The Mediator #2: Ninth Key

by Jenny Carroll

  And then, little by little, the reality of what I had just done sank in:

  I had just killed my boyfriend's dad.

  C H A P T E R

  14

  Well, okay, Tad wasn't exactly my boyfriend, and I had honestly believed that his dad was a vampire.

  But guess what? He wasn't. And I had killed him.

  How unpopular was that going to make me?

  And this little bubble of hysteria started rising up into my throat. I could tell I was going to scream. I really didn't want to. But there I was in a room with an unconscious kid and his psycho dad, whom I had just staked through the heart with a Number Two pencil. How could I help thinking, You know, they are so totally going to kick me off the student council....

  Come on. You'd have started screaming, too.

  But no sooner had I sucked in a lungful of air and was getting ready to let it out in a shriek guaranteed to bring Yoshi and all those waiters who'd served me dinner come running, than someone standing behind me asked, sharply, "What happened here?"

  I spun around. And there, looking stunned, stood Marcus, Red Beaumont's secretary.

  I said the first thing that came into my head, which was, "I didn't mean to, I swear it. Only he was scaring me, so I stabbed him."

  Marcus, dressed much like the last time I'd seen him, in a suit and tie, rushed toward me. Not toward his boss, who was sprawled out on the floor. But toward me.

  "Are you all right?" he demanded, grabbing me by the shoulders and looking all up and down my body . . . but mostly at my neck. "Did he hurt you?"

  Marcus's face was white with anxiety.

  "I'm fine," I said. I was starring to feel a lump in my throat. "It's your boss you ought to be worried about...." My gaze flitted toward Tad, still facedown on the couch. "Oh, and his kid. He poisoned his kid."

  Marcus went over to Tad and pried open one of his eyelids. Then he bent and listened to his breathing. "No," he said, almost to himself. "Not poisoned. Just drugged."

  "Oh," I said, with a nervous laugh. "Oh, then that's okay."

  What the hell was going on here? Was this guy for real?

  He seemed so. He was obviously very concerned. He shoved the coffee table out of the way, then bent and turned his boss over.

  I had to look away. I didn't think I could bear to see that pencil sticking out of Mr. Beaumont's chest. I mean, I had rammed ghosts in the chest with all sorts of stuff – pickaxes, butcher's knives, tent poles, whatever was handy. But the thing about ghosts is … well, they're already dead. Tad's father had been alive when I'd jabbed that pencil into him.

  Oh, God, why had I let Father Dom put that stupid vampire idea into my head? What kind of idiot believes in vampires? I must have been out of my mind.

  "Is he …" I could barely choke the question out. I had to keep my gaze on Tad because if I looked down at his dad, I had a feeling I'd hurl all that lamb and mesclun salad. Even in my anxiety I couldn't help noticing that, unconscious, Tad still looked pretty hot. He certainly wasn't drooling, or anything. "Is he dead?"

  And I thought my mother was going to be mad if she found out about the mediator thing. Could you imagine how mad she'd be if she found out I'm a teenage killer?

  Marcus's voice sounded surprised. "Of couse he's not dead," he said. "Just fainted. You must have given him quite a little scare."

  I snuck a peek in his direction. He had straightened up, and was standing there with my pencil in his hands. I looked hastily away, my stomach lurching.

  "Is this what you used on him?" Marcus asked, in a wry voice. When I nodded silently, still not willing to glance in his direction in case I caught a glimpse of Mr. Beaumont's blood, he said, "Don't worry. It didn't go in very far. You hit his sternum."

  Jeesh. Good thing Red Beaumont hadn't turned out to be the real thing or I'd have been in serious trouble. I couldn't even stake a guy properly. I really must be losing my touch.

  As it was, all I had succeeded in doing was making a complete ass of myself. I said, still feeling that little bubble of hysteria in my chest, which I blamed for causing me to babble a little incoherently, "He poisoned Tad, and then he grabbed me, and I just freaked out …"

  Marcus left his boss's unconscious body and laid a comforting hand on my arm. He said, "Shhh, I know, I know," in a soothing voice.

  "I'm really sorry," I jabbered on. "But he has that thing about sunlight, and then he wouldn't eat, and then when he smiled, he had those pointy teeth, and I really thought – "

  " – he was a vampire." Marcus, to my surprise, finished my sentence for me. "I know, Miss Simon."

  I'm embarrassed to admit it, but the truth is, I was pretty close to bursting into tears. Marcus's admission, however, made me forget all about my urge to break down into big weepy sobs.

  "You know?" I echoed, staring up at him incredulously.

  He nodded. His expression was grim. "It's what his doctors call a fixation. He's on medication for it, and most days, he does all right. But sometimes, when we aren't careful, he skips a dose, and . . . well, you can see the results for yourself. He becomes convinced that he is a dangerous vampire who has killed dozens of people – "

  "Yeah," I said. "He mentioned that, too." And had looked very upset about it, too.

  "But I assure you, Miss Simon, that he isn't in any way a menace to society. He's actually quite harmless – he's never hurt a soul."

  My gaze strayed over toward Tad. Marcus must have noticed because he added quickly, "Well, let's just say he's never caused any permanent damage."

  Permanent damage? Your own dad slipping you a mickey wasn't considered permanent damage around here? And how did that explain Mrs. Fiske and those missing environmentalists?

  "I can't apologize enough to you, Miss Simon," Marcus was saying. He had put his arm around me, and was walking me away from the couch, and toward, of all things, the front entranceway. "I'm very sorry you had to witness this disturbing scene."

  I glanced over my shoulder. Behind me, Yoshi had appeared. He turned Tad over so his face wasn't squashed into the seat cushion, then draped a blanket over him while a couple of other guys hauled Mr. Beaumont to his feet. He murmured something and rolled his head around.

  Not dead. Definitely not dead.

  "Of course, I needn't point out to you that none of this would have happened" – Marcus didn't sound quite so apologetic as he had before – "if you hadn't played that little prank on him last night. Mr. Beaumont is not a well man. He is very easily agitated. And one thing that gets him particularly excited is any mention whatsoever of the occult. The so-called dream that you described to him only served to trigger another one of his episodes."

  I felt that I had to try, at least, to defend myself. And so I said, "Well, how was I supposed to know that? I mean, if he's so prone to episodes, why don't you keep him locked up?"

  "Because this isn't the Middle Ages, young lady."

  Marcus removed his arm from around my shoulders and stood looking down at me very severely.

  "Today, physicians prefer to treat persons suffering from disorders like the one Mr. Beaumont has with medication and therapy rather than keeping him in isolation from his family," Marcus informed me. "Tad's father can function normally, and even well, so long as little girls who don't know what's good for them keep their noses out of his business."

  Ouch! That was harsh. I had to remind myself that I wasn't the bad guy here. I mean, I wasn't the one running around insisting I was a vampire.

  And I hadn't caused a bunch of people to disappear just because they'd stood in the way of my building another strip mall.

  But even as I thought it, I wondered if it were true. I mean, it didn't seem as if Tad's father had enough marbles rolling around in his head to organize something as sophisticated as a kidnapping and murder. Either my weirdo meter was out of whack or there was something seriously wrong here . . . and a mere "fixation" just didn't explain it. What, I wondered, about Mrs. Fiske? She was dead and Mr. Beaumont had killed
her – she'd said so herself. Marcus was obviously trying to downplay the severity of his employer's psychosis.

  Or was he? A man who fainted just because a girl poked him with a pencil didn't exactly seem the sort to successfully carry out a murder. Was it possible he hadn't been suffering from his current "disorder" when he'd offed Mrs. Fiske and those other people?

  I was still trying to puzzle all of this out when Marcus, who'd shepherded me to the front door, produced my coat. He helped me into it, then said, "Aikiku will drive you home, Miss Simon."

  I looked around and saw another Japanese guy, this one all in black, standing by the front door. He bowed politely to me.

  "And let's get one thing straight."

  Marcus was still speaking to me in fatherly tones. He seemed irritated, but not really mad.

  "What happened here tonight," he went on, "was very strange, it's true. But no one was injured...."

  He must have noticed my gaze skitter toward Tad still passed out on the couch, since he added, "Not seriously hurt, anyway. And so I think it would behoove you to keep your mouth shut about what you've seen here. Because if you should take it into your head to tell anyone about what you've seen here," Marcus went on in a manner one might almost call friendly, "I will, of course, have to tell your parents about that unfortunate prank you played on Mr. Beaumont … and press formal assault charges against you, of course."

  My mouth dropped open. I realized it, after a second, and snapped it shut again.

  "But he – " I began.

  Marcus cut me off. "Did he?" He looked down at me meaningfully. "Did he really? There are no witnesses to that fact, save yourself. And do you really believe anyone is going to take the word of a little juvenile delinquent like yourself over the word of a respectable businessman?"

  The jerk had me, and he knew it.

  He smiled down at me, a little triumphant twinkle in his eye.

  "Good night, Miss Simon," he said.

  Proving once again that the life of a mediator just ain't all it's cracked up to be: I didn't even get to stay for dessert.

  C H A P T E R

  15

  Dropped off with about as much ceremony as a rolled-up newspaper on a Monday morning, I trudged up the driveway. I'd been a little scared Marcus had changed his mind about not pressing charges and that our house might have been surrounded by cops there to haul me in for assaulting Mr. B.

  But no one jumped out at me, gun drawn, from behind the bushes, which was a good sign.

  As soon as I walked in, my mother was all over me, wanting to know what it had been like at the Beaumonts – What had we had for dinner? What had the decor been like? Had Tad asked me to the prom?

  I declared myself too sleepy to talk and, instead, went straight up to my room. All I could think about was how on earth I was going to prove to the world that Red Beaumont was a cold-blooded killer.

  Well, okay, maybe not a cold-blooded one, since he evidently felt remorse for what he'd done. But a killer, just the same.

  I had forgotten, of course, about my new roommate. As I approached my bedroom door, I saw Max sitting in front of it, his huge tongue lolling. There were scratch marks all up and down the door where he'd tried clawing his way in. I guess the fact that there was a cat in there was more overpowering than the fact that there was also a ghost in there.

  "Bad dog," I said when I saw the scratch marks.

  Instantly, Doc's bedroom door across the hall opened.

  "Have you got a cat in there?" he demanded, but not in an accusing way. More like he was really interested, from a scientific point of view.

  "Um," I said. "Maybe."

  "Oh. I wondered. Because usually Max, you know, he stays away from your room. You know why."

  Doc widened his eyes meaningfully. When I'd first moved in, Doc had very chivalrously offered to trade rooms with me, since mine, he'd noted, had a distinct cold spot in it, a clear indication that it was a center for paranormal activity. While I'd chosen to keep the room, I'd been impressed by Doc's self-sacrifice. His two elder brothers certainly hadn't been as generous.

  "It's just for one night," I assured him. "The cat, I mean."

  "Oh," Doc said. "Well, that's good. Because you know that Brad does suffer from an adverse reaction to feline dander. Allergens, or allergy-producing substances, cause the release of histamine, an organic compound responsible for allergic symptoms. There are a variety of allergens, such as contactants – like poison oak – and airborne, like Brad's sensitivity to cat dander. The standard treatment is, of course, avoidance, if at all possible, of the allergen."

  I blinked at him. "I'll keep that in mind," I said.

  Doc smiled. "Great. Well, good night. Come on, Max."

  He hauled the dog away, and I went into my room.

  To find that my new roommate had flown the coop. Spike was gone, and the open window told me how he'd escaped.

  "Jesse," I muttered.

  Jesse was always opening and closing my windows. I hauled them open at night, only to find them securely closed come morning. Usually I appreciated this since the morning fog that rolled in from the bay was often freezing.

  But now his good intentions had resulted in Spike escaping.

  Well, I wasn't going looking for the stupid cat. If he wanted to come back, he knew the way. If not, I figured I'd done my duty, at least so far as Timothy was concerned. I'd found his wretched pet and brought it to safety. If the stupid thing refused to stay, that wasn't my problem.

  I was just getting ready to climb into the hot, steaming bath I'd run for myself – I think best when submerged in soapy water – when the phone rang. I didn't answer it, of course, because the phone is hardly ever for me. It's usually either Debbie Mancuso – despite Dopey's protests that they were not seeing each other – or one of the multitudes of giggly young women who called for Sleepy . . . who was never home due to his grueling pizza-delivery schedule.

  This time, however, I heard my mother holler up the stairs that it was Father Dominic for me. My mother, in spite of what you might think, doesn't consider it the least bit weird that I am constantly getting phone calls from the principal of my school. Thanks to my being vice president of my class, and chairwoman of the Restore Junipero Serra's Head committee, there are actually quite a few completely innocuous reasons why the principal might need to call me.

  But Father D never calls me at home to discuss anything remotely school related. He only calls when he wants to ream me out for something to do with mediating.

  Before I picked up the extension in my room, I wondered – irritably, since I was wearing nothing but a towel and suspected my bath water would be cold by the time I finally got into it – what I had done this time.

  And then, as if I'd already slid into that bath, and found it freezing, chills went up my spine.

  Jesse. My hasty discussion with Jesse before I'd left for Tad's. Jesse had gone to Father Dominic.

  No, he wouldn't have. I'd told him not to. Not unless I wasn't back by midnight. And I'd gotten home by ten. Earlier, even. Nine forty-five.

  That couldn't be it, I told myself. That couldn't possibly be it. Father Dominic did not know about Jesse. He did not know a thing.

  Still, when I said hello, I said it tentatively.

  Father Dominic's voice was warm. "Oh, hello, Susannah," he gushed. "So sorry to call so late, only I needed to discuss yesterday's student council meeting with you – "

  "It's okay, Father D," I said. "My mom hung up the downstairs phone."

  Father Dominic's voice changed completely. It was no longer warm. Instead, it was very indignant.

  "Susannah," he said. "Delighted as I am to find that you are all right, I would just like to know when, if ever, you were going to tell me about this Jesse person."

  Oops.

  "He tells me he has been living in your bedroom since you moved to California several weeks ago, and that you have been perfectly aware, all this time, of that fact."

  I had to h
old the phone away from my ear. I'd always known, of course, that Father Dominic would be mad when he found out about Jesse. But I never guessed he'd go ballistic.

  "This is the most outrageous thing I've ever heard." Father D was really warming to the subject. "What would your poor mother say if she knew? I simply don't know what I'm going to do with you, Susannah. I thought you and I had established a certain amount of trust in our relationship, but all this time, you've been keeping this Jesse fellow secret – "

  Fortunately, at that moment, the call-waiting went off. I said, "Oh, hold on a minute, would you, Father D?"

  As I hit the receiver, I heard him say, "Do not put me on hold while I am speaking to you, young lady – "

  I'd been expecting Debbie Mancuso to be on the other line, but to my surprise, it was Cee Cee.

  "Hey, Suze," she said. "I was doing a little more research on your boyfriend's dad – "

  "He's not my boyfriend," I said, automatically. Especially not now.

  "Yeah, okay, your would-be boyfriend, then. Anyway, I thought you might be interested to know that after his wife – Tad's mom – died ten years ago, things really started going downhill for Mr. B."

  I raised my eyebrows. "Downhill? Like how? Not financially. I mean, if you ever saw where they live …"

  "No, not financially. I mean that after she died – breast cancer, diagnosed too late to treat; don't worry, nobody killed her – Mr. B sort of lost interest in all of his many companies, and started keeping to himself."

  Aha. This was probably when the first onset of his "disorder" began.

  "Here's the really interesting part, though," Cee Cee said. I could hear her tapping on her keyboard. "It was around this time that Red Beaumont handed over almost all of his responsibilities to his brother."

  "Brother?"

  "Yeah. Marcus Beaumont."

  I was genuinely surprised. Marcus was related to Mr. Beaumont? I'd thought him a mere flunky. But he wasn't. He was Tad's uncle.

  "That's what it says. Mr. Beaumont – Tad's dad – is still the figurehead, but this other Mr. Beaumont is the one who's really been running things for the past ten years."