But that wasn’t how it had happened—Mr. R.’s body was never found.
Okay, rewind. Body sitting there, time passing. David grows anxious—then hungry . . . too hungry to help himself?
No. As Spaulding well knew, the snake could get in and out of the house. And he’d kept himself fed all this time with no problem.
No matter how you looked at it, it always came back to the same question: Where had Mr. Radzinsky’s body gone? And the answer to that question had to be connected to the question of how anyone had known he was dead.
Maybe the connection was that one person had known he was dead—the person who had killed him.
The image of Mr. Radzinsky sitting at his desk writing his angry letter floated into Spaulding’s head once again—only this time, there was something new in the scene.
A shadowy figure loomed behind Mr. Radzinsky. It stepped forward, crept up silently behind him, reached out its hands . . .
Spaulding opened his eyes quickly. That was as far as he wanted to let that play.
But there was another one for the questions column:
Maybe Mr. R was right, and the letter was in a police evidence bag somewhere.
Or maybe it had been taken by the same person who had disposed of the body.
Mr. Radzinsky had said the letter had been another complaint about Slecht-Tech. What if Von Slecht and Dr. Darke had decided they couldn’t let Mr. R keep drawing attention to what they were doing at the factory?
That settled it. He couldn’t just lie here feeling sorry for himself. If Mr. R had really been murdered, someone had to make sure the murderers were brought to justice. And Spaulding knew just where to start looking for proof. Maybe he couldn’t get inside the factory—but maybe the factory wasn’t the only place where Slecht-Tech’s secrets were kept.
With a quick apology to David, he swung his legs out of bed. He had a counseling appointment to get to.
Spaulding rode as fast as he could to school. He didn’t have much time before his appointment, and he still had to work out a plan.
He dumped his bike in some bushes at the edge of the parking lot and slipped around to the back of the building. Cautiously, he crept along the wall, staying low and counting windows until he was pretty sure he was outside Dr. Darke’s office. He peered up over the windowsill.
Jackpot. There was Dr. Darke, sitting ramrod straight at the desk, her back to the window. She was tapping away at her laptop, and her ever-present black briefcase was open beside her.
Spaulding ducked down again, chewing his thumbnail. How could he get her out of there? He considered pulling the fire alarm, but no doubt she’d grab her laptop and briefcase before she left the building. What he needed was a short distraction, something quick enough that she’d leave her things behind, knowing she was coming back soon.
His eyes fell on a wire that ran along the outside of the building and entered the wall through a hole drilled just below her office window. The phone line. What if she got a phone call, but the phone in her office wasn’t working? She’d have to go take the call in the secretary’s office, wouldn’t she?
Carefully, Spaulding tugged the wire away from the wall. Just like everything else in the school, the phone line was old and falling apart. The brittle casing cracked as soon as he touched it, which made him feel a little less bad about damaging school property. He pulled the wire taut and sawed at it with a sharp rock until it snapped.
Then he slithered off through the shrubbery until he felt he was a safe distance away. He took out his phone and dialed the school office. “Dr. Darke, please,” he said when the secretary picked up.
He was put on hold for a long time. Finally, the secretary came back on the line. “Her extension doesn’t seem to be working,” she said, sounding annoyed. “Perhaps I can just take a message and have her call you back later?”
“No, I must speak to her at once,” Spaulding said, pitching his voice as low as he could. “This is her business partner, Mr. Von Slecht. Tell her it’s urgent she come to the phone.” He held his breath and waited for the secretary to tell him to quit messing around.
“Oh, yes, sir!” the secretary said quickly. “I’ll go get her, sir.”
Spaulding’s eyebrows crept upward. His plan was actually working. At this rate he might have to reconsider becoming a researcher when he grew up and look into secret agenting instead.
As soon as she put him on hold again, he hung up and ran to the nearest entrance, which led into the hallway where Dr. Darke’s office was. He waited. A few minutes later, the secretary appeared, bustling over to Dr. Darke’s door. She knocked and spoke to Dr. Darke for a moment, and then they walked off together. Dr. Darke looked concerned.
As soon as they were out of sight, Spaulding raced down the hall, his sneakers silent on the linoleum. He’d bought himself all the time he could, but he knew it wouldn’t be much.
In Dr. Darke’s office, her laptop was closed, but the briefcase was still open. He’d only have time to check one or the other. The laptop would probably require a password, so he went for the briefcase.
It was packed with manila file folders—she seemed to carry half of Slecht-Tech around with her. Hopefully that meant there was a good chance of finding something useful. But as he flipped through, nothing seemed unusual. In fact, everything was extremely dull. Employee files, budget files, invoices, shipping receipts . . . Everything was neatly labeled, and every folder contained exactly what the label said.
He was starting to lose hope when he noticed a single, unlabeled folder. Inside, a few newspaper clippings rested atop a stapled sheaf of perhaps twenty or thirty printed pages.
Spaulding stared at Mr. Radzinsky’s name. There was something ominous about that red circle drawn around it like a target.
The other clippings were more of the same. Each letter described the odd noises, lights, and clouds of strange-smelling smog that Mr. Radzinsky had witnessed coming from the factory while the town slept.
Then other people began writing in response. Some defended Slecht-Tech and called Mr. Radzinsky a crackpot. But others said they believed the factory was still running. Several demanded someone be sent out to inspect the factory and enforce regulations.
Next, Spaulding picked up the stapled sheaf of papers. At first he couldn’t figure out what he was reading.
It wasn’t until he read “6:00 to 7:30 p.m. — feeding, grooming, and talking to snake” that he understood. It was surveillance data on Mr. Radzinsky. Pages and pages of it. They’d been watching him for weeks before he died.
The file contained nothing else. No comments; no memos discussing what to do with the surveillance information; no statements issued to the paper in response to the bad publicity. It didn’t really prove anything, he supposed, beyond the fact Von Slecht had ways of spying on people. It could be they’d merely kept tabs on Mr. Radzinsky and the reaction his letters received.
But as Spaulding shuffled the papers back into order, a small, tightly folded paper fell out of the stack. He picked it up. It was a different kind of paper than the rest, thick and textured. Stationery.
He unfolded it carefully.
Spaulding’s heart started racing.
This was it. The last letter. And there was only one way it could have come to be here.
His stomach roiled. He folded the paper up again quickly, careful not to touch the brown stains. Just as he laid the folder back in the briefcase, he heard footsteps in the hallway—the sharp, clacking footsteps of someone wearing high heels.
Spaulding started flinging folders back into the briefcase as fast as he could, but she was already almost at the door.
The footsteps stopped, the doorknob rattled—and a shrill voice rang out.
“Yoo-hoo! Desdemona, Liebling! I was just coming to speak to you!”
Spaulding slumped with relief. Mrs. Welliphaunt would yak at Dr. Darke for ages. He straightened up the folders and carefully shut the briefcase, then slipped into his usual seat in fro
nt of the doctor’s desk.
In the hallway, Dr. Darke gave a loud sigh. “What is it, Welliphaunt? Is this regarding whatever your son was calling for? He hung up before I got to the phone, and there was no answer when I called back.”
Spaulding’s mouth dropped open. Her son? Mrs. Welliphaunt was Von Slecht’s mother? He shuddered. It was almost enough to make him feel sorry for Mr. Von Slecht.
“No, I haven’t any idea why Werner called you,” Mrs. Welliphaunt said. “Unless perhaps it was about Griselda. He was in a bit of a flutter about her this morning—he’s convinced she’s not well.” A hint of irritation crept into her voice. “You know how foolish he is about that woman.”
Dr. Darke snorted. “I know better than anyone.”
“I was coming to speak to you about the Meriwether boy—he won’t be at his appointment. He hasn’t been in school today.” Mrs. Welliphaunt lowered her voice. “I suspect our little plan is working. The poor dear is quite the laughingstock. I doubt he’ll continue snooping, and even if he does, he certainly won’t be listened to. Everyone is now well aware that he’s a deeply troubled boy.” She gave a dainty giggle. Spaulding clenched his fists.
Dr. Darke sniffed. “I still say my plan would have been much easier. I really can’t fathom why you and Werner are so squeamish about it.”
Mrs. Welliphaunt gasped. “I am a teacher, Desdemona! I care about young people. I would never allow harm to come to one of my dear students. Unless it was completely necessary, of course.”
“Oh, what rot,” Dr. Darke snapped. “As if you care any more about teaching than I do about these ridiculous counseling sessions. If that’s all, I’ll be getting back to the factory. I really don’t know why I waste my time here at all.” Still grumbling, she stomped into the office and slammed the door in Mrs. Welliphaunt’s face.
Spaulding felt his palms start to sweat as Dr. Darke turned from the door. He tried to keep his voice steady. “Oh, hello, Dr. Darke. I’m here for my session. I had to miss morning classes for a—um, a doctor’s appointment, but I’m back now.”
Dr. Darke didn’t reply. Her razor-sharp gaze slid from his face to the closed briefcase.
Oops. It had been open when he came in.
“Spying again, were we?” Dr. Darke said.
She crossed to her desk and leaned on the edge of it in front of him. Spaulding gripped the arms of his chair nervously. But the doctor merely picked up a nail file and examined her perfectly polished fingernails. She gave the edge of one a few delicate swipes with the file.
“You fancy yourself quite the little detective, don’t you? If I actually wanted to counsel you”—she curled her lip at the thought—“I’d tell you to stop trying to impress your parents. They obviously don’t care what you do.”
Before he could respond, she tossed the file aside, leaned down toward him, and seized his jaw in an iron grip. She tilted his face from side to side, scrutinizing him. Her red fingernails dug painfully into his skin. He thought she’d look angry, but instead she was smiling. And somehow that was much, much worse.
After what seemed a very long time, she leaned in until her face was so close he could feel her icy breath. He tried to lean back, but her fingers tightened until his jaw creaked.
“And if you’re still tempted to snoop,” she said, “just keep in mind—I am watching you.” She shoved him away, hard, and strolled over to her own chair.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said shakily. “You and Mrs. Welliphaunt are the ones who told me I needed counseling. I’m just doing what I thought I was supposed to.”
The doctor stared at him, her eyes as cold and flat as two dimes. “You’re obviously beyond help. Your sessions are over. And the next time I catch you snooping, you will not get away from me alive. Now get out.”
He got out.
His heart was pounding and his hands were shaking as he stepped outside. He’d gotten information, all right. But Dr. Darke knew. She knew everything. And he had no doubt she was ruthless enough to do exactly what she’d threatened.
Yet as he hurried across the parking lot to his bike, a little of the tension drained away. He’d gone right into the lion’s den and come out unscathed. He scratched at his jaw as a small smile crept across his face. Katrina thought she was intimidating? She’d crumble if she ever faced Dr. Darke the way he just had.
Just then, the sun came out from behind a cloud and gilded the school buildings and the bare trees. It wasn’t as warm as it looked, but he turned his face toward it, breathing easier with every step.
His jaw itched again. It felt like an insect was crawling on him. He paused to check his reflection in the side mirror of a car—and gasped in shock.
A row of deep, blood-red crescents scored his skin, four on one side and one on the other.
He angled his head to see them better, rubbing gingerly at his skin. He forgot all about the odd little itch. And he didn’t notice that right where the itch had been—just above the fingernail gouges—a tiny, silvery speck glistened in the momentary ray of sunlight.
Then the sun went back behind the clouds, and the speck turned nearly invisible again as it wriggled its way up toward his ear and deeper into hiding.
The moment homeroom was over on Monday morning, Kenny ambushed Spaulding at his classroom door.
“I’ve been waiting to talk to you forever! Why weren’t you in school on Friday? Why were you invisible all weekend? I came by your house like a million times but no one ever answered the door.”
Spaulding sidestepped him and kept walking toward his locker. “I had homework to catch up on.”
“Yeah, right. You finish all your homework before school even gets out for the day. Something happened while I was out sick, didn’t it? Katrina knows all about your parents now, for one thing. Were you trying to impress her or something? ’Cause it definitely did not work.”
That was for sure. She’d spent all of homeroom with her phone out, making everyone watch the most embarrassing clips from Peering into the Darkness she could find. (Mrs. Welliphaunt had suddenly and conveniently become blind to students goofing off.) And Spaulding had an inkling that the hilarious new nickname for the show everyone was using—Peeing into the Darkness—was Katrina’s doing as well.
He stifled a sigh. “Marietta told her.”
Kenny gasped. “No! That’s too low, even for Marietta. Are you sure? Maybe she just found out somehow.”
“I’m sure. And I’d rather not talk about it, thank you.”
“Dude, don’t take it out on me. You’re, like, shutting me out because they’re jerks. I didn’t do anything.”
Spaulding edged away. “Look, it’s only a minute till the bell rings. We’ll talk some other time.”
Kenny raised his eyebrows. “Some other time? What’s that supposed to mean? How about, like, the second school gets out, duh?”
“I don’t know. I might not be home.”
The bell rang, saving him from further awkwardness. He hurried away, pretending not to notice Kenny still standing there staring at him.
Spaulding chewed his nails all through history class, not hearing a word of Mr. Robards’s lecture. He felt bad about what had happened with Kenny, but he couldn’t let himself soften.
No matter how nice Kenny acted, what happened with Marietta had opened Spaulding’s eyes. Sure, his plan had worked, and he’d convinced some kids to spend time with him because they were interested in the mystery he’d uncovered. But he hadn’t made real friends. They only cared about the revenants and the ghost and the haunted serpent. They didn’t care about him. Well, now he knew better. From this minute on, he was in it alone, as he should have been all along.
All he had to do was find concrete proof there was black magic going on in the factory. Once he revealed that to his parents, they’d take him back, and he’d move away from this town forever.
The sound of muffled snickering broke into his thoughts. He jerked his head up to find Mr. Robards sneerin
g at him.
“Well, Mr. Meriwether?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Oh, goodness no! I’m sorry our poor little history class is too dull to hold your attention. Since you aren’t interested in responding to my question, perhaps there’s a topic you would rather address—red mercury, or black magic, or .. . . or . . .
the bogeyman, perhaps!” Mr. Robards was so indignant he was sputtering.
Spaulding sighed. “No, Mr. Robards. I’ll pay attention now, sir.”
The history teacher resumed the lesson, though he continued to shoot Spaulding frequent dark looks. Spaulding tried his best to appear attentive—but his mind was buzzing again, and not with thoughts about history class.
Red mercury.
He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it sooner. When he’d brought it up to Mr. Robards before, he hadn’t taken it seriously; he’d just thought it was an interesting bit of folklore. But compared to ghosts and the rise of the living dead, the existence of red mercury no longer seemed like such a stretch.
It fit with what Marietta had said about Blackhope Pond. The pond was artificial, a by-product of mining, and full of mercury. She’d also said all the ley lines intersected there. Red mercury was supposed to be formed when regular mercury underwent an alchemical transformation. What if the pollution in the pond combined with the energy from the ley lines was creating red mercury? That would explain why his cell phone went haywire there; electronics were supposed to be affected by red mercury.
It would explain something else, too. Red mercury was extremely rare—so rare most people would say it didn’t even exist—and that, combined with the powers it was supposed to have, made it very valuable.
Valuable enough to interest a powerful businessman. Valuable enough that someone might have an entire business built on secretly collecting it.
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