Lord of the Wings (18 page)

“If it's dire enough to be worth waking you for, sure,” he said.

Michael and I were both quiet for most of the way home, but it was the comfortable silence of two people who don't have to talk to be in sync. We were almost in sight of the house when he finally spoke.

“I've got my graduate directing seminar all morning,” he said. “And a blasted departmental meeting in the afternoon.”

“That's okay,” I said. “The Night Side's when I really want your company.”

“That's what I figured.”

We crept quietly into the house. Most of the lights were out, which meant that Rose Noire had probably fallen into bed as soon as the boys had settled.

Josh and Jamie were both sleeping peacefully. Jamie appeared to have been making yet another costume, this one involving quite a lot of orange and black construction paper that now lay in shreds all over his room. Josh had been drawing pumpkins again, and had posted the fiercest one on the outside of his door.

Michael fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow—an ability I envied. I lay awake for a while, thinking over my day.

I was just falling asleep when I heard the front door open and close again. Furtive steps ascended the stairs. Probably Rob, coming home late and trying not to wake anyone.

I got out of bed and made my way quietly to the bedroom door. Just then I heard a loud thud.

“Bother,” muttered a voice.

I opened the door and stuck my head out. My brother was halfway up the stairs to the third floor, rubbing his shin.

“Rob?”

He turned and peered back down the stairway at me.

“You okay?” I stepped out into the hall and shut the door behind me.

“Just tired,” he said. “Which makes me clumsy. Given how early I got up to start my Goblin Patrol duties, I should have gone to bed hours ago. But we've all been working on your scavenger hunt thing.”

“No luck yet?”

He shook his head.

“Sorry,” I said. “I know it's frustrating. But it was a long shot.”

“No,” he said. “It's not a long shot. At least it shouldn't be. Under normal circumstances, my guys should be able to find whoever's doing this game like that.” He snapped his fingers. “There are places people go to plan things like this, or discuss them, and there's nothing about this on any of them. That's not right.”

“So it was planned by someone who doesn't usually do stuff like this?” I asked.

“Bingo.” He sat down on the steps and looked less tired somehow. “And you know what else is wrong? Nobody's talking about it online. And they should be. Maybe you can plan something like this all by yourself, or with a small group, but at some point you have to recruit people to play it, and that's pretty hard to do without leaving some traces online.”

“So you're at a dead end?”

“Not quite. We have a theory.” He grinned. “Okay, some of my guys who are a lot more tech savvy than me came up with a theory, but it sounds good to me.”

“Let's have it.” I sat down on the step below him.

“We think whoever started this game found players through social media,” he said.

“You've lost me already,” I said. “Like Facebook and Twitter and things like that?”

“Halloween in Caerphilly's all over the social media, thanks to Lydia.”

“Lydia?” Probably not tactful to sound so surprised.

“Yeah.” Rob grimaced. “She hasn't done anything else useful that I know of, but she has plastered the festival all over the Internet. It has its own Facebook page, and a Tumblr page, and a blog—you name it. People are tweeting that they're going to the Halloween Festival, and liking the Festival Page on Facebook and using it to arrange to meet up with friends. So our theory is that whoever organized this game watched social media for people who said they were coming to the festival, and then contacted them and recruited them for the game.”

“And that wouldn't show up to your guys?”

“No, because they're not doing it publicly,” he said. “I mean, it's not like they'd go to the Festival Facebook page and say ‘hey, anyone interested in playing a kind of scavenger hunt that involves committing a bunch of misdemeanors, contact me at my real name and my very traceable real e-mail address.' They'd do it behind the scenes. Private messages. Or e-mails. In some cases, if people aren't careful with their privacy settings, you can find out their e-mails or even their phone numbers on these social media sites. I'd be surprised if the participants didn't get an e-mail from someone inviting them and warning them not to tell anyone else.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “If we can ever get Justin Klapcroft to talk, we'll find out.”

“Although talking with him may not help track the organizer down,” Rob said. “If I were running something like this that crossed the line over into illegal stuff, I'd set up a free e-mail someplace—you know, Hotmail, Yahoo, Gmail—and make sure I never accessed it from anyplace but a public computer. It could be difficult, if not impossible, to trace them. And by the way, that's another thing—this game incites people to break the law.” Was that Rob's law school training bubbling up out of the past, or was he quoting one of the Mutant Wizards attorneys. “That's not typical. A LARP, for example—live action role-playing game—they're always careful to steer clear of anything illegal. But whoever's organizing this thing either doesn't know any better or doesn't care.”

“So if it's not organized by someone who usually does this kind of thing, odds are your guys don't know him and can't find him.”

“It's just going to take longer,” Rob said. “We're combing through social media for anything that even hints that people are going off behind the scene to plan something like this. And if people are doing this, I bet some of them are posting selfies of themselves climbing over the zoo wall or sneaking away with a pumpkin.”

“Who would be stupid enough to post a selfie of himself committing a crime?” I asked.

“Plenty of people.” Rob looked as if he were shocked by my social media naïveté. “People are committing murder and hate crimes and tweeting about it. So why would they draw the line at stealing pumpkins?”

“So you're looking for self-incriminating tweets and posts,” I said.

“And we're also setting out lures,” he said. “I had a couple of guys online all day pretending to be tourists here for the festival and looking for something more exciting to do. I've got another one who's posting things that are sort of designed to make him look as if he is already in the game. Chief knows about it, by the way,” he added. “If anything comes of it, I'll fill you in tomorrow morning.”

With that he stood up and trudged the rest of the way up to the third floor.

I went back into the master bedroom. Michael was still sound asleep. I crept back into bed and wondered how long it would take me to find the off button in my brain so I could follow his example. And then I realized, with relief, that I was already dozing off.

I woke up again sometime in the wee small hours and my brain immediately kicked into overdrive, in a way that did not bode well for my getting back to sleep anytime soon. I deliberately avoided looking at the alarm clock, because I knew finding out the time would only make me feel more tired than I already was. I tossed and turned—but as gently as possible because Michael was sleeping quite soundly. Then a beeping noise began emanating from his side of the bed.

“Your pager's going off.” I shook him gently, because I knew otherwise I'd have to listen to the pager for several minutes before he dragged himself to consciousness.

He pawed at the night table on his side of the bed until he found the beeper and pressed the right button.

“Box fourteen oh four for the structure fire. At Dr. Smoot's Haunted House. Engine companies fourteen and two, truck twelve, rescue squad two, ambulance fourteen respond. Oh four twenty-seven.”

“On my way,” he muttered, although obviously the pager couldn't hear him.

I felt a small twinge of satisfaction that Debbie Ann had taken my recommendation and started giving the call locations in terms the firemen could understand. At least when it came to landmarks like the Haunted House, the Caerphilly Zoo, or the New Life Baptist Church, no one in town actually knew the address, but they all knew exactly where to show up if you gave them the name.

And then it hit me. The Haunted House.

 

Chapter 15

“It's the Haunted House that's on fire,” I said. “I'm coming, too. I'll take my own car so I won't slow you down, and I'll stay out of everyone's way, but this is going to affect the festival, and it could have something to do with the murder and the break-ins and—”

“No problem.” He was heading out the bedroom door. “I might need you there to give me intravenous coffee. Is it really past four thirty in the morning?”

“Gee, thanks,” I said. “So far I'd avoided looking at the clock. Aren't you going to need your shoes? And your pants?” To say nothing of his turnout gear, but first things first.

“Oops.” He looked sheepish. “I guess I'm not as awake as I thought I was.”

While Michael finished dressing, I dodged upstairs to make sure Rob, the other volunteer fireman in the house, was also awake. I met Rose Noire in the hall on the same errand.

“I'm awake, I'm awake,” we heard Rob groan from behind his door.

“Keep an eye on the boys, okay?” I said to Rose Noire. “I'm going to tag along to see how much of a crisis this is for the festival.”

“The festival that you're not in charge of organizing,” she reminded me.

“This could be a security issue,” I said.

“Of course,” she said.

Just then Rob burst out of his room and clattered down the stairs. I followed him.

Michael and Rob took off in Rob's car—though I was relieved to see that Michael was driving, since Rob's eyes were still at half mast. I followed almost as soon as they left, but since I was observing the speed limit, I arrived at the Haunted House several minutes behind them.

There was definitely a fire. The firefighters had already set up a couple of portable spotlights, which illuminated a plume of smoke.

“What happened?” Dad had appeared at my side.

“Listening to the police and fire band again?” I asked. “I just got here myself, so your guess is as good as mine.”

“Smoke's coming from this side of the house.” We were standing in front, but slightly to the right of the Haunted House. Yes, smoke was definitely coming from the right. A lot of smoke. Was this the good kind of smoke that meant the firefighters almost had the blaze out already or the bad kind that meant we were in for a long, dangerous night? Michael would know but unfortunately I didn't.

I was reassured to see that Dad was holding his old-fashioned black medical bag. Although I hoped he wouldn't need it.

“What's in the right side?” he asked.

“On the ground floor, the living room,” I said. “Not much in it apart from a nice black basalt fireplace and a ton of cheap Halloween decorations. I don't remember precisely what rooms are there on the second floor. Probably the vampire coffin and the witch's potion lab. In other words, more cheap Halloween stuff.”

“Not good,” Dad said. “The cheap decorations are mostly either paper or highly flammable plastic. Good fuel, and the plastic could cause some pretty nasty fumes.”

“Let's hope the fire's not there, then,” I said. “Though I don't think we want the fire on the third floor, either. That's the part that's not open to the public because Dr. Smoot's using it as his living quarters.”

“The smoke appears to be coming from the basement,” Dad said. “The far right end of the basement. What's down there?”

“The museum. Though I'm not sure which part of the museum. The spiral staircase leading down to it threw off my sense of direction. Can you see the outside stairwell? That would tell me whether it's the non-wax wax museum end or the historic artifact end that's burning.”

“There.” Dad pointed to where we could see, behind some shrubbery, the head of a fireman appearing to rise out of the ground. Apparently he was climbing up the outdoor stairway from the basement.

“Damn,” I said. “If part of the museum has to burn, why not the wax museum end? The end that's on fire is where the artifacts are. Some of them valuable.” Unless the Griswalds and Mrs. Paltroon had hurried to claim their valuables.

Dad nodded, and we watched for a few moments. The firefighters had broken through the front door, and I could see a couple of them doing something in the living room, but most of them were clustered at the right side of the house or had gone around back. Several of them were holding the hose, soaking something in the basement. Three police vehicles were also on the scene, though the officers were keeping their distance. I spotted Vern Shiffley standing in the open driver's door of his cruiser and leaning on the roof, talking on his police radio.

“Yeah,” he was saying. “There's no big rush. The fire department's evidence eradication team is still at work.”

I decided it probably wasn't the time to point out that saving lives and property was the fire department's mission, and evidence eradication merely an unfortunate but unavoidable by-product.

The chief's car pulled up and parked just behind Vern's cruiser. The chief got out and the two of them began talking about something.

I noticed a small flurry of action at the side of the house. Then two of the firefighters appeared, carrying a stretcher, with the EMT walking at their side.

Dad dashed over to meet them. The firefighters stopped by the ambulance, and after Dad had examined their patient for ten or twenty seconds, he gestured. The firefighters hauled the stretcher into the ambulance. Then they hopped back out again and one of them raced around to the front of the truck and threw himself into the driver's seat. Dad and the EMT scrambled inside the ambulance with seconds to spare before the driver started the engine and raced off.