The Strangers (9 page)

The painted bowl was filled with something that looked like aquamarine grapes, and pink-peeled citrus fruits, and a yellowish object that had a long, looping vine and was shaped like a teardrop. Olive sniffed at one cylindrical orange fruit. It smelled fruity—in the way that a candy store smells fruity, as though a bunch of strong, separate flavors had been poured together to concoct something new.

“Maybe these are magical,” she said thoughtfully, with the fruit still smooshed against her nose. “Maybe if I take a bite, I’ll shrink, or see things, or fly, or something.”

“Or
something,
yes,” said Horatio warningly. “Get poisoned, or something. Throw up all over this table, or something.”

“I’m going to try it,” said Olive, turning away from Horatio’s frown. She took a tiny bite.

The fruit was crunchy, and tasted like an unripe pear soaked in orange juice. Before Olive had time to chew it, her mouth was empty. The fruit in her hand was whole once again, the little indents left by her teeth rapidly mending and disappearing.

“How do you feel?” asked Horatio, watching her closely.

“Just the same,” said Olive softly, putting the fruit back into the bowl.

“Come along.” Horatio’s voice was milder now. “We have one more painting to check.”

At the end of the hall, just outside the pink bedroom, a painting of a Scottish hillside hung in a shadowy patch of the wall. Olive shuddered, gazing through the frame at the rippling bracken, the swooping birds, the small stone church perched high on the hill. In the foreground, nearly covered by heather and gorse, an oily smudge marked the spot where Olive had encountered a younger, painted version of Aldous McMartin and—with Rutherford’s help, and a few well-aimed squirts of paint thinner—dissolved him into nothing.

“I will examine the forest and the cottage,” said Horatio, seeing Olive’s hesitation. “You can check the hilltop; it’s much lighter up there. He’s
gone,
Olive,” the cat added as Olive adjusted the spectacles with shaky fingers. “We will be safe.”

“I know,” Olive whispered. “It’s just . . . I know.”

The bracken crackled softly under her shoes as she landed inside the painting. Leaping in after her, Horatio cut a path toward the yellow-leafed forest, the orange tips of his ears dwindling quickly out of sight amid the brush. Olive took a deep breath. Giving the smudged spot a wide berth, she trotted up the hillside.

The church’s wooden doors opened with a creak. Inside, dusty daylight streamed through the high windows and burnished the wood of the empty pews. “Dad?” Olive’s voice rang against the walls. “Mom?” Even without waiting for an answer, she could tell that she was the only one there.

Olive stepped back out through the doors, into the small cemetery that clustered close to the church. Its gravestones were weathered and soft, brushed by the butter-pale sun. These were nothing like the cold, broken stones built into the walls of the basement. Olive wound between the ancient plots, running her fingers over the slightly warm stones. She paused beside a pair of angular headstones that leaned together in a friendly way, their faces overgrown by painted ferns and wildflowers. Olive brushed her fingers over the edge of one stone. Strange—this stone felt
wrong,
somehow. It felt smoother and sharper than the others, which were as pocked and porous as English muffins. This stone felt
newer.
Mildly curious, Olive crouched down and brushed the fluttering ferns aside.

An icy wind surged through her body. It numbed her heart, freezing her lungs and pummeling her stomach. The ferns pulled themselves swiftly back into their places, but Olive had had plenty of time to read the two simple words carved beneath.

Mother,
said one.
Father,
said the other.

“
H
ORATIO!
” O
LIVE SCREAMED.
“Horatio!” Her voice blew away over the rippling hillside.

An orange streak barreled up from the valley below. “Olive!” Horatio leaped over the crest of the hill, racing toward her through the graveyard. “Are you all right?”

Olive pointed at the headstones, her arm trembling. “These aren’t—” The question stuck in her dry mouth. “These aren’t—?”

“
No,
Olive,” said Horatio firmly. “Those are not
your
mother and father. I promise you.”

Olive pressed her hands hard against her aching chest, feeling slightly silly. “I just—I couldn’t remember if these two stones had been here before, and they looked different from the others . . .”

“They
are
different,” said Horatio. He sat down beside Olive, facing the overgrown headstones. “Annabelle McMartin brought them here herself, long after this painting was completed.”

“Why?” Olive asked. Her heart gave another tightening clench. “Oh no. She—you mean—these aren’t
Morton’s
mother and father, are they?”

“No,” Horatio answered. “They are Annabelle’s.”

Olive’s heart began to beat again. “Annabelle’s?”

“Albert McMartin—Aldous’s only son—had no talent for magic. Or anything else, for that matter. He was kind, and lazy, and stupid.” Horatio looked away from the graves, his eyes flickering over the sunny hillside. “But he was not so stupid that he couldn’t see the evil in his own father. And after years of watching neighbors disappear, Albert got off his lazy backside and took action.” Horatio’s voice grew softer, even though there was no one around to hear. “One night, when Aldous McMartin was away, Albert built a huge fire in the library fireplace and burned all of Aldous’s self-portraits, one after another. Then he fled the house with his wife and daughter. But Annabelle was already a young woman—a stubborn, cruel young woman—and she worshipped her grandfather. She sent him a message revealing everything that her father had done. Naturally, Aldous was furious. He hauled them all back to this house, called his son a traitor, accused him of trying to destroy the family, and . . .” Horatio hesitated. “That was that,” he concluded quietly. “After Aldous disposed of Albert and his wife, he interred them here, inside Elsewhere, where no outsiders could ever find them.” Horatio’s eyes darted back to the graves. “Much later, after Aldous himself had died, Annabelle had the headstones carved and placed them here.”

“She did?” Olive wavered, looking down at the simple stones. “Why?”

“Annabelle McMartin was not a good person, Olive,” said Horatio. “But she wasn’t the monster that Aldous had hoped to raise. And Aldous himself may be to blame for that.”

Olive watched the wildflowers fluttering over the carved names. “I can’t believe Aldous could kill his own son,” she said. “I mean—didn’t Albert’s
mother
mind?”

Horatio stiffened slightly. “By that time, Aldous’s wife was long gone.” The cat cocked one furry eyebrow. “And you should not underestimate Aldous’s pride. He believed that his family tree bore the greatest magicians who had ever lived, that each generation would grow more powerful, more intelligent, more ruthless—and then his own son turned out to be a failure. Annabelle McMartin was his last hope. Now that even she is gone . . . in a human sense . . . the family has no heir.”

Olive nodded down at the quiet graves. “And that’s just what the real Ms. McMartin wanted. For the family to fade away.”

“But that is not what this
house
wants.” Horatio’s eyes glittered up at Olive. “You’ve made it clear that you won’t join their side—at least, not without a fight. And you don’t have any magical talent
at all
.”

Olive’s shoulders sagged. “Oh.”

“Don’t be disappointed,” Horatio snapped. “That is a good thing, I assure you. It may well have saved your life already.” He turned back toward the graves. “But I believe . . . and I fear . . . that the McMartins are seeking someone to train. Someone to take on this house. Someone with gifts that
you
do not possess, and without the conscience that you
do
. And they will need to find him before their power is worn away completely.”

For a moment, they stood side by side as the wind rustled over the heather and one blackbird wheeled in the pale, painted sky.

“You know what I think?” said Olive as they headed back down through the bracken on the hill. “I think I’m
never
going to come into this painting again.”

“I can’t say that I blame you,” said Horatio.

“I mean, if I had known that there were actual—”

Olive stopped. Far below them, where the picture frame hung in midair, a large black cat had just zoomed into the painting like something launched from a giant’s slingshot.

“Information to report, miss!” Leopold shouted from the foot of the hill. “There were witnesses to the invasion! Come with me!”

Olive and Horatio broke into a run.

Downstairs, the kitchen was eerily still. Sunday mornings in the old stone house usually meant stacks of Mr. Dunwoody’s pancakes (he claimed to have discovered the ideal ratio of butter to maple syrup), fresh orange juice for Olive, and several pots of coffee for Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody, which would keep the coffeepot puffing and steaming away until afternoon.

But not today.

No pancakes sizzled softly on the stove. No coffee-scented mathematicians bustled back and forth between the worn stone counters. Today, the room felt almost hungrily empty, like a cupboard with nothing on its shelves.

Olive and Horatio followed Leopold to the corner, near the painting of three stonemasons at work on a wall.

Leopold cleared his throat. “If you don’t object, miss, I shall let you enter on your own. There was a bit of unpleasantness during my own sojourn, and I was forced to depart without gathering the necessary information.”

“I understand,” said Olive. “I’ll be right back.”

Ducking her head and squeezing her shoulders to her ears, Olive wedged herself through the painting’s small frame. Before her feet had hit the ground, a massive, furry missile had knocked her backward into the grass. Olive blinked up at the painted sky as a slobbering brown dog bounced around her, snuffling at her ears and licking her chin.

“Off, Baltus. Get
off,
” Olive muttered.

“Sorry about that, Miss Olive,” said one of the three stonemasons at work on the never-finished wall. “He’s still pretty excited about our visit from that cat.”

“I’ll bet,” said Olive, managing to roll out from under Baltus’s kisses.

“You’re not hurt?” the second mason asked, leaning over the wall for a closer look and knocking a stone out of its place. It floated back to its spot like a granite soap bubble.

“I’m fine,” said Olive, hurrying toward the wall. Baltus trotted beside her. “Leopold said that you saw something last night.”

“Indeed we did.” The first mason removed his cap to scratch his head. He glanced at the other two for support. Then he looked at Olive out of the corner of his eyes, as though she’d just caught him composing a love poem. “. . . Monsters,” he mumbled.

“Monsters?”
Olive echoed.

“There were monsters.” He pointed to the frame. “Out there.”

“There were monsters in the kitchen?” Olive pictured Dracula squeezing a bag of oranges while Swamp Thing flipped a pancake. “What kind of monsters?”

“Werewolves,” said the third mason. “I’m quite sure they were werewolves.”

“And there was a mummy,” the second mason put in.

“How many monsters were there?” asked Olive as Baltus shoved his nose under her wrist and began licking her fingers.

“Three,” said the second mason, his eyes wide.

“Four,” the third mason argued.

“Three or four, I think,” said the first mason. His voice was hushed and nervous. “They all walked upright, even the werewolves. Baltus was barking to beat the band.” He glanced at Baltus, who was coating Olive’s arm with a gradually disappearing sheet of slobber. He bent down and grasped a stick. “Fetch, boy!” he shouted, hurling the stick into the distance.

Baltus took off like a furry freight train. The stick reappeared in its spot beside the wall.

“Poor fellow never catches it,” said the mason, shaking his head at Baltus’s dwindling backside.

Olive looked around at the nervous men. Of course they were nervous; they’d just seen three (or four) monsters walk past their picture frame. Olive knew how it felt to see something inhuman lurch out of the corner of your eye, to feel it staring back at you from the sunken pits in a warped, rubbery face . . .

“Wait,” she said. “Do you think that the monsters could have been people? People in masks and costumes?”

The masons looked at one another.

“I suppose they
could
have been . . .” said the first.

“When they came into the kitchen, what did they do?” Olive asked urgently.

“They were struggling with something,” said the third mason. “Some of them were pushing and pulling at the others. And then they all went out through the back door.”

Olive bit the inside of her cheek while these facts plummeted into place. Of course. How clever . . . and how
convenient.
If Annabelle had sneaked into the house in a Halloween costume, she would have been welcomed by her smiling victims. Then she could have disguised Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody in costumes too, and smuggled them back out of the place right under the neighbors’ nosy noses. It was just like Olive’s own plan for Morton.

In Olive’s chest, a drum began to pound.

“Thank you!” she shouted, wheeling toward the frame.

“Come and see us anytime!” the masons called after her. “We’ll keep an eye out for you!”

Olive hit the kitchen tiles with a smack. “They saw three or four creatures that looked like monsters,” she panted, crouching down between the waiting cats. “But they might have been people in costumes. And two of those people could have been my parents!”

“Clever,” said Horatio.

“An artful maneuver,” added Leopold.

“The question is: Was Annabelle acting alone, or—”

A knock from the front door echoed down the hallway. A split second later, a splotchily colored cat came streaking around the kitchen corner.

“Agent 1-800, reporting,” Harvey announced in a faintly British accent, bumping his way through their huddle and coming nose to nose with Olive. “Our fellow agents have returned. At this point, I suggest we abandon surveillance in favor of intelligence-gathering, until we are all as intelligent as we can be. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Leopold. Olive nodded. Horatio sighed.

Harvey spoke into the imaginary transistor watch on his left front paw. “Agent 1-800 to headquarters,” he muttered. “Do you read? Have you read any good books lately?”

“Who do you think you are talking to, Harvey?” asked Horatio. “Do you have an extra ear growing between your toes?”

“Agent Orange!” Harvey’s eyes widened, as though he were recognizing Horatio for the first time. “You received my signal. Our ally agents await our appearance at the rendezvous point.”

“You mean, someone’s at the door?” Olive asked.

Harvey seemed to struggle with himself. Then, in his smallest, sulkiest voice, he muttered, “. . . Yes.”

Olive peeped through the front windows. Rutherford, Mrs. Dewey, Walter, Delora, and Doctor Widdecombe were clustered on the porch. After tucking the spectacles safely under her collar, Olive flung the door open.

“Someone saw what happened last night! Someone Elsewhere!” she said, before anyone else could say
Good morning,
or
Hello, Olive,
or
Why are your pants covered with dog slobber?
“I think Annabelle—and maybe someone
else
—got inside of the house in Halloween costumes, and then took my parents out the back door, in disguise!”

“Ah,” said Doctor Widdecombe, tossing his scarf onto the coatrack. “Then we can be certain that they were indeed removed from the house. An important elimination.”

“Yet we found no sign of them anywhere in the neighborhood,” said Delora, unwrapping a long black velvet cloak to reveal a long black velvet dress beneath. “But I foresaw that our search would not be a simple one.”

“Well—if we know they’re not in the house, shouldn’t we get back out
there
again?” Olive asked, grabbing her jacket from the rack and shoving one arm into the wrong sleeve. “Where have you already looked? Maybe we—”

“Olive,” Doctor Widdecombe interrupted, “we must conduct a search of the house itself before we go any farther.”

Olive stuffed the proper arm into the sleeve and wriggled the other one free. “But the cats and I already checked the house,” she said, moving toward the open door. “They aren’t here.”

“It’s not only your parents we must look for,” said Delora.

“Before we can understand Annabelle’s plans, we must know just what it is that she prizes—what motivates her, what gives her power, what draws her back to this house,” Doctor Widdecombe explained.

“But—”

“Olive.” Doctor Widdecombe lowered his voice. He stepped toward her, his hands clasped humbly against his belly. “You’ve seen how powerful Delora’s gifts are . . .”