After Dark (16 page)

“No, we're going to find something better.”

Sunday, 12:50 p.m.

Against all the laws of time and space, I actually managed to squeeze onto the back of Miles's minicycle. The shocks were crunched together, the tires were bulging at the sides, and there was black smoke puffing out behind us, but we made it to the Baxter place without the engine exploding. About a hundred yards before we got to their driveway, Miles killed the engine and we glided onto the shoulder.

“Back at the inn, I started to tell you that I think Baxter found something down in that money pit on Oak Island —” Miles started.

“Hold up,” I said, cutting him off. “Is this going to make me feel better or worse about what we're about to do?”

“I thought you might want to know that —”

“No, Miles. I don't want to know the nitty-gritty details about what Baxter found. Let's just go collect your evidence, get the word out and then hightail it out of this town. If we survive, you can explain it all to me on the beach.”

“Fine,” he said and shrugged. “I think our best bet is to approach the premises through the woods.”

“Let's make sure we don't get lost.”

“In these woods? Very funny, Charlie,” he said and marched into the trees.

Sunday, 1:10 p.m.

We stopped and crouched behind a low bush. From there we had a clear view of the back of the Baxters' house. There were four windows along the second floor and three along the bottom. All of the curtains were closed. There was a wooden door, painted green, at the far end of the house. At the rear of the property was a small barn, which looked about half the size of a regular barn. It was painted white with green trim, just like the house.

“We have approximately seven hours and twenty minutes until sunset,” Miles said. “Once the sun goes down —”

“Enough. I was there last night, remember? Let's just do whatever we're here to do.”

“All right, we'll infiltrate the barn first and scour the place for evidence. If we get separated, we'll rendezvous back at my motorcycle.”

“If we get separated in that barn, Miles, we're in serious trouble.”

“The wise warrior never assumes that he knows the correct path,” he said, then we made our way around the edge of the property, sticking in the trees, until we reached the side of the barn. “I'll go around front and open the doors. Keep your eyes peeled for the Baxters and wait for my signal,” he said.

Before I had a chance to ask what the signal was, Miles darted out of the trees, skittered along the side of the barn and disappeared around the corner. I slunk out, too, sticking close to the wall, and examined the back of the Baxters' place a little more closely. In the light of day, it seemed insane to think that those two utterly unremarkable old farts might be lurking around inside, licking their pointy fangs and plotting the destruction of Rolling Hills. But I'd just spent the last year at Choke dealing with Peck monitoring my every move, so I was pretty good at sniffing out trouble, and my sixth sense was telling me to get away while I still had the chance. I almost made a break for it, but then Miles called out, “It's open!”

Despite my better judgment, I ran inside, too. I couldn't let him risk his neck in there alone. I don't know what I was expecting to find inside the barn, maybe a bunch of prisoners chained together or vampires hanging from the rafters, but I'm pretty certain I wasn't expecting a nearly spotless barn filled with shiny lawn-care equipment, all neatly organized against the walls.

“Help me get these doors closed,” Miles said.

“That was your secret signal?” I said, helping him pull the doors shut behind us. “‘It's open'?”

“I like to keep things simple,” he said.

Once the doors were closed, there was only a sliver of light slipping in. Luckily, Miles had his phone, which he whipped out and switched to the flashlight function. He crept forward, scanning the floor with the light, until he'd almost reached the back of the barn, then he stopped and dropped to his knees.

“Here it is,” he said. “A trapdoor.” He grabbed a metal ring in the middle of the door and heaved it up. It swung open silently on well-oiled hinges, and Miles eased it against the back wall.

“Does every building in this town have a trapdoor in the floor?” I asked.

“Root cellars were common when many of the houses in this town were built,” he said.

A wooden ladder descended from the opening in the floor and disappeared in the darkness below.

“A trapdoor that leads into a dingy root cellar is exactly the kind of thing I'd expect to see in a ridiculously predictable horror movie. And you know what else would be predictable and absurdly stupid …?” I asked.

“I'm going down,” Miles said.

“Exactly what I was about to say,” I said. “I mean, have you ever watched a horror movie? Do you want to get killed?”

Either Miles wasn't listening or he wanted to get killed, because he was already starting down the ladder, his phone stuffed in his back pocket, leaving me in the dark.

“If you want to survive in a horror movie, Miles, what you do is leave. You hear a creaking door, you leave. You hear mysterious footsteps, you leave. You find a ladder that leads into a pitch-dark cellar, you leave. What you
don't
do is go down the ladder. The people who do that are the ones who don't make it through the movie alive.”

“Charlie,” he said, looking up at me, “we're not in a movie. Stay up there. Keep an eye open for Baxter.”

“I think I'll keep
both
eyes open for Baxter.”

“I'll be quick,” he said and continued down the ladder.

When he reached the bottom, he whipped out his phone, flicked the flashlight on again and vanished into the darkness.

I could see the flashlight scanning back and forth down there, but that was all. I glanced back at the doors at the front of the barn. My danger-is-near instinct was in overdrive. If Baxter and his cronies rushed in right now, I'd be a sitting duck, and it suddenly occurred to me that the people who die first in horror movies
aren't
actually the ones who go down the ladder and do the investigating — the people who die are the ones who get left behind as the lookout. Don't the heroes always come back to find the lookout gone or dead — usually horribly mangled?

I glanced into the cellar and saw a few quick flashes of light snap through the darkness. Miles was taking pictures. I glanced back up at the doors and was about to go over and have a look outside when Miles called out in a half whisper, “Charlie, get down here! You've got to see this!”

“What is it?” I asked, but I didn't really need to know. I didn't want to stay up here waiting for Baxter anymore.

I scooted down the ladder and had just stepped onto the dirt floor at the bottom when I heard the barn doors creak open and sunlight flooded over the opening above me.

Miles grabbed my arm and yanked me farther into the cellar. Footsteps thumped above us.

“Here,” he whispered, shoving his phone into my hand. “Get this to Mr. King at
the Daily News
. Their office is right above the Frog Brothers Café, on the second floor. Show him the pictures and explain what's going on around here.”

Above us, the footsteps were moving toward the trap-door.

“I'll lead them away,” he said. “When the coast is clear, make a break for Shelley.” He shoved the key to his minicycle into my other hand.

“We go together,” I whispered.

“They'll think I'm alone. I'll meet you at
the Daily News
.”

I was going to say I thought this was a ludicrous plan, but a shadow fell across the opening. Instantly, Miles bounded up the ladder and practically leaped into the barn.

He let out a bloodcurdling war cry, which was followed by a lot of shuffling above me. I could feel dust floating down onto my head. There was a crack, then the clatter of tools falling down, then footsteps pounding — and then it got quiet.

I waited.

I was alone, in the dark, but I did not need to pee.

Sunday, 1:30 p.m.

I inched over to the ladder and looked up. The barn doors were obviously still open because sunlight was pouring in, but I didn't see any suspicious shadows.

I listened.

Nothing.

I knew I couldn't wait down here for too long or someone might come back, so I started up the ladder, listening for the slightest noise. At the top, I poked my head up and quickly scanned the place. It was just me and the lawn-care tools, some of which were scattered across the floor. Had Miles actually managed to get away? Or were they keeping him gagged and bound somewhere until after dark?

I listened.

Nothing.

I crawled out and darted over to the doors, which were hanging wide open. The backyard was empty. There was no sign of the Baxters or Miles.

It was now or never, so I bolted across the lawn and into the woods. I didn't stop moving until I was back on the edge of Elm Street. Amazingly, I arrived at exactly the same spot where we'd parked the minicycle. I gave myself a pat on the back for my sharp wilderness survival skills, threw on Miles's helmet and goggles and started up the bike. It spluttered to life — what little bit of life it had left — and I pulled a tight U-turn. I didn't really want to drive by the inn and risk running into Mom, but there was absolutely no way I was driving by the Baxter house. Especially not on a miniature motorcycle that could stall at any moment.

Sunday, 1:55 p.m.

I didn't see anything unusual when I trundled past the inn, so I kept chugging along toward Oak Avenue. I figured the faster I got to Church Street and handed Miles's photos over to Mr. King, the faster I could get us out of this town. Oak looked about the same as it did the last time I'd passed through. The cars were all back in their driveways, but nobody had covered up the smashed-out windows, and most of the drapes were still shut tight. But Church Street was another story.

There were about twenty people, most of them of the senior variety, moseying along, smiling and chatting. But it wasn't the seniors giving me the heebie-jeebies, it was the dozen or so faces I caught staring out from behind some of the storefront windows. They looked like ghostly statues, standing back a few feet. They watched me drive by on the minicycle, their gazes following me from behind their sunglasses. I considered hightailing it down Church Street and straight out of town, just spluttering away in a cloud of black smoke, but when the Frog Brothers Café came into view, my conscience got the better of me.

I pulled over and parked in front of the café. I was going to go inside and ask how I could get up to
the Daily News
office when I spotted a sign screwed into the bricks at the edge of the building that had a black arrow pointing into the alley beside it. Below the arrow were the words
The Daily News — On the Beat in Rolling Hills since 1905
.

There were stairs about halfway down the alley. I climbed them to the door at the top, which had
The Daily News
printed across it in black letters. There was no lobby or secretary there to greet me. It was just one big room with boxes and stacks of paper scattered in piles everywhere. A couple of desks were near the windows that looked out onto Church Street. Behind one was a guy who looked only slightly older than me, typing on a battered black laptop.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

I marched across the room, pulled out Miles's phone and said, “I've got some pictures I'm supposed to show to Mr. King.” It was only then that I realized I hadn't checked the photos first. In my mad rush to get away from the Baxter place I hadn't even glanced at them.

“He's out sick. Who took them?” he asked, holding out his hand. He looked tired, with scruffy brown hair and dark circles under his eyes.

“Miles Van Helsing,” I said, handing the phone over.

He frowned but took it anyway. “What are you doing with Miles's phone? Did he finally get abducted by aliens?”

“Not exactly,” I said.

I watched him scrolling through a few things on the phone's touchscreen, and his frown got deeper.

“It's a skull,” he said, handing the phone back to me. “Where did he find it? No, wait — let me guess, in some secret underground catacomb on the outskirts of town?”

I looked down at the display.

The photo showed a skull sitting on top of a wooden crate. There were gray thorny branches growing out of the top of the skull and out through the mouth. They reminded me of tentacles — ones that belonged to a long-dead octopus.

“Is that a human skull?” I asked, feeling a little sick.

“Search me, dude,” he said, turning back to his laptop. “How much did Miles pay you to bring that in to me?”

“He didn't pay me anything,” I said. “We found it in the cellar under Mr. Baxter's barn.”

He yawned and turned away from the laptop. “Well, there's your explanation right there. Mr. Baxter's job is to fly around the world digging up strange things so Victor Opal can make more money. You know he showed me a shrunken head last year? A real shrunken head! You see that stuff online, but you don't think you're actually going to hold a real one. That was seriously mind-bending, let me tell you. I think I washed my hands every hour for a week after holding that thing.”

“What's growing out of it?”

“I don't know,” he said, shrugging and turning back to his laptop. “Ask Baxter. But, look, word to the wise: don't listen to everything Miles has to say.”

“That's probably sound advice, but haven't you noticed anything odd happening around town?”

“I haven't had time to notice anything. The editor in chief of this thing we call a newspaper has been out sick the last two days, so everything's on my shoulders, and I've got deadlines.”