I stood for a long time in Mr. Death’s living room, afraid to move, afraid to run away, afraid to do anything. I listened for him, but mostly all I heard was that raspy coughing, which he did a lot. And also the sound of a lighter scratching to life, followed by the smell of cigar smoke, which wafted into the living room in plumes. My fingers sweated and ached from gripping the handle of my duffel so tightly.
I sorely wished I’d had the time to write a letter to Tripp—something cryptic about how if I went missing, to send the police into the woods behind Mr. Death’s house with cadaver dogs, and instructions to avenge me in some really cool way. And then I got a little lost in a daydream about Tripp going all superhero and hanging Mr. Death upside down from his toenails from the top of Cassi’s swing set.
Tell me where you’ve buried him or I will unleash my sidekick, SuperTripp would say, and Comet, wearing a superhero mask over his eyes, would lift his leg perilously close to Mr. Death’s forehead.
I was so lost in my daydream I forgot where I was for a moment, until I heard movement creaking slowly down the hallway toward me, and the smell of cigar smoke got stronger.
My heartbeat kathunked in my chest, and I looked around the room frantically. I changed my mind. I didn’t want to be avenged. Avenged people were pretty much always dead. I didn’t know much about what it took to be the first astronaut to walk on Mars, but I was pretty sure “alive” was going to be a prerequisite.
Finally, as the footsteps got closer, I made out the shape of a table and scurried underneath it. A few seconds later, Mr. Death’s shadow came into the room, the glowing orange end of his cigar burning in front of him. He coughed, long and loud, like Bigfoot hacking up a bear who was hacking up a Volkswagen. With a bad muffler.
“You in here?” he growled, sounding out of breath. I said nothing. He waited for a few seconds. “You hungry?” Nothing. He moved down another hall, slowly, slowly. “Kid?” he said, but I remained tight lipped. Just hunkered under the table, shivering and wishing I had stowed away in the Bacteria’s trunk or hidden out at CICM-HQ. And especially wishing that Aunt Sarin’s pushy baby, Castor, hadn’t chosen today to be born.
Stupid Castor. If I died here, it would be all his fault. I should have put that in a letter to Tripp, too. Blame Castor, the note would say. Let Comet eat one of his shoes.
I glanced down at my one shoeless foot. In all the hustle and bustle of everything that had happened, I had forgotten all about Comet eating my shoe. I was hardly an athlete with two shoes on—how would I outrun a murderer half-shoed? I wouldn’t be able to, and I would die wearing only one shoe, which seemed like a very undignified way to go.
The creaking returned. I gripped my bag handle tighter and swallowed, peeking around the corner.
“I know you’re in here somewhere,” he said. “Too shy to come out, are you? Well, I’ll get you out eventually.”
The blood in my veins turned into icicles. I could feel it jaggedly bumping and jumping around beneath my skin. He would get me out? How? What was that supposed to mean?
“You can have the bedroom on the right,” he barked, and then disappeared from where he’d come.
I waited until he sounded far enough away, and then I crawled out on my hands and knees and, carefully, trying not to hit any squeaky floorboards, stood up.
I looked to the front door and back again. I could just slip out of here. Sneak out unnoticed and run away. Go sleep in Comet’s doghouse for a couple of nights. Sleep in the rocket ship at the school or in Mr. Monecki’s gazebo or under the cloaking branches of Priya’s weeping willow tree, where we used to hide out when Priya had swiped her mom’s candy bar stash. He’d never find me at any of those places. Plus, those hideouts all had the added bonus of me staying alive through the whole night. Or at least allowing me a few minutes to write my avenge note to Tripp. Because that note was really starting to take shape in my head, and it seemed such a shame not to get it on paper.
“I don’t want to have to run after you,” Mr. Death called from wherever he was. “But I will. So don’t even think about it.”
My eyes bulged. It was as if he’d read my mind. How did he know?
“You can put your bag in your room,” he said a few moments later.
I took a few steps toward the hallway, still trying to avoid making any noise.
I felt my way down the hall until I came to a door on the right. If I remembered correctly, this was the room that looked straight into my bedroom at home, the one where I’d moved the TV for Widow Feldman. The door was shut, but if I squinted real hard at the crack beneath the door, I could make out a strange dim glow on my toes. I reached for the doorknob, and gripped it.
“That door is locked!” Mr. Death barked right in my ear. I jumped and whirled, dropping my overnight bag and pressing my back to the door, only to find myself eye-to-terrifying-zombie-yes-definitely-zombie-eye with Mr. Death. I was breathing raggedly, trying not to hack up my own lungs every time I sucked in a whiff of cigar smoke.
“I thought … I thought … I th-thought …,” I stammered.
“Your room is the next one down,” he said. He eyeballed me for a long time, the circles under his zombiefied eyes radiating against his white cheeks. He brought the cigar up to his mouth and took a long puff. Then, with his cigar hand he pointed to another doorway just a few feet away.
Trembling, I reached down and picked up my bag again, then zipped away from the locked door. I practically dove into the room and slammed the door shut. After a few moments of waiting for his superhuman undead strength to punch a hole straight through the door, I pushed a small table up against it. Then I sat back down on the bed, keeping vigilant, hoping Mom and Dad would come first thing in the morning to rescue me.
This was going to be a long night.