The Nightmarys (30 page)

His peripheral vision darkened. He was

losing consciousness. He kicked at the creature’s

skinny legs again, but the corpse was

surprisingly strong, and Timothy was get ing

weaker by the second.

Just then, light ashed next to his head, and

something crashed into him. Timothy saw the

creature y against the far wal , before fresh

darkness enveloped the room again. Abigail

had sideswiped the corpse. She clutched

Timothy’s arm, dragging him away. When they

reached the iron door, she whispered, “Are you

okay?”

“What took you so long?” he said, rubbing

“What took you so long?” he said, rubbing

his throat.

She punched him in the arm. Then she

hugged him. When she let go, he slumped to

the oor. “Come on,” she said, “stand up. It’l

be back soon, and we need another plan.”

Leaning against the door, they listened for

any movement. To Timothy’s surprise, he

thought he heard a noise from the other side of

the metal slab.

“Hel o?” Zilpha cal ed out. “Abigail?

Timothy?”

44.

“In here!” they cried.

From the darkness where the creature had

fal en, bones rat led. Timothy imagined it

struggling to rise, shu ing through the pile of

its former victim. “Hurry, Zilpha,” he cal ed.

“There’s this wood plank,” said the old

woman. “It’s heavy … but I think if I slide it

…”Timothy spun around, listening at the

darkness, trying to get a sense of where the

creature might now be. Both of his hands

shrieked in pain, but he swung his arms out in

front of him, in case the corpse came too close.

Then something clat ered to the ground outside.

The slab moved toward them. A crack of light

appeared, and Zilpha’s worried face peered

around the edge of the door.

“What is going on in there?” she said. Then,

“What is going on in there?” she said. Then,

as she looked over Abigail’s shoulder, her eyes

widened. “Good Lord! Pul !” Timothy and

Abigail grabbed the edge of the door. They

managed to open it about a foot, wide enough

for them to slip into the larger cavern. Once

outside, the kids pul ed on the L-brackets,

trying to shut the door again. It moved, but

barely.

Suddenly, the ground shook. Dirt rained

down from the ceiling. “What is that?” Timothy

asked. Seconds later, it stopped.

“Let’s just go,” said Abigail, grabbing her

grandmother’s arm, turning back up the tunnel.

Zilpha stil carried the ashlight Timothy had

given her. The other ashlight was gone.

Harwood must have taken it. Zilpha’s light

bobbled and bounced o the rocks. Timothy

fol owed close behind the other two, watching

where Zilpha stepped in case she slipped. To

his surprise, with Abigail’s help, the old

woman was able to slowly navigate the

makeshift stairs.

makeshift stairs.

The three of them diligently climbed the

slope. Every few seconds, Timothy turned

around to see if the creature was fol owing, but

al he could see behind them was dripping

darkness. He didn’t stare too long, though. Even

after everything he’d seen that day, he couldn’t

bear one more glimpse at the monster’s

horrible face.

As they ascended, Zilpha spoke. “After you

left me, Timothy, I slowly made my way down

the stairs. Once inside the lighthouse, I found

this passage.”

“Are you okay?” said Timothy. “That

staircase was enormous. And this tunnel …”

“Any discomfort I’m feeling now is nothing

compared to what I would have felt if I’d done

nothing,” said Zilpha.

“Did you see Jack?” Timothy asked. “He was

down here. He locked me in that room with

Abigail.”

Zilpha shook her head. “Either he’s stil down

there, or he was hiding up in the lighthouse

there, or he was hiding up in the lighthouse

crow’s nest when I came in. I never saw him

come out.”

“Dammit,” said Abigail.

“What’s wrong?” asked Timothy.

Zilpha shined the ashlight on a concrete

wal directly ahead. They’d made it to the top

of the tunnel, but the spiral staircase was gone.

“That shaking we felt,” she said. “Harwood

closed the door. He was hiding from you

upstairs, Gramma.”

“What do we do now?” said Timothy.

“Think,” said Zilpha. “Look around. When he

built this place, Hesselius would have planned

for some sort of escape.”

“There,” said Timothy, nodding at the far left

side of the wal . “Shine the light.”

Zilpha found the spot Timothy had

mentioned. Where the blond concrete met the

black bedrock, a smal knob poked out from

the wal .

“What is it?” said Abigail, leaning close.

“What is it?” said Abigail, leaning close.

“A dial combination,” said Timothy. “Like on

my school locker.”

“Is it the same code from—?”

“No,” Timothy interrupted Abigail. “Look.

There are let ers this time.”

“But what’s the code?” said Abigail. “Ugh,

I’m so sick of this!”

A noise echoed up from the tunnel: the sound

of something scraping against the rock.

Timothy didn’t even have to think.

“Righteousness, integrity, and sacri ce,” he

answered.

“If the dial works like our lockers,” said

Abigail, “maybe we need three let ers. R. I. S.?”

“Try it,” said Zilpha.

Abigail leaned forward and spun the dial. A

few seconds later, the tunnel began to rumble,

and a space appeared at the top of the wal .

Soon the spiral staircase had lowered into the

ground, revealing the opening to the

lighthouse.

lighthouse.

“Open, sesame,” said Zilpha.

Abigail went rst, helping her grandmother

take each large step, fol owed by Timothy. The

halogen lamp by the desk lit the lighthouse

o ce with a dim glow. The engine whirred

above their heads, and a few seconds later, the

rotating light ashed from the hatch in the

ceiling.

“Let’s go,” said Abigail.

“But we don’t know where Harwood went,”

said Timothy.

“I don’t care,” said Abigail. “I’m not waiting

around this place one more second to find out.”

“We should at least cal the police,” said

Zilpha, picking up the receiver on the desk. She

held the cradle to her ear, then shook her head.

“Dead.”

“Come on,” Abigail begged. Timothy opened

the door. They were greeted by a strong, salty

breeze. One by one, they crept out into the

night. Timothy shut the door behind them.

Standing on the gravel path, they glanced al

Standing on the gravel path, they glanced al

around. The river lapped the rocks at the base

of the outcropping behind them.

The ashing light was a beacon, showing

them where they needed to go. “Do you think

you can make it back up?” said Timothy, over

his shoulder. Zilpha and Abigail fol owed him

along the line of shrubbery in the direction of

the clif side.

“I’l try,” said Zilpha.

“You’l fail,” said a voice. Timothy turned

around and found Jack standing several feet in

front of him, blocking the long path that led to

the stairs. He’d been waiting for them.

45.

To their right, the rock ledge dropped of to the

river. To their left was the lighthouse. They had

no way around Harwood. One slip, and over

the clif they’d fal .

“I don’t know how you did it,” said Harwood

to Zilpha. “But I should have known. This is

how you always beat your nemeses in those

sil y books.”

Zilpha shook her head. “Mr. Harwood,” she

said evenly, as if to a smal child, “those books

are ction. It seems to me that you’ve read

them too many times. You’re correct that in

popular ction, the bad guy rarely wins. But

this is real life, and I don’t believe that you’re

truly bad.”

“Does that mean you’re not truly good?”

“I can’t answer that question,” said Zilpha.

“But if it helps, in real life, I never hurt

“But if it helps, in real life, I never hurt

anybody.”

“Except for my father,” said Harwood,

adjusting his hat.

“What are you gonna do?” said Abigail,

stepping between the man and her

grandmother. “Throw us of the clif ?”

“Good guess,” said Harwood. “Seems a bit

disappointing after al the planning, to have to

resort to something so simple. But I suppose I

might receive some sort of satisfaction knowing

that I handled it myself.” He took another step,

forcing them al backward toward the edge of

the rock.

“There is one thing I do not understand, Mr.

Harwood,” said Zilpha. Timothy could tel she

was trying to stal . “Why not just keep the

jawbone to yourself? After you located it down

in the crypt that your father built, you could’ve

hurt us without put ing it in the museum.”

Jack glared at her. “Four words: Zelda Kite,

Youth Sleuth.”

“But Zelda was just a character in a book,”

“But Zelda was just a character in a book,”

said Timothy. “Mrs. Kindred isn’t—”

“Mrs. Kindred did the research. Mrs. Kindred

found me. Zelda Kite may have only been a

character in a book, but her characteristics were

based on Zilpha Kindred’s inhuman interest in

nding answers to questions that don’t have

answers. I see it runs in the family.” Harwood

nodded at Abigail, who grunted angrily at him.

“I brought the jawbone to the museum

col ection because if I didn’t, then how else

would Zelda have learned what I was going to

do? My plan changed once I learned of

Abigail’s existence. Ah, but what would be the

point in get ing revenge on someone if they

had no idea they’d been part of it? A missing

granddaughter is a sad story, but to nd out

that the story has a connection with her own

history, wel , that changes things, doesn’t it? I

knew Zelda would play detective. I let you nd

out it was me.”

“What if she’d stopped you?” said Timothy.

“But she didn’t.” Harwood blinked, his face a

“But she didn’t.” Harwood blinked, his face a

total blank. “And she won’t.”

“You’re il ,” said Zilpha.

“At least I’m no fool,” he countered.

Harwood took another step, forcing them

backward, past the lighthouse door to the river,

until they were al crowded at the

outcropping’s far edge. Timothy glanced

around, looking for some other way out. The

river rushed past sharp rocks twenty feet

below.

“If we fal , I’l take you with us,” said Abigail.

“I swear.”

The old man laughed. “The girl’s got sass,”

Harwood told Zilpha. “But that hasn’t stopped

me yet.” He paused, thinking, then said, “No,

that’s not quite how it goes….”

Timothy heard sirens coming over the Taft

Bridge. Seconds later, on the cli near his

mother’s car, ashing lights appeared. The

police. His father must have come home to

discover his house a disaster, his son missing,

and his wife’s car stolen. Surely, he’d alerted

and his wife’s car stolen. Surely, he’d alerted

the authorities. Or maybe it had been Mrs.

Mendelson….

“You’re too late,” said Timothy. “The police

wil help us.”

Harwood shrugged. “They’re awful y far

away.” He took another step forward.

Behind him, the lighthouse door opened.

Outlined in the halogen glow, a tal , thin

shadow fel across the gravel path. Harwood

did not notice, but the rest of them saw it

clearly.

“Would it make any di erence if I said I’m

sorry?” the old woman asked, rushing. “Because

I am. I’m very, very sorry you had to lose your

father. That was not my intention.”

“Sorry?” said Harwood, surprised.

“Yes,” said Zilpha, frantic. “I feel sorry about

what happened every day of my life. To your

family. To Delia. To everyone else involved in

this whole disaster.”

“I …” Harwood seemed stunned, as if this

“I …” Harwood seemed stunned, as if this

was one development he truly had not

considered possible. Timothy almost felt sorry

for him—in a total y pathetic, “he stil deserves