“He didn’t hear me coming,” Klara said. “He was under the covers, so he couldn’t hear me. He doesn’t even know that I killed him yet!”
Astrid looked from the bed to Klara. Hands shaking, she put the torn-up comforter back into place, covering the knife.
“Astrid! Where’d you go?” Hank’s voice rang out from below.
“She’s up here with me,” Klara called. Then, to Astrid: “He’s going to be so surprised when he sees what I did!”
Hank’s footfalls hammered up the stairs. A moment later he appeared in the doorframe. As soon as he saw the expression on her face, Astrid could tell that he understood. Something had gone horribly wrong.
“Don’t touch her,” Astrid said.
“I killed you,” Klara said, spinning around to beam at her stepson. Then, once she actually saw him standing there, her expression soured. “Why didn’t you die when I killed you, Hank? That doesn’t seem fair to me.”
Astrid reached out and grabbed at the sleeve of Klara’s bathrobe. She gently pulled the woman backward, lowering her down into a chair that sat against the wall. Then, careful to use her other hand, she took Hank by the elbow and led him through the doorframe and out of the room. Klara made no move to chase after them. She just sat there on the chair, patting down the sides of her robe.
“Did either of you see where I put my knife?” Klara asked.
Astrid didn’t respond. She closed the door behind them, keeping her fist tight on the knob. Hank just stood there, his whole face drained of blood. “She’s . . . Is she . . . ?” He couldn’t bring himself to say the word.
Just as Astrid nodded, Klara called from inside the bedroom, “Oh, forget I asked—I found it!”
The doorknob began to jostle in Astrid’s grip.
“How could she have caught it?” Hank asked.
“It has to be your dad,” Astrid said, holding tighter to the knob. “He must have gotten it when he moved Eliza’s body.”
This sent a jolt right through Hank. He recoiled from her, his back pressed up against the railing. “God, if my dad . . . Then I—then I could . . .”
For a moment Astrid was afraid that he might throw himself over the railing to get away from her. To keep her safe from himself in case he, too, was infected. But in his panic, Hank wasn’t thinking.
“I can’t catch it, remember?” Astrid said, as soothingly as she was able while still keeping a firm grip on the doorknob. “And it’s been a week. If you’d been exposed, you’d be sick by now.”
Hank nodded at her frantically. “I’d be sick by now,” he agreed. “If I had it, I’d be sick by now.” Slowly he released his grip on the railing. “And my dad . . . He hit me before he moved Eliza’s body. I didn’t ever . . . I never touched her,” Hank said haltingly, talking himself off the ledge.
“That’s right,” Astrid said. “And you’ve been staying with my mom ever since.”
For another moment Hank just stood there, nodding. The horrible irony of what had happened wasn’t lost on either of them. In his attempt to make Amblin Gold look like he’d risked their safety, Henry Bushkirk had completely shattered it. He’d cast himself, and Klara, down among the wicked. And if the two of them were sick, there was no telling how many other people he might have exposed. Mr. Bushkirk may as well have opened all the hatches and let a whole swarm of singers into the greenway. Meanwhile, on the other side of the bedroom door, Klara continued to fiddle with the doorknob.
“A little help?” Astrid said.
“Shit—sorry!” Hank leapt back into action, rushing into the master bedroom at the far end of the landing. He emerged with a length of rope, and for a second Astrid was worried that he meant to try to tie Klara up. But instead Hank knotted one end of the rope around the doorknob and the other around the landing railing. It was such an odd, such a specific thing to do. Astrid understood without asking that Hank’s father had done this to him when he was small. To lock him inside. To punish him for . . . who knew what. God, Henry Bushkirk had been wicked long before he’d ever caught this disease.
Carefully, she released the doorknob. The door pulled back about an inch, just enough to see the gleam in Klara’s delighted eyes, before snapping closed again.
“Hey, I think there’s something wrong with this,” she called to them. “Could one of you help me out, please?”
They both took a step away from the door. For a moment they could only stare at it, dumbfounded about what to do next.
“Did you find the boat key?” Astrid asked.
Hank nodded.
“I don’t need a boat key.” His stepmom groaned from inside the bedroom. “I need a door key.”
“Can she even understand us?” Hank asked.
“I don’t know,” Astrid said. “I think so.”
“Klara,” he called out. “Are you . . . ? Are you in there?”
“Of course I am, honey!”
“I’m sorry about this,” Hank said.
For a moment his stepmom quit tugging at the doorknob. “No, I am,” she said. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I tried so hard, Hank. But I didn’t do it right the first time. I’d like a second chance, please.”
Of course, she only meant a second chance at stabbing him.
• • •
They left Hank’s house in a daze. Astrid’s legs carried her numbly down the stairs, out the front door, and through the greenway shunt. The enormity of what had happened seemed too much to fit into her head all at once. She and Hank agreed, without saying a word, to go to the plaza. They crept through the dairy gardens, peeking through the opening and into the big airy space.
The scene that greeted them appeared normal at first. A large banner hung above the stage, reading: THANK YOU, RONNIE GOLD! THANK YOU, INVESTORS! Below that, smaller text read: FORTY YEARS THRIVING IN A WICKED WORLD. The banquet tables had already been set up, each draped in white lace. Name cards, empty glasses, and bouquets of greenhouse flowers sat atop each table. Ribbons and streamers cascaded from the glass walls, and Mrs. Lee’s party-planning committee had hung the old photographs up around the edges of the plaza. Some of the members—Mrs. Wrigley and Mr. Pratt—were still there, fussing with the decorations. Trying to make everything perfect.
But something was wrong. Astrid’s eyes were drawn to the Abbitt twins at the center of the plaza, in the midst of a gathering crowd. The twins were huddled over what looked like a ruined sandcastle. They seemed not to care one bit that they were getting sand and grit all over their evening gowns. When Astrid looked more closely at the castle, she could see a pair of bare feet sticking out, near the base. She searched the other side of the sandcastle, but she couldn’t find a head to go with those feet.
“There’s my dad,” Hank hissed, pointing down at the far end of the plaza. There, a group of investors were digging pits for the clambake. The work had a frantic quality to it, with shovelfuls of sand flying out of one pit and into another. But nobody seemed to mind—the diggers cackled like children at play. They chucked unearthed shells and stones at one another. Henry Bushkirk himself stood atop a mound of sand, surveying the work with his hands on his hips. Beside him was Mr. Gregory, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, a smashed-in party hat, and an expression of placid delight. He was seated in a wheelbarrow.
“How did it spread so quickly?” Hank asked.
“I don’t know . . . ,” Astrid said. Instinctively, they reached for each other. Astrid squeezed Hank’s hand, and he squeezed back.
It was clear to her that while they’d been pawing through the archives and sneaking food from the grocery, the wickedness had marched steadily through the sanctuary. But could it have touched everyone in just a few days? Astrid scanned the crowd, catching sight of Abigail Lee seated upon the stage, gazing out at the other investors with glazed horror. Missy Van Allen was beside her. They both looked awful, with red noses and dark circles under their eyes. Mrs. Lee blew wetly into a handkerchief.
“We have to go,” Hank said.
Astrid nodded at the two ladies on the stage. “They still look true.”
“They’re already sick,” Hank said, desperation rising in his voice. His hand tightened on Astrid’s, and he began to pull her away from the opening. “If they haven’t fallen wicked yet, they will soon.”
“But there have to be others,” Astrid said. “Others who haven’t caught it. This isn’t even half the town.”
It was almost as though Mrs. Lee sensed that somebody was talking about her, because at that moment her bloodshot eyes settled upon Hank and Astrid lurking by the plaza entrance. Mrs. Lee stood and made a very clear shooing motion. She mouthed: Don’t run.
“We can’t stay here,” Hank whispered, pulling harder now. “You know that.”
He was right. Together they backed out of the plaza. It was all they could do to keep from breaking into a sprint. They returned to the western hatch, where Hank began to pull his bee suit on with shaking fingers. While he did this, Astrid dunked her left hand—the one she’d touched Klara with—into the big bucket of quiet to disinfect it. She might not have been able to catch the wickedness, but she didn’t want those germs hitching a ride on her. The frothing blue liquid burned her skin.
Outside, the singers rejoiced.
“I thought I heard you two!”
Astrid and Hank turned and saw Mr. Collins standing about twenty paces down the glass hallway. He was ready for the ceremony—all done up in a three-piece suit, complete with a pocket square. He’d even combed and trimmed his beard.
“Hurry up, please,” Astrid whispered to Hank.
“That is you two little lovebirds I hear, isn’t it?” Mr. Collins asked. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. Astrid could see the pair of golden bifocals sticking out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “Just say something so I know it’s you. Someone turned off my eyes, I think.”
Neither of them answered. Hank stepped into his rubber boots. Astrid helped him tighten the elastic on his pant legs while he pulled the coarse fabric of the bee suit up over his waist. Mr. Collins stood there, tapping his finger against his bearded chin.
“Oh, I just remembered!” the old gentleman yelped. “There’s something that I want to show you.” With that he began patting down the pockets of his vest and trousers. His fingers settled lightly on the golden frames of his eyeglasses, and he pulled them out of the pocket. “No . . . ,” Mr. Collins said, “that’s not what I want.” He flicked the eyeglasses away, both lenses popping out as they smashed against the greenway wall.
“Did either of you kids happen to see where I put it?”
“Yes,” Astrid said, breathless. “I think you left it at home.”
The top half of Hank’s suit was all twisted up. His arms couldn’t find the sleeves. Astrid tried her best to help, but it seemed like they were succeeding only in tying themselves into knots.
Mr. Collins mustn’t have liked Astrid’s answer, because he continued patting himself down. He finally reached into his belt and fished out a pistol. He held the gun up to his own face for a moment, giving it a look of loving surprise. Then he aimed it roughly at Hank and pulled the trigger. All that came out of the pistol was a click, like snapping teeth.
“Fuck.” Hank was in a full-on panic. Astrid wasn’t far behind, her hands shaking as she tried desperately to help him into the bee suit.
Mr. Collins seemed utterly tickled. “I know! Stupid me. But don’t you worry, I’ll get this sorted out.” He dug his fist into his pants and pulled out a handful of glittering bullets. Flipping the cylinder open, he tried to load the pistol. A single bullet slid home before he spilled the rest. They clattered down onto the tiled floor of the greenway. Mr. Collins began to giggle as if this were simply the most hilarious thing he had ever seen in his life.
“What a klutz I am!”
With great effort he squatted down and began to recover the bullets. One by one he slid them into the cylinder of his pistol.
Astrid yanked one of Hank’s arms through the suit, yelling at him to hurry up. But he froze—stuck between fight and flight. Without warning he lurched toward Mr. Collins, hands clenched into fists. But Astrid held him back.
“If you touch him, you’ll get it!” she shouted. “Just get your other arm in!”
It was too late to charge him anyway. Mr. Collins had finished loading his pistol.
“There I go,” he said, winching himself back up into a standing position. He aimed the pistol once more and squeezed off a shot. The sound in the enclosed space was deafening as the bullet struck right between their heads. The reinforced greenway wall made a sucking sound as it absorbed the shot, and a thousand milky cracks blossomed across the ballistic glass.
“It sounds like I missed,” Mr. Collins announced, undaunted. He very deliberately moved the pistol a few inches to the right and fired again. This time the shot cut through the quiet-laden woolen curtains. Again, he adjusted his aim.
Astrid tugged, Hank shoved, and in went his other arm. His bonnet remained unfastened, but they were out of time. Astrid reached through the curtains, grabbed the bucket that sat in the quiet room, and hurled the contents at Hank. The blue liquid splashed across his chest, spattering up over his face. Some of it got into his mouth and eyes. It would have to be enough.
“Run!” Astrid cried as Hank pawed at his eyes. “Run!”
And they ran, dashing through the curtains, across the quiet room, out the western hatch, and into the open air. The singers cried hallelujah, and Mr. Collins kept on shooting.
CHAPTER 30
Mom
THE SINGERS CHASED HANK ALL the way across the barren north shore. They swarmed a few paces behind him, diving for his bare head, pulling away only at the last minute. The quiet must have been just enough to keep them at bay. Mr. Collins chased them as well, though much more slowly. The sand jumped up around Astrid’s and Hank’s feet as he shot at them. “I sure wish I could see you better!” the old man called, full of good humor, as he stopped to reload.
By the time they got to Ria’s house, she’d heard them coming. Ria stood guard just inside her makeshift quiet room. She opened the front door the moment their boots hit her deck, slamming it shut again as soon as they were through. But as fast as Ria had been, a single singer still managed to make it inside.
Ria took cover behind the treated curtains. Hank, terrified, just kept running through the house. He knocked over chairs and splashed blue poison everywhere, yelping with fright, wild as a mad horse, the singer always only inches behind him. Astrid tried to keep herself together. She chased after Hank, catching the singer in her bare hands. It took all her strength to crush the nasty little thing between her palms.
“That wasn’t . . . Was that Mr. Collins chasing after you?” Ria asked, coming out from behind the curtains. She went into the den to peek through the screened-in window.
Before they could answer her, another shot rang out, splintering the banister of the veranda outside. They all dove to the floor.
“Yes!” Hank spit quiet out of his mouth as he spoke. “They’re wicked,” he sputtered, his eyes enormous.
“What? Who is?”
“Everybody!” Hank cried out. He rolled onto his back, cradling his head in his hands. “My father—my father—he gave it to everybody.” Hank made a choking sound.
Ria looked at Astrid. Her face said that she didn’t want to believe it.
“We don’t know if it’s everybody,” Astrid said. “But it’s most of them. They’re all in the plaza, getting ready for the party.”
Hank began to pull at his hair. “How could I not have said anything?” he moaned. “It’s my fault. I didn’t say anything about how he—how he touched the wicked lady’s body. I didn’t say!” It still sounded like he was choking, like he couldn’t get his breathing right. Hank began to roll from side to side on the floor, deep in a full-blown meltdown. Astrid had never seen him like this. Then he rolled over one of the unfastened buckles of his bee suit and nearly jumped out of his
own skin.
“What is that?” he screamed. “Is that a singer?”
“Hank.” Ria crawled toward him. “Hank, look at me now.”
“Get it off me,” Hank shrieked, flopping around like the floor was a hot skillet.
“Hank.” Ria put both hands flat on his chest and pressed down hard, pinning him. “That wasn’t a singer. You need to calm down.”
Hank looked up at Ria and took a long, quavering breath. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. I’m sorry.”
From outside there was another gunshot. A window shattered on the second floor, the glass chiming as it fell. Mr. Collins whooped with delight. Then he shot out another window, this time on the ground floor. The wire screen puckered inward, and shards of glass went flying. They landed at Astrid’s feet.
“Nothing to be sorry about,” Ria said, ignoring everything that was happening outside. She rubbed her hands in a slow circle on Hank’s chest. “Let’s get that suit the rest of the way on you.” Ria glanced at Astrid, nodding toward her own bee suit hanging on a peg by the quiet room. With Mr. Collins shooting out windows, it was only a matter of time before more singers found their way inside.
Astrid scooted over to the wall and slipped the suit from the peg. Then she helped Hank and her mother dress. Just as she fastened her mother’s bonnet, they heard footsteps on the front stoop.
“Hi there, Tommy,” Ria called out, keeping her voice nice and steady.
“I can hear you, but I can’t see you,” Mr. Collins answered. “Somebody made my eyes go all fuzzy.”
“You should probably get that fixed,” Ria said. Then, without missing a beat, she continued. “Tell me, Tommy, do you have any bullets left?”
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