Uncertainty (34 page)

I was prepared to blackmail him with knowledge of his tryst, whether real or imaginary. If it had been my mother, she would have never let me go. Hugh looked conflicted, but then he nodded. "Do you need any money?"

"No, I'm fine. I'll be back in a few minutes."

It felt like I became an accomplice to whatever they were doing by leaving them alone together. But I was curious as to what Henry had to say. I wondered if he'd found out more about Ambrose's murder.

I rushed down the sidewalk with my hands in my pockets. What on earth was Hugh doing? I understood that there had been a lot of stress in our house the last year, but did he really need to take up and start having an affair?

Of course, I could be jumping to conclusions. But the whole thing looked really suspicious. The way Callie had been touching his arm, the way she used his first name so casually. It was intimate. From my knowledge, they only knew each other from the rare occasions they'd spoken at my school. I would definitely be quizzing him when I got home.

I expected the ballroom to be buzzing with activity like usual, which is why it surprised me that he would want to meet there. But the workmen had apparently gone home for the day. No cars were parked along the curb. From the outside, it looked totally deserted. A perfect place to keep our interactions a secret.

I knocked on the door, but it swung open at my touch.

"Henry? Are you in here?" I called. I knocked on the open door again. It was very dark inside, since there was still canvas covering the front windows. I couldn't see anyone or anything farther into the ballroom.

Cars rumbled past on the street, traffic picking up as people came home from work. Remembering Henry's words about not wanting to be seen by Thornhill, I shut the door behind me. I fumbled for a light switch on the wall, but came up empty. It was so dark I could barely see my hands, and goosebumps prickled on my arms.

Making my way towards what I thought was the back, I pushed through another, slimmer door. It was still so dark that I could only make out the vague shapes of things.

There were numerous signs, telling me that something was wrong. Why I was foolish and ignored those signs, I didn't know. Maybe I still had some immature idea that I was invincible in the day. That he would only come for me at night.

"Henry, if this is your idea of joke..." I warned.

The lights came on in a blinding flash. I blinked, trying to get my eyes to focus. A figure was standing up on an orchestra stage at the back of the room. Sets of heavy mustard yellow drapes ran down the sides of the walls, but I realized that they were just for show; there were no windows.

"Hi, Ariel. How have you been?" Mr. Warwick asked brightly from his perch on the stage. He hopped down and landed with a thud. "Me, I haven't been so hot."

He stood ten yards away from me. The room was long, with parquet square wood floors and freshly painted beige walls. The garish yellow curtains looked like a holdover from the dancing days, but there had apparently been no attempt to get rid of them.

He was watching me, waiting patiently for the answer to his question.

"I've been fine," I said, my voice warbling. I took a step backwards, in the direction of the door.

"That's just
super
to hear." He had been right; he didn't look at all well. He'd dropped a lot of weight, and his graying skin hung from gaunt cheekbones. His arms were like twigs. He wore a scraggly brown t-shirt drooping over jeans that looked far too big for him.

"How did you get Henry's phone?" I asked, my voice warbling.

"Oh, I didn't think he'd need it anymore," Warwick said, bobbing his head to the left. I looked over and noticed with horror that Henry was knocked out, slumping against the wall like a sack of potatoes. His hands were behind his back, a piece of duct tape slapped tightly across his mouth. His head was flopped to the side, and I worried he might be dead.

I swiftly spun around, reaching for the door handle. Grabbing it, I yanked at the door in vain, but it was shut tightly. The doorknob was smooth, no space for a key.

"If you're looking for a way to unlock it, good luck. I have the only key," he said, dangling it from between his fingertips.

"I'll scream," I said, coming out pathetically as a whisper.

"I'm sure you will," Warwick said in amusement, grinning like a skull. "But these walls are soundproof, an old renovation from the dancing days. The old phonograph music was too loud for the neighbors. No one will hear you. But please, go ahead and try."

I sucked in a lungful of air and let it out in a screech. Henry stirred, moving his head against the wall, but then it flopped back down again. At least he was alive. I just didn't know how long I would be.

Warwick hopped off of the stage, and started slowly advancing towards me. I pressed my back up against the door, praying that someone had heard my scream, but knowing he was probably right.

I had forgotten the phone in my hand. I held it up to my face, eager to text Hugh. I had no service at all, 0 bars.

"Lead-lined walls, remember?" Warwick said. "I had to go out back to text you."

He was walking agonizingly slowly, at a snail's pace.

"Did you kill Ambrose?" I asked.

"Of course I did," he said, rolling his eyes. "He was a loose canon, he had to be dealt with. I just regret it was so damn messy. I wish I had something other than a hunter's knife, but you make do with what you have, y'know?"

"But why?" I asked. "Why?"

He paused, hands suspiciously behind his back. "I'm sure you have a lot of questions. Here's the part where the villain explains his dastardly plan. Normally, I would think that's so cliche, but I know you're a seeker of knowledge, and it's just eating you up inside not knowing. So let me tell you a little story. Pretend we're in class."

"Ambrose sent a message to your friend to meet us at the gas station last year. She trusted me, since I was friends with your dad, and she trusted him. Didn't sense any harm. She just thought I was the cool guy who palled around with teenagers. Actually I think you're a bunch of bratty little shits, who completely disregard those who came before them. But that's not the point.

"She got into our van, willingly. Only we drove in the opposite direction than the party, to the Dexter Orphanage. Remember that silly old place? And then we took her downstairs, and bled her."

He brought out one hand to make a stabbing motion. I winced. Even though I knew the truth, it still made me feel sick.

"I knew it was hard for Ambrose, because he had a schoolboy crush on her. But his family wanted it as much as me. I killed him because I didn't want him to tell. And while I was here, I thought I'd torch the orphanage, too."

"It was
you
?" I asked in shock. I had never suspected him in that.

"I have a little problem with fire," he said. He brought out his other hand. Instead of the weapon I was expecting, he was clutching Jenna's lighter, the one her ghost form had been playing with for the past few months. "That pissed them off. I set the ones at the school last year, too. They always leave me to clean up their dirty work. I'm so sick of doing cleaning. But I love how destructive and hungry fire is. It makes short work of all my chores, makes them something beautiful. If I'd had the chance, I would've burned those girls, too."

I remembered the incinerator in the basement of the school.

"Why did you set fire to the orphanage?"

"Because they betrayed me," Warwick said bitterly. He was caressing the lighter in a very creepy way. "And it's so important to them."

He was babbling again. I couldn't make sense of his words.

"Oh, how is the new history teacher treating you?" he asked jovially, like we had been having a normal conversation up until now.

"He's boring," I admitted, the nerves of my arms tingling as goosebumps erupted there. "No interesting tales, no embellishments about Macedonia and wild parties."

If I could just keep him talking...talking him down...just to give me time. I just needed a little bit of time...

He'd gotten much closer. I'd shifted off to my right, and we were circling each other now, although he was keeping a bit of distance. I think he was enjoying the game, like a spider wrapping up his prey.

"I've missed your dad. Is he doing okay?"

"I think you wrecked his life," I said softly.

"Sorry to hear that," he said, and it was the only time that I saw the person that he used to be, the man I'd grown up with as practically an uncle.

"Now here's my question for you. And it's about to get esoteric up in here. They know you are aware of some things. That you might even have Sight. But how much do you see?"

I felt brave in my impeding danger, brave enough to admit things I wouldn't otherwise. "You mean Jenna? I've seen her and all the girls you killed."

"Now, now. I didn't kill them all, just your friend. The other two, like I said, were only a clean up job. I was left with the smelly, squishy aftermath."

"Why do I see Jenna's ghost? Do you know?"

"You must have destroyed the symbol," he said simply. "Their spirits are bound to the symbol when the bloodfeeding ritual is performed, part of absorbing the energy. They remain locked there, in Dark, until the symbol is destroyed. But how did you get beneath the shed?"

"I have ways," I said cryptically. It all made sense now. It felt incredibly strange to hear him use the terminology from
Other Worlds
like it was normal, everyday speech.

"Just like when I scrubbed off those symbols in the basement at Hawthorne," he said. "Those other two brats were released into Limbo, too."

"You're going to kill me too, aren't you?" I asked, my voice shaking. Henry had stirred again, but he was still passed out, and I new there was no way he could help.

We were facing in opposite directions now, me with my back to the orchestra stage, him with his back to the door. He pulled the huge hunter's knife out of his waistband.

"Well, yeah, that I am," he said. "But it's nothing personal. If I gave you that impression, please don't take it that way. At least I won't make you watch your boyfriend's death. Are you going to run? Let me know, so I can get ready to chase you."

"You've already done that," I said.

For the first time, real confusion made his eyebrows push together. "What? I never chased you."

"Yes, you did. Home from the library."

"No, Ariel. I think you've made more enemies than you realize."

I thought it was my imagination, or a burst of wishful thinking. But I watched the door behind him silently yet swiftly open. Phillip Rhodes stepped into the room, his handsome face set in stone.

Before I could react, he raised a gun up behind Warwick's head. He put the index finger of his other hand to his lips, rings glinting, to shush me. I tried not betray it in my features, but something in my face gave me away. Warwick wrenched around and saw Phillip. He flipped his head wildly back and forth between us.

"Good to see you, P-Phil," Warwick stuttered. He backed up a little in my direction. His fear filled me with hope, but I didn't want to believe it. So much could still go wrong.

"It would be best if you stopped talking now," Phillip said coldly, still aiming the gun at Warwick's head. There was no emotion at all in his angular features; I didn't even know if he'd seen his son bound and gagged.

Warwick's head flipped to me again. His gray eyes seemed genuinely afraid, the lunatic cloud that polluted them clearing out. He lifted his hands up like on a police drama.

"Ariel, there's so much more you don't know. I didn't chase you. And I swear I didn't kill the other girls, it was — "

Warwick's confession was cut off as Phillip pulled the trigger.

In slow motion, the bullet barreled through Warwick's head. His eye ejected from its socket, blood and flesh and puss spurting from the wound. His mouth became an open red maw, gushing blood. He stood for a moment longer, then dropped to the floor with a heavy, awful thud.

CHAPTER 30

IN A FLASH
, Henry was standing in front of me. I didn't remember blinking, or time passing. Just that suddenly there was a different scene in place. Movement scurried behind him, the shapes of blurred figures, but I couldn't focus on them.

Henry was wiping my face off with a handkerchief. It took me several seconds to realize that what he was cleaning off must be blood, and who knows what else. Flecks of brain, fragments of bone. I was too shocked to be sickened.

Henry's face was serious and solemn. Pulling back, he assessed me. Rings of duct tape encircled his wrists, and a red smear of disturbed blood vessels framed his lips. In his eyes was the distant haze of someone who had been asleep or drugged.

My ears were ringing from the bang of the gun. I saw his mouth forming the shape of my name, and I tried to concentrate. When I spoke, my own voice seemed very quiet and far away.

"How did you get here?" I asked.