Nick tried to think it all through. But his brain seemed to be running at half speed lately. “How does Mazoo fit in? If he’s a bad guy, he could have grabbed me any time he wanted at the funeral.”
“Except you didn’t have the amulet yet,” Angelo said.
That was true. If Mazoo was trying to get the amulet, he would have had to wait until after Nick discovered it in the graveyard. “Why would Mazoo tell me about the desk though?”
“No clue.” Angelo picked up the gleaming metal bottle. “But your Aunt Lenore was a voodoo queen, right?”
Nick and Carter nodded.
“So let’s say she wanted to get you a message. Wouldn’t she use voodoo to do it?”
“You think the bottle is some kind of charm or something?” Nick asked. It did make a strange kind of sense.
“I don’t know,” Angelo said. “But I do know someone who might.”
“I’m sorry,” the woman behind the reference desk said. “But Mr. Blackham won’t be in until four.”
Nick looked at the clock on the library wall. It wasn’t even two yet.
“That’s okay,” Angelo said. “We’ll come back then.” The three boys found a table far enough away from any other readers that no one could overhear them.
“You want to ask a librarian about voodoo?” Carter asked, the skepticism clear in his voice.
“Not just any librarian,” Angelo said. “Mr. Blackham is a professional historian. People all around the world hire him to research crazy stuff.”
“Why not just look it up yourself in a toilet?” Nick said.
Angelo’s forehead wrinkled and Carter snickered.
“I mean a book,” Nick said. It was annoying to think one thing and have your mouth say something completely different. “There are lots of books around here. Why do we have to wait?”
“We can look,” Angelo said. “But some of the best books—the really old ones—are kept in the back and they don’t let just anyone see them.”
Nick guessed he didn’t mind. It wasn’t like he had anything else to do. And besides, at least they had stopped to get something to eat before coming here. He’d finished off the last of the brain substitute—licking the final bits of red hamburger and dog food off the inside of the container—so his stomach wasn’t growling like a broken vacuum cleaner anymore.
For the next two hours, the boys pored over all the books they could find on voodoo, treasures, or zombies. It turned out Angelo had checked them all out before and he was right. None of them had anything that might provide any information about the gold bottle.
At exactly four o’clock, a shadow dropped over the table. Nick looked up to see a pale man with slick black hair and piercing black eyes. He was wearing a strange-looking coat that had normal sleeves but came down to his knees, like a superhero’s cape. Not that Nick had ever seen a superhero dressed all in black—unless you considered Zorro a superhero. And this guy definitely wasn’t Zorro.
“I understand you are looking for me.” The man’s voice was somehow both soft and penetrating at the same time.
Nick wasn’t sure he could talk. Something about the man’s eyes freaked him out a little.
Fortunately Angelo spoke up. “Mr. Blackham. These are my friends, Nick and Carter. We need your advice on something. Nick’s great-aunt died last week. When Nick went to the funeral in Louisiana, he discovered a bunch of weird stuff in her basement. We think she might be a—”
Nick shot Angelo a warning look. How did he know they could trust this guy? Or that he’d even believe them if they could?
The tall man nodded as if Nick had spoken the questions out loud, and tapped his chin. “A voodoo queen?”
Carter’s mouth dropped open. “How could you possibly know that?”
“I pay attention to what my patrons read,” the man said, tilting his chin toward the table where they’d been studying.
Had he been spying on them? Nick’s heart leaped into his throat at the thought of this strange man watching them without their knowledge. But he also felt a surge of hope. If the librarian knew about their suspicions and was still willing to talk with them, maybe he was more than he appeared.
“We can trust him,” Angelo said. “He knows about all kinds of strange stuff.”
They’d only just met the man, but already Nick was beginning to feel the same way. There was something about Mr. Blackham that made Nick sense the librarian wouldn’t laugh at them, no matter how crazy their story might sound. “She left me something.” Nick reached into his pocket, but the man quickly put up a hand encased in a black leather glove.
“Not here. Come into my office.” Mr. Blackham nodded at the woman behind the reference desk. “See that we are not disturbed.” And he led the boys through a maze of shelves and tall stacks of books.
At last they came to a large metal desk tucked into a kind of alcove at the back of the library. The desk was covered with not only books but also statues, arrowheads, maps, bits of broken pottery, and even a large rusty dagger. On the front of the desk, a nameplate read BARTHOLOMEW BLACKHAM, REFERENCE LIBRARIAN.
“Now then,” he said, settling himself into a deep leather chair behind the desk, “find a seat and tell me everything.”
Find was right. All of the chairs were buried beneath huge mounds of books and papers. It took nearly five minutes for the boys to clear them off.
Once they were seated, Angelo told the librarian everything. Nick waited for the man to laugh or disagree when Angelo told him about Nick turning into a zombie, but the man barely blinked an eye. It was almost like he knew everything Angelo was going to say before he said it.
When Angelo had finished speaking, Mr. Blackham pulled off his gloves one finger at a time. “Very interesting.”
“You believe us?” Nick asked.
“Why wouldn’t I?” the man said. Which Nick realized wasn’t exactly an answer. “You wouldn’t know it to look at this city now, but Pleasant Hill was once known as Oddville.”
“Oddville?” Carter sputtered. “What kind of a name is that?”
The man nodded as though Carter had asked exactly the right question. “The kind of name for a place where things aren’t always as they appear.” He laid his gloves on the desk and tilted his head toward Nick. “May I see the item your aunt left you?”
Nick dug into his pants pocket and pulled out the bottle.
Mr. Blackham turned the metal object over, sniffed it, shook it near his ear, and even touched it with the tip of his tongue.
Nick hadn’t thought of tasting it. “Do you know what it is?”
Mr. Blackham nodded, his dark eyes even blacker in the shadows here at the back of the library. “Have you ever heard of gros-bon-ange?” he asked. All three boys shook their heads.
“Translated literally, it means ‘great good angel.’ Along with the ti-bon-ange, ‘little good angel,’ it is thought by some people to make up the human soul. The gros-bon-ange is the body’s life force that remains after a person dies.”
Nick stared at the bottle as his mouth went dry.
Mr. Blackham set the object on the desk. “This is a pot tet, a head jar. Normally it would be made of crockery or porcelain. Inside is probably a lock of hair, a fingernail, perhaps a bit of clothing. The pot tet is used to hold the gros-bon-ange until it can be released to return to the cosmic energy where it came from.”
“That’s my aunt’s…” Nick’s throat was so tight he couldn’t get out the word.
The librarian smiled. His teeth were very long and very white. “Her soul. Or at least part of it.” He handed the gold bottle back to Nick, who felt a little uncomfortable holding it. It was like holding the ashes of someone who’d been cremated.
“Normally the pot would be opened by a loved one and the soul released,” Mr. Blackham said. “But whoever created this seems to have gone to great pains to keep it sealed. If she wanted you to have it, there must be a very important reason.” He reached under his desk, pulled out a heavy black
book, and handed it to Angelo. “Be careful with this. It’s quite irreplaceable.”
“Will the book tell me how to open this?” Nick asked.
Mr. Blackham seemed surprised by the question. “Absolutely not. I have no idea how to open your aunt’s pot tet. Or even if it can be opened. The book says nothing about that.”
“Then what good is it?” Nick asked. “And what am I supposed to do with the pot tet?”
“Perhaps we can discuss that another time,” Mr. Blackham said. “But I’m afraid you’re rather late.”
“Late for wh—”
Nick’s words were cut off by the ringing of a phone on Mr. Blackham’s desk. The librarian reached beneath a thick stack of papers and pulled out a phone receiver that looked at least fifty years old. “Yes?” he said, holding the phone to his ear. “He is.” He nodded. “I’ll send him right away.”
Mr. Blackham returned the phone to the stack of papers and smiled at Nick. “It seems you are late for dinner.”
“Oh my gosh!” Nick jumped up from the desk. He’d totally forgotten that tonight his dad’s boss was coming over for dinner. He’d promised to help clean up. “Gotta go,” he called, turning and racing toward the door.
He ran all the way home and arrived at the house trembling and covered with sweat. Apparently even zombies could get tired if they worked hard enough.
Mom was waiting just inside the front door when he walked in. “Do you have any idea what time it is? I’ve been calling all over trying to find you. Thank goodness at least Angelo tells his mother where he’s going.”
The living room was no longer filled with furniture, and Nick remembered he was supposed to have helped move it. “Sorry,” he said. “I lost track of boxer shorts. I mean time.” His mother’s eyes narrowed, but before she could say anything he started toward the stairs. “I’ll go clean up.”
“Change into a shirt and tie. And hurry. Mr. Ferguson is going to be here in fifteen minutes.”
“I have to wear a tie?” he whined. He hated ties. They made him feel like he couldn’t breathe—even if he didn’t exactly have to breathe.
“Yes, you do,” Mom said, sorting through a handful of silverware. She looked in Nick’s direction and sniffed. “Take a shower too, and use some of your dad’s cologne. Maybe it’s a teenage boy thing, but you smell like the chimpanzee cages at the zoo.”
Dad walked out of the kitchen carrying a steaming bowl. “That might not be such a bad thing. Mr. Ferguson’s bringing his niece. She’s about your age and I hear she loves chimps.”
Nick’s mouth dropped open. Niece? No one had said anything about his dad’s boss bringing a girl to dinner. One look from his mom though and he knew arguing would be a very bad idea. Instead he stomped into his room, muttering to himself about the unfairness of being expected to have dinner with a girl.
By the time he was showered, changed, and sprinkled with a liberal amount of his dad’s cologne—which Nick personally thought smelled even worse than decomposing flesh—it was a few minutes after six. He walked into the dining room to see that his dad’s boss had already arrived. Mr. Ferguson and his wife were sitting down at the table as Nick’s dad told one of his long-winded jokes. Mrs. Ferguson, who looked about the same age as Nick’s mom, was dressed in a fancy black dress and pearls. Mr. Ferguson, who was almost completely bald, wore a dark gray suit. Seated beside them was a girl with red hair who looked strangely familiar, although Nick couldn’t see her face from that angle.
Dad finished his joke, and Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson laughed politely.
“John and Danyelle,” Mom said, clearly relieved to change the subject, “this is our son, Nicholas.”
Nick scowled at the use of his full name. He scowled even more when the girl turned around and he realized why she looked so familiar. It was Angie Hollingsworth.
“I understand you and our niece go to school together,” Mrs. Ferguson said.
“Um, yeah,” Nick muttered. So that’s what she’d meant when she’d told him she’d see him tomorrow night. How could his parents make him have dinner with Angie, of all people? Angie smirked at him as Nick took the only open seat beside her.
Dad grinned like this was the best news ever. “So you two are friends?”
“Oh, yes,” Angie said, batting her eyes and pretending to be thrilled. As Nick sat down, she leaned over to him and whispered, “You smell like a dead fish.”
“You look like one,” he whispered back with a fake smile.
“You two kids must have a lot in common,” Mrs. Ferguson said as Dad sliced the roast beef.
“Not really,” Nick started to say, but Angie cut him off.
“We do.” Angie gave him a look that made it clear she knew he couldn’t disagree in front of his dad’s boss. “In fact, he was telling us all about his exciting trip to Louisiana. I’d love to hear more about it.”
“Is that right?” Mom gave Nick a tight smile that he could read all too well. Don’t bring up any voodoo talk unless you want to be grounded until you’re old enough to vote.
She didn’t need to worry. He had no intention of giving Angie any more information than she already had. “Just a bunch of bald-headed monkeys.” Nick’s dad gave a strained laugh and Nick realized what he’d just said as his mom’s elbow jabbed him in the ribs. “I mean mosquitoes and alligators.”
Mr. Ferguson ran a hand over his smooth scalp. “I see.”
“I’ve heard some people still practice voodoo out there,” Angie said. “You know, spells and charms and…curses.”
Nick felt his stomach drop. Did she know something or was she guessing?
Nick’s dad looked pale. “Nick didn’t say anything about—ouch!” Dad glanced at Mom, who Nick was pretty sure had just kicked him under the table, and suddenly focused on passing around food.
Mom tapped her lips gently as she passed Dad the mashed potatoes. “Richard was going to say that his aunt had some lovely pieces of furniture.”
“Isn’t that nice,” Mrs. Ferguson said, spooning dressing over her salad.
Angie spooned some baby carrots onto her plate and handed them to Nick. “What were you three doing at the library today?” she whispered.
“You were spying on us?” he whispered back, taking as few vegetables as he could get away with.
As Dad and Mr. Ferguson launched into a conversation about someone who worked in the marketing department, Nick noticed his mother was watching him and Angie closely. A clear sign that he better not say anything rude if he valued life as he knew it. This was going to be the worst night ever. Not only did he have to make it look like he was actually eating something, but he also had to listen to Angie’s trash-talking without saying anything rude back.
“I told you we’d be watching.” Angie took a piece of roast beef from the platter. “Tiffany says you guys spent a long time reading up on voodoo. Care to explain why?”
“I don’t have to explain anything,” Nick said, searching for the rarest piece of meat he could find before passing the platter to his mother. “And I don’t know how much I’d trust Tiffany. As far as I can tell, she’s never read anything but fashion magazines and makeup instructions.”
Nick tried not to show it, but he was worried. He could rip on the girls all he wanted, but the truth was, they were smart. And sooner or later they were going to realize what the boys were up to. They would have already if the idea of Nick being an actual zombie wasn’t so completely crazy.
“Potatoes?” Mom said.
Nick took the mashed potatoes from his mother and the big bowl nearly slipped out of his fingers. Something was wrong. He could barely feel the bowl’s smooth surface. It was like his hands were numb. Gripping the spoon was like trying to squeeze an ice cube with a pair of chopsticks. He put as small a pile of potatoes as he could onto his plate and gratefully handed the bowl to Angie.
“Klutz,” she whispered.
As Angie reached for the bowl, Nick noticed the tip of something small and pink sticking u
p out of the pile of fluffy white potatoes. For a second he thought a baby carrot had fallen into the bowl. Then he looked at his right hand—the hand he had spooned the potatoes with. With mounting horror, he realized something was missing. His thumb and first three fingers looked normal. But his smallest finger—his pinky—was gone.
His eyes darted from the stump where his little finger should have been to the small pink tip sticking out of the potatoes. It was his finger. His pinky had fallen into the potatoes that first Angie, then Mrs. Ferguson, then his father’s boss were about to dish onto their plates.
Angie looked at him, perplexed. Clearly she knew something was wrong—just not what, yet. But he could imagine her shriek the moment she looked down at the potatoes and spotted the fingernail pointing up at her. Ordinarily that would have been something he’d look forward to. Not now. As soon as she realized what had happened, Angie would figure the whole thing out. And once she knew Nick was a zombie, she’d blab to everyone.
Angie’s gaze left his and started toward the mashed potatoes. There was no way he could get his finger back without everyone noticing. Any second, Angie would spot it. How could he explain that? He searched for a solution, but there was only one he could come up with. Angie’s hands closed around the bowl. Knowing this was not going to turn out well, Nick did the only thing he could think of.
With all his might, he shoved the bowl up and out. Angie’s eyes went wide. Her mouth opened in a small “oh” of shock. Nick watched with horror as the bowl sailed into the air. Potatoes flew everywhere. Some hit Angie in the face. A spray of white dots splattered across Mrs. Ferguson’s black dress like machine-gun fire. A mound of potatoes as big as Nick’s fist landed with a wet plop on Mr. Ferguson’s head.
Before anyone could respond, Nick dived to the floor, scooping up his finger and tucking it safely into his pocket. That’s when the yelling started.
“Guys, over here,” Nick whispered, waving out his bedroom window to Carter and Angelo, who were wheeling their bikes up the front walk. It was early enough Sunday morning that his parents weren’t up yet, but he didn’t want to take any chances.
Case File 13 Page 10