Zack and Judy (and probably even Zipper) could pretty much figure out what had happened next.
Grandpa Jim sent a truck and some men up to Great Barrington to empty the coffins out of the Massachusetts crypt so they could be transported forty miles south to Connecticut. The caskets were quietly loaded into the empty Spratling mausoleum in the cemetery. The heavy wooden doors were closed and locked. That was that.
“There was no service. No funeral rites,” the priest continued. “They simply removed the stone inscribed with the Spratling name and replaced it with a marble slab reading ‘Ickleby,’ or so I am told. I have never actually visited the Haddam Hill Cemetery.”
“That’s why it’s so white,” said Zack.
“Excuse me?”
“The Ickleby name above the door. It looks newer than all the other stones.”
“You’ve visited this mausoleum?”
Zack nodded.
“Do you know the Ickes family?” the priest asked Judy.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“They run the hardware store,” said Zack. “Ickes and Son. On Main Street. The son is a friend of Malik’s. They’re in a puzzle club or something.”
“They’re Icklebys!” said the priest. “Good ones, but I remember fearing for them when I first heard that they had moved to North Chester. You see, the father, Herman Ickleby, now calls himself Herman Ickes. He was Eddie Boy Ickleby’s brother. Herman was so ashamed of what his older brother had done that he took his pregnant wife and fled from Great Barrington. I never found the courage to tell him about the new location of the cursed Ickleby crypt. Poor Herman. He had wanted to move away from the earthly remains of his evil ancestors. Unfortunately, he ended up moving closer!”
Zack, Judy, and Zipper said goodbye to the fidgety priest, who hurried off to the rectory, the dilapidated house where he lived all by himself, and locked the door.
“So now we know how the Icklebys got down to North Chester,” said Zack as they hiked up the hill to Judy’s car.
“And I think all those evil Icklebys didn’t want to make the move,” said Judy. “They knew their way around Great Barrington. Knew where to find their enemies and how to terrorize them.”
“So you think they’re still mad at Dad’s aunts for shipping their coffins down to North Chester?”
Judy nodded. “They only started popping up after the three sisters came to visit us.”
“Guess they’re mad at us now, too,” said Zack, remembering the ghost who’d tried to kung fu him in the hardware store and the one who’d tried to slash Judy on the front porch with his switchblade knife.
“Well,” said Judy, “we are Jenningses.”
“Yeah,” said Zack. “So do you want to change your name back to Judy Magruder?”
She laughed. “No thanks. Being a Jennings is much more exciting.”
The stable owner, a doll all decked out in riding pants and one of them velvety chin-strap helmets, walked the big black stallion into a horse trailer hooked up to the rear bumper of a heavy-duty pickup truck.
She’d already tossed in a saddle and a bunch of what they called tack.
“You certainly know how to pick a horse, Mr. Ickes,” she said to Norman, who was really Crazy Izzy Ickleby. “Ebony’s bloodlines go all the way back to the first Arabian stallion brought to this continent in 1723.”
The purebred horse’s tail plume swished back and forth proudly as Miss Horseypants patted his glossy flanks.
“Look, doll, it’s getting dark. Whattaya say we quit flappin’ our gums and go into the barn there and settle up?”
“It’s a paddock, sir, not a barn.”
“Tomato, tomahto.” Izzy reached into Norman’s pocket and pulled out the wad of cash he had pinched from the hardware store.
“You intend to pay for Ebony with cash?”
“What, my lettuce is no good?”
“Well, I’m just surprised you would carry so much money on your person.”
“Sure, sure. I’m lousy with dough.”
“Very well. I’ll write up the papers.”
“Swell.”
“After, of course, you give me the five hundred thousand dollars.”
They closed up the horse carrier and went back into the small office at the front of the stables.
“I don’t mean to be rude, sir, but might I see the rest of your cash?”
“Sure, sure.”
Izzy reached down into his coat pocket. The one with the pistol packed in it. He whipped the weapon up and bashed the lady hard on the head with the butt of it.
The dizzy dame crumpled to the floor. She was out cold.
“Ooh, that was incredible,” said Norman’s voice inside Izzy’s head. “I never knocked anybody out before. I never even punched a person.”
“Stick around, kid. I’m just gettin’ started.”
Izzy dragged the unconscious dame into Ebony’s empty stall, tied her up to a hitching post with a bunch of leather bridles, stuffed a wad of hay into her kisser, and gagged her tight with a cowboy-style kerchief he found hanging on a hook.
“That ought to hold her,” he said when he finished binding and gagging the stable owner.
“Now can we please go kill Stephen Snertz?” Norman’s voice begged inside Izzy’s head.
A black raven swooped into the stables and landed on the top rail of a stall.
“Haw!” it croaked.
Izzy got the picture.
“Sorry, Norm. No can do. Snertz will have to wait. Seems Barnabas wants to go on a pony ride.”
Izzy Ickleby used to drive beer trucks for the mob in Chicago.
So piloting the pickup hauling the horse trailer down the highway was no big whoop.
He was only a mile or two away from the Haddam Hill Cemetery when he felt something he hadn’t felt in seventy years.
He was hungry. Starving!
It was nearly six o’clock and he hadn’t eaten anything all day. His headlights hit a sign: The Hi-Way 31 Eat and Run. He gave the hash house a quick up and down. The blinking sign in the window said they served hot apple pie.
Izzy slammed on the brakes, squealed wheels, and pulled his rig into the parking lot.
“Wait out here,” he said to the black stallion. “I’m gonna go inside and grab a quick slice of pie and a cup of joe.”
Izzy entered the diner. Savored the smell of greasy burgers and greasier potatoes. Fresh java was brewing. A waitress waltzed past carrying a slab of pie buried under a scoop of ice cream the size of a softball. The sweet scents of cinnamon, brown sugar, and pure vanilla swirled up to dance a rumba inside his schnozzle.
Crazy Izzy sighed.
Maybe he’d finally made it to heaven.
He sat at the counter and whistled for a waiter.
“What’ll you have?”
“Apple pie all the way. And keep it coming, Mac.”
Izzy finished his eleventh slice of apple pie à la mode.
Most of the ice cream had melted into a shallow white lake. So he raised the pie plate to his lips and sucked the sweet, sticky gunk down his gullet.
“You finished?” asked the counterman.
“Bring me another wedge of pie.”
“There’s none left. You ate it all. You want anything else?”
Norman stood from his stool.
Whipped out his pistol.
Aimed it at a chest-high grease spot on the counterman’s apron.
“Grab a little air, pal!”
“What?”
“Put your hands up. I’m skipping out on my tab, see?”
“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.
“What’s in the bag?” asked Cornelius.
“Insurance.”
Barnabas had Norman set the ball bag down on the ground beside the giant black horse. Then he stepped inside the trailer and started rummaging around.
“Now what the heck you lookin’ for?” asked Izzy.
Norman came out holding a feed bag, a coil of rope, and a pair of fetlock-trimming scissors.
“These,” said Norman, his voice raw
and raspy.
“What ho, father?” jibed his son, Lucius. “Do you plan on feeding and grooming your steed?”
“No, you simpering fool.”
Izzy watched as the man who looked like Norman cut two pyramid eyes, a nose hole, and a jagged jack-o’-lantern smile into the burlap feed bag.
“I have bridled and saddled my horse. Now I must prepare myself for the journey to come.” He glared at Izzy. “Thanks to you, the police are looking for my new face.”
Barnabas tugged the burlap bag down over Norman’s head and cut a short length of rope to cinch it around the neck. Next he dusted off his worm-eaten tricornered hat—the hat he had been buried in. It fit his newly masked head perfectly.
“You see, dear children,” Barnabas croaked, “this is how I fooled everyone into thinking I was a goodly man. I disguised myself whenever I rode the king’s highways, pillaging and plundering as the villainous thief known as Jack the Lantern!”
Fully masked, Barnabas worked open the smaller sack and pulled out what Izzy had figured to be a ball.
Only it was a skull.
“Whose head bone is that?” asked Izzy.
“Mine, of course,” said Barnabas. “Without it, the three sisters can do nothing more to stop me!”
He jammed the skull into a saddlebag and climbed aboard his muscular steed. Grabbing both reins with one hand, he snicked his tongue. At his slightest tug, the horse moved left, then right, then left again.
Barnabas patted the side of his glistening stallion.
“Good boy, Satan,” he whispered.
He raised his right arm. The inky raven fluttered down to perch on it.
The whine of police sirens drew closer. Crazy Izzy felt too queasy to care. Besides, he was a ghost again. The coppers would never even see him hanging around outside the crypt.
“Do you mean to abandon us?” asked Lucius. “Yes.”
“Wait! You cannot do this! You are the head of this family. None of us will know what to do if you are not here to guide us!”
“Too bad!”
Ebony, now Satan, reared up on his hind legs and kicked at the air with his front hooves. The raven took flight. The masked rider raised his cocked hat high above his head.
The Black Heart Crypt Page 11
