Neverworld Wake(57)

Villa Anna Sophia. I’d actually made it.

Light-headed with relief, I lurched to my feet, only I was so woozy, I stumbled and was sick, nearly falling into the water. Catching my breath, I lurched to my feet.

I headed up the stairs. With every step I took, pebbles and rocks loosened under the planks, bouncing, plummeting down the cliff into the ocean. I kept moving. I didn’t look down. When I reached the top, panting, the house—a wild architectural marvel of glass and steel—sat before me, totally silent. It looked deserted. I hurried past the pool, an inflated swan raft drifting leisurely in the center, and tried one of the glass doors. It was locked, the windows shaded. I was just wondering if I’d gotten the wrong day when I heard a woman scream. With a pang of unease I tore down the stone path, past the olive trees, to the front, where I saw Kipling outside the massive double-oak doors. He appeared to be keeping watch.

I was so relieved to see him, I threw my arms around his neck.

“Thank goodness,” I whispered.

“What—my—how did you manage it, child? Martha said we’d lost you, maybe forever.”

I pulled away. There was no point going into what had happened, not yet. Blinking up at Kipling, though it hurt me to think it, I reasoned he could have very well have been the one to stick me with the pin. Yet he seemed genuinely relieved to see me.

“I made a mistake,” I said. “Where is everyone?”

“Inside.” He made a face. “We’ve tied the whole family up and we’re tryin’ to extract information. But it’s not going well.” He shrugged, visibly nervous. “We tried the nice way. Arriving casually, announcin’ we happened to be on vacation, and were friends of Jim’s, and we wanted to know about his death, and so on. But they’re slippery eels, the Masons. They served us grilled octopus and basil sorbet and invited us for a dip in their pool. Before we knew it, four hours had passed. We were all drunk on ouzo, and we hadn’t had one real conversation about Jim. Whitley got fed up. So these last few wakes, she’s gone nuts on these people. The deluxe Whitley special, you know, with the screamin’ and the punchin’ of walls and the throwin’ dishes.” He sighed. “Edgar Mason has his twenty-four-hour security detail, but they switch shifts at noon and they’re lazy, so that’s when we strike. We’ve got two tied-up guards at the end of the driveway.”

I frowned. “But how many wakes have you had?”

“Five. Each one lasts about five hours. How many have you had?”

“One.”

This had to be what Martha meant about instability, trains speeding in different directions at different speeds, the risk of never being in the same place at the same time to vote.

There wasn’t time to worry about it, not yet. Kipling had opened the door and was beckoning me inside.

There on the couches sat Mr. and Mrs. Mason, tied up along with their four children, their eyes red from crying. They were watching Whitley in mute horror. She looked like a South American guerilla, bandana wrapped around her head, T-shirt knotted in a crop top around her waist, a mad glint in her eyes. She was holding a gun on Mr. Mason. The side of his face was swollen. It was a shock seeing Jim’s family like this, when at the last wake they were crisp as fresh flower arrangements, floating around, air-kissing people at Great-Uncle Carl’s funeral.

Spotting me, Whitley widened her eyes in surprise. She raced over.

“Beatrice,” she said, hushed. “Where the hell did you come from?”

I gave her an abbreviated version of what had happened, how I’d accidentally returned to a different date but managed to get back to the coastal road to change the wake.

“So you’re all right, then?”

I nodded. “Where’s Martha?”

“Trying to log on to Edgar’s computer. Not having much luck.”

“What about Cannon?”

“He’s gone.”

I stared at her. “What?”

She shook her head with a bleak look. “He never arrived. We have no idea where he is. One second he was there, and the next? Nowhere.”

I recalled the person I’d seen sprinting into the woods. Cannon.

“Hello? Oh, my God. Is that you?”

Mrs. Mason, sitting on the couch, craned her neck to get a better look at me. I’d never seen her so forlorn. She was almost unrecognizable. Her face was red; her blond hair, usually so immaculate, had wilted like a plant left too close to a radiator.

“Who? Who are you talking about?” asked Mr. Mason.

“That little girl Jim went with in school. You know. Her.” She glared at me. “You’re involved in this? You let us go right now. We have no information about Jimmy.”

I grabbed the gun from Whitley and pointed it at Mrs. Mason. She gasped.

“Tell me what you know about Jim’s death,” I said.

She glanced at her husband, terrified, then back at me. She began to whimper. It was an odd sound, like a beach ball losing air through a tiny hole.

“Leave her alone!” bellowed Edgar suddenly. “Gloria has nothing to do with this, you little con artist!”

I pointed the gun at him. “What happened to Jim?”

“I’ve told you people countless times now,” he said, spitting. “We know nothing.”

“That’s impossible.”