Fiendish Deeds (17 page)

P
hipps ushered the trembling boy along. The truth was, he took no pleasure in menacing children, but then again, he wasn’t sure this kid quite counted. Mealey seemed more like a groveling little goblin, really, than a defenseless child.

And with that in mind, Phipps felt a bit less monstrous.

Not that he had much capacity for sympathy anymore. The world was a cruel place after all. Sometimes bad things happened and you just had to accept that. And if bad things had to be done sometimes, you had to accept that too.

Morris looked up fearfully at the man in black hovering above him like a vulture with a beady eye locked on some legless little animal. They had been walking in silence for some time. Glancing over his shoulder, Morris saw Winsome Elementary slip from view entirely.

“Are we almost there?” croaked Morris finally. “My mother will be getting worried. She waits for me to get home so she can find out what I want for dinner. And I always head straight home.”

They drew up to the edge of a golf course, leaf-strewn and deserted, the fairways now sodden and brown.

“This is far enough,” said Phipps, stopping. It was time to put an end to this exercise—too late, he knew, but it was the principle of the thing. He could not tolerate meddlers, no matter how toadlike or seemingly insignificant. Just look at the results! The blueprints of his visionary plan for Darlington—and Spooking—were no more than smoking ash, thanks to a couple of elementary school children. The ones he’d seen in the bog, including a tubby little dark-haired boy.

“Do you golf, Mr. Mealey?”

“Er, no sir.”

“That’s a shame. All young politicos should golf, you know.” Phipps took an awkward but nevertheless vicious one-handed swing as Morris cringed. “Darlington has some very nice courses, thanks to our own beloved Mayor MacBrayne. He was a big figure in the golf industry before moving into politics. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“See? You learn something new every day. But I dare say this course here is a bit challenging for a novice. Lots of rough. And the bunkers! Like quicksand! They’d swallow up someone your size—you’d sink right to the bottom and never be found again!”

Morris blinked rapidly, the tight knot of his tie like a plum caught in his throat.

Phipps continued: “Anyway, I have a couple of questions about your letter to my office. Oh, and thanks, by the way, for your kind offer to assist the re-election campaign for Mayor MacBrayne. Fortunately, the Mayor still has another two years left in his term of office.”

“Oh,” replied Morris. “That’s great.”

“Yes. But the sentiment was appreciated. Now back to your letter, wherein you mentioned something about the site of the upcoming Misty Mermaid Water Park.”

“Yes! I so agreed that Spooking Bog is the perfect place for it! I mean, was, anyway…”

Phipps ground his teeth. “Actually it was the only place for it, as we learned from our surveys of the area,” he replied. “In fact, nowhere else around Darlington could accommodate such a development, which means there can be no Misty Mermaid ever now.”

“What a crying shame,” said Morris, blushing to think how much like his mother he sounded.

“Yes, it is,” agreed Phipps. “But what’s done is done. What I’m much more interested in is who did what, and when. You see, I found it a bit odd that you knew all about our plans for Spooking Bog, since we hadn’t even made them public yet.”

“Really?”

“Really. That way no tree-hugging hippies could overreact to a few minor items and shut our project down. But thanks to some unknown person, it became very public, very quickly—thanks to someone who not only wrote to us about our secret plans for Spooking Bog, but then called the Federal Imperiled Species Protection Agency, I hear…”

“It wasn’t me, I swear!” cried Morris. “I didn’t tell anyone!”

“Then who did?” demanded Phipps fiercely. “How did you know about it in the first place? Don’t lie to me, Mealey, or we’ll be having a closer look at the sand trap over there.”

“Lucy Primrose’s birthday party!” burst out Morris, drawing a blank look from Phipps. “Remember? You were dressed like a fool.”

“I was a wandering minstrel!” roared Phipps. “Do you hear me?”

“The blond-haired girl I was talking to,” wailed Morris. “Joy Wells—the Spooky. She was the one who told me, honest!” Morris broke into a series of heaving sobs. “She even laughed right in my face about it, about stopping the Misty Mermaid, just now as she was getting on the bus before you grabbed me. Please, Mr. Phipps, you’ve got to believe me. I would never do anything to hurt your administration. Ever!”

Phipps looked down at the pitiful little boy, eyes bright with tears. He was loathsome—a pathetic little toady like none other. But at least he was playing for the right side. That should count for something.

The Spooking girl. She’d reminded him of himself, he remembered—a born outcast living in a childlike dream, looking down her nose at the world as it went on turning without her. He remembered her defiant eyes flashing as he tried to forewarn her of the coming sting of disillusionment. He had hoped to save her some pain.

This was her thanks.

“Morris,” said Phipps in a soothing voice. “I’m sorry if I made you cry. You see, sometimes grown-ups get very upset when things that were going so right go suddenly so wrong. And that’s why it’s important to always tell them the truth, which I’m glad you did.”

Morris nodded, sniffing violently.

“The Misty Mermaid was a great idea—your idea—and I’m very upset that our fellow Darlingtonians will never get to enjoy it,” said Phipps. “But don’t worry. We’ll think of more great ideas, you and I, hmm? Now, let me walk you home,” he finished, trying to wipe away the waxy film left on his hand after ruffling the boy’s hair.

“Okay,” answered Morris, dabbing his nose with the sleeve of his blazer.

“Hey, would you like to meet the mayor, Morris? I would be happy to arrange it. He even has some fun stuff in his office you might enjoy, like video games, a ping-pong table…”

“I don’t play sports,” answered Morris flatly. “Or with toys.”

“Of course not. My apologies.”

“But I would still like to meet the mayor,” he quickly added.

“Consider it done,” assured Phipps. “And bring your mother and father if you’d like.”

“That would be a good trick,” Morris told him. “My father disappeared over a year ago—or vanished into thin air if you believe my mother. No, I’ll be coming alone, thanks.”

Phipps felt a prickling sensation crawl up his back as his eyes darted to the plump little face bobbing along beside him.

T
here was a stirring within the folds of Joy’s coat as she made her way along the frigid streets of Spooking. Poor Fizz, she thought—how awful of her to have plucked him from under his heating lamp to suffer this icy gale. He was stuffed into a canvas bag Joy had hung from her cast, lined with one of Melody Huxley’s fox stoles which, though once pretty swanky, looked an awful lot like a mangy old piece of roadkill. The stole was working some sort of magic, however—stroking Fizz back to sleep, it felt positively toasty in there.

Byron had passed on Joy’s invitation to go for a walk. She’d found him on the stairs, playing with the new knight figures he’d bought with his allowance money.

“No thanks,” he’d answered formally without looking up.

“How come?” asked Joy, surprised. Byron always came along when she asked.

“I just don’t feel like going outside,” he’d said, shrugging. “It looks cold out there.”

“All right.” Joy had hovered as Byron returned to his figures, making the sounds of steel clashing against steel. A black knight soon fell howling off a carpeted cliff. “Are you mad at me or something?” she asked.

“Nope. I’m busy playing.”

“Okay,” Joy had said. She had turned to go before noticing something. “Is that one of my old princess figurines tied to the stair rail?”

“I’m in the middle of a game!” Byron had thundered at her. “Do you mind?”

“Sorry,” she’d cried, scuttling off.

So she’d settled for a snoozy Fizz instead. From deep within the bag under her overcoat, she could make out his snores over the howling wind.

A pair of wintering crows shivered atop the stone wall as Joy slipped into the cemetery. She was thinking about the letter she’d received yesterday.

Joy had wrinkled her nose in disgust. Holetown? Who would even stop off for lunch somewhere with a name like that, much less bang out a thousand pages about it? No, these supposed literary scholars were obviously quite incapable of reading between the lines. Peugeot lived in Spooking. Joy was certain.

She had read the letter over a few times, blushing whenever she came to the bit about her parents taking her on a trip. It was all a bit assuming really, considering she’d never even mentioned her age. Was it her stationery? Joy cringed to picture the floral sheets with their happy little ladybugs that her mother had helpfully provided.

But surely the sharp-minded souls at the EAP Society were interested in more than just stationery. Thinking it over, she was actually impressed that they weren’t easily swayed. These were clever people after all, ever on guard against pretenders and charlatans. Clearly she just hadn’t made the case for Spooking strongly enough. She needed better evidence, something that would prove the author’s residence beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Joy had then unfolded the newsletter, which was stapled together a bit straighter this time. She’d flicked through the pages absently.

Then a photo had caught her eye. An old picture of a stocky man with a square jaw and ruddy face, wearing a brimmed hat tilted roguishly to one side. He was grinning affably as a crowd pushed in on him. A caption read:

Private Investigator “Snake” Buckner, signing autographs after bringing notorious bank robber Mad Dog McBlain to justice. This photograph was taken only a month before his disappearance while pursuing the whereabouts of Ethan Alvin Peugeot.
Joy had yanked open her desk drawer. Taking out the black pen Madame Portia had given her, she’d examined the image of Buckner scribbling on a piece of outstretched paper. His pen was identical! The same shiny black with a snake curling around the cap—it was clear even in the old grainy photograph. But how could it have ended up at the bottom of that pond?

Joy had recalled Madame Portia telling her how her husband had found all sorts of things down there that the bog had swallowed up, even an old railway station. A railway station! Wasn’t that where the private investigator—this Buckner guy—had last sent a telegram to Peugeot’s publisher just before he vanished?

It made total sense—the bog fiend had probably snatched Buckner right off the platform and dragged him into the swamp! The pen was proof, Joy had realized, if not of the bog fiend then at least of where the private investigator had disappeared just after locating Peugeot. Joy had punched her pillow in frustration—if only she’d known about it before she’d sent her letter off!

Now, standing among the old headstones, Joy imagined poor Snake Buckner’s dreadful resting place—dank and disgusting, his bones now mingling with what was left of the bog fiend’s latest victim. The grim image made her puzzle again over whose arm they’d found there, floating in the brook by the road. Was it some foolish meddler or another innocent victim like Buckner? The person’s identity, however, was still a mystery. Amid much unprecedented panic around Darlington, the police had been unable to determine the limb’s owner other than to confirm it as the upper arm of an adult Caucasian male. No missing persons were reported, however, and a difficult but thorough search failed to turn up any more evidence. It was as if the bog had gobbled up all traces of whatever frightful story had played out in there, according to a particularly dramatic TV news report. Even a murder weapon hadn’t been determined, with forensic investigators reporting that the remains were “contaminated by animal activity.”

It was looking more and more like the authorities would never find out what really happened in there. Which was for the best in Joy’s opinion. Just like in the many tales of E. A. Peugeot, sometimes it was better to end on a question mark. Otherwise, what would be the final chapter? The bog fiend would never put up its claws and come quietly, she knew—blood and guts would fly big-time. And then, never to be out-done when it came to graphic displays of violence, humanity would respond in kind: by pulling out enough firepower to make even an Ultradroid wet itself.

The rare and precious ecosystem in the wondrous Spooking Bog would soon be reduced to a smoldering heap, Joy had no doubt.

It was with this in mind that Joy had nervously chewed her nails, hair, and even the seat in front of her every morning as the bus careened down the road from Spooking Hill. Each time, she’d gasped to see another cluster of vehicles parked by the bog—belonging to police, FISPA agents, and legions of experts come to study Ludwig’s awe-inspiring plants. In other words, a variety pack of human chew-toys, Joy had thought. But by each afternoon the vehicles were gone, their passengers evidently unmolested. How could that be? In “The Bawl of the Bog Fiend,” the creature’s attacks only stopped once the villagers began staying well away. Could it be injured? Asleep? Or could the bog fiend, with the shred of diabolical intelligence attributed to it by Peugeot, actually recognize those bringing balance rather than destruction to its habitat? Whatever the reason, the activity around its foul den was certainly being ignored.

Meanwhile, the citizens of Darlington were settling back down in their nauseating dens as well, Joy had noticed. Soon the mystery surrounding whatever grisly events had transpired within the bog’s mucky interior would be forgotten, along with any amazing carnivorous specimens that might lurk inside. The macabre discoveries would just become part of the many dreadful impressions that kept Darlings away from Spooking Hill, which as far as Joy was concerned was as happy an ending as ever written.

It was at this thought that the wind suddenly dropped. A strange stillness came over the cemetery. Joy was suddenly surprised to see someone, not far off, bundled up in a new-looking coat and hat. The person squatted by something Joy had never seen in all the time she’d been visiting the cemetery—a newly cut gravestone. Curious, Joy snuck over for a closer look. A pair of hands with long, painted fingernails were visible, delicately arranging what appeared to be sprigs of sphagnum moss. Joy squinted, trying to make out the inscription on the polished stone. cherished husband.

Fizz let out an enormous snotty snore. The figure whirled around, a sprig of moss still clenched between her fingers.

“Madame Portia?” cried Joy. She stepped back uncertainly, feeling as if in a dream.

“Oh, hello, my dear!” replied the old woman with delight. “Was that your froggy making that disgusting noise? I hope so, otherwise I think you are in need of some serious antibiotics.”

Madame Portia looked radiantly beautiful. Her hair was a brilliant silver and her teeth gleamed like pearls.

“Are you…,” began Joy, unsure of her own eyes.

“Alive? Yes, of course! Oh, and I must apologize. It occurred to me that you might have thought I was drowned like a rat, but since I didn’t know your address, I was hoping to run into you. And now I have.”

Joy breathed a sigh of relief. Despite her best efforts, she had never actually come face-to-face with an actual ghost, and wasn’t quite mentally prepared for it at the moment.

“Child!” shrieked Madame Portia. “Your arm!”

Joy looked at her empty coat sleeve. “Oh—it’s fine. It’s just in a cast, see? I’m getting it taken off tomorrow, actually.”

“Goodness gracious. No doubt broken during that horrible calamity on Halloween,” said Madame Portia with a shudder. “What an awful memory, that night—never have I been more terrified in all my long life!”

Even with her significantly shorter existence, Joy had to agree. “How did you get out of there?” she asked. “Byron and I just barely made it out.”

“It was quite an amazing feat,” answered Madame Portia proudly. “After I heard you escape up the ladder—and thank heavens you did—I was quite certain I was done for. Everything was black and the water was rushing in so fast. But then I remembered how I had just finished photographing my husband’s scuba gear in the bedroom, in the hopes of getting a better price for it online.”

Madame Portia explained how she’d managed to get the respirator working just as the room filled completely with bog water. She’d then floated around in the cold inky water until the horrible squealing noises above finally subsided, after which she’d squeezed out through a porthole to safety.

“So what now?” asked Joy. “Where are you going to live?”

“That’s the terrific news!” exclaimed Madame Portia. “As you might expect, I’ve had enough of bog life now. As romantic as it might have been with my husband, I’m a people person, I’ve learned, not a rat-catching hermit lady.

“To tell you the truth, Ludwig and I always knew our time together was short, thanks to the abruptly ending life lines on those big hands of his. And Ludwig, bless his heart, insisted on taking out a hefty life insurance policy so that everything would be taken care of once he was gone. At first I thought it was a bit cheap, of course, getting rich off my clairvoyance like that, but my husband convinced me I could always do some good with the money and eventually I relented.

“So after cashing in his policy, I started thinking. What good could an old fortune-teller like me possibly do at this stage of her life? Then I thought about all the other seniors not as fortunate as I—extraordinary people with amazing histories, wasting away in those depressing, overheated rest homes you see down in Darlington. Shouldn’t they have somewhere better to go, I thought, somewhere they could be with others like themselves? A lovely old place with proper grounds, and a bit of gypsy flair, perhaps.

“That night it came to me in a dream. A vision of a beautiful old mansion with a fountain out front, tall hedge-rows, and a gorgeous garden overflowing with flowers. On its gates were the words ‘The Happy Fates Retirement Estate’ in ghostly glowing letters. I woke up and knew that’s what I had to do—open a rest home for eccentric old folks like me!

“The next day I found it—the very property I dreamed of—for sale right here in Spooking. So I bought it immediately, and plan to open within the month, once the painting and plastering is done. Oh, you and your family will have to come to the grand opening, my dear! You can’t miss the place—it’s just across from the park beside Spooking Asylum. Oh, I know, perhaps not the perfect spot with all the stories about that sinister old facility, but unfortunately you can’t argue with visions! Besides, I’ve hired a groundskeeper—Hamilton, the young grave-digger who buried Ludwig. I’ll just get him to make sure there are no gaps in the barbed wire and I’m sure everything will be fine. Who knows if they even admit dangerous patients anymore, much less let them escape.”