Amulet of Doom (9 page)

Hypocrite
, she thought.
You're out roaming the streets, too
. She smiled in spite of herself.
Geez, given what I'm up to, whoever's in that car is probably more normal than I am!

She began to catalog the possibilities: a tired mother on her way home from her second shift job; some crazed party animal who lived by night; or (getting romantic) some heartbroken lover whose tragedy denied him (or her!) the solace of sleep.

How weird is that, compared to someone who's out to rob a corpse?
she demanded of herself.

After the car passed her, she counted to twenty. Moving carefully, checking to be sure it really was gone, she stepped back onto the sidewalk.

When she reached the funeral home a moment later Marilyn tucked her flashlight into the back pocket of her jeans. Terrified or not, this had to be done in darkness. That also meant she didn't dare risk trying the front door, since a bright light burned in the porch ceiling.

Moving quietly, she went around to the back of the building, hoping she wouldn't have to break a window, or anything stupid like that.

She also hoped there was no one here. She knew Mr. Flannigan sometimes worked late. That would be all she needed—to run into the undertaker while she was trying to rob one of his corpses!

At least the Flannigans didn't actually
live
here anymore. The youngest Flannigan boy, Richie, was in her class, and she still remembered coming to his eighth birthday party, back when the family had been living on the upper floor of the big old house. For years afterward she had wondered what it was like to live in a place like this.

She had wanted to ask Richie, but had been too shy to do it, partly because he was such a nice, normal kid and she didn't want to embarrass him. But looking at the house now, the questions came back to her again.

Do the spirits of the newly dead wait here until they're buried? How many ghosts would a funeral parlor attract, anyway?

She shivered and pushed the thoughts from her mind.

The backyard was dark. Too dark. A wave of panic seized her, and she stood for a moment as if frozen. She reached for the flashlight, thinking,
If I get caught, I get caught. I can't go any farther without some light!

The grass, which had not been mowed back here, was wet with dew. She could feel it beginning to soak through her sneakers. Moving the beam of the flashlight, she picked out the back porch.

Cautiously she climbed the steps.

The door was locked. She rattled the handle hopelessly, then stopped because she realized it was making a loud noise.

She turned and caught her breath. She could have sworn she saw a movement in the row of lilacs separating Flannigan's lawn from the next house.

Holding her breath, she swept her flashlight back and forth across the bushes. When she couldn't see a thing, she cursed the flashlight for being too weak and tried to convince herself it was just nerves.

Don't be foolish
, she chided herself.
No one else would be dumb enough to be out here at this time of night anyway!

But the seed had been planted. She couldn't shake the suspicion that something was watching her.

Her nervousness doubled, she turned back to the house.

How on earth do I get in?

Playing the beam along the wall, she noticed a row of windows leading into the basement.

Maybe one of them would be unlatched.

She went to the corner of the house and started working her way along the wall.

She couldn't believe her luck. Not only was the third window unlatched—it was broken right out. The hole was covered by a sheet of thick plastic, the kind people put over their windows in winter to try to keep the heat in. It was held on by strips of thin wood tacked to the frame with small nails.

She put her fingers at the edge and tried to pull the wood away.

It wouldn't budge.

She put her fingernails against the plastic and tried to rip through it.

Nothing. Made to stand up against fierce winter winds, the stuff was impervious to her efforts. For the first time, she envied those girls who took pride in long pointed nails.

“Here,” said a voice behind her. “Try this knife.”

Marilyn screamed. The flashlight flew out of her hand and bounced off the wall. She spun about and put her back to the house, as if it could somehow protect her.

“You!”

Kyle Patterson smiled. “None other. What in blazes are you up to?”

“Go away,” said Marilyn.

The smile faded from Kyle's face. “Not a chance. You're in some kind of trouble—or you're going to be, if you get caught. I'm not leaving you alone here. So you may as well let me help.”

“You can't. And I can't explain. You'll think I'm crazy.”

“Marilyn!” He took a deep breath and lowered his voice. “I
know
you're crazy. That's not the point. I'm on your side. Whatever it is you've gotten yourself mixed up in, I want to help.” He looked at her, and his eyes were almost fierce. “I mean it!”

She leaned against the wall and let out her breath with a heavy sigh. “You don't know what you're saying.”

“I don't care what it is!” Dropping the knife he had offered her, he reached forward and took her by the shoulders. For a moment she thought he was going to shake her. “I don't care what it is,” he repeated, drawing her closer.

She collapsed against his chest and, to her own astonishment, began to cry.

He put his arms around her and held her close. “You don't even have to tell me,” he whispered, his voice gentle. “Just let me help.”

She nodded and pressed against him.

“All right, I will. You don't know how scared I've been, Kyle. You don't know how awful these last days have been. I should make you go, now, before it's too late … before you're tangled up in this, too. But I can't. I'm too scared.”

He tightened his arms around her. “It'll be all right,” he whispered. “Whatever it is, it'll be all right.”

She drew back from him and wiped her eyes. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I couldn't sleep.”

She looked at him suspiciously.

He sighed. “All right, if you want the truth, I talked to Alicia. She told me you might be doing something crazy.”

Marilyn scowled.

“Don't be angry with her. It just about killed her to call me. But she didn't know what else to do. And even then she wouldn't tell me what this is all about. She just told me you might need help.” He took a deep breath. “Which is why I'm here.”

She stared at him for a long time.

“All right,” she said at last. “If you mean it, let's get busy. We don't have much time.”

“What are we going to do?”

She took a deep breath, then said, “I'm here to rob a corpse.”

Before he could reply, she bent and picked up the pocketknife he had dropped. Turning back to the window, she opened the long, sharp blade, hesitated, then closed it again. Using the short blade, which was blunt, she was able to pry the wood framing loose from the sill without tearing the plastic.

“Here, let me finish that,” said Kyle. Reaching past her, he tucked his fingertips over the top of the wood and pulled. His arm was close to her face and she couldn't help noticing the play of his muscles and the faint scent of sweat on his skin.

“There!”

The strip of wood ripped away from the wall, bringing the plastic with it. He made a few more quick tugs, and the window was clear.

Marilyn looked at the opening and shuddered. It was like a black mouth leading into emptiness.

Kyle put his hand on her shoulder. “I'll go first.”

She shook her head. “This is my problem. I go first.”

“Suit yourself.” She could sense the shrug of his shoulders.

She looked at the hole again and wished he had been willing to fight her for the point.
Too late now, Sparks. Get moving!

She picked up her flashlight from where it had fallen in the wet grass and played the beam through the window. The light revealed a small room walled in by planks of aged wood. The walls were covered with shelves, the shelves filled with bottles of different kinds—the tools of Mr. Flannigan's trade.

“Here goes nothing,” she whispered, slipping her feet through the window.

A moment later she was inside, and a moment after that Kyle was standing beside her, his arm around her shoulders again. “Now what?” he whispered.

“We go upstairs,” she answered. “Where they keep the bodies.”

10

ROBBING THE DEAD

It was a gruesome passage. Mr. Flannigan had his working space here in the cellar, and they had to pass through it as they made their way to the first floor.

Marilyn clung tightly to Kyle's arm as he swung the beam of her flashlight back and forth, trying to find the stairway. Two tables with white sheets spread over them had distinctive outlines that made her shudder. She tried to think of who had died lately, then tried to push the question out of her mind. She didn't want to know who was lying cold, naked, and dead beneath those sheets.

The whole place had the air of death about it. She found herself afraid to touch things, plagued by the feeling that the essence of death would rub off on her, and that she might never be able to wash it away.

Suddenly Kyle stopped. “What was that?” he hissed.

“What was what?” she replied, feeling a little like a second-rate comic in a horror-film spoof.

“I thought I heard something behind us.”

They stood motionless, holding their breath while they waited for another sound.

They heard nothing.

“Probably just my nerves,” said Kyle.

“You're nervous?” asked Marilyn, a little incredulously. It had never occurred to her that anything would frighten Kyle.

“I'm scared silly!” he snapped. “If I wasn't so worried about you, I wouldn't be anywhere near here!”

She pulled a little closer to him. “Thanks,” she whispered.

“Don't mention it. Let's get this over—”

His words were cut off by a loud crash. Marilyn let out a shriek and clutched Kyle's arm as if it were a life preserver. He, in turn, threw his other arm around her and pulled her close to him. They stood for a moment in absolute silence, straining their ears for whatever had caused the noise.

Suddenly Marilyn began to giggle.

“What's so funny?” demanded Kyle.

“That,” she said, pointing to their left.

Kyle swung the flashlight in the direction she indicated. The beam was reflected by a pair of greenish eyes.

“Brick!” he said in disgust. “The world's clumsiest cat.”

“He must have followed me,” said Marilyn. “I wonder what he broke. I hope it wasn't important.” Gesturing to the cat, she called, “Come here, Brick. Come here, kitty.”

Brick padded over and rubbed against her legs. She reached down and scooped him up. “You're coming with us,” she said. “The last thing I need is to leave here tonight with you still inside for Mr. Flannigan to find in the morning.”

Brick purred and snuggled up against her.

“Come on,” she said to Kyle. “Let's get this over with before anyone else shows up. For a solo expedition, this has gotten pretty crowded.”

“You want me to leave?”

“Don't you dare! Just find that stairway.”

As it turned out, he had already located it while she was fooling with the cat. Taking her by the elbow again, he led her to a set of solid wooden steps.

“They're sturdier than you would think, considering the house,” said Marilyn.

“Not when you consider what they're used for,” replied Kyle grimly.

Marilyn glanced back at the tables and shuddered. They climbed the rest of the stairs in silence.

The first floor of Flannigan's was divided into three major areas. Each was currently in use.

“Which way from here?” asked Kyle, shining his beam along the faded carpet in the hallway.

“I don't know,” said Marilyn. “I'm confused.”

“You've spent the last two evenings here!”

“I know, but I never got back to this part!”

They went through a door on their left.

Kyle played the flashlight slowly over the room. A ring of floral arrangements surrounded a small white casket at the far end. “Billy Johnson,” he said, his voice husky,

Marilyn turned away. Billy Johnson was a third grader who lived a few blocks from her. He had been killed the previous afternoon in a car crash. “Let's get out of here,” she said.

They went back into the hall. “That's it!” said Marilyn, spotting a familiar doorway.

Kyle pushed it open. Marilyn felt a tingle of anticipation.

The room, empty now, seemed strange to her. For two nights she had seen it alive with people; friends, relatives—even strangers who cared, for one reason or another, about Zenobia.

Now there was no one here but Zenobia herself.

Marilyn hesitated for a moment. Suddenly she had an awful fear that everything—all the crazy events of the last few days—had been nothing but a product of her overactive imagination, stimulated by her sorrow over Zenobia's death.

What am I doing here?
she thought in panic. The answer that she was here because Zenobia had asked her to be suddenly seemed wildly inadequate. She was here to rob a corpse, and that was that.

“Are you all right?” asked Kyle.

“No.”

“Can I help?”

“No.”

He let his hand rest against the small of her back and was quiet.

Marilyn was weighing the alternatives. Part of her was terrified that she would go home with Zenobia's amulet in her hand and find that everything had been hallucinations after all. She might never get caught with it. Even if she did she could make the point that Zenobia had given her the amulet.