The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,69

at the base of the outcropping behind them.

The flashing light was a beacon, showing them where they needed to go. “Do you think you can make it back up?” said Timothy, over his shoulder. Zilpha and Abigail followed him along the line of shrubbery in the direction of the cliffside.

“I’ll try,” said Zilpha.

“You’ll fail,” said a voice. Timothy turned around and found Jack standing several feet in front of him, blocking the long path that led to the stairs. He’d been waiting for them.

45.

To their right, the rock ledge dropped off to the river. To their left was the lighthouse. They had no way around Harwood. One slip, and over the cliff they’d fall.

“I don’t know how you did it,” said Harwood to Zilpha. “But I should have known. This is how you always beat your nemeses in those silly books.”

Zilpha shook her head. “Mr. Harwood,” she said evenly, as if to a small child, “those books are fiction. It seems to me that you’ve read them too many times. You’re correct that in popular fiction, the bad guy rarely wins. But this is real life, and I don’t believe that you’re truly bad.”

“Does that mean you’re not truly good?”

“I can’t answer that question,” said Zilpha. “But if it helps, in real life, I never hurt anybody.”

“Except for my father,” said Harwood, adjusting his hat.

“What are you gonna do?” said Abigail, stepping between the man and her grandmother. “Throw us off the cliff?”

“Good guess,” said Harwood. “Seems a bit disappointing after all the planning, to have to resort to something so simple. But I suppose I might receive some sort of satisfaction knowing that I handled it myself.” He took another step, forcing them all backward toward the edge of the rock.

“There is one thing I do not understand, Mr. Harwood,” said Zilpha. Timothy could tell she was trying to stall. “Why not just keep the jawbone to yourself? After you located it down in the crypt that your father built, you could’ve hurt us without putting it in the museum.”

Jack glared at her. “Four words: Zelda Kite, Youth Sleuth.”

“But Zelda was just a character in a book,” said Timothy. “Mrs. Kindred isn’t—”

“Mrs. Kindred did the research. Mrs. Kindred found me. Zelda Kite may have only been a character in a book, but her characteristics were based on Zilpha Kindred’s inhuman interest in finding answers to questions that don’t have answers. I see it runs in the family.” Harwood nodded at Abigail, who grunted angrily at him. “I brought the jawbone to the museum collection because if I didn’t, then how else would Zelda have learned what I was going to do? My plan changed once I learned of Abigail’s existence. Ah, but what would be the point in getting revenge on someone if they had no idea they’d been part of it? A missing granddaughter is a sad story, but to find out that the story has a connection with her own history, well, that changes things, doesn’t it? I knew Zelda would play detective. I let you find out it was me.”

“What if she’d stopped you?” said Timothy.

“But she didn’t.” Harwood blinked, his face a total blank. “And she won’t.”

“You’re ill,” said Zilpha.

“At least I’m no fool,” he countered. Harwood took another step, forcing them backward, past the lighthouse door to the river, until they were all crowded at the outcropping’s far edge. Timothy glanced around, looking for some other way out. The river rushed past sharp rocks twenty feet below.

“If we fall, I’ll take you with us,” said Abigail. “I swear.”

The old man laughed. “The girl’s got sass,” Harwood told Zilpha. “But that hasn’t stopped me yet.” He paused, thinking, then said, “No, that’s not quite how it goes….”

Timothy heard sirens coming over the Taft Bridge. Seconds later, on the cliff near his mother’s car, flashing lights appeared. The police. His father must have come home to discover his house a disaster, his son missing, and his wife’s car stolen. Surely, he’d alerted the authorities. Or maybe it had been Mrs. Mendelson….

“You’re too late,” said Timothy. “The police will help us.”

Harwood shrugged. “They’re awfully far away.” He took another step forward.

Behind him, the lighthouse door opened. Outlined in the halogen glow, a tall, thin shadow fell across the gravel path. Harwood did not notice, but the rest of them saw it clearly.

“Would it make any difference if I said I’m sorry?” the old woman asked, rushing. “Because I am. I’m very, very sorry you had to lose