How many times before had Bizzy snuck out secretly on her way to save someone whose thread was about to be cut? We glided farther down the street. Bizzy was careful not to start the engine until we were a safe distance from the house.
“Better do your first check a’ the night on Drake and Damon,” she said, motioning with her head to the row of elm trees on the opposite side of the street.
Climbing the elm tree was easier the second time. Scrambling from branch to branch, I was level with Drake’s window in no time. The lights were out in Drake’s room, but I could still see inside. He was a big lump on his bed, asleep. The carrot-colored light of the streetlamps filtered in. I could barely make out the slight cut on his lip. He coughed and turned over. I gripped the tree tightly, hoping Drake wouldn’t open his eyes and look right out at me. He didn’t. He was asleep.
He was alive.
I climbed down a few branches and hopped back onto the sidewalk. When I scaled the other tree to look at Damon, I was relieved to find him asleep, as well. He wasn’t supposed to rob Miss Mora’s Market for another ten days, but I couldn’t help but think he was involved somehow.
We arrived at Cedar Tree Park about two minutes later. Bizzy stepped out of the car, her legs shaky, and beckoned for her wheelchair.
“You’re late.”
I turned around and spotted Jodi emerging from behind a tree. She was wearing a beanie, black leggings, and an oversized black cashmere turtleneck. The outfit actually made her look stylish. As I unfolded the wheelchair from the backseat, I got my first look at Bizzy’s ensemble. A black bandana covered most of her white hair. She’d managed to find black sweatpants big enough to fit over her leg cast. But the sweats’ tight fit made her appear to have one huge leg and one small one. She wore old-school black Reebok high-tops and a sparkly black long-sleeve top—probably something she used to wear out on the town back in Louisiana. A black scarf was wrapped around her wrinkled neck, clear up to her nose. With her face still cut, and in her strange garb, Bizzy resembled a battle-worn grandma ninja.
I was completely out of breath by the time I wheeled Bizzy up the grassy hill to the top of the park. Jodi had offered to help, but pride kept me from accepting. The wet grass was slippery and I kept losing my footing.
The opposite side of the hill had a steep side. At the top there was a low wood railing and a sign warning people about the sheer drop to the water below of over a hundred feet. People called it Deadman’s Drop, though I had never heard of anyone who had died falling from it.
The grove of cedar trees loomed like towering sentinels watching over all of Crabapple. We helped Bizzy retrieve the gear she’d dropped off and laid out the tarp over an out-of-the-way spot under one tree. In the middle, we set up two beach chairs, a small gas grill, and a battery-powered clock. We took the blankets, flashlights, and remaining supplies out of the car. Bizzy wheeled over to the portable gas grill and ignited it. It clicked on. Then she rifled through one of her bags and found a kettle and some marshmallows wrapped in tinfoil. Realizing that the beach chairs were for us (Bizzy had her own chair, after all), Jodi and I sat back in the creaking seats and huddled under one of the blankets. I could see my breath in the cold Crabapple air. I watched Bizzy work. She poured water from a jug into the kettle and began heating it over the grill after she lined it with aluminum foil. It was remarkable how well she’d learned to move around in her wheelchair in just a few short weeks. It wasn’t long before she’d filled three thermoses with piping hot water and chocolate powder, topping them off with marshmallows. She had packed some Creole seasoning and sprinkled a little in her own thermos. Then she wheeled over next to Jodi and me, and the three of us stared out over the cannery.
The stars seemed brighter up above the trees, like hundreds of lit pinholes. Down below, I could make out the stone building that housed Miss Mora’s Market in the dim light of the lampposts that ran along Ocean Avenue. I spotted the pharmacy and, off in the distance on the south side of Crabapple, the widely spaced streetlights on the road that led in and out of town. What struck me most, though, was the sea behind us. Where shore met ocean, the gleam of Crabapple dropped off into a great blackness. The dark waters rippled in the distance, reflecting little of our town’s glow. The bay and the ocean beyond looked like one giant oil slick.
The warmth of Bizzy’s chocolate concoction passed through my lips and into my core. I wondered if hundreds of years before this moment, granddaughters had sat up with their grandmas and best friends, drinking hot drinks much like the three of us were doing. For a brief moment, as I sipped, I felt content.
As soon as we were settled, we began the first of our hourly checks. Jodi and I decided that one of us would check in on the Westfall house and the other would head to the storm drain entrance on Delores Avenue and look for anything suspicious. I chose Drake’s house for my first mission. Whizzing through the streets of Crabapple, I felt like I was flying through the night air. Bizzy made us wear the lit headlamps, in case a car approached and couldn’t see us. She also insisted we ride on the sidewalk and keep our phones on in case something happened at the cannery in the meantime.
When I got to Drake’s, I climbed up to the second-story level of the elm tree. There Drake was, sleeping peacefully, completely unaware that fate had made an appointment for him at the cannery. I climbed the elm on the side of Damon’s room. The room was dark, but I could make out a Damon-sized lump under the covers of his bed. I didn’t linger at Damon’s window like I had at Drake’s.
I zipped back to Cedar Tree Park in under eight minutes, which was a one-way record.
Hours passed that way. Jodi and I both nodded off a few times. But in each instance, my head would snap up and I’d wake to find Bizzy, fully alert, scanning the perimeter of the cannery. The three of us were alone together, with only the crickets and night owls for company.
“So far, all remains quiet on the cannery front, eh?” I asked Bizzy softly when I realized Jodi had fallen asleep again.
“Yup,” she said.
We were silent for a few minutes. I looked down at the clock. It said 4:35. Morning was around the corner.
“Can I ask you a question, Bizzy?”
“Shoot. That’s what nights like this are for,” Bizzy said, smiling at me through the shadows.
“Do you think Drake is actually going to grow up to be some kind of hero? I mean, do you think the world needs him or whatever?”
“To tell you the truth, I ain’t sure. If he is, he’s sure gonna need you as his Keeper. I found Morgan le Faye pretty convincin’. But you know him. Do you think he’s heroic?”
I thought about it. I’d always been convinced there was something different about Drake—he was intelligent, genuine, and independent. He stuck up for people like Roger. He’d liked me even though there were dozens of girls that were more popular than me who threw themselves at him. “What makes someone heroic?” I asked Bizzy.
“Lots of things. I’m not sure about Drake, but I am sure about you, Sweet Pea. No matter what happens this mornin’, I want you to know that. It makes perfect sense that you could read that book a’ Merlin’s. You’ve got more courage in your pinkie than most people have in their whole bodies. That makes you a hero. It’s been an honor watchin’ you come into your own.” Bizzy’s eyes misted over. “I love you and I’m gonna miss you.”
“What do you mean you’re going to miss me? Where are you going? What’s wrong?” I asked, glancing at Jodi, who was still fast asleep.
“I only meant when I finally do pass on. But I’m sure that won’t be for a long time, so don’t mind me. ’Fraid I’m turnin’ into a sentimental ole woman more and more each day.”
As Bizzy wiped her eyes, I heard the sound of the birds nesting in the park taking flight all at once—a noisy chorus of flapping wings. Before I could comment on it, my chair began to sway from side to side. There was a low rumble, like the earth itself had a bellyache. The trees swayed eerily above us in the half light. Soon I coul
d hear the rattling of buildings, glass, and concrete.
Bizzy looked at me wide-eyed.
“It’s a doggone shaker!” she screamed, raising her hands over her head for protection as cones from the cypress trees pelted the ground.
Pathetic Fallacy
You may not appreciate my telling you this, Mrs. Tweedy, but when we learned about pathetic fallacy in Macbeth, I thought the whole thing was pretty bogus. When Duncan is about to get murdered, the lightning and thundering outside is supposed to foretell the upcoming violence, but I found it silly. Shakespeare did this, you said, to scare the audience and give them a general uneasy feeling so that they’re doubly terrified when all the violence and murder happens, right?
Well, I don’t think it’s bogus anymore, Mrs. Tweedy. Now I’m certain there’s nothing pathetic about it. After the earthquake hit Crabapple, at around five in the morning, I’d never been more scared. The rumbling must have gone on for a solid minute. We’ve had real shakers before in Crabapple, but this one was more of a roller, like the earth was one giant water bed.
After the temblor, a few lights went on in houses down below. Bizzy and I could see several people out in the streets through a pair of binoculars she’d brought along. I was glad I’d left a lump of pillows under the covers in my bed. If Mom peeked in she’d think I’d slept through the whole thing. The lights in the southern part of the city were out completely. A few car alarms sounded briefly before being silenced.
It was ominous. I scanned the area around the cannery. Jodi was disoriented from being jolted awake and Bizzy tried to calm her down. She dispatched me to Drake’s house, and Jodi to the entrance of the storm drains, warning us to “be extra careful.” When I went to check on Drake on my bike, I swore I made the round trip in about twelve minutes. I had such an adrenaline rush, I was pedaling at lightning pace. I saw a light on in one of the first-floor windows of the Westfall house. Creeping to the window, I watched as Mrs. Westfall picked up a few picture frames the earthquake had knocked to the floor. I ran back across the yard to the elm tree. I looked at my palm. DRAKE WESTFALL. His name was still there, same as ever. Whether he lived or died was coming down to a matter of hours. Drake’s light was on. I peered into his room.
His bed was empty. Drake was gone.
I took a few nervous breaths and climbed up the elm next to Damon’s room. I gulped. Damon was missing, too. Down the street, I spotted a black sedan.
Fearfully, I looked down at my palm once more. Drake’s name was still bright red. That meant he was really close. I tried to calm myself, wondering if maybe I was overreacting and Drake was in the bathroom or something. I crossed the Westfall yard once more and snuck around the side gate into the backyard. Drake’s name grew slightly brighter. When I approached the house, the letters dimmed. I turned toward the pool house and the letters brightened. I surveyed the Westfall backyard. The surrounding sky was no longer black—it looked like the inside of a toaster when it’s just beginning to heat up.
The door to the pool house was ajar. As I slipped through the cracked door, Drake’s name began to tingle, then burn and light up on my palm. I was getting closer.
The pool house was dim and as I pressed against the closest wall, I heard voices coming from the other side of the room. I ducked behind a stack of brown boxes and listened.
“Calm down, man. It was the only way we could be sure he wouldn’t rat on us.” I recognized Randy Maroy’s voice immediately.
“I’d already convinced him we weren’t going through with it!” There was no mistaking the second voice, either. It was Damon Westfall’s. Loud and clear.
“Yeah, well, the earthquake must have woke him up and he saw us in here, with the plans. He probably heard us talking about it, too. So we can’t wait. We’re all ready, anyway. We’ll hit Miss Mora’s this morning.”
“We’re going to have to do something with Drake so my parents don’t find him here. What about dumping him at the cannery—and getting him there using the storm drains?”
“The drains lead to the cannery?”
“I’ve used them before when I stayed there. They lead right to a grate underneath it. No one’ll see us go in and no one’ll find him there until we’re long gone,” Damon explained.
“Good. And I think we made it pretty clear before I knocked him out that if he tells anyone, we’ll come back for his little girlfriend. It’ll shut him up,” Randy said coldly.
“Let’s get to it then. We’ve only got an hour before Miss Mora’s opens.”
I froze as the rustle of movements and footsteps intensified. I peered around the side of the stack of boxes and saw Damon and Randy struggling with Drake’s limp body. Randy had a grip on Drake’s legs while Damon grasped him under his shoulders. As the two moved forward, Drake’s head bobbed up and down and his torso swayed back and forth, as if he were in a hammock.
Damon and Randy passed inches from me as they cleared the door. I huddled close to the ground, hoping they wouldn’t see me. After they’d carried Drake’s unconscious form completely out of the pool house, I counted to sixty before moving again. I heard a car door slam and sprinted around the side of the Westfall house.
Grabbing my bike, I raced up Earle toward the park. I had to reach Bizzy. I couldn’t stop imagining Drake stashed somewhere in the cannery.
When I got to the park, I hopped off my bicycle and pushed it to the top of the hill, to our makeshift campsite. As I looked out, I realized morning had arrived.
“Bizzy!” I said. I looked around. “Where’s Jodi?”
“I sent her to check on you when you didn’t come back on time,” Bizzy said.
I told her what I’d just seen. “They’ve changed their plan, Bizzy. They’re robbing Miss Mora’s this morning.” When I finished, Bizzy gasped out loud.
“By gum! A leak!” Bizzy’s voice was so loud, I thought she might wake up someone in Crabapple.
“What?” I said, following her gaze to the portable gas grill right in front of us on the tarp. “I don’t understand.”
“The earthquake, Lizzy-Loo! That’s the explosion. Gas leaks contributed to almost fifty structure fires during the Northridge quake alone.” I’d never heard Bizzy talk so quickly. “Gas leaks are the cause of a lot a’ earthquake-related casualties!”
“So?” I said, still confused.
“They’ve deposited Drake in the cannery by now. If someone lights something there, smart money says the whole place’ll go kaboom!”
“Oh no … his lighter!”
“What’s this now?” Bizzy questioned.
“Drake has this lighter. It was his grandfather’s. He carries it wherever he goes and—”
Bizzy didn’t wait for me to finish. The wheels were spinning in her head.
“You still got Sheriff Schmidt’s number?” I handed his business card to Bizzy.
“Good. I’m gonna call straight away about Damon and his miscreant friend. After that earthquake, the sheriff is sure to have sent several squad cars out on patrol. If one of ’em sees you near the cannery at this hour, we’re done for. You’ve got to get into the cannery without anyone stopping you, okay?”
“I’ll go in through the storm drain,” I said.
“That’s far too dangerous. Stay outta sight for as long as you can, then go in through one a’ the windows.”
“Someone might see me. The storm drains are the only way!” I exclaimed, my heart pounding. After a night of slow-motion observation, suddenly everything seemed to be happening in hyperspeed. Bizzy paused for a second.
“Well, all right then. Run as fast as you can. Take the compass. Once you’re in, you’ll need to keep goin’ north to get underneath the cannery.” Bizzy switched my headlamp back on. “Shouldn’t be too far. Once you’re in, do whatever you have to do to make sure he doesn’t use his lighter or anything else. I’m gonna wheel down to the cannery and try to see if I can’t do somethin’ from above ground. If you can’t wake up Drake, you can holler to me and I’ll get
help to get him out of there.”
I was about to dash to the corner of Dolores and Kincaid when Bizzy grabbed my wrist.
“And Lizzy,” Bizzy said, almost quietly, “Damon should be long gone and on his way to Miss Mora’s. Remember that I’ll be up here doin’ what I can.”
As I tried to leave, Bizzy wouldn’t let go of my wrist. She was staring intently at my right hand. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. I looked down.
On the base of my right hand, a new name had appeared in red.
BEATRICE MILDRED MORTIMER
I looked at my left hand. Drake’s name was still there. But I hadn’t seen any kind of death-specter about Bizzy.
I felt like my lungs were deflating. I couldn’t get enough air.
“Bizzy,” I said. “Bizzy … your name!” I thrust my right hand in her face. “What does it mean?”
“I … I … don’t pay no attention to that just now,” Bizzy stuttered.
Bizzy and I both turned toward the sound of a small voice coming from within the cedar grove.
A banshee emerged from the trees looking almost exactly like the one that had appeared to take Jodi in front of Miss Mora’s, wearing a black dress, with white hair and the blackest eyes.
“You have a date. A date with fate. We shall not be late,” she sang in her high-pitched robotic drone. She repeated it again, skipping toward us as if she were half asleep, her face expressionless. “The time is here. There is nothing to fear. You have a date, a date with fate.”
Soon, the banshee was a few feet away from us, staring through the moonlight with her dark vacant eyes.
“Bizzy,” I whispered, my voice trembling with terror, hoping the banshee wouldn’t hear me. “Bizzy, what is she doing here?”
Bizzy waited a few seconds to respond, looking only at the girl.
“Judgin’ by your hand,” she said, her voice filled with resignation, “she’s here for your dear ole grandmamma.”
I turned my open palms up toward the sky. I looked at Drake’s name and then at Bizzy’s. One on each hand, with Bizzy’s name glowing much, much brighter than Drake’s. Bizzy glanced at my wrists, then at the little girl in black lace, still chanting softly, and then finally up at my face. There were tears in Bizzy’s eyes. “Dyin’ …,” Bizzy began, choking up a little, “is a wild night and a new road.” Her once-strong voice was now weak under the weight of sadness. The words filled the space between us. Dying is a wild night and a new road. I recognized the phrase immediately—it was from an Emily Dickinson poem. “No one …,” Bizzy continued, “gets to choose her time, Sweet Pea.”
The Death Catchers Page 22
