Fiendish Deeds (7 page)

“Being in denial is not peace!” replied Phipps angrily. “Is this what years of staring into a crystal ball teaches you? That life is a spectator sport? Well you’re wrong! Fate is not something to let run over you—it is something to rage against! To bend to your will, to do your bidding!”

“There you are wrong,” said Madame Portia. “The more you run from destiny, the quicker its pursuit. Look at your father, how his faithfulness and cheer delayed his vanishing. The deeds of which you speak only accelerate the end, my dear.”

“I beg to differ,” he said, his voice quavering. “But I see you won’t help.”

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Then I will continue to pursue whatever courses are available to me,” he said viciously. “Some of which you won’t much like, I might add.”

“I don’t need a crystal ball to say it comes as little surprise,” replied Madame Portia coldly. “Especially not after how you left your mother all alone like that. Did you know I arranged her burial all by myself? Which isn’t very easy to do up in Spooking these days.”

“What did you expect, for me to dig the hole myself?” Phipps spat.

“Maybe. Or perhaps just to attend her burial like a good son.”

“Enough,” he interrupted. “I didn’t trudge all this way to get guilt trips from an old gypsy. I have come on city business, to let you know that we’ve looked through all the records and there is no deed for any property in the name of Ludwig Zweig. That being the case, I no longer have any need to seek your cooperation, since you are trespassing. The bog will be destroyed and this illegal structure along with it. So I suggest you gather your effects.”

“Do you see that thing on top of my house?” asked Madame Portia defiantly.

Phipps glanced up suspiciously at the device she was pointing at, which was covered in a thick layer of moss. “Yes. What is it?” he asked wearily.

“It’s a satellite dish that Ludwig set up. Beaming one hundred and fifty channels into my home with digital clarity and CD-quality sound!”

“And?”

“And my favorite channel is something called the Justice Network. Do you watch it? All police shows and legal dramas, twenty-four hours a day. All very realistic and very well researched.

“Anyway, I recently learned—in that show with the pretty blond lawyer raising a child genius on her own—that people in my predicament can assert something called
adverse possession
on a property.”

“Adverse
what
?”

“Wait, there was another name…Oh yes, I remember now:
squatters’ rights
. It turns out that since we have occupied the land for years without challenge, I can make a
hostile claim
on the property. I do love all the legal lingo! You can argue otherwise, which is your
prerogative
, and then the courts will decide. But it will most certainly take some time to present all the evidence, especially since I plan on representing myself, just like that crazy old lady did on that show with the handsome young lawyer who is raising his sister’s child—the naughty one—all on his own. Anyway, I can see you are not up on your common law, or don’t get cable….”

Phipps had stopped listening to her words, but instead watched her gold tooth flash in the meager light. Oh, he’d heard of squatters’ rights all right—he and his band had once lived in an abandoned building for an entire year until they’d accidentally burned the place down. And there had been nothing anyone could do about it.

How easy it would be, he started thinking blackly, to just simply strangle the old woman and toss her body into the black drink below. But that would make him a murderer—and murderers didn’t usually strike while their car was parked out on the shoulder in plain view to anyone passing.

“Madame,” he said finally, interrupting her. “You should know you are making a terrible mistake. Squatters’ rights or not, you can’t stay here any longer.”

“Oh, really? And why is that, dear boy?”

“Because it’s simply not safe here—not after nightfall,” answered Phipps. He walked slowly down the metal gangway, turning at the bottom. “Or didn’t your husband tell you? Think—why would he build a home like this, out of rivets and iron?” he called up to her. “It’s not safe here. Not at all.”

W
hy me???”

It was a question Joy had asked often, usually shrieked at the sky with mossy gravestones as audience. This time, however, she expected an answer.

“No one else can take your brother to the party,” replied Mrs. Wells, pouring out cereal. “I have a staff meeting and your father is with clients all day.”

Mr. Wells had left in a state of panic only minutes earlier, his untucked shirt fluttering behind him.

“But it’s Sunday—who works on a Sunday?”

“Neither of us are happy about it, believe me, but that’s life. What would you have me do, make Byron stay home bored, while you sit with your nose in a book? Just look at his poor little face.”

Byron sat with his hands in his lap, devoid of any expression.

“But why do I have to go? Can’t you just drop him off and pick him up later?”

“I won’t be back in time.”

“Then how will we get home?”

“You can get the bus back.”

“By ourselves?” Joy gasped in horror.

“Joy, if you’re old enough to sneak out in the middle of the night to go wandering around a graveyard, I think you’re old enough to take a bus on your own. You are certainly brave enough.”

It was the first time Mrs. Wells had mentioned the incident since Joy had been grounded over it earlier in the summer. It had been a clear night under a full moon—a perfect night according to Peugeot to glimpse a shape-shifting werewolf loping through the tall grass, inhaling field mice like popcorn.

As always on such supernatural expeditions, Joy had waited for everyone to be asleep before sneaking out. This occasion, however, she must have unsettled her bedside table lamp making her preparations, as it fell over with a crash sometime after her departure. Discovering Joy’s bed empty, her startled parents had bundled the still unconscious Byron into the car and set off in a panicked search of the neighborhood. They’d spotted her flashlight in the cemetery just as she was returning home disappointed.

Joy’s parents had not been amused, but it could have been worse. What they didn’t know was that Joy had originally planned on taking Byron with her, but couldn’t wake him up. Nor did they discover the heavy silver candlestick from the dining room—a precious heirloom, as it was often referred to—stuffed under her sweater as a little werewolf insurance. Werewolves aren’t partial to silver, according to Peugeot, nor being conked on the head with it.

“But Byron doesn’t even have any friends from Darlington,” said Joy, changing the subject. “Whose party is it anyway?”

“Lucy Primrose,” answered Byron nonchalantly. Joy stared suspiciously at his oddly cocked eyebrow, which he lowered immediately.

“Never heard of her,” said Joy, although the name Primrose did sound vaguely familiar. “How do you know she isn’t from some family of freaks? A lot of very weird people live down in Darlington, Mum. Doesn’t it sound a little suspicious that
Byron
was invited to some prissy little girl’s birthday?”

“Joy Wells!” said Mrs. Wells sternly. “There’s nothing suspicious about it! Really, you have to stop reading those creepy stories if that’s how you’re starting to see the world. Everything is not some dark conspiracy. A little girl is having a perfectly ordinary birthday party, and I think it’s terrific that Byron’s made enough of an impression to be invited.”

“The whole class was invited, actually,” said Byron.

“But—”

“It doesn’t matter, Byron, the point is you were invited.”

“But—”

“And if you’re any kind of sister at all, you’ll take him without another word. You should be thankful to have such a wonderful brother.”

“All right!”

Joy looked down at her bowl of cereal, which was now full of soggy, swollen checks of wheat.
Blech
. She did feel guilty. Byron didn’t get invited to much after all. He didn’t really have friends, even in Spooking. He was too quiet and shy. He just followed Joy wherever she went, playing her games, going on her adventures, and doing pretty much whatever she asked without the slightest complaint. She was lucky to have him. The least she could do was take him to a birthday party.

But a
perfectly ordinary
birthday party, as her mother so precisely put it? It made her shudder.

“Could you also put on a nice dress so you look presentable?” added Mrs. Wells.

An hour later they were roaring down the winding road through the woods, and onto the main road through Darlington. Byron stared out the window. Billboards and bus shelters whipped by, glowing with advertisements of pretty people enjoying delicious snacks and refreshing beverages as pouting models wore jeans hanging well below their underwear. Byron’s stomach churned. He ran his hand over his hair, checking the side parting held in place with sweet-smelling gel.

The car stopped at a light.

“You look nice in that dress, Joy, but why did you have to ruin it with those hideous boots?” asked Mrs. Wells.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Oh please, Joy. They’re motorcycle boots, with steel plates on the front. Not something one would normally pair with a pretty dress. Unless one is trying to punish their mother, that is.”

“My little pink ballet slippers are in the wash,” protested Joy with a smirk.

Mrs. Wells sighed noisily as she stomped the gas of the Wells’s ancient station wagon, its fake wood paneling a brown streak to onlookers. The rest of the family were convinced that in a former life Mrs. Wells had been either a highway patrolman or a getaway driver—a life that most likely terminated in a fiery crash, they thought uncomfortably.

Its wheels now smoking visibly, the station wagon turned into a large parking lot. They hurtled across the vast grid of empty spaces until they reached a cluster of parked cars in front of a large blue building resembling some sort of castle.

They skidded to a halt.

“Here it is: Kiddy Kingdom. Joy, did I give you the bus money?”

Joy stared in horror at the plywood portcullis that was the front door. Through the glass front doors beyond, she could see someone in a pink helmet waving a pink sword.

Someone please kill me.

“Joy.”

“Huh?”

“Do you have the bus money?”

“Yes!”

“Then you can get out of the car.”

Byron was waiting outside already, clutching a gift bag stuffed with mint-green tissue paper in one hand while hiking down the waistband of his corduroys with the other. Joy got out and slammed the door.

The passenger window rolled down with a screeching sound. “Have fun!” shouted Mrs. Wells, craning over. “See you at home!” The window whirred up again. Mrs. Wells fast-reversed and executed a squealing spin that turned the car immediately in the opposite direction.

“Let’s get this over with,” Joy said to Byron. “And pull up your pants, you look ridiculous! What’s with that?”

As they headed in, Joy noticed a man in a parked car—a black shiny monster—staring grimly at the entrance, his knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel. He turned, his eyes meeting Joy’s. She felt a jolt—she was sure she knew him from somewhere.

They walked on, under the portcullis. Automatic doors opened with a
whoosh
.

“None shall pass!” shouted the pink knight, leaping out. “Unless, that is, ye either best me in a duel or proclaim the name of your king or queen!” The knight then began menacing them with his foam sword.

“Excuse me?” demanded Joy.

Byron slipped in front of her. “Lucy Primrose,” he said.

“Ah! Welcome, subjects of Her Royal Highness Princess Primrose,” said the pink knight, lowering his sword. “Third door on the left,” he added flatly.

Joy led Byron down a long hallway, carefully painted to look like stone. Joy noticed the effect became less and less convincing the farther they walked, until finally it became a simple solid gray. They were greeted by a teenage girl in a medieval dress.

“Court of Primrose?” she asked through clicking bubble gum. “Yes? This way to the Great Hall. Lady Lucy awaits you…,” she droned.

The door opened. An awesome sound was unleashed—wild, shrill, and terrible, like an aviary with an unwelcome weasel in its midst. Inside, children ran screaming in every direction. On one side, the boys, having helped themselves to a cache of foam weapons and armor, fought a pitched battle on a medieval-themed plastic jungle gym, with several already injured and writhing on the rubberized mat below. On the other side, the girls, wearing shiny smocks and pointed princess hats, bickered viciously over turns on a mechanical unicorn.

Above it all rose a little girl with fine long hair blazing like an autumn sunset, perched upon a golden throne, tiara shimmering and scepter gleaming as she posed for a crush of adults with miniature video cameras.

Byron was frozen in the doorway, staring at Lucy as she smiled at her assembled subjects. Joy pointed him toward the table buckling under an enormous pile of presents. Byron wound his way through the chaos, looking for a surface on which to set his gift bag. Wedging it in roughly, he joined the party with an awkward smile.

Joy spotted a chair, blissfully away from the action along the wall near the door. With a crumpled tissue from her pocket, she made herself some earplugs.
Much better
, she thought, sitting down. She watched as a costumed employee provided Byron with an orange sword and shield before pushing him headlong into the melee. He got no farther than the little drawbridge. Overwhelmed by green defenders, he vanished from view under raining blows.

Joy had a funny feeling, like she was being watched. She scanned the crowd, but happily, no one seemed to be paying the slightest attention to her. Then she saw him. His name was Louden Primrose. That’s where she had heard the name Primrose before—from her class! Louden sat in a chair against the opposite wall, teetering backward with his arms folded across his chest.

Staring at her with a little smile.

Joy looked away without acknowledging him. In her experience, Darlington boys were all the same: a bunch of brainless obnoxious jerk-faces. Louden, she remembered, could stretch that smile frighteningly ear to ear, which sure made the little Darlington bubbleheads giggle.

She looked back again. He was definitely staring at her. He wasn’t smiling now, she noticed, but was busy stifling a yawn. Perhaps like her more regular school tormentors, he was only wishing he could alleviate his boredom by nailing her with an elastic band or hissing “spooky-spooky-spooky” in her face. She began flipping through her mental scrapbook of humiliations for something she could pin on Louden, but drew a blank. Come to think of it, he’d hardly ever even spoken to her.

Louden gave her a little wave. Joy’s heart leaped with shock.

Just then a short figure appeared in front of her—a younger boy with a dark bowl cut parted in the center, wearing a little suit and tie. His lips were moving, but he wasn’t making a sound, strangely.

There was a swell of noise as Joy suddenly remembered to remove an ear plug. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“I was just saying that you seem a little bit old to be invited to this party.”

Joy looked back at the odd boy, dumbfounded. He couldn’t have been any older than Byron, but his speaking manner was completely unlike any eight-year-old that Joy had ever met. He spoke more like a grown-up. In fact, she realized, he actually looked a lot like a grown man who had somehow been shrunk in the wash.

“I wasn’t invited,” she replied. “I’m waiting for it to finish so I can bring my little brother home.”

“And who might your brother be?”

“Byron,” said Joy. “Byron Wells.”

“Ah yes,” said the boy. “He’s in my class. Good kid.” There was a long pause. “By the way, you’re right—I’m the guy.”

“Pardon?”

“The guy. The winner.” He leaned forward. “The one who came up with the idea of the Misty Mermaid Water Park!” His eyebrows flitted up and down. “Except they changed the name on me. I wanted to call it Aqua! Aqua! Aqua! I like things in threes, you see.”

Joy then recognized him: He was the boy onstage at the assembly, with Principal Crawley and the Mayor. The City of the Future contest.

“The name’s Morris M. Mealey. Again, three M’s. Three is a very powerful number, you know. POW. ER. FUL. Three syllables.”

“Ah.”

“That water park is going to make Darlington the most exciting vacation spot on the seaboard. Did you know that? We are going to be up to here in tourists,” said Morris, karate-chopping himself in the forehead.

“I can’t wait,” said Joy flatly.

“Look, it’s Mr. Phipps!” said Morris, tripping over Joy’s boots. “So nice to see you here, sir! To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Joy looked down with annoyance at the scuff Morris had left on the metal plate of one of her boots. Turning angrily, she saw that standing in the doorway was a man, his piercing eyes flashing with disgust at the boy leaping up at him.

It was the man from the car outside—the same man onstage at assembly with Principal Crawley and the Mayor, she suddenly realized.