayshawn was frightened of him, but he didn’t retreat any further.
“Tak…” he said. “I’m not…going to let…you kill her. I…won’t. Not even…to protect…our friends.”
Tak shook his head. “Later. We’ll discuss this…after.”
“After what?”
“After we get…Karen’s…body.”
Tayshawn stared at him. “You aren’t…serious.”
“Deadly. And the girl upstairs…is going…to drive.”
Tayshawn kept whatever it was he wanted to say to himself.
He clearly thought the plan to retrieve Karen was idiotic, but realized that it would also keep the girl alive—for a little while.
Tak unlocked the trunk of the girl’s car. More junk. Papers, one sandal, a jacket, some books. Tak leaned over and rooted around in the mess, throwing the detritus over his shoulder.
“Tak,” a voice said from behind him. Tayshawn.
“What?” Tak flung a plastic bag of recyclables, cans and bottles, over his shoulder and onto the driveway. “I’m sorry, Tak. I’m…with you. If you think…Karen…can still be…saved, I’m with you.”
“Good.”
“But…killing…the girl…is wrong.”
“Objection noted.” Tak knew it was wrong, too. But what could he do? He never really expected to become the leader of the Oakvale undead, despite all his attempts to woo them away from Williams and his philosophy of civil disobedience. Tak wanted to be uncivil. He had no illusions about which mindset was more suited for actual leadership.
But Williams wasn’t here, and Karen never made it to the lake. That left him with the responsibility of his people, the nineteen—dare he even think it—“souls” under the ice.
“What are you…looking for?” Tayshawn asked, his words shaking Tak out of his reverie. He realized that he’d been staring into the messy trunk, no longer seeing anything at all.
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“I was…hoping…for flares,” he said, withdrawing a short length of metal, curved and knobby at one end.
Tayshawn looked at the truncated tire iron with disdain.
“We’re going to…bust…her body out…of prison…with that?” he said. Trying to lighten the mood.
Tak looked back at him. Tayshawn was a good friend, he realized. Would he remain so if tough decisions had to be made?
“So…negative. Help me get this…junk…back in…the car,” Tak said. “Then go…get the…girl.”
“What am…I…your…porter?”
“I prefer…henchman.”
Fast stomping on the stairs from within the house, and a muffled cry from Tayshawn, who’d just gone in to get the girl a moment ago. Tak pulled himself out of the car and was heading toward the porch just as the girl yanked open the front door. She walked out on the landing, her eyes locking on Tak’s.
“You can’t catch me,” she said, her eyes defiant as she tried without success not to sound scared. “I’ve seen you limping.”
He nodded, slowly. The girl was debating whether or not to hurdle the railing or try and dash past him.
“Who says…I have to…catch…you?” he said, showing her his teeth.
She decided not to run after all. She leaned against the rail, her breath visible in the crisp air of morning.
A minute later Tayshawn and Popeye struggled through the door, their movements Stooge-esque.
“Nice…job,” Tak said to them.
“Wouldn’t have…happened…if I had stayed…up there,” Tayshawn said.
“Oh, yeah. You’re such a…great…guardian.”
“Let me…guess. You had to…show her…your back…tattoo.”
“Hey, I designed it…”
“And she…just…took off.”
“Dude, she defeated…you…with a blanket,” Popeye said, and then he mimed Tayshawn’s defeat, stumbling around blindly in a traditional Zombie Walk. “Help, help! She used…a…blanket!”
“Don’t,” Tak said, after a pause. Tayshawn wouldn’t look at him. Had he encouraged the girl to run?
Popeye ceased badgering Tayshawn and drew Tak aside.
“Tak, we should…term her. She’s a…flight…risk.”
“Popeye…”
“We need to…kill…her, Tak. If she…got…away…”
“Karen sent her,” he replied.
Popeye shook his head from side to side, the gills on one side of his neck opening with each twist. “Yeah, that’s…rough. But if she leads…the blood bags…to the lake, what…then?”
Tak looked at him for a moment—at how eager he was—without comment. Popeye wanted to kill for killing’s sake. Tak wanted to kill, too, but for what they allowed to happen to Karen. For what they caused to happen to Karen.
If she was really dead, he thought, they’ll all pay. All of them.
“Think about this, Tak. We should…kill her and…take her into…the lake…in case…she comes back. That way…”
“Popeye,” Tak said, poking a stiff finger into Popeye’s sternum. “Shut…up.” His gills flared, but Popeye didn’t say another word.
Tak reached into his pocket, withdrawing the girl’s keys. There was a heavy silvered cat on the ring and a skull in the shape of a teardrop.
“You’re…driving,” he called to her, tossing her the jangling bundle.
“Where…where are we going?” she asked.
“Shotgun!” Popeye called.
“No,” Tak said. “And put this on.”
He handed Popeye a star-spangled bandana he’d found under the passenger seat.
“Cool,” Popeye said, putting it over his bald head. “Disguises.” He had to have the girl help him tie it. Tak put on a John Deere mesh hat he’d found in the trunk, sweeping his long hair back behind his ears. Popeye laughed and pointed.
“What are you…laughing…for?” Tayshawn said. “You look like…a gay…pirate.”
“Half right,” Popeye cackled, clambering into the back seat.
“I don’t get…a disguise?” Tayshawn asked.
“You’re…almost human,” Tak responded. “Get…in.”
“Where to?” she asked. Her car coughed repeatedly before the engine turned over. Tak tried the radio, but she told him it was broken.
“Don’t…talk,” he said. He didn’t have a plan; nothing beyond finding Karen’s body and taking it from them. “Just…drive.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THE HOUSE REALLY DID feel haunted, Pete thought.
He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. Jars of eyeballs? Webs stretching from the far corners of the room, giant blood-colored spiders scuttling along the threads? An untidy pile of severed limbs? Instead, there was soft, well-worn furniture that looked as though it had been culled from a decent yard sale. A futon, a couple of beanbag chairs. There were a few comic books scattered on a scratched coffee table; the blue corner of a paperback peeked out from beneath the skirt of the futon. The room felt oddly lived-in, but Pete thought there was a cloud of loneliness drifting above, along with the dust motes that became visible in the light that filtered in through the windows.
Pete went through the kitchen, then back out to the foyer, turning toward the stairs. He looked up and saw a reflection of the light on the fifth step.
He placed his fingers on it, and they came back wet. The ceiling above was free from water damage that he could see. He examined the other stairs and found them to be wet as well, as though someone had tracked snow in on their way up.
He frowned. He hadn’t explored the upstairs yet.
The upstairs was considerably darker than below. He turned on his flashlight, a large, heavy-handled light that Duke had given him. It could work as a club if he needed it to. The house creaked, both with his steps and when he stood still. There could be zombies upstairs, he thought, and they probably wouldn’t be very happy to see him. The weight of the flashlight was reassuring.
What he didn’t expect to find were dozens of them—hundreds, maybe—in the first room that he looked in.
He shined his light across them, the faces pinned and taped to the wall. He leaned in, his eyes taking them all in at a glance.
But the more he looked, the more he saw their differences. A girl with yellow bows in her hair, clutching a tennis racquet. A boy in a doorway, slouching in a jacket two sizes too big for him. A living girl. Two boys, brothers, it looked like, standing in a junk lot beside a horribly mangled automobile. He saw one he recognized, a huge black boy that had run at him, twice, in the woods. A smiling boy with a familiar shock of red hair. A girl wearing a mask.
He stared at the photographs for a long moment, trying to figure out what was bothering him. It took a while, but then he had it.
He no longer wanted to kill Phoebe Kendall.
He should have felt a murderous rage overtaking him as he stared at the Wall of the Dead, but instead he felt…nothing. Nothing at all, no hatred, no loathing, no anger. He actually laughed out loud, the echoing of his voice disturbing the dusty stillness. Was this the end result of all of Reverend Mathers’s training on mastering the emotions? Did mastery of emotions equal eliminating them entirely?
Alien thoughts crept into his mind as he regarded the zombies on the wall. Here was a photograph of a family, smiling parents and two boys, the smaller of them grayish-blue, grinning and dead beneath his baseball cap, his brother’s hand set firmly on his shoulder. Here was another one with a girl and her kitten, its eyes perhaps a little too wide as it regarded its undead owner. Here a grainy shot of a boy leaning against a steel post with a basketball hoop set above.
He took a step back and heard something crackle beneath his sneaker. He bent down and found a photograph clinging there.
Karen.
He looked at the photograph a long moment before scanning the wall for a free pin, and finding one, he affixed Karen’s image beside a picture of a somber, freckled girl that had been printed out on comput
er paper. The girl was standing on a beach, her brown hair trailing in the wind like the flag of a defeated nation. His eyes narrowed and then they opened wide.
His phone rang, and the blaring ringtone in the silent room was loud enough to arrest all of his biological functions.
“Hello?” he said, whispering.
“Pete. You okay? You sound strange.”
“I’m…fine,” he said, blinking, turning away from the haunting images.
“I want you to meet me. I’ve got something to show you.”
“What?”
“You’ll see. A surprise.”
Pete swallowed. “I’ve had enough…surprises…to last a lifetime.” He was having trouble getting the words out, and his voice sounded alien to him in the empty house. “One more. It won’t kill you,” Duke said, telling Pete to meet him at a commuter train lot an exit up from Winford. “Not if…I’m already dead,” Pete said, but Duke had already hung up.
Pete clicked off his flashlight and stood in the center of the room. He could feel them, the dead, staring at him. He removed the photo of the freckled girl, put it in the pocket of his jacket, near his heart.
Then he walked out into the snow, and drove to meet Duke.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“SO YOUR OTHER CAR…is a broom, huh?” Popeye said.
Tayshawn told him to shut up and let her drive, and there were slapping sounds from the backseat. Tak gritted his teeth, refusing to turn around.
“No, really, I’m…curious,” Popeye said. “That’s what it said…on one…of her bumper…stickers. Are you, like…a witch…or something?”
“Wiccan,” Tamara said, her eyes steady on the road.
“Wiccan, huh? Can you cast…spells…and stuff?”
She didn’t answer him.
“Do you…have a black…cat? Wear…a pointy…hat? Have…unholy…congress…with…the Devil?”
“Give it a…rest,” Tak said.
“You’re awfully intolerant for a zombie,” she said.
“Intolerant?” Popeye replied, leaning forward until his pale face was thrust between their seats. Tak never realized how much he looked like Nosferatu with sunglasses before. “Sweetheart, you have…no idea…what…intolerance is.”