40.

Timothy drove quickly, steadily. He kept close to the guardrail. His brain was so fried, he couldn’t remember which turn led to his father’s garage, so he went south on Edgehill Road toward the college’s main campus and the Taft Bridge, wiping tears and snot from his upper lip.

It was getting quite dark out now, so he flipped on the headlights. Finally, the wooded slope on the right was replaced by several small houses. Then Timothy saw the tall, dark silhouette of a building rising beyond the bridge entrance, across from the campus’s main gate—the Mayfair.

At the bridge intersection, Timothy drove through a stoplight. A few cars honked their horns, and he was shocked back to reality. Now that he was surrounded by traffic, he was terrified that he might smash into someone or something. He took his foot off the gas, and as the hill began to slope upward, the car slowed. More vehicles coming off the bridge honked their horns. Timothy pressed his foot down, and the car jerked forward.

“Come on,” he said. “Only a little farther.”

Steadying the wheel, Timothy drove up the center of Shutter Avenue, staying clear of the cars parked on either side of the road. The Mayfair was on his right.

The street was full. No room for parking. Timothy simply stopped next to a small red sports car, shoved the gearshift into park, and turned off the engine. He grabbed the keys from the ignition. When he opened the driver’s door, a speeding truck wailed its horn as it drove by. Timothy waved an apology and climbed out of the car. Shaking, he stared up at the tall building, then crossed the sidewalk into the main garden.

Ahead, the spidery iron door swung open. Inside stood the uniformed man Timothy had met earlier that week. The man smiled, but as Timothy limped closer, the man’s expression changed. “You okay, little dude?”

“I—I need to see Mrs. Kindred.”

“Sure,” said the doorman. “Just let me give her a call.” He headed toward his desk, but Timothy didn’t wait. He crossed through the large empty lobby toward the elevator bank. “Hey, hold up, kid,” said the doorman. But Timothy had already hit the button. The elevator door immediately opened, so he slipped inside.

As the car took him swiftly upward, he worried that Jack might be visiting Zilpha’s neighbor, Georgia. Or maybe he had returned for Zilpha herself? Timothy wondered what he’d do if he found an open door, an empty apartment, signs of struggle, or worse….

Moments later, at the top floor, Timothy had to force himself to step out into the small hallway. To his relief, there was no graffiti, cobwebs, or creepy little girls waiting for him. He crossed quickly to the big black door marked 16B.

Timothy knocked, quietly at first, then harder as he waited. He began to worry that no one was home. Then deep inside the apartment, he heard the sound of barking. Long fingernails clicked against the wood floor. The little dog, Hepzibah, skittered toward him. She sniffed at the bottom of the door. Finally, the old woman’s voice, shaking and tired, said, “Who’s here, Hep?”

“It’s me,” Timothy cried. “I need your help!”

The old woman opened the door, her brow crinkled. She wore the same purple kimono he’d seen her in from the octagonal window on Ash Tree Lane, now with a green silk scarf tied around her head. “Come in,” she said immediately. “Mario said someone was coming up. But I didn’t expect …” She shook her head in disbelief. “What happened to you?”

Timothy slinked through the doorway, trying not to collapse. “Abigail’s gone. Jack … Johnson Harwood took her. He has the jawbone. He’s cursed me and her, and probably you too. He’s planning on using Abigail to charge the … corpse. We need to find her before it’s too late.”

Zilpha closed the door behind her. “Calm down, Timothy,” she said forcefully. She led him into the dining room and pulled out a chair. “Sit. Breathe.” She stared at him for a moment. “Johnson Harwood did what? Abigail is where?”

Timothy sat next to her and tried his best to recount everything that had happened. The book he’d found. The office in the library. The baseball cards. The house on Ash Tree Lane. Mr. Harwood’s confession. The Nightmarys. And finally, the dragon.

Zilpha was stunned. For several seconds after Timothy finished his story, she opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water, struggling to breathe. “Abigail’s not in New Jersey?”

Timothy turned emergency-red as he admitted his betrayal. “I spent the entire day with her. We were locked in the attic together when you came to Jack’s house. We shouted and shouted, but Georgia thought it was his television.”

For a long time, Zilpha held her hand to her mouth, staring at the table. Her eyes flicked back and forth slightly. “I should have known better,” she said finally. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I thought I had settled everything when I destroyed Harwood’s trinket this afternoon. Stupid. I should have realized who I was dealing with this morning when Georgia told me he’d been here at the Mayfair. That he was her boyfriend! Quite a significant coincidence, don’t you think? And I ignored the biggest clue!” She pounded the table with her palms. “He knew I was coming,” Zilpha continued, “and he was prepared. He tricked me. I destroyed the wrong artifact.” She took Timothy’s hand, staring into his eyes. “Abigail is in serious trouble. She is somewhere in New Starkham. We need to figure out where.”

“But how?” said Timothy.

“You’ve solved plenty of clues so far. I trust there may be some left to uncover?”

“I can’t think of any.”

Zilpha pointed at the desk in the corner of the room. “Grab a pencil and paper. I always find it helpful to make a list.” A few minutes later, Timothy had written out several lists summarizing everything he thought he knew and everything he was unsure of, everything he’d been through and everything he feared was coming.

Zilpha eyed the list and shook her head. “Can you think of anything else to narrow all this down? Anything at all?”

From outside, the familiar old foghorn called a lonely cry over the river. The sound struck Timothy as odd. The weather had been clear all day.

Timothy glanced over his shoulder toward the French doors. Though the sky was now dark, Timothy watched as strange clouds obscured a bright moon coming over the horizon. He rose from his chair and went to the window. From all directions, the weather seemed to be gathering, like a hurricane eye, drawing an ominous target around New Starkham. “Something’s happening,” said Timothy. “Look.”

Zilpha joined him at the window. “At what?”

“The clouds. I’ve seen them before, in a painting at the museum this week.” The foghorn cried again.

“I don’t see any clouds,” said Zilpha.

Timothy shivered. This must be the curse, coming for him again. “The Edge of Doom,” he said.

“The edge of what?”

“That’s the name of the painting. It’s the jawbone. I’m seeing things.” Timothy remembered the image: the pit of fire, the glowing sky.

“For the past few months, whenever I saw something scary,” said Zilpha, “I tried to figure out some way to get around it. When the ceramic monkey my husband gave me on our fortieth anniversary snarled at me, I smashed him on the floor, then swept up the pieces. That’s how I’ve survived these past months—little tricks. How did you get away from the dragon?”

“Turpentine,” said Timothy. “I washed out his eyes.”

“Brilliant!” said Zilpha, grabbing his good hand. “You’ve got to find something like that to combat what you’re seeing now.”

“But what’s coming is really bad,” said Timothy, shaking his head. “Whatever it is, it’s going to be much bigger than the graffiti dragon. Jack is trying to stop us. We’re running out of time.”

“That’s what he thinks,” said the old woman, twisting the tail of her head wrap around her wrist. “He’s forgotten who he’s dealing with here. He hasn’t stopped me yet.”

Timothy opened the door and stepped onto the roof deck. “Can I?” he asked Zilpha. She answered by following him. The clouds were getting darker, edging closer, surrounding the city, covering what now appeared to be a full moon. The foghorn cried again. Timothy crossed to the far railing so he could see the river, the bridge, and beyond that, Rhode Island. Something flashed at the river’s edge. The lighthouse was up and running.

Then it hit him: A light in the darkness.

In Hesselius’s abandoned office, those words had been written on the mat of the lighthouse photo on the wall. His brother’s motto. This was his order amidst the chaos. In the photo, the lighthouse had been called Hesselius’s Illuminarium. The professor had even designed it. According to the articles Abigail had shown him at the library, the cults had built their temples at the convergence of great chaos. Crossroads. Mountains.

Rivers?

“I know where she is!” said Timothy.

In the elevator, halfway to the ground floor, Zilpha became flustered. “How are we getting there? I don’t think a taxi will drop us off on the edge of a cliff. I wish Georgia didn’t hate me right now, or I’d ask her.”

“I’ve got a car,” Timothy blurted.

“Oh, yes,” said Zilpha. “You did mention that, didn’t you?”

The elevator stopped, the doors slid open. Timothy crossed slowly through the lobby with Zilpha. Mario opened the front door. “Good night, Mrs. Kindred,” he said with a worried look.

“Thank you, Mario,” she answered with an emphatic smile. “Good night.” In the garden, she changed her tone. “I don’t know about this, Timothy. You shouldn’t be driving at your age, and at my age, my eyes aren’t very good. We cancel each other out.”

“My dad owns a garage,” he said. “And I made it here by myself. We can make it a little farther together, don’t you think?”