“I am not at liberty to divulge—”
“Are they in trouble?”
Buckingham first looked around to see if anyone was listening. Then he nodded frantically and mouthed a silent Yes!
“What kind of trouble?”
“The worst sort! Find the trunk, Zack! And beware Pandemonium!”
“Why do people keep saying that?”
“What?”
“‘Beware Pandemonium.’”
“Good question. I, forsooth, can not answer it.”
“Fine. Then I’ll just have to find out for myself.”
“Huzzah! That’s the spirit, lad!”
For the second time in one day, Zack realized he had accidentally said yes to something he really didn’t want to do.
64
Reginald Grimes sat at the head table in the rehearsal room, pretending to listen to the actors reading their parts out loud.
He would probably give up show business when he became a billionaire. He wouldn’t have time to direct vain and immature actors. He would have a multinational empire to rule. An army of demonic mercenaries to command.
“There will never be another cat like that!”
He looked up.
Meghan McKenna and Derek Stone were reading the scene that led up to the song about the missing cat.
“No, sir. Not in a million years!”
Jinx.
Grimes wondered if he could add a feline name to the list of souls to be resurrected.
Jinx might like to sit on his lap purring contentedly while he, Reginald Grimes, sat on his throne ruling the world!
65
It was only eleven a.m. but Zack was already exhausted.
He sat on the top step of the spiral staircase and gazed down into the basement below.
Okay. He had to figure out this “Beware Pandemonium” thing. Buckingham had just said it. The janitor had said it yesterday.
Zack knew that the Pandemonium Players was the name of the theater’s resident acting company, but why should he be afraid of them?
He felt a chilling breeze drift up the corkscrewing metal steps. He leaned forward and saw yet another ghost materialize—a woman with wildly curly hair. She wafted away from the staircase and weaved a fluid path across the clutter of props and boxes stored underneath the main stage.
Wait a second.
Zack had seen the back of this particular specter before.
In North Chester!
Sitting in the breakfast room of the Marriott extended-stay hotel across from a guy sizzling in an electric chair.
It was Doll Face!
Mad Dog Murphy’s girlfriend.
Zack clanked down the circular staircase as fast as he could to find out what the heck she was doing here.
66
Zipper was dreaming about squirrels again.
He liked the pillows on the bed at this new place. Nice and lumpy, squishy and mushy. He felt like he was in heaven, sleeping on top of a giant fleecy squeeze toy stuffed with Snausages.
And the sun hit these particular pillows perfectly! In fact, he was currently nestled in the most exquisite patch of sunshine and warmth. He figured that it was probably what lying on a beach blanket was all about for humans. He’d seen stuff on TV. Commercials for a place called Florida.
Zipper was in a happy, happy sunshine state.
Until something blocked the sunbeam streaming through the room’s dormer window.
Probably one of those puffy white things up in the sky. Yesterday, Zipper had seen one that reminded him of a poodle. Another one sort of looked like Spencer, a golden retriever he knew.
Slightly chilled, Zipper stood up. Stretched. Yawned and dipped into a back-bending arch. Then he turned around in a circle, trying to find that perfect sun spot he had just been snoozing in. Couldn’t find it, couldn’t find it. So he changed directions. Circled back the other way. Still couldn’t find it, still couldn’t …
He heard a hiss outside the window.
He cocked an ear. Looked. Sniffed.
Yep.
There was a cat out there. On the windowsill. Gray and sleek with yellow eyes.
Zipper wagged his tail.
He didn’t mind cats. They were fine—just, you know, different. Slept a lot. Tossed their own toys. Played with tin foil. Didn’t know how to sit or stay. Pooped in a box.
But basically, cats were okay.
So he wagged his tail to let the gray cat out on the window ledge know he was happy to say howdy.
The cat shot out its claws. Yowled. Swiped at the window—scratching the glass.
Okay. Maybe this was a different kind of cat. A breed Zipper had never encountered.
For one thing, it was huge. Nearly the size of that raccoon he chased up a tree one time. For another, it looked sort of psychotic. Eyes all buggy and bulgy. Like Chico, this crazy Chihuahua who used to yap-yap-yap at him all the time when he was a puppy living in a kennel at Dr. Freed’s animal hospital.
The cat hissed again. Furious and vicious.
Its eyes were glowing like the yellow warning lights Zipper had seen on the highway. Foam drooled out of its wide-open mouth. Saliva dripped off its fangs.
As the hackles rose on his back, Zipper figured that this feline visitor was a few rabies shots short of a complete checkup.
He was just about to bark when the cat vanished. Disappeared!
Just like those ghosts back at the crossroads.
Which was fine by Zipper.
The fat cat had been the one blotting out the sun.
The pillow was perfect again. Like warm mud in July.
He needed a nap.
He yawned.
Snuggled into position.
Dreamed about squirrels. The slow ones—loaded down with acorns—the ones that were easy to catch.
67
Zack followed the curly-haired lady through the storage area under the stage, down the hallway on the left, through an open double door, and into a dimly lit passageway.
“Excuse me?” he cried out. “What are you doing here? Did you follow me? Why aren’t you back in North Chester?”
Doll Face stopped moving forward. Drifted in place. Her clothes—a simple robe of some sort—and her tangle of coiled hair bobbed up and down as if she were underwater.
“Beware Pandemonium,” the woman whispered, without turning around.
Her, too?
Zack felt fear crawl across his skin, then drop a bucket of ice down his spine. The lady’s voice sounded strangely familiar. Did Zack know her? Doubtful. He didn’t know many dead people, especially ones who hung around with convicted killers from 1959.
The curly-haired woman drifted down another passageway.
“Were you the ghost Judy saw going out of my room? Why’d you follow us here? Did you knock that picture frame over on purpose?”
The woman froze again.
Zack knew that if she had knocked over the picture frame, she must’ve been really mad or really sad, because that was the only way ghosts could make physical objects move.
The woman resumed her forward drift.
Doll Face was one weird ghost. Unlike chatty old Bartholomew Buckingham or Justus Willowmeier III, she hardly said a word—just “Beware Pandemonium,” and everybody seemed to be saying that lately.
Also, her clothes didn’t seem very old. Her robe was the soft gray of dove wings but looked kind of modern, so whoever she was, or had been, she hadn’t been dead very long. Either that, or heaven had shopping malls.
They made their way past some dusty scenery pieces.
Doll Face turned left, walked under a brick archway.
Zack followed, wondering why Mad Dog called her that, because he hadn’t even seen her face yet.
There seemed to be a golden halo of light rimming her body now, which was a good thing—otherwise the hallway would be totally dark. The overhead light sockets were bulbless. Apparently, they were moving into a section of the basement where nobody ventured—not even the cranky janitor.