Page 14 of The Executioners Three

Their blood oath is summoning.

First comes the fog,

Rising from the shore.

Once rings the bell:

Cold death is in store.

The Hangsman is rising.

Next are the crows

To block out the sun.

Then twice rings the bell,

To warn everyone.

The Headsman is coming.

Third comes the ice

Wreckt upon the stones.

Thrice rings the bell.

No chance to atone.

The Disemboweler is hunting.

Last is the heat,

A sign it’s too late.

No bells are rung

When the Three leave the gate.

The Oathmaster is waiting.

Freddie read the poem three times, her eyes lingering on the parts about bells ringing and crows blocking out the sun…

And of course, the part about a hangsman.

With cool detachment she would later be proud of, Freddie set the book on the shelf. “Hey, Div?” She dipped her head out of the aisle. “Can I borrow some paper?”

“Uh, sure.” Divya frowned but did tear a sheet of notebook paper from her binder. “Did you find something about the murder?”

“Maybe.” Freddie hurried toward her.

“For real?”

“Maybe,” Freddie repeated. She obviously didn’t think anything in this poem was real, but she couldn’t deny the similarities between what she’d just read and what had been happening in recent days.

She wanted to ask Kyle if this was the poem he’d seen as a boy.

And she wanted to ask her mom if she knew that this book and its poem were in here.

After all, Mom had been the driving force behind the archives.

She had built the keyword system that had led Freddie to this poem.

So surely that meant Mom at least knew something about this book and where it had come from.

Yet as Freddie twisted to return to the poem so she could copy it down, Divya said, “Hey, do you smell that? It’s like the school dumpster after Taco Tuesday.”

The hairs on Freddie’s neck stood tall. She inhaled, deep and full. Nothing. Nothing.

Then the scent hit her nose. An awful, revolting scent like rotten meat left for days in the sun. And exactly like she’d smelled in recent days.

Before Freddie could reply that oh yes, she smelled it, the lights flickered and snapped off.

Divya yelped. Freddie fumbled over to her friend in the dark. She found Divya right as Divya found her.

“Oh god, oh god,” Divya whispered. “What’s going on?”

“It’ll be okay,” Freddie whispered back, unsure why she felt the sudden need to be quiet. “Mom was just complaining about the electrical wiring the other day.”

“But what if the lights don’t turn back on, Fred? How will we get out?” Divya was breathing faster now.

“There’s a window at the back. And light does come in there. Our eyes will adjust soon enough.” Even as Freddie said this with total calm, her gut was kicking into Full Rebellion. A vicious curdling that made her knees weak and the hairs stand so tall on her neck and arms and legs it actually hurt.

Like, hurt.

And oh god, now there was that sense of something at her throat. She grappled at her neck with the hand that wasn’t holding Divya, half expecting she’d find blood there. That a gaping hole would be spurting arterial heat onto her fingers…

But there was nothing wet. And no ripped flesh either.

The lights flipped back on.

Both girls winced at the onslaught. “I’m leaving,” Divya rasped, her face ashen.

“Yeah,” Freddie agreed. Her heart felt anchored to her intestines. The sense of blood at her neck was fading fast, but not the stink. And not the certainty in her gut that she and Divya should not be here. “Grab the books.”

“What about the rules?”

“Screw the rules.” Freddie started shoving the volumes into Divya’s backpack. “We’re basically hoodlums now anyway.”

Divya nodded. Together, they gathered all the texts Divya needed, before slinging back four rows to grab The Curse of Allard Fortin .

Then the girls fled for the ladder, and they did not look back.

“I think that’s the fastest I’ve ever pedaled,” Freddie declared as she propped Steve’s old bike against a spruce. “Good thing you fit on my handlebars.”

Divya winced and rubbed her butt. “I don’t know about that. I can feel my tush bruising as we speak. Although, better that than facing whatever was back there.”

“Which was what, exactly?” Freddie raised an eyebrow. Now that they were well removed from the archives and the stench, she felt deeply foolish. This was not how future sheriffs behaved.

“Ghosts, probably,” Divya answered. “Or maybe aliens.”

“And I thought I watched too much Mulder and Scully.”

Freddie swung the backpack of stolen goods off her back, and after carefully removing Xena from her neck, she tore off her hoodie and flannel, leaving only a white T-shirt with her jeans.

She was so hot from pedaling. The last hill out of the forest was brutal, but at least the street was now visible through the trees.

“Alright, Madame Srivastava,” Freddie said once all was rearranged. “Back on the handlebars you go. Unless you want to walk?” she tried hopefully.

“No.” Divya shuddered. “This place is wiggins central, and I want to go home. I can’t believe you rode your bike here on Wednesday night.”

Freddie couldn’t believe it either, honestly. And as ashamed as she was for freaking out in the archives, she was also glad she wasn’t alone right now. City-on-the-Berme might be her favorite place in the world, but it had lately veered away from fantastic fall vibes toward major murder vibes.

Channel Sheriff Bowman, she told herself . Channel Dana Scully. You are a skeptic! You are not afraid!

While Divya grunted and shoved back into the narrow space between the upright bars, Freddie flung a final glance into the forest below.

No such thing as ghosts. No such thing as aliens. No such thing as creepy Executioners from a creepy poem…

Her thought didn’t finish. Not before her eyes caught on a blip of red. She almost fell over—and Divya did fall with a screech.

“Sorry,” Freddie called, scrabbling off the bike and half leaping toward the patch of red.

It was a red sports bottle tucked beside a witch hazel.

Freddie slowed to a stop before it. The cross-country team often left water along their routes before their long runs. Other local runners did too, and this was a particularly popular spot because it was the three-mile mark from the Village.

Without touching the bottle, Freddie crouched down so she could study it, her attention homing in on a strip of masking tape attached to the bottle’s side.

Wed. run, lap 2, it read in handwritten marker. Then below that and written on the bottle directly was faded black marker that read: Fontana.

Dr. Fontana had put this bottle here for his Wednesday run.

Wind burst through the trees, shaking leaves around the bottle—and sloshing the water within. Because it was completely full. Completely untapped. Meaning Dr. Fontana never made it to lap two.

Freddie’s muscles moved yet again with cold detachment, this time aiming her hand for Xena’s lens cap.

Her gut was screaming anew, except now with the familiar burn of her Answer Finder self.

She was almost certain she was staring at proof that Bob Fontana’s suicide definitely hadn’t been a suicide.

Freddie started snapping pictures.