The crowd cheered again. I scanned faces, looking for one out of place. But the only person not entertained by Hal’s theatrics, it seemed, was Bach; he’d straightened, now focused on my side of the street. I tried to follow his line of sight, past the float, past the oncoming color guard, but there was only Tad “Ratface” Thompson and his crew of goons. No cameramen or producer, no dead nearby. Tad saw me, smiled, and winked.
The senior float exploded.
Screams shattered the air as the crowd fled. The color guard scattered. The band screeched to a halt. Artemis had a death grip on my arm.
The senior float was in flames taller than the bank, hot enough to feel from our perch. I stared, frozen. Blood pounded in my ears. Fire spun. So fast. It had gone up so fast. The light and the size of the flames and the smoke. Twisting, curling. Foam blackening. Throne melting. Ghosts were gone. Hal lay sprawled next to the float, and someone ran up to grab him and haul him to the sidewalk. Dad.
Through the flames, Bach appeared.
He hadn’t moved. He met my gaze and held it; it felt as if hundreds of seconds passed while we stared at each other. Then he bolted. With the rest of the crowd, toward his sleek black Mustang parked in front of the auto shop.
I pried Artemis’s hand off my arm. “Go see if Hal’s okay!” I told her, and leaped off the bench before she could stop me. I sprinted away from the fire, away from the screaming, to the Chevelle in the town hall parking lot.
I gunned the engine and peeled onto Elmwood Lane. Bach couldn’t use Walton Street because of the parade route block off, so he’d have to turn down Cherry Hill where it intersected with Elmwood. I was right; I reached the intersection in time to see the Mustang roar past, heading south. I whipped out behind him and followed.
The Chevelle rumbled like a panther after its prey. We curved down the strip of the Goldmine, out past the Denford farmland, over the long wooden bridge that spanned Black Creek. Black Creek Church, surrounded by the cemetery, stood stark and uninviting against the pale blue of the sky. Bach sped down the dirt road, hardly pulling back even on the rough terrain, even when he slipped into the forest.
Black Creek Woods was a different kind of haunted than the rest of Addamsville. The rest of Addamsville was tourist haunted. Postcard haunted. Haunted in a regulated way, so you were always safe. Even though Forester House and Maple Hills wereinthe woods, they, too, were policed carefully by the living, used as tour locations and hot spots.
The woods were like the coal mine. Unregulated territory. Feral hauntings happened here, and you were always being watched. The trees grew tall and close together, a phalanx armed with shields and spears of underbrush. The canopy blocked out the sky, plunging the world below into an gloom. Two cars could barely pass on the dirt road. Bach’s taillights swung right at a fork in the road, heading west.
The west road dead-ended deep in the woods, in enemy territory. The one place Mom had told me never to go. The most dangerous place in Addamsville.
Forester House.
The woods swallowed the wings of the house so only thearched front entrance could be seen from the roundabout driveway. The gable roof pierced the gray sky, shadowing the long steps up to the front porch and a shuttered entryway. The wind rustled the trees to a slow rhythm, as if the house itself was breathing.
I braked at the edge of the roundabout. Bach had stopped his Mustang by the porch. Now he stood at the base of the steps, watching me.
“Get out of the car, Zora.”
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. Bach was alone, and the house was still.
I unbuckled my seat belt and got out.
“Why’d you run?” I called from behind the Chevelle’s open door.
Bach didn’t try to come any closer. “I ran because it would have looked suspicious if I hadn’t, and because I needed to get back to Sammy right away. This firestarter is showing itself in the open now. Itwantsto be known. It could have burned Hal if it wanted to, but it didn’t. It burned the float instead.”
“Why? They’ve attacked in crowds before”—Bachhad, actually, when he killed Hermit Forester’s Aunt Yvette in the grocery store parking lot—“but that was tokill. Not to injure.”
“To send a message,” he said. “To you. Think, Zora. Who was attacked? Where? And what did you do immediately afterward?”
Hal, my friend. In public, where everyone could see. I ran.
I ran from the scene of the crime.
“It’s trying toframeme?”
“And send you a warning.”
The wind howled through the trees now. Raindrops darkened the pavement. Shadows hid Bach’s expression.
“Why didn’t you stop when you noticed I was chasing you?” I asked slowly.
“Because I needed you here. To show you something.”
Bach pointed to the front of Forester House. On the double wooden front doors was burned a large and crudeL. The stumps of my fingers itched horribly, and my chest felt too tight.
