by Stacey Longo
“What? Mickey used to work at Orange Julius, too. Not for long, maybe a month or so, this past summer. Why? Didn’t he tell you?”
“No,” I murmured, the wheels in my head spinning into overdrive. “No, he didn’t mention that at all.”
TWELVE
Dad picked us up before Andy and I could get any quality make-out time, but that was okay. I was too distracted by his revelation that Mickey had worked at the mall, but more importantly, hadn’t told me, to suck face with Andy for too long. Plus, Blossom was right there with us, and French kissing in front of your sister is just gross.
On Saturday, Blossom hid away in her room for half the day. She had a presentation on George Washington due next week for remedial history class, and had to work on her report. I sat outside in our fenced-in backyard for a while trying to read Fahrenheit 451—Youngquist’s latest assignment, and I just knew there was some sort of social commentary message in the book she would quiz us on later—but couldn’t concentrate on the words. I decided to stroll through the neighborhood to clear my head. I was trying to think of a non-Frankenstein reason why Mickey wouldn’t have told me about working at Orange Julius, but couldn’t think of anything plausible that excluded him being a serial killer. There was a small pond just past the end of our street, and I saw a couple of fish jumping, which looked pretty. When was the last time we’d gone fishing? Dad used to take us to the streams around Little Hop, but I don’t think we’d been since . . . well, since Blossom had been zombified. It might be fun to cast a few lines.
Back at the house, I found Dad hunched over his desk, studying photographs that he quickly hid as soon as I walked into his office.
“What’s that?” I asked, immediately forgetting about catching fish. If Dad was hiding it, it must be interesting.
“Nothing,” he said, then sighed. “I’m just reviewing some photos from the Frankenstein crime scenes. The state police are getting antsy, and I’m trying to see if there’s anything we overlooked, or if something could give me an idea of where to look next for clues. I’m getting a little nervous,” he added, swatting my hand as I tried to flip over one of the photos. “I’ve heard the word ‘zombie’ more than once this week.”
“What, you don’t think they suspect Blossom, do you?” I asked. “She has an alibi for all the murders. Don’t they know that? Wait—you don’t suspect Blossom, do you, Dad?” My heart clenched waiting for his answer.
“Of course I don’t think she had anything to do with it,” he reassured me with a hug. “But most people are pretty ignorant when it comes to the habits and behaviors of the undead. What we know about zombie biology has changed so much since the first outbreak of reanimated corpses back in 1961. When Idaho Falls happened, mankind hadn’t even heard of zombies, except in a New Orleans, voodoo sense. They thought they were slow-moving, mindless idiots. Heck, they thought that the only way to kill a zombie was with a silver bullet, for the love of Pete!” He chuckled. “You girls don’t know—you don’t remember.” His tone grew somber. “As recently as ten years ago, if you had a zombie in the family, you’d have to turn them in for decapitation, no ifs, ands, or buts. Hell, there’s still a large faction out there that thinks zombies don’t have the right to live among us. Look at those girls at your school.” Dad’s voice rose. “Some zombies are locked away, starved down to nothing but bone—they’re not always treated like human beings,” he added, pounding on the desk.
The noise his fist made seemed to startle him, and he brought his hands up, spreading his fingers wide. “That’s why I’m working so hard on this case. I don’t want anyone—especially my own little girl—to be blamed for the work of a madman. It’s hard, though,” he added. “I’d really rather be working on finding a cure for zombie contagion. Dr. Lee has made amazing discoveries in reanimated tissue forensics, and we’re close to reversing the necrotic effects of a zombie bite . . . this case is distracting him. And me.” He looked down at the stack of papers scattered in front of him. “I guess I could get some research in now,” he said, half to himself. “I’ve got a vial of Romero-68 and a fresh new batch of undead lab mice just waiting to be experimented on.”
“Um, okay,” I said, then remembered why I’d come. “Dad, can Blossom and I borrow your fishing pole? There’s a pond at the end of the street, and I thought we could go fishing.”
“Sure, sure,” he said, waving me off. “Just don’t mention any of what we were just discussing to your sister. She’s got enough on her plate without worrying about being a murder suspect.”
“Okay,” I said, but thought: Sure, don’t want to worry Blossom. But now I’m worried.
~~**~~
Blossom and I decided to go fishing the next day. We dug outside in the yard until we had a coffee can full of earthworms, then headed down to the pond with Dad’s fishing rod. I brought some sandwiches, potato chips, and chilled jellied cow brains for us to snack on, and a bucket for all of the fish I figured we’d catch. We headed to the pond, and after a squeamish moment of baiting the hook with a particularly feisty worm, I let the first cast go.
“So,” I said, settling down on the blanket I’d brought, “let’s talk.”
“Gahaa?” About what? Blossom was distracted, watching a blue jay noisily making his presence known in a nearby tree. I knew she was thinking about making a snack of him.
“Hey,” I said, snapping to get her attention. “Focus! We need to talk about these murders. I think Mickey’s hiding something. He lied to me.”
I told Blossom about Andy’s revelation. She grunted, I assumed in deep thought over what I’d just told her. Mickey had worked at Orange Julius, and therefore had opportunity to be acquainted with Blue Pixie. He’d dated Jillian, and certainly held a grudge over the fact that she’d dumped him for Ken.
“Nulala habpuh? Glaaanaahh.” You don’t really think it was Mickey, do you? He seems so harmless. And sweet.
“Sweet?” I asked, eyebrows raised. Blossom smiled shyly and admitted Mickey had been meeting her outside of math class to walk her to history. This was news. I didn’t like it one bit that Mickey had taken such an interest in my sister. What was his angle?
Wait, though—hadn’t he grilled me on Blossom’s eating habits and lifestyle not that long ago? Didn’t he admit he was a horror movie buff, and a bit of a zombie freak? And he had been the one to suggest Blossom go with us to the Whole Donut, hadn’t he?
It was looking more and more like Mickey was our man, which was doubly hard, because I was starting to suspect Blossom might be interested in him. “I can’t believe he’d do it,” I said somberly. “I mean, you have to be some sort of psychopath to kill all those kids. He seems so nice. A little desperate for a girlfriend, maybe, but nice.”
“Leyaagh na! Rawahhh,” Blossom said indignantly. Don’t call him desperate! That’s mean.
Uh-oh. Blossom was defending him now. Not good.
“Maybe we should take another look at Larson,” I backpedaled. “He certainly has motive, and we did see him near Mystic. He doesn’t look like a psychopath, though.” Wasn’t Mickey the one who insisted we should visit Mystic? I remembered. Double uh-oh.
“Gayaaah na jiiimm,” Blossom said, pulling me back to the conversation. The thing with psychopaths is they blend right in. “Bluahmunah.” Not like me.
“Be honest, though, Bloss,” I said, eyeing our bobber, which was lazing atop the pond in absolute stillness. “You look damn good, zombie or no. Remember Patty’s brother? Half-faced Hal? You practically look like a living person compared to him.” Blossom smiled her wide gummy smile at the memory. She followed my eyes to the bobber, which remained motionless, then stood up, wiping her hands on her jeans.
“Laauuuglah vergahh pooga,” she said. We’re not going to catch any fish this way. “Maaawaaa ghnaaa goooduh.” There are some advantages to being undead, after all. She pulled her hair back and tucked it into the neckline of her Wonder Woman shirt, walking toward the pond.
“Mom will ground us both if you go in ther
e,” I shouted, but I was laughing. Blossom dismissed me with a wave. She didn’t hesitate at the shoreline, just shambled right on in, and I watched as the pond rose to meet her knees, waist, elbows . . . until the top of her head disappeared under the water. I sat on the blanket, munching some potato chips. After a few minutes with nary a ripple on the surface, I started to get nervous. It seemed like Blossom had been gone an awful long time. I reeled in the fishing line, wondering if I could cast out to where Blossom had gone under and get her attention. Suddenly, the pond erupted as Blossom hightailed it to the grassy bank. She had two squirming brown catfish under each arm, and one wriggling red-breasted sunfish in her mouth. She ran up to the bucket and dropped the catfish in, then spat out the sunfish on top.
“Dawuhaaagh,” she said, clapping her hands. I clapped with her. Not a bad haul!
“That might be your best zombie superpower yet!” I laughed, still applauding. Blossom started to turn, as if looking behind her, like a dog chasing its tail.
“Gnugghh muuaaaaahh,” she said worriedly. There’s something wrong with my leg.
Then I spotted a large, mucky discus with a neck and beak, clamped to the back of her jeans. “Stop moving,” I said, looking for something to fend off her attacker. “Stop! You have a snapping turtle stuck to your leg!”
She started to shriek while I quickly found a branch and started poking the turtle’s head. No give. That turtle had its prize, and it wasn’t letting go.
“Give it the sunfish! Quick, the fish!”
She dragged her leg and the turtle back toward our bucket of fish and pulled out the still-flopping sunfish. The turtle immediately let go of Blossom’s pants leg and snapped its jaws at the sunfish, shearing it in half. We scooped up the bucket and Dad’s pole and barreled down the road back toward our house. We didn’t stop until we burst through the front door and locked it behind us, shrieking the whole way.
“Is it chasing us?” I managed to choke out, and Blossom peeked out the window of the front door and shook her head. She was soaking wet, and her jeans were streaked with sludge from the bottom of the pond. Mom would scream at the bacteria that were probably breeding on her skin at that very moment.
“C’mon, I’ll dry you off before Mom sees you and goes ballistic,” I said. We escaped to the bathroom, leaving our prize bullheads gulping in their bucket, forgotten in the hallway.
Dad did not join us for dinner that night. Mom explained quietly that there’d been another Frankenstein attack. “I don’t want to alarm you girls,” Mom said, “but it was one of the teachers at your school.”
“Which one?” I said, pausing before shoveling more grilled catfish in my mouth.
“Someone with a funny name, I think,” Mom said, trying to remember. “Youngblood? Youngman?”
“Youngquist?” I dropped my fork with a clang. Blossom continued gobbling her fresh fish cortex burger, unaffected by the conversation. “Is she okay?”
“She’s injured, but alive,” Mom said. “I think she’s at Hartford Hospital.”
There was a knock at the door. Mom got up to answer, and I heard low voices. Mom returned to the kitchen with two cops trailing her. I smiled and half-waved at Officer Pendleton, but he pretended not to see me.
“Blossom, honey? These officers have a few questions about the attack on the teacher. I’m not sure we can help, but I want you to answer their questions, okay?” Mom moved her chair next to Blossom and gestured to the officers to sit down. I copied Mom’s example and moved closer to my sister, flanking her on the other side.
“Uh, I’m not sure Jasmine has to be here,” Officer Pendleton said.
“Glaah nuglah!” Blossom said.
“Need me to interpret that, or did you get it all down, sir?” I smiled.
“You can stay.”
Pendleton and Detective Keeney grilled Blossom pretty hard about her whereabouts Saturday night when Ms. Youngquist was being attacked. Her responses were pretty simple: she’d been home with us; yes, Mom and Dad could verify that; no, she didn’t have Ms. Youngquist as a teacher, didn’t know where she lived, didn’t have anything against her.
“But—well, that doesn’t really matter in your case, does it?” Officer Pendleton asked. “I mean, do you have anything against the people you attack? It’s really more about eating their brains—anyone’s brains; is that an accurate statement?”
“Julleegah blagarnaghhh?” Blossom spat. He’d mentioned fresh human brains, so she was drooling a little, and spittle flew everywhere. Just whose brains do you think I’ve been eating? She had a point. She’d attacked a few people over the years—her own family included—but as far as I knew, she hadn’t actually been successful in killing anyone. Yet.
I knew the possibility was there, as much as I didn’t like to think about it. My sister was a predator, even if she’d been effectively neutralized by her lack of teeth. There was a reason the cops were here now, quizzing her. Because she had it in her. Even now, she was eyeing Detective Keeney’s buzz cut and licking her lips.
A raspy whistling interrupted the conversation. “What now?” Mom asked. Officer Pendleton drew his gun and slowly moved to the hallway. The sound was coming from outside. He opened the front door, flicked on the porch light, and looked around.
Mom’s Sebring sat in the front driveway with four quickly deflating tires. ZOMBIES ARE MURDERERS was spray painted on the side of the car. Pendleton looked around quickly, but there wasn’t a soul in sight on our street.
“Had to be the Anti-Zombie League,” I said glumly.
“Pretty ballsy of them to do this with a cop car in the driveway,” Mom added. She retreated back in the house, returning with a towel and a bucket of sudsy water. “I should get that off now while it’s still wet.”
“Anti-Zombie League?” Keeney asked. “Mind telling us a little more about that?”
~~**~~
After the police had taken our statements and called in the vandalism report, I begged Mom to take me to see Youngquist. I whined about how she was my absolute favorite teacher and the only reason why I enjoyed English literature at all. I mentioned how she’d opened my eyes to classic literature and even taught me who Ray Bradbury was (not, as it turns out, the maker of Bradbury crème eggs). Mom eventually gave in. “Blossom’s staying after tomorrow to serve her detention and finish up a project in shop,” Mom said, after hanging up with AAA about her tires. “If I can get these tires replaced, I’ll pick you up after school, and we can go see your teacher.”
Later, I sidled up to Blossom as she entertained herself by banging repeatedly into the refrigerator.
“Mickey had Youngquist last year,” I whispered. “He said she hated him.”
“Magwaah,” Blossom murmured sadly.
Motive.
THIRTEEN
In algebra class Monday morning, I told Andy what I knew about the attack on both Youngquist and my mother’s car, which was, to be honest, not much. We were supposed to be working in pairs to figure out the square footage of the Mohegan Sun arena, but Andy just Googled the answer, worked backward to show the steps netting the right result, and we had fifteen minutes to kill while the rest of the class solved the problem by more honest and respectable means. He was fidgety, probably nervous we’d be caught cheating, but the rest of the class and the teacher ignored us.
“Mickey told me he had Youngquist, and that she didn’t like him,” I said.
“Okay, but you need to look at this from all angles,” Andy said, methodically drawing xs and ys on a piece of paper with a ruler in case the teacher wanted to check our hard work. He’d draw an x, erase it, and then use a piece of Scotch tape to collect all the eraser remnants. His fastidiousness was adorably quirky. “First of all, Mickey isn’t a big guy. How is he managing to kill all of these people? Secondly, where was he when all these attacks happened? You don’t even know if he has an alibi.” I smiled goofily at Andy. His eyes turned the dreamiest shade of sapphire when he was positing theories. He scowled. “A
re you even listening to me?”
“Um, yeah. Alibi. Right. I guess I could ask him?”
“How are you going to do that, Miss Thang? Hypnotize him with your seductive smile and get him to confess everything? I don’t think I like that idea.”
“I’ll start with the latest incident and work back. Youngquist was attacked Saturday night, according to Pendleton and Keeney. I’ll just ask him what he did this past weekend and go from there.” I shrugged.
“Speaking of alibis,” Andy said gently, “you might want to make sure Blossom’s is lined up for all of the attacks. I heard Youngquist was bitten on the arm, and they think a zombie was responsible.”
“What?” This was news. I frowned. “Doesn’t matter—Blossom already talked to the cops. They cleared her.”
“Are you sure?” Andy said. I nodded, though I couldn’t recall now that Pendleton had said Blossom was off the suspect list. Had he implied it? He must have. Wait—had he? I shook my head.
“Like I told them, we were together at the mall the whole time when Blue Pixie was murdered. And all of us—Mom, Dad, Blossom, and me—were stuck like glue at Mystic Aquarium. Believe me, I wanted to get away. And we weren’t even at the bonfire yet when Jillian died.”
“If the time of death is right.” Andy nudged my elbow. “I know they gave a preliminary time of death at the scene, but they get those wrong all the time. Don’t you watch CSI? Nobody will know for sure when Jillian died until the autopsy report is released. It could’ve been later. And Blossom wandered off, remember?”
The smile froze on my face. Yes, she had wandered off, just for a few minutes, but long enough, maybe . . . just like she’d meandered away from Mom at the aquarium. And she’d been starving at Mystic, going after the whales and the penguins. But the mall? We’d been together the whole time.
Except when I’d left her to rent the wheelchair. Only a few minutes . . . but time enough.
“It wasn’t Blossom,” I said again, but my cheeks were cold with fear. “She isn’t capable—I mean, literally, she isn’t physically capable. She has no teeth. She can’t bite anyone!” I felt stupid saying that for the millionth time, but why wouldn’t anyone listen?