“This is my home,” he said. “I can do things here.”
The sound of shoes slapping against the pavement, and two men were on the other side of the gates, rattling them, pulling at them.
“Hul-lo,” said Jack Ketch, with a twitch of his mustache, and he smiled at Scarlett through the bars like a rabbit with a secret. He had a black silk cord tied around his left forearm, and now he was tugging at it with his gloved right hand. He pulled it off his arm and into his hand, testing it, running it from hand to hand as if he was about to make a cat’s cradle. “Come on out, girlie. It’s all right. No one’s going to hurt you.”
“We just need you to answer some questions,” said the big blond man, Mr. Nimble. “We’re on official business.” (He lied. There was nothing official about the Jacks of All Trades, although there had been Jacks in governments and in police forces and in other places besides.)
“Run!” said Bod to Scarlett, pulling at her hand. She ran.
“Did you see that?” said the Jack they called Ketch.
“What?”
“I saw somebody with her. A boy.”
“The boy?” asked the Jack called Nimble.
“How would I know? Here. Give me a hand up.” The bigger man put his hands out, linked them to make a step, and Jack Ketch’s black-clad foot went into it. Lifted up, he scrambled onto the top of the gates and jumped down to the drive, landing on all fours like a frog. He stood up, said, “Find another way in. I’m going after them.” And he sprinted off up the winding path that led into the graveyard.
Scarlett said, “Just tell me what we’re doing.” Bod was walking fast through the twilit graveyard, but he was not running, not yet.
“How do you mean?”
“I think that man wanted to kill me. Did you see how he was playing with that black cord?”
“I’m sure he does. That man Jack—your Mister Frost—he was going to kill me. He’s got a knife.”
“He’s not my Mister Frost. Well, I suppose he is, sort of. Sorry. Where are we going?”
“First we put you somewhere safe. Then I deal with them.”
All around Bod, the inhabitants of the graveyard were waking and gathering, worried and alarmed.
“Bod?” said Caius Pompeius. “What is happening?”
“Bad people,” said Bod. “Can our lot keep an eye on them? Let me know where they are at all times. We have to hide Scarlett. Any ideas?”
“The chapel crypt?” said Thackeray Porringer.
“First place they’ll look.”
“Who are you talking to?” asked Scarlett, staring at Bod as if he had gone mad.
Caius Pompeius said, “Inside the hill?”
Bod thought. “Yes. Good call. Scarlett, do you remember the place where we found the Indigo Man?”
“Kind of. A dark place. I remember there wasn’t anything to be scared of.”
“I’m taking you up there.”
They hurried up the path. Scarlett could tell that Bod was talking to people as he went, but could only hear his side of the conversation. It was like hearing someone talk on a phone. Which reminded her…
“My mum’s going to go spare,” she said. “I’m dead.”
“No,” said Bod. “You’re not. Not yet. Not for a long time.” Then, to someone else, “Two of them, now. Together? Okay.”
They reached the Frobisher mausoleum. “The entrance is behind the bottom coffin on the left,” Bod said. “If you hear anyone coming and it’s not me, go straight down to the very bottom…do you have anything to make light?”
“Yeah. A little LED thing on my keyring.”
“Good.”
He pulled open the door to the mausoleum. “And be careful. Don’t trip or anything.”
“Where are you going?” asked Scarlett.
“This is my home,” said Bod. “I’m going to protect it.”
Scarlett squeezed the LED keyring, and went down on her hands and knees. The space behind the coffin was tight, but she went though the hole into the hill and pulled the coffin back as best she could. In the dim LED light she could see stone steps. She stood upright, and, hand on the wall, walked down three steps, then stopped and sat, hoping that Bod knew what he was doing, and she waited.
Bod said, “Where are they now?”
His father said, “One fellow’s up by the Egyptian Walk, looking for you. His friend’s waiting down by the alley wall. Three others are on their way over, climbing up the alley wall on all the big bins.”
“I wish Silas was here. He’d make short work of them. Or Miss Lupescu.”
“You don’t need them,” said Mr. Owens encouragingly.
“Where’s Mum?”
“Down by the alley wall.”
“Tell her I’ve hidden Scarlett in the back of the Frobisher’s place. Ask her to keep an eye on her if anything happens to me.”
Bod ran through the darkened graveyard. The only way into the northwest part of the graveyard was through the Egyptian Walk. And to get there he would have to go past the little man with the black silk rope. A man who was looking for him, and who wanted him dead…
He was Nobody Owens, he told himself. He was a part of the graveyard. He would be fine.
He nearly missed the little man—the Jack called Ketch—as he hurried into the Egyptian Walk. The man was almost part of the shadows.
Bod breathed in, Faded as deeply as he could Fade, and moved past the man like dust blown on an evening breeze.
He walked down the green-hung length of the Egyptian Walk, and then, with an effort of will, he became as obvious as he could, and kicked at a pebble.
He saw the shadow by the arch detach itself and come after him, almost as silent as the dead.
Bod pushed through the trailing ivy that blocked the Walk and into the northwest corner of the graveyard. He would have to time this just right, he knew. Too fast and the man would lose him, yet if he moved too slowly a black silk rope would wrap itself around his neck, taking his breath with it and all his tomorrows.
He pushed noisily through the tangle of ivy, disturbing one of the graveyard’s many foxes, which sprinted off into the undergrowth. It was a jungle here, of fallen headstones and headless statues, of trees and holly bushes, of slippery piles of half-rotted fallen leaves, but it was a jungle that Bod had explored since he had been old enough to walk and to wander.
Now he was hurrying carefully, stepping from root-tangle of ivy to stone to earth, confident that this was his graveyard. He could feel the graveyard itself trying to hide him, to protect him, to make him vanish, and he fought it, worked to be seen.
He saw Nehemiah Trot, and hesitated.
“Hola, young Bod!” called the poet. “I hear that excitement is the master of the hour, that you fling yourself through these dominions like a comet across the firmament. What’s the word, good Bod?”
“Stand there,” said Bod. “Just where you are. Look back the way I came. Tell me when he comes close.”
Bod skirted the ivy-covered Carstairs grave, and then he stood, panting as if out of breath, with his back to his pursuer.
And he waited. It was only for a few seconds, but it felt like a small forever.
(“He’s here, lad,” said Nehemiah Trot. “About twenty paces behind you.”)
The Jack called Ketch saw the boy in front of him. He pulled his black silk cord tight between his hands. It had been stretched around many necks, over the years, and had been the end of every one of the people it had embraced. It was very soft and very strong and invisible to X-rays.
Ketch’s mustache moved, but nothing else. He had his prey in his sight, and did not want to startle it. He began to advance, silent as a shadow.
