“You won’t get far. We’ve got cameras.”
“Cameras? You wanna make me a Hollywood movie star, huh? I’m gonna be in pictures?”
“No. You’re gonna be in jail.”
“The slammer? In that case, Mac, let’s make it worth my while. Pop open the cash box. Fork it over.”
The counterman lowered his hands and worked the register keys.
“All of it! That’s it. Nice and easy. Put it in a sack and toss in a couple of them cinnamon doughnuts there.”
The counterman did as he was told. Norman grabbed the bag and swung around to waggle his rod at the sad saps scurrying for the door or trying to hide under their tables.
“Any of you bunnies get the bright idea to drop a dime and call the coppers, I’ll come gunnin’ for you, see? Nobody rats out Crazy Izzy Ickleby!” he shouted as he ran out the front door. “Nobody!”
Zack and Judy were driving home to North Chester; Zipper was snoozing in the backseat. Judy’s cell phone rang.
She pulled over to the shoulder of the road so she could answer it.
Zipper woke up so he could eavesdrop. He put his paws on the console between the front seats and leaned in.
“It’s your dad,” said Judy after glancing at the caller ID window. “Hi, hon. Let me put you on speakerphone. I’m in the car with Zack. What’s up?”
“I need to spend the night in the city.”
“How come?”
“Big meeting first thing tomorrow. Breakfast with the Pettimore Trust people.”
“They’re still going to pay for Malik’s mom’s medical stuff, right?” asked Zack.
“That’s why I need to be there. There are a couple board members who want to rescind that offer. I intend to fight for what’s right: You guys found the gold, you gave up your share of the reward to Malik and his mom. The board needs to honor that. Malik and his family must be compensated.”
“Compensated” was a lawyer word. It meant that his dad would make sure Malik and his family were paid what they’d been promised.
“Since Halloween’s over, if everything’s more or less settled down at home …”
“More or less,” said Judy, shrugging at Zack. He gave her a nod of agreement.
More or less. The Icklebys’ big night was officially over. They’d all crawled back into their crypt.
“I hate saddling you guys with my aunts.…”
“It’s more important that you stay there and protect Malik’s interests,” said Judy. “We’ll be fine. The aunts are no trouble.”
“Okay. Tell Malik I’ve got him covered. I’ll be home tomorrow night. Love you guys.”
“Love you, too. Bye.” Judy clicked off the phone.
Zipper cocked his ears. Grumbled.
He heard something.
Now Zack heard it, too: thundering hooves.
“Mom—is there a horse on the highway?”
A giant black stallion came galloping up the road.
It pulled to a stop maybe ten feet in front of where Zack and Judy were parked. The horse snorted loudly, then sniffed the air.
“It must’ve lost its rider,” said Judy.
She climbed out of the car. Zack, too.
“Easy, boy,” said Judy. The sleek beast pawed at the pavement and swatted its plumed tail back and forth. Judy reached out for the reins.
The horse reared up on its hind legs and whinnied.
Judy jumped back.
Now the horse let loose a bloodcurdling scream and bolted for the side of the road, where it leapt over the guardrail like it was a hurdle in a show jumping ring.
Clearing the drainage ditch, it tore into the forest and galloped through a thick stand of evergreen trees.
Straight through them.
The tree trunks and branches and pine needles passed through its body as if the horse wasn’t even there.
“Um, Mom, is that a ghost horse?”
“Yeah,” said Judy. “I think so.”
“The Haddam Hill Cemetery is on the other side of those trees. Do you think one of those dead Ickleby guys misses his horse?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay,” said Zack. “Guess we better tell Aunt Ginny she’s gonna need one more, jumbo-sized sage candle.”
Crazy Izzy made Norman’s hands jerk the steering wheel hard to the right.
The truck and horse trailer bounded off State Route 13, up the rutted road, and through the wrought-iron cemetery gates. It finally skidded to a stop in front of the Ickleby crypt.
The masked ghost of Barnabas Ickleby stood there waiting.
“Why the rush, Izzy?” asked Barnabas.
“I knocked over a greasy spoon on the way home,” said Izzy, climbing out of the truck. “Now the boys in blue are hot on my tail. I figure my getaway vehicle here will be easy for them to spot, on account of the fact there’s a horse buggy hitched to its bumper!”
“You found Ebony?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Let me see Satan’s descendant.”
“Huh?”
“When I was alive, I rode a black Arabian stallion whom I called Satan.”
“Sweet. Hang on.” Izzy unlatched the back doors to the horse hauler. The proud horse backed down its metal ramp.
“Excellent,” said Barnabas, admiring the animal.
“Okay. Swell. You got your horsey.” In the distance, Izzy heard the faint wail of approaching police sirens. “I need to scram.”
“Yes, Isador, you do.”
Izzy’s hands flew up to his head. He felt all kinds of dizzy.
“Hey, what’s the big idea?” he moaned. “My noodle feels like it’s bein’ squeezed in a nutcracker.”
“That’s me,” said Barnabas. “You have served me well. You did your jobs. Now it is time for you to depart that body.”
“What? No way. I want to keep on livin’!”
“Sorry. I want to live, too. I just didn’t want to bother with all the pesky details of organizing my new life.”
Izzy was clutching Norman’s ears now. He’d never felt a headache like this before. Like sledgehammers to his temples. Sledgehammers and red-hot railroad spikes and tommy guns rat-a-tat-tatting in his brain.
“Depart the body!” Barnabas commanded.
Izzy heard a horse whinny. Then another one. Different-sounding.
Barely able to raise his eyelids, Izzy struggled to look up.
There was another black stallion standing beside Barnabas.
“Enter your offspring!” his masked ancestor shouted. All of a sudden, the ghost horse turned into a blazing ball of purple swamp gas and shot into the live horse’s heaving rib cage.
Ebony screamed. Just once. And then he snorted and flicked his mane and scraped at the ground with his hoof as the soul inside tried on its new body for size.
“You chiseled me into helping you bust loose!” Izzy groaned.
“Of course I did,” said Barnabas. “I was evil long before you were even born!”
Izzy could feel Norman’s body going limp. He slumped to his knees, his arms and neck all rubbery.
“I didn’t kill the Jennings kid for ya,” he grunted.
“No problem. I will. In fact, I rather enjoy slaying children. And—I was much, much better at it than you.”
Now Barnabas was turning into a violet ball of fiery gas.
Izzy felt a sock to his gut.
Everything went purple, then black.
And he was nothing more than a soul without a body again.
The weakened ghost of Crazy Izzy stood beside the truck he had stolen and watched as Norman Ickes, now controlled by Barnabas, marched out of the Ickleby crypt.
The other Icklebys oozed through the walls to watch with him.
Barnabas was carrying a moldy tricornered colonial hat and a sack with some kind of round ball sagging at its bottom. The scrawny little hardware-store clerk looked like he was going to dress up like George Washington and go bowling.