This email had none of that flair. It was like he was rushed. Maybe even nervous.
“What were you up to, Galen Renwick?” Jill whispered.
Why did Galen want files on Jill’s dad? What kind of files did Merv have?
And how messed up was it for Galen to demand the documents get delivered to Kim? Who brings their teenage daughter in on a conversation like this?
A wave of revulsion came over Jill as she recalled her visit to Merv’s secret room. She was thinking about the Wentworth family heirloom she had found there. A medallion with The Borgia Rose stamped on it, an important historical artifact, sitting in Merv’s drawer. She thought about the fake ID’s she found, passports with nationalities that exactly matched the fake ID’s her father kept hidden in his safe.
Out in the other room, she heard footsteps.
“Hello?” she said.
“Hello,” said Zack. He was practically sleepwalking, barely alert enough to find his way into the bedroom. He plopped down on the bed and within seconds he was snoring.
Jill looked back at her screen. As interesting as it was, she was tired, and the bed looked much more inviting now that Zack was in it. She logged out of the database and crawled into bed, pushing her back up against Zack’s stomach.
“Is it morning?” Zack muttered.
“No,” said Jill. “It’s still night. Let’s go to sleep.”
“Okay. I like sleep.”
Zack draped his arm over Jill. Her mind, which had been spinning with thoughts about Merv, Galen, and Walter, went mercifully blank and she fell asleep.
Chapter 33
Beedledeedeep. Beedledeedeep.
Jill had been dreaming about teenage versions of Walter, Merv, and Galen. The three of them were sitting on Zack’s sofa, watching late night TV. Merv leaned over to Galen and whispered something in his ear. Walter strained to hear what Merv was saying, but all he could hear was the sound of Zack’s alarm.
Beedledeedeep.
She felt movement next to her, sensed Zack rolling over to hit snooze. Her body remembered the last time she had been here, the snooze session that extended into the late morning, and the clarity of thought she had in Zack’s bed.
Back to sleep. In the dream, the teenage version of her father was scolding his two friends.
“You’re lucky that alarm went off,” Walter said. “She might have heard you. You need to use the code.”
Teenage Merv and Galen looked at each other with mischief in their eyes.
“Who might have heard us, Walter?” said Merv.
“Shh!” Walter hissed. “She’s listening right now. Don’t use my name. Use my number.”
“Whatever you say, Eleven,” said Galen. “I still want to know who’s listening.”
Walter leaned in closer and spoke in a whisper. “My daughter.”
At this, Galen and Merv broke into laughter. “Oh Eleven, you’re a hoot,” Merv said. “Your daughter isn’t even born yet.”
Walter looked confused at all this, and turned away, shaking his head.
Beedledeedeep.
The alarm and accompanying movement in the bed took Jill one step closer to the waking world. The teenage versions of Walter, Merv, and Galen were still on the couch, but she was no longer a passive observer of their conversation. Now she could control what they said.
She chose to put words from the emails in their mouths.
She had Galen turn to Merv and say, “There may come a time in the future when I need a favor from you.”
“I understand,” said Merv.
“The time has come,” Galen continued. “I want the full extent of your files on Walter Wentworth. You will bring them to my house and give them to Kim.”
“I understand,” said Merv. “I will give them to Kim.”
“I need them right away,” said Galen. “I can’t wait to get them.”
“I understand,” said Merv.
“I don’t think you do,” said Galen, grabbing Merv by the shirt and pulling him close. “I need them right away!”
Galen’s voice was changing as he spoke, getting higher, more feminine. “I can’t wait to get them!” It was his daughter’s voice now, the voice of Kim Renwick. “I can’t wait!”
“What are you guys talking about over there?” said teenage Walter.
“Shut up Eleven!” Merv and Galen snapped in unison.
Beedledeedeep.
Now Jill was standing in the secret room of Merv’s house, looking at all the stuffed humans. In the unpredictable world of a waking dream, Jill didn’t trust this place—for all she knew these people might spring to life in some scene from a horror movie—but she knew she had to stay. There was something important here she needed to see.
What was it?
The medallion? Maybe. Now that she knew the lengthy history her father had with Merv, it made more sense that Merv owned it. It was a gift. For some reason, Walter had chosen to hand over this family heirloom. Both of these men were so obscenely rich, a priceless artifact full of history was probably the only gift Walter could swing that would make an impression.
Why would he want to make an impression on Merv?
I want the full extent of your files on Walter Wentworth.
Jill saw the line from Galen’s email to Merv and pondered its meaning. How had it come about that Merv had more info on Walter than Galen did? Galen, after all, had dedicated his life to collecting secrets. What kind of secrets would Merv have that Galen didn’t?
In the dream, Jill raced to Merv’s desk and opened the drawer. She pulled out the stack of papers Nicky had found and photographed. These were Merv’s secrets. A paper trail that tracked all the illegal transactions Merv made with Melissa Mayhew. These were secrets so valuable that Merv created a hidden room in his house to store them.
Jill picked up the papers one at a time and held them up to inspect. In the dream, she was able to see each sheet in complete detail. Her subconscious mind brought forth details her conscious mind had overlooked. Paper by paper she went, reading the names, stats, and medical histories of every slave Merv had bought, killed, and stuffed.
She was looking at a paper now for a guy named Roddy. The paper said that Roddy weighed 170 pounds, was five feet ten inches tall, had brown hair, and was of Irish descent. Jill looked up from the paper and saw poor Roddy standing at the end of the room, forever frozen in the pose Merv had chosen for him.
She grabbed another paper, this one for a slave named Giordano. Black hair, blue eyes, six foot three… Giordano was the prize kill who stood tall in the back.
Hansel, the German with the big nose. Beatrice, the beautiful blonde. Vernon, the heavy Samoan with long, curly hair. One by one, Jill identified all of them, looking at their papers and matching them to a statue in the room until she knew every one of them by name. This was Merv’s great secret. A listing of slaves he had bought from Melissa and killed, every slave named at the top of the paper, every paper stamped at the bottom with the number 3.
The code.
Galen was 2, Merv was 3, Walter was 11.
They used the code in their emails to keep their activities secret, and their activities were right here in this room. Merv had a stack of papers that corresponded to every dead human in here, and each paper had the number 3 stamped at the bottom of it.
Each paper except for one.
Beedledeedeep.
Things were coming fast for her now. Jill saw twenty years of emails in one uninterrupted view, and she understood. She cracked their code, as she had once cracked Annika and Shannon’s secret emails, as her mother had once decrypted the scrambled data from TPM.
11 is going to the henhouse tomorrow to get chick 57. Will be a pet rather than a turkey.
She saw three teenage boys who were friends once, the passage of time allowing them to get deeper and deeper in the Washington muck. She saw all of them playing with fire, their money and social status making them cocky. These boys felt like nothing could touch them, and wh
en one of the vampires offered them the chance to play like they were immortals, they took it, knowing it was forbidden.
They all took it. This was the discovery to be found in the emails between Merv, Galen, and Walter. They all obtained phony IDs for a quick escape, they all spoke in code, and they all identified themselves with a number.
Merv’s number 3 was plastered all over the documents in his desk drawer, signifying his ownership of the human statues he collected. But there was one document in the drawer that didn’t match up to any statue, and that document didn’t have Merv’s number at the bottom.
Jill saw it now in her mind and everything was clear. The extra paper in Merv’s desk, the document that Galen wanted hand-delivered to Kim Renwick three years ago, had the number eleven stamped at the bottom. And on the top, in the box where the slave was given a name, was written a single word that explained everything.
Jill spoke the word as she saw it, allowing its power to wake her up.
“Carolyn.”
She jumped out of bed, her heart racing, her hands shaking from the surge of energy her dream had brought to her.
“W’oh, w’oh, what’s happening?” Zack murmured.
“I need to go,” Jill said. “I need to go right now.”
Zack rolled over and opened his eyes.
“You have to go?” he said.
“I’ll need to take your car,” said Jill. “I’ll bring it back later today.”
Zack pushed himself up on one elbow.
“Are the vampires here?” he said.
“No, we’re safe,” said Jill.
She grabbed his car keys off the dresser.
“I won’t be gone long,” she said. “Two hours or less.”
“I don’t know, Jill. Are you sure it’s safe?”
“The sun is up, Zack. I promise I’ll be careful, and I’ll be back soon.”
Zack rubbed his eyes.
“I don’t want to find you fighting off weird, skeezy skaters with hypodermic needles again.”
Jill kissed him on the cheek.
“Trust me,” she said.
“Alright, but there’s something you should know about my car. She’s a good girl, but she can be a bit of a bitch if you aren’t nice to her. Take it slow, okay?”
“I will. Thank you Zack.”
She kissed him on the head.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
Chapter 34
Driving the Corvair was less like operating a car and more like riding a horse. Jill gave it instructions about what she wanted to do, it responded, and she adjusted to its response. She arrived at her destination feeling like she hadn’t yet mastered the car, but at least had reached some sort of understanding with it.
Her destination was a mansion that overlooked the river. Rolling the Corvair to the entrance, she used the crank to roll down the window and reached out to push the call button on the front gate.
She looked at the small speaker, waiting for a familiar voice to answer.
“Jenson residence,” announced a deep voice with a hint of an Irish accent. Shamus, the Jenson’s long-time butler—it was a voice Jill hadn’t heard in three years.
“Jill Wentworth here to see Ryan,” she said.
A long, agonizing silence followed. More than a minute passed with nothing said. Had she been somewhere else, Jill would have pushed the button again. But she knew this silence was necessary. The ex-girlfriend had shown up at the front door in a strange red machine and demanded to see Ryan. Shamus would have to find Ryan and discuss it before the gate could open.
Finally, the speaker crackled to life, and Shamus returned. “Please come back,” he said.
The gate swung open. Jill tapped the gas and the engine sputtered, as if hesitant to go inside.
“It’s okay,” she said, giving a bit more gas. With a lurch, the Corvair got started, and she entered the Jenson estate.
The thick canopy from the maple trees, the sound of the river, the smell of the grass—it all threatened to carry Jill back on a wave of nostalgia, but she ignored it. She was here with a purpose. She had work to do, and she couldn’t let her emotions knock her off course. She rolled across the long path that led to the driveway, then around the fountain and into the carport.
Ryan was waiting for her. He was wearing sweat pants and a T-shirt. His hair ran out in all directions. He looked like he’d just woken up.
Jill stretched across the bench seat and grabbed hold of the passenger door handle. She yanked it down and pushed the door open.
“Get in,” she said.
Ryan did as she asked, pulling the door shut behind him.
“Where did you get this car?” he said.
“Never mind that,” said Jill. “I need to talk to you. We’re going for a drive.”
“Jill, is this about Coronation, because--”
“Listen to me,” Jill said as she stepped on the gas. “There are things you don’t understand. Things you’ve never understood, and you need to understand them now. I have a lot to say and I need you to hear me out.”
Ahead of her, the gate opened automatically.
“Where are we going?” Ryan said.
“For a drive. I’ll take you home when we’re done.”
Ryan reached for the seat belt. “Well then,” he said. “I guess I’m all yours. What do you want to tell me?”
“I want to tell you that Kim has nothing,” Jill said. “This secret she’s holding over your head is harmless to you. No matter what you do tonight at the Date Auction, no matter what you do at all, neither Kim nor her dad will ever say a word about what they know.”
“Jill, I don’t think you understand. This secret--”
“I know all about the secret Ryan. I know everything they told you, and I understand what you did. Everything between us for the past three years--I get it now.”
Chapter 35
For Art Tremblay, the week after Brawl in the Fall was painful and weird.
He woke up in the woods outside Sutter’s Field on Sunday morning with a black eye and a swollen lip. He didn’t know who had fought with him or why, and when he got to school on Monday, he learned that he might never know.
Half the boys in school had black eyes. Apparently, late in the night, long past the point where Art could remember, Brawl in the Fall had turned into a riot. Art’s injuries were no more mysterious than Sam’s or Lonnie’s or any of the other boys who woke up on Sunday morning with no idea what the hell happened the night before.
He couldn’t remember who he fought with, but he did remember Nicky. He remembered following Nicky into Winthrop’s camper, getting into a spat with her, and landing hard in the kitchen. From there, the memory went black, but words remained that described what happened.
You wanted to have sex with her, she resisted, you fought, and she died.
There were no scenes in his memory to match the words. Why were they in his brain? What had he done?
Three times in two weeks, Art had awakened in the morning with barely any memory of the night before. He got blitzed at Nicky’s after-party, blitzed and high the night Nicky came to his house, and wasted beyond all recognition at Brawl in the Fall.
You’ve had this coming for a long time, Art Tremblay. You knew you were out of control but you did nothing to stop it. You knew something horrible was going to happen if you didn’t get hold yourself. Now a girl is dead and you’ll be spending the rest of your life in prison.
But then she showed up on Monday morning. She smiled and waved at him when she stepped out of her car in the senior lot. She went to Annika and laughed about some joke. She gave Vince a big hug. She went to class.
On Tuesday morning he watched in fascination as she arrived again, as alive as ever. Same on Wednesday. The weird words about killing Nicky Bloom still floating in his brain, he avoided her in the halls, but he looked forward to seeing her in the morning. Every time she arrived she confirmed that he wasn’t a killer. With each passing day, he felt i
ncredibly lucky that he escaped the Brawl with minor injuries. It could have been so much worse.
By Friday morning, the bruises on Art’s face were mostly healed and his brain had become acclimated to the idea of a living, breathing Nicky Bloom. He was ready to be himself again. Ready to be happy. This return to normal couldn’t have come at a better time, for Friday was his eighteenth birthday, and after school got out, Art’s father invited him to a meeting where he was certain they would discuss Art’s transition onto the TPM board of directors and his ascendance into the world of billionaires.
Happy birthday to me!
As he and his father rode into downtown DC for their meeting, Art thought of all the things he had to be grateful for.
Thank you Mom for giving me a truckload of cash and stocks as part of the divorce settlement. I know it was part of some crazy game you and the lawyers are playing to keep dad from getting your share of the company but whatever. Thank you!
Thank you Nicky Bloom for showing up at the Masquerade wearing black and shaking things up a bit.
Thank you Kim for bitching me out so severely during the intermission of the Masquerade that you drove me to Nicky’s after-party instead of yours.
Thank you Dad for understanding that I made the right choice in backing Nicky and for treating me with the respect I deserve for once in your life.
Thank you self for not killing Nicky Bloom and leaving her corpse in the woods like you thought you did.
Thank you life for scheduling my eighteenth birthday the day before the Date Auction. Now I get to step into the Penbrook Theater as the richest dude in school.
Yep…it was looking good. He would do this meeting, finalize his transition onto the board, sign some papers, and have a net worth that was ten figures long. Maybe when the meeting was done he’d go and buy himself a new car, something that would really turn heads when he showed up at the Penbrook tomorrow night.
The driver dropped them off at the front door to the Tumbler, a restaurant his dad liked but Art had never been to before. Art and his dad stepped inside together. A flabby dude in a tight black vest greeted them at the door.
The Festival of the Moon (Girls Wearing Black: Book Two) Page 26
