I was on my second slice of sausage-and-mushroom when the Easties bicycle posse rounded the curve at the end of the street and came pelting past us, seven kids around Brandon’s age wearing hoodies and laden backpacks. One of them hurled a water balloon in our direction. It broke against the side of the LeBaron in an explosion of water and red food dye, most of it splattering Jen.
“Goddammit!” she shouted, hopping down. “Brandon Cassopolis, get back here!”
They didn’t even look back, let alone stop, instead pedaling hell for leather like kids in a Spielberg movie.
“We’re going after them.” I shoved the pizza box into the backseat. “Guys, hold the fort.”
Jen got behind the wheel and gunned the LeBaron. We nearly caught up with the Easties at the corner of Prospect, but a group of trick-or-treaters walked blithely across the street and she had to slam on the brakes while the bicyclists veered around the pedestrians. By the time we got through the intersection, the figures of the Easties were vanishing in the gathering dusk.
“That way.” I pointed, catching a glint as the last one turned onto Elm.
They ditched us in the labyrinth of short roads leading down the hill. “Left or right?” Jen asked at the next stop sign.
“Turn left,” I said. “They’re probably doubling back into town.” The victorious team in the Easties vs. Townies battle wasn’t exactly determined by scientific method. It was based on a rough estimate of who inflicted the most damage in the other’s neighborhood, or at least who bragged about it the loudest afterward. In the rearview mirror, I saw a second bicycle posse zooming around the corner of Elm in the opposite direction. That would be the Townies in hot pursuit. Apparently, the battle was shifting to East Pemkowet. “Uh-oh. My bad. They’re headed for the bridge.”
“Shit.” Jen tried to do a U-turn and had to wait for another group of costume-clad pedestrians.
I called Cody. He picked up immediately, his voice tense. “Daisy. What is it?”
“No ghosts yet,” I said. “Easties on bikes are on the move for home turf, Townies behind them. Can you head them off at the bridge? Brandon Cassopolis is with them.”
“On it.” He hung up.
At a bend in the road, over the river we caught one last glimpse of the Easties posse silhouetted in the lowering twilight as they pedaled furiously across the bridge, bent low over their handlebars, legs pumping. The Easties made it across and scattered into their own territory seconds before Cody arrived to pull the cruiser sideways across the street, strobe lights flashing red and blue.
Jen swore again, pounding the steering wheel with both hands. I winced. “I’m so sorry! I really thought they were headed back into town.”
She glanced at me, water and red dye still dripping from her hair in an unnerving Carrie-at-the-prom manner. “It’s not your fault, Daise. He shouldn’t be out here in the first place.”
The convertible top was down and the backwash of evening air over my skin made the fine hairs on my arms prickle, which in turn made me shiver. Everything felt wrong. It shouldn’t be this warm in October. It should be cool and crisp, the scent of wood smoke and autumn leaves hanging in the air. Not this. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that something very, very bad was coming.
“No one should,” I said to Jen. “Not tonight.”
Forty-six
Cody had succeeded in rounding up four Townies. Two had gotten away, as well as all of the Easties. The only information the Townies could give us was their next rendezvous point in East Pemkowet.
“Sorry about your brother,” Cody said to Jen. “I came as quickly as I could.”
“I know.”
While Cody dealt with the Townies, we cruised around East Pemkowet looking for Brandon and the other tween-aged bike hooligans. No dice. Even the Townies’ rendezvous point behind the storage shed at Tanner’s Landing was deserted, abandoned after their friends were caught. No one knows hiding places like twelve-year-old boys do. After half an hour, we gave up and drove back across the bridge to rejoin the others, eating cold pizza and watching the number of trick-or-treaters dwindle.
Ten minutes or so after full nightfall, Bethany called her sister back and promised to look out for Brandon. That was considerably more reassuring than I ever would have imagined just a few short weeks ago.
Otherwise, nothing continued to happen.
By nine o’clock, it was quiet on the hill. If the dead were waiting for an audience to make an appearance, it was obvious that it was going to happen elsewhere. Technically, that could mean any bar in town, but my money was on the adult parade in East Pemkowet, and everyone else agreed. Like I said, this community goes all-in for the holiday. It makes sense in a way. As far as tourism goes, for three hundred and sixty-four days of the year, ordinary mundane mortals play second fiddle to the eldritch. On Halloween, they set out to join them, which is why the adult parade has become such a massive spectacle. And this year, it seemed the parade participants were determined to pit themselves against whatever spectacle the dead might offer.
Back in East Pemkowet, we staked out a position on the front stoop of the State Farm Insurance building, which gave us a good vantage point to see over the crowds already beginning to throng the sidewalk. The other members of the coven joined us, and, to my considerable relief, Cody and Lurine also showed up: the former in uniform, the latter wearing a fabulous mask of feathers and an embroidered velvet robe that made her look like something out of a Venetian masquerade.
“I thought you weren’t worried about being recognized,” I whispered to Lurine.
She ruffled my hair. “Just a precaution, cupcake. I trust your little coven here, but if I should have to shift for any reason . . . well, better to be safe.”
“Good thinking.”
Stefan came to take up a post at the foot of the stoop, pale and somber, his broadsword strapped to his back. Jen elbowed me in the ribs when he and Cody exchanged curt greetings. “Hel’s liaison.” Stefan inclined his head to me. “One of the Outcast is in place on every corner. In the event of trouble, I’ve bidden them do what they may and hold their positions as long as discipline allows.”
“Thank you.” It was hard not to think about the fact that he’d kissed me. Yes, even now. I pushed the thought away. “I appreciate it.”
He inclined his head again, then turned to survey the crowd.
I’m not good at estimating numbers and the tally probably wouldn’t sound that impressive if I was. After all, the entire length of the parade route is a few short blocks. But if you cram, say, several thousand people into that space, it’s a lot. And I’m guessing there were at least three thousand spectators lined five- or six-deep along the route on both sides of the streets, some in costume, many in ordinary clothes. Police tape cordoned off the street, Ken Levitt and Bart Mallick were stationed next to their squad cars at either end of the route, Chief Bryant was observing on foot, and there were a dozen volunteers in SECURITY T-shirts doing their best to keep visitors in line, but it was still a recipe for mayhem. A lot of spectators were already drunk and raucous, getting amped up further by the Halloween spooktacular sound track blasting from the speakers that the owners of one of the boutiques had set up across the street.
A block and a half from our post, the parade participants were amassing in front of Boo Radley’s house. Stacey Brooks was flitting around filming or taking photos. She wasn’t exactly in costume, but it looked as though she had on a headband with a set of plush cat ears. Gah, it figures.
At a quarter after ten, the parade still hadn’t started and I was getting jittery. In less than two hours, Pemkowet gained permanently haunted status, and I officially failed utterly and completely in my duties as an agent of Hel. “C’mon, Grandpa Morgan,” I muttered. “Where are you? You’re never going to have a bigger audience than this one.”