Page 17 of The Executioners Three
Freddie stayed up too late watching I Love Lucy and The Munsters with Mom and Steve. She felt so guilty about stealing from the archives that she was too ashamed to skulk off to her room early. Which meant Freddie didn’t get to explore The Curse of Allard Fortin until well after midnight.
But by then, she was so tired all she managed to do was open the book to chapter one and read the title (“My Family’s History as the Allard Fortin Blacksmith”). After that, her eyes simply would not stay open any longer.
Alas, her sleep wasn’t restful. Instead, her dreams were filled with crows and foggy shapes in the woods. With bells pealing and teenagers screaming.
The final dream she had was of the Hangsman from the poem. Made entirely of shadows, he stalked her through a starlit forest. She ran and ran but never gained ground. The world was a blur of black and white, until at last she reached the Village Historique and ran into the old schoolhouse.
There, she had no choice but to stop. She had no choice but to turn and face the Hangsman. Her dream-heart thundered; her mind was white with panic. Each step he stalked closer—a pulsing mass of darkness—the more she also spotted flames flickering within.
He reached her. His hands stretched out. And suddenly the shadows around him sucked inward, like a tornado forming, but in reverse. Then he was not an ancient executioner at all.
Instead, he was Theo Porter, frowning, restless, and offering her something. Freddie looked down. He held a heart made of iron. “ On n’est jamais si bien servi que par soi-même ,” he said. “This is for you, and only you can break it.”
He was wrong, though. Freddie had no idea how to break it. But she took it all the same, cold and beating and glinting in the darkness.
Then she awoke, sweaty. Confused by the morning sunlight flickering through her blinds. Perhaps most startling of all, though, was that she had “I Want It That Way” stuck on repeat inside her brain.
“My profoundest apologies,” she croaked to the NSYNC shrine in her corner. Then she dragged herself from bed, turned on her CD player, and hit Play. It wasn’t until she heard JC Chasez and Justin Timberlake (backed up by beautiful Lance, of course) that she finally felt safe again.
That dream had felt too real.
When she eventually felt like herself again (it took three full listens of “I Want You Back”), Freddie wandered into the kitchen to turn on the Mr. Coffee—only to find Mom and Steve already sitting at the table. They were both fully dressed, and Mom had even brushed her hair.
“Uh…” Freddie said, rubbing her eyes. “Is this a mirage? Am I still asleep? It’s not even ten A.M . Why are you two awake?” Mom and Steve were not early risers on weekends.
“We thought we’d go to the Quick-Bis for breakfast.” Mom smiled with a degree of perkiness that suggested she’d already been up for at least an hour.
Steve matched that smile, and all Freddie could think was The mind, it reels. “But you don’t like the Quick-Bis,” she said to her mom.
“I… do… sometimes .”
Freddie wasn’t a fool. She knew when she was about to be manipulated. She also knew when her stepdad was salivating—and that moment was right now.
“Shall we go?” Mom asked, still suspiciously perky.
Grumble , Freddie’s stomach replied. Then Freddie’s vocal cords answered: “ Fine . To the Quick-Bis we go.”
This earned a giddy clap from Mom and a soft “Mmmm, biscuits,” from Steve.
“Just let me put on real clothes.” Freddie shambled back to her room. One pair of tan corduroys, her favorite white peasant top, and an olive-green cardigan later, she headed into the bathroom to put in contacts and brush out her hair (just in case she ran into Kyle).
Five minutes after that, Freddie found herself climbing into Steve’s truck, and another fifteen later, they were all sinking into the same booth Freddie had shared with the Prank Squad only two days before.
It was weird.
It was extra weird watching her mom eat a biscuit. Steve did so with gusto—actually, he ate three biscuits with gusto—but Mom kept grimacing and muttering about arteries.
Of course, after two bites, she shut up and just wolfed the whole thing down. And when Steve suggested ordering another, she nodded sheepishly. “Please?”
As soon as Steve was out of sight, Mom rested her hands on the table. “I have a proposal,” she said, expression Very Serious Indeed.
“Okaaaay.” Freddie braced herself.
“I would like you to be in the Lumberjack Pageant.”
“Mom, no ! You promised me I wouldn’t have to do it my senior year.”
“I’m aware.”
“And it’s already bad enough you’re making me do those counseling sessions with Dr. Born. How much more torture can you inflict upon me?”
“Okay, okay, but, ” Mom said, slipping into her terrible Godfather voice, “I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.” To prove this point, she withdrew a box from her purse. On it were the words Nokia 3210 .
Freddie gasped. “A phone? I get a phone ?” She grabbed for the box.
And her mom yanked it back.
“First you have to promise to do the pageant.”
Freddie hesitated, arms extended. “Why do you need me so badly?” Her eyes thinned. “I’ve been begging you for a phone for a year.”
Now it was her mom’s turn to hesitate. Then she sighed, shoulders deflating.
“We still have no volunteers for the actual pageant, Fred, and when I went around this week to make sure the flyers were where I’d put them”—she motioned toward a tiny board of local bulletins and business cards near the soda machines—“I found them all missing. So then I put out more, but look! They’re gone again. ”
Freddie’s brows pinched tight. That was weird. Had Steve not fulfilled his sneaky Bermian insider duties and spread the word? “But that doesn’t mean no one will volunteer, Ma. People always enjoy being in the show. People that aren’t me, anyways.”
“Freddie.” Mom placed the Nokia box back onto the table. “Do you want the phone or not? This is a one-time offer.”
Freddie’s eyes held Mom’s for three seconds, gauging if the threat was real. Would Mom really take the phone back if Freddie refused?
Mom made a slow blink that said, Don’t you test me, kid.
“Alrighty, then.” Freddie accepted the box. “You have a deal, Patricia Gellar. One performance in exchange for one phone.”
“Great.” Mom deflated in her seat. “Pleasure doin’ business with you, Frederica.”
By the time Steve made it back to the table, Freddie had fully unwrapped the Nokia and turned it on. “What are you going to name it?” he asked as he set down a fresh tray of biscuits and orange juice. “Dana Scully? Buffy?”
“Sabrina.”
“Oh, that’s a good one.” Mom chomped into her biscuit with T-Rex ferocity. “Now can I get a fank-you, pwease?”
“Only if you give me one first.” Freddie grinned. Then she turned to the phone, opened up Snake, and embraced the future of video games.
Four hours later, after inputting Divya’s number with great ceremony into Sabrina and then, with great whining, helping her mom mend costumes, Freddie found herself at City-on-the-Berme for the first rehearsal of the Lumberjack Pageant.
The Village looked just as it had when she’d been here yesterday to help with stage assembly—except now the schoolhouse benches had been moved before the stage as well.
The sets were also fully assembled, complete with four fake pine trees, a painted lumberjack hut, and a crooked pole right in the middle that would get “chopped down” as part of the performance.
“Oh dear,” Mom murmured as they walked into the square to find it completely empty. “This is worse than I feared.”
“We’re ten minutes early,” Freddie offered. “People will come.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” Mom didn’t sound too hopeful. And even the trees surrounding the Village looked worried. Last night’s wind had torn down a lot of leaves, leaving patches of the forest barren.
“At least I have you,” Mom said meekly. “I suppose we can always make it a one-woman show.”
“Frederica Gellar.” Freddie splayed her fingers like a marquis sign. “In three acts. See her as a lumberjack with an outrageous French accent! LA B?CHERONNE! ”
This earned her a grin as she followed Mom toward the stage.
Wind rattled through the old buildings, pulling hay loose from the bales and clattering tools in the blacksmith’s hut. All that was missing were some tumbleweeds to really top off that “ghost town” vibe.
Freddie also noticed the fairy lights had fallen off the schoolhouse bell. Again . What the actual heck? At this point, she was genuinely starting to think someone might be pranking her.
Before she could stomp off to fix them ( again ), a low voice called: “Patty! Freddie!”
Freddie and Mom whirled about to find Mr. Binder power-walking their way. He wore an orange puffer jacket and pleated khakis. His pale brown skin, flushed red with cold, was the only hint of warmth around.
Once at the stage, he pulled Freddie into a side-hug and gave Mom a peck on the cheek. “Greg printed the scripts for us.”
Mr. Binder pulled away and motioned for Freddie and Mom to follow him toward the steps.
“He wasn’t going to perform in the pageant this year, but…
” Mr. Binder opened his arms to the benches.
“This does not bode well for us. We may need him. I don’t suppose you have any friends you could call, Freddie? ”
“No,” Freddie grumbled, hoping he didn’t press any harder. The truth was she’d rather swim in the lake during winter than invite her new Prank Squad friends to this.
“Alright, then. The show must go on.” With a little shake, he changed from the guy who was a family friend into the guy who always told Freddie her jazz hands weren’t good enough. Sparklier, Freddie! Make them sparklier!
After hopping the stage steps, Mr. Binder pulled a rolled-up stack of paper from his vest. “I tweaked the script a little this year, if you want to have a look.”