Much to Miss Spratling’s delight, Sheriff Hargrove took Judy’s elbow and led her out of the chapel.
A young cop escorted Judy out of Spratling Manor.
“My vehicle’s parked over this way, ma’am.”
“Where are we going?”
“Sheriff Hargrove says you need to calm down. I’m taking you over to headquarters so you can, you know, calm down.”
Calm down? Judy absolutely hated it when people said that to her. And this guy said it twice.
They headed toward the driveway. A dog started barking in the forest.
“That sounds like Zipper!” Judy said. “Maybe he found Zack!”
The officer reached for his walkie-talkie.
“Officer? Officer!” A boy they couldn’t see called out from the trees.
“Yeah?” The young cop moved toward the dark thicket, unsnapped his holster.
“Down here! In the woods! Jiminy Christmas, this galdern dog smells something!”
Zipper barked louder. Judy knew who was hidden in the trees with him. Davy.
“Hurry, Officer!”
The cop turned to Judy. “Mrs. Jennings? Wait right here.”
“Yes, sir.”
The young cop stepped into the underbrush.
Judy gave him a ten-second head start. Waited for his flashlight to disappear behind the dense foliage. Then she took off. She ran across the lawn, found a pebbled path, and followed it downhill to the river and an old, sagging boathouse. She pushed the door open and heard water lapping against the pilings underneath the floorboards.
About two minutes later, she heard Zipper panting.
“Howdy, Mrs. J.,” said Davy from the shadows. “I hope that galdern police officer don’t find himself in too big a pickle. He sure did take off a runnin’ when he heard old Zip, though, didn’t he?”
“What do you mean she ‘slipped away’?” Sheriff Hargrove yelled at his bumbling young deputy.
“Well, sir, I proceeded down through the sticker bushes to pursue and apprehend—”
“She’s trying to escape!” Sharon came running out of the mansion. “Miss Spratling stole my car!”
“When?” asked Sheriff Hargrove.
“I don’t know!”
“Then how do you know she’s the one who stole it?”
“She dropped this!” Sharon held up an antique blue garter—the kind a bride might’ve worn fifty years ago. “It was right where I parked my car!”
Hargrove nodded. “What type of vehicle are we looking for, ma’am?”
“A silver Hyundai.”
“Okay, everybody,” Sheriff Hargrove barked to his troops. “Let’s roll!”
“What about Mrs. Jennings?” asked the young deputy.
“We’ll worry about Judy later. She couldn’t have gone too far because she doesn’t have a car!”
“You sure, Chief?”
“Yes, I’m sure! I drove her over here, didn’t I?”
All the police officers climbed into their vehicles to chase after the one woman they knew was currently driving a car: Miss Gerda Spratling.
“Davy?” Judy asked. “Where’s Zack?”
“In a whole heap of trouble. We figure he might be up against ol’ Clint Eberhart himself.”
“The man who ran the bus off the road?”
“You done your homework, I see.”
“Yeah. I usually do.”
“Well, Eberhart is the sorriest soul you could ever meet. A black-haired devil…”
“With blue, blue eyes? Slicked-back hair?”
“That’s the feller! You seen him?”
“No, no. So far I’ve only seen his statues.”
“Statues?”
“Yeah. Tons of them.”
“Dang. Where they at?”
“Inside the chapel.”
“Chapel? Don’t tell me Gerda Spratling built that dirty dog another dag-blasted memorial!”
“So it would seem, Davy.”
“Well, Mrs. J., I reckon we need to burn that one down, too.”
The old man shoved rusty gears to one side of the long table. Heavy cogwheels and hardware clanged and banged on the floor.
“A little quieter, if you please, Mr. Willoughby,” Miss Spratling said as her loyal chauffeur cleared off the greasy workbench.
She moved to Zack. The boy was sitting on the cracked concrete floor, his wrists bound behind his back, his arms chained to the steel pole.
“I’ll wager your stepmother has already forgotten you,” she said with a dramatic sigh. “And your father? Why, he could care less. I’m told he’s out of town on business, couldn’t be bothered.”
Zack didn’t say anything. He was biding his time because he had a hunch about how to beat Clint Eberhart when he got there. It was an idea based on what Davy Wilcox had taught him—actually, what Davy had shown him.
“Hey, Gerdy. What’s shaking, doll?”
The ghost of Clint Eberhart limped into the room. He tried to smile, tried to swagger, but Zack could see he was wounded. Weak.
Miss Spratling’s hand fluttered over her heart. “Are you all right, my love?”
“Yeah. But we need to hurry, doll.”
“Yes, dear. Mr. Willoughby?”
Willoughby had the knives and saws spread out on the workbench.
“Put the kid up on the table, Gerdy.”
“Mr. Willoughby? I will require your assistance.”
“Hurry.” Eberhart winced. He was getting weaker every second.
The old chauffeur groaned as he bent down to unlock the chain.
It was almost time. The lock snapped open.
Now!
Zack rolled sideways and cut the old man’s legs out from under him. Willoughby toppled to the floor. Zack had used the rolling-tackle move before—playing Madden NFL on his PlayStation. It worked in real life, too.
Zack had been twisting at the duct tape binding his wrists, stretching it out while his hot sweat worked to dilute the glue. Now it was easy to slip free.
“Clint?” Miss Spratling cried. “Do something! Please?”
“Don’t move, kid!” Eberhart screamed, but he didn’t do anything.
Zack’s theory was correct! Eberhart couldn’t hurt him, couldn’t touch him, couldn’t do anything except make noise and order these two old farts around. Just like Davy Wilcox couldn’t do anything. Davy never hammered a nail or drilled a hole or even ate a hamburger. Davy told Zack what to do and then stood around and watched Zack do it because Davy couldn’t do anything.
“Don’t let that kid—”
Eberhart groaned in agony. He doubled over and clutched his stomach.
“Clint? Sweetheart?”
“Accckkk…”
“Clint?”
Now Zack tore the tape off his legs.
Eberhart fell to his knees and slumped forward. But before his body hit the floor, he vanished into a swirling puff of dust.
Zack was getting used to these vanishing acts, so he didn’t skip a beat to watch Eberhart vamoose into the vapor. He was up and ready to run. He could’ve gone straight for the door, could’ve saved himself, but he wanted to save the baby, too. So he ran back to the center of the big room to grab the handle on the Tote ’n Go car seat.
The old lady snagged him, wrapped her bony fingers tight around his wrist. Then she pressed a serrated knife blade against his throat.
“And just where do you think you’re going, young man?”
“Smash the galdern windows, too!”
Judy had used candles to set the altar cloth on fire. She had thrown a dozen votives to the floor to start the carpet burning. Now the chapel was filling with toxic fumes, but Davy was right: There was still time to shatter the stained-glass windows and destroy a few more statues.