“Tom,” Benny said. “Some zoms must have gotten past you.”
“No. Not one.”
“But… Mr. Sacchetto… Zoms got to
Tom squatted down and rolled the dead artist over onto his back. He examined the man’s hands and wrists, lifted his shirt to look underneath. Tom’s lips were pursed and his eyes narrow and unreadable. Tom stood and walked quickly through the house, unlocked the back door, and stepped out onto the porch. Benny followed along and watched as Tom bent to examine the scuffed mud on the wood porch floor and the steps. The rain had washed most of it away, but there must have been enough left, because Tom made a disgusted sound and stared for a few seconds out into the darkness. Benny realized that the storm had eased, and there were no new screams, no additional gunshots.
Tom gently pushed Benny back inside and locked the door. Almost as an afterthought, he picked up the oak bar and slid it through the sleeves. Tom told Benny to wash the blood off his hands, and he gave him a bandage to wrap the finger with the torn nail. It hurt, but pain seemed to be such a small thing. All of this was done without words, and they walked back to the living room in silence and stood over the body. Benny could tell that Tom was working something out. His brother kept looking toward the back door and then down at Sacchetto.
“Damn,” Tom said softly, “I hate it when I’m right.”
Benny stood over Sacchetto, looking down at the body. He did not see the zombie. He saw the man who had painted the portrait of the Lost Girl. A man who had helped establish and build this town. A friend.
“What do you mean?” he asked Tom.
Tom studied his face for a moment and then nodded to himself, as if he’d just made a decision about whether it was safe to share his suspicions with Benny.
“Look at his fingers. Tell me what you see.”
Benny didn’t have to look. He’d already noticed how grotesquely crooked the artist’s hands had been.
“Someone did that to him,” Benny said. “While he was alive.”
Tom nodded. “His ribs are bruised, too, and it looks like someone knocked some of his teeth out, broke a couple others. Someone tortured him to death, Benny. And when he reanimated as a zom, he was brought here.”
“Brought here? Why would someone bring a zom here?” Benny demanded.
Tom looked at him with cold and dangerous eyes.
“Why, to kill us, of course.”
27
“WHO WANTS TO KILL US?” BENNY SAID.
Tom didn’t answer. Instead he asked, “Did you see anyone outside? Hear anyone?”
“No. Just the storm,” Benny said, then paused. “Well… I did hear one thing. Something hit the side of the house. I think it was a bullet. You said that bullets could travel a long way, so I figured it was a stray shot from the fight. Then someone started jiggling the doorknob. I thought you were trying to get back in. You didn’t take your keys with you, so I-”
Tom touched his shoulder. “It’s okay. I understand why you opened the door, and it’s my fault for not working out some kind of code. Like three knocks and then two.”
“Or how about just yelling through the door?” Benny said.
His brother grinned. “Right. Sorry. This has me a little rattled. But go back to the doorknob. You said someone turned it?”
“A couple of times.”
They looked down at the corpse. “I suppose Rob could have done it.”
“With broken fingers?”
“Zoms don’t feel pain, remember?”
“But… turning a doorknob? Zoms can’t-”
“It’s rare, but it’s been known to happen. Usually you get that sort of thing in the first couple of minutes after reanimation, because the longer someone is a zom, the less coordinated they are. The brain continues to die.”
“Has Mr. Sacchetto been dead that long?”
Tom knelt and put his fingertips against the artist’s skin. “Mmm, hard to say. Hot day, cold rain. But I doubt he’s been dead more than an hour or two. So, we’re in a gray area.”
“What’s the alternative?”
“Well, if Rob didn’t turn that doorknob, then someone else did. That same person, or
“But…
Tom’s lip curled into an almost feral grimace of anger. “‘Why,’ in this case, is the same as ‘who.’”
“What do you mean?”
“I would have thought it was obvious, kiddo. Whoever did this doesn’t want us to find the Lost Girl.”
That was all Benny needed. The pieces fell into place.
“Charlie?” he asked incredulously.
“Charlie. And Marion Hammer.”
“They weren’t out at Mr. Sacchetto’s house by accident, were they? They must have found out that the new set of Zombie Cards came out. Zak Matthias bought a dozen packs. He must have gotten one of the Lost Girl cards, too, and showed it to his uncle.”
“I’d bet on it.”
“Zak was at the store when I found my card. Maybe he went home and told his uncle. But even so, why would Charlie care about Lilah? He doesn’t even know her.” He paused and stared at Tom. “Does he?”
“Yes, he does,” said Tom. “And considering how tight Charlie is with Big Zak and your friend Zak Junior, Charlie probably has them primed to report back to him with
“Leave? For where?”
“For the Rot and Ruin, kiddo.”
“But… why?”
“Because we have to save the Lost Girl from Charlie Pink-eye and the Motor City Hammer,” said Tom. “And just pray that we’re not already too late.”
28
BUT THE NIGHT WAS NOT DONE WITH THE IMURA BROTHERS.
First they had to remove the artist’s body from the house and turn it over to the town watch. Two men came with a horse-drawn cart to remove the body, accompanied by Captain Strunk, who looked haggard and worn from the night’s activities. Once upon a time Strunk had been an acting teacher and director, but during the madness of First Night, he’d stepped up and organized the defense of a school that was attacked by zombies during a late rehearsal of a new play. The students held out for three weeks against the dead, always hoping that help would arrive. It never did, but eventually the zoms outside were drawn off by other distractions-people fleeing, animals
