The Hanging Hill Read online

  “What’s that?” Kelly asked.

  “Bats in Her Belfry. Original 1955 cast recording. Vinyl. Thought it might be cool to listen to it later, if, you know, we can dig up an old-fashioned record player.”

  “Who’s she?” Kelly asked, pointing at the woman swooning in Dracula’s arms on the cover.

  “Kathleen Williams. She played Lucy. Sang ‘Bitten and Smitten.’”

  Kelly nodded.

  Now she had a name to go with the face.

  Kathleen Williams had been the pretty woman staring at her from inside the mirror.

  5

  At dusk, the Riverstream Hospital for the Criminally Insane loomed like a dark castle set against angry red clouds in the lowering sky.

  Two olive-skinned men, both sporting bushy mustaches and tasseled red hats, ascended the steep stone steps to the main entrance of the dilapidated building.

  “Tell me, Hakeem,” asked one of the men, “why do we need him?”

  “He is of the royal bloodline.”

  “We could do it ourselves!”

  “No, Habib. We could not.” Hakeem peered up at the weather-beaten six-story structure. In a small dormer jutting up through the crumbling slate roof, faint candlelight danced across the barred glass of a window. “Come. He waits for us.”

  “He knows we are coming?”

  “Of course. Do you think we would be here had he not summoned us? Hurry. His time draws near.”

  “He is dying?”

  Hakeem nodded solemnly.

  “Then we must raise the army on our own!”

  “No,” said Hakeem. “There is another. An heir we have secretly supported for many years.”

  “Who?”

  “Come. You ask far too many questions. All shall be revealed. Come.”

  They clambered up the final steps and passed underneath a grand fieldstone arch shrouded by the veined web of long-dead ivy.

  A guard was stationed in the cavernous lobby. “State your business.”

  Hakeem did not recognize the young man. Typically, he dealt with a senile old sentry named Bob.

  “Where is Bob?”

  “Retired. State your business.”

  “I am Hakeem. This is my associate Habib. We are here to visit the professor.”

  The guard hiked up his gun belt, jangling an enormous ring of keys. “You’ve visited before?”

  “Yes. Many times.”

  “You know the rules?”

  “Yes.”

  The guard picked up a clipboard. “Go straight to his cell. Don’t talk to any of the others. Stay six feet away from him at all times.”

  Hakeem nodded. “As I said, we know the rules.”

  The guard eyed him suspiciously.

  “You family?”

  “No.”

  “Friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Known him a long time?”

  “Yes.”

  “So how old is he, anyway? Somebody told me he’s a hundred.”

  “One hundred and five.”

  “I hear he used to be in show business. A magician.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Did he do birthday parties? That where he killed the kid?”

  “Please, sir. We are in a hurry. Time is of the essence.”

  “Why? Your friend isn’t goin’ anywhere any time soon. He’s chained and shackled to his wheelchair. Has been ever since 1939 when he went berserk and murdered that little girl.”

  “Please, sir. May we kindly proceed upstairs?”

  “Sign here.” He handed Hakeem the clipboard. “Be careful up there. Stick to the middle of the corridors. Stay away from the bars on the cell doors. You never know when one of these psychos might try to reach out and kill somebody new.”

  6

  It was pitch-dark by the time they stuffed the last suitcase into the back of the Saab convertible.

  “You know,” said Judy, gesturing toward her backpack loaded down with a laptop, overflowing folders, assorted notebooks, and several heavily penciled manuscripts, “if I get busy, if Mr. Grimes wants more rewrites …”

  “There are two kids my age in the show,” said Zack, finishing the sentence for her. “So Zipper and I can hang out with them whenever they’re not rehearsing. Don’t worry, Mom. We’ll be fine.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “Making this a little easier for me. I think I’m scared. I’ve never put my words in front of a live audience before. I just wrote books. Wasn’t sitting there watching when people actually read ’em.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Zack, realizing he had been so right not to give Judy anything more to brood about today. “It’ll be great.”

  “You’re right. I’ll be swell! I’ll be great! Gonna have the whole world on my plate.”

  “Hunh?” said Zack.

  “Sorry. It’s a song. From Gypsy.”

  “What’s Gypsy?”

  “A Broadway musical.”

  “And it’s about gypsies?”

  “No. Not really. Even though, sometimes, they call dancers in Broadway shows gypsies because they move around so much, from show to show.”

  “Unh-hunh,” said Zack. Sometimes the whole Broadway thing was too complicated. He’d stick to memorizing the stuff from Age of Empires III.

  “Yep,” said Judy, settling in behind the steering wheel, still sounding nervous. “There’s no business like show business like no business I know.”

  “Really?” said Zack. “What about making widgets?”

  “Nope.”

  “Refrigerator repair?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Monkey business?”

  “Close.” Judy laughed and cranked the ignition. “You’ll see. Next stop—the Hanging Hill Playhouse, Chatham, Connecticut.”

  Zack gave the hotel one last look.

  Buh-bye, Mad Dog. See ya! Wouldn’t want to be ya.

  As soon as they pulled out of the hotel parking lot, Zack heard a strange sizzling sound.

  He turned around. Saw a fountain of electrical fireworks shooting out the top of the Marriott sign.

  “Wow,” said Judy, glancing up at the rearview mirror. “A lightbulb must’ve blown out. A big one!”

  “Yeah,” said Zack.

  Either that, or Old Sparky wanted to say “buh-bye,” too.

  7

  The withered 105-year-old man sat slumped in his wheelchair near the cell door.

  His ankles were shackled together. A heavy chain drooped in a loop between the rolling chair’s footrests. A turban, fashioned from a faded violet bath towel, was wrapped around his skull.

  The shriveled old man spoke in a scratchy whisper: “It is time, Hakeem.”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  “Take this.” He produced a tiny key. “It will open the final compartment. See to it that the anointed one has all that he requires.”

  “As you command, Exalted One. The boat left Tunisia three weeks ago and arrived safely. The truck from the harbor will arrive tomorrow.”

  “And the other necessary arrangements?”

  “Nearing completion, master.”

  “Excellent. Well done, Hakeem.”

  “Thank you, Exalted One.”

  The professor reached into the tattered pocket of his frayed robe and removed a small slip of paper.

  “More names I would add.”

  Hakeem glanced at the list. “Who is this Mad Dog Murphy you have placed at the top?”

  “One who should prove most useful to our cause.”

  Hakeem tucked the paper away. “Your will shall be done.”

  “Do not despair, my friend. We two shall meet again. Soon.”

  Now Habib stepped forward. “When?” he asked. “When are you two meeting again?”

  The old man narrowed his milky eyes. “Hakeem, who is this person?”

  “His name is Habib, Excellency. He is newly arrived. From Tunis.”

  “Is he one of us?”


  “Of course.”

  The old man grunted.

  “I cannot begin to tell you what an honor it is to finally meet you, sir!” Habib prattled. “I am grievously saddened to hear of your impending death.”

  The old man gestured with a gnarled claw. “Please. Come closer, Habib. This solitary candle casts but a dim and wavering light. I desire to see your face more fully.”

  Habib stepped closer to the wheelchair.

  “Is this better, Exalted One?”

  “Oh, yes. Much.”

  The withered old man reached up into the cuff of his bathrobe and extracted the bone-handled magician’s knife he kept hidden there at all times—a weapon Hakeem had easily smuggled into the prison one day when the ancient guard had been on duty.

  “What’s that?” asked Habib.

  “An omen of your impending death.”

  Hakeem watched in awe as the professor—still possessing the fierce strength of a man eight decades his junior—lurched forward and, with a grunt, jammed the knife blade into Habib’s stomach. He twisted it sharply to the right.

  Habib crumpled to the floor.

  The inmates in the other cells hooted and cheered. Hakeem knew guards would soon be racing up the stairs to investigate the commotion.

  The shackled old man rattled chains as he kicked at the limp body.

  “Imbecile! Bring me no more such as this one, Hakeem, or next time, I swear by all that is sacred, my blade will find its resting place in your belly!”

  Hakeem bowed. “Yes, master.”

  “We two shall speak again. Soon. When the August moon grows full.”

  “Yes, master.”

  “Go. It is time.”

  And suddenly, the old man’s head flopped forward as he rattled out his final breath.

  “Master?”

  There was no reply.

  Hakeem grabbed the knife and slipped out of the cell before any guards arrived.

  He knew the professor had died happy with much to look forward to.

  8

  Zack, Judy, and Zipper were flying across the state of Connecticut.

  Actually, they were on the interstate in Judy’s Saab—a type of car built by Swedish guys who also designed jets. North Chester was located in the northwest corner of Connecticut, while Chatham and the theater were over on the east coast—down where the Connecticut River emptied into the Atlantic Ocean. It would take them about two hours to drive across the state.

  Judy had a stainless steel tumbler of black coffee in one cup holder and a thermos bottle full of it in the other.

  Zipper had the backseat all to himself and was fast asleep.

  Zack, riding shotgun, was happy to be leaving Mad Dog, Doll Face, and Old Sparky behind for their Extremely Extended Stay at the Marriott. He didn’t think the ghosts would bother his dad. They usually left nonbelievers alone, picked on people like Zack instead.

  He let his mind wander.

  He imagined the Saab was a real jet.

  No, a rocket ship. An intergalactic space cruiser. Cool—because the inky night sky sparkled with stars.

  “There’s our destination,” Zack thought. “Third star on the left! Blast off!”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

  He fingered what others might call the window button but what he knew to be the toggle switch to initiate the launch sequence. The window opened a half inch. Zack heard the air whoosh, whine, and whistle. Yep. The rockets were fully operational.

  He eyed Commander Judy’s control console.

  The digital readout behind her circular yoke (which looked sort of like a steering wheel) glowed with a green 65.

  Judy certainly knew how to pilot a rocket ship: sixty-five times the speed of light! Incredible. They’d zip past the moon in about a minute. Faster if nobody needed a bathroom break.

  Now Zack observed an obstacle—dead ahead.

  “Houston, we have a problem,” he thought.

  “This is Houston.” He imagined a different voice to keep the dialogue rolling in his head. “We see it. Appears to have eighteen rotating drive mechanisms. What in blazes is it, man?”

  “Some sort of cargo vessel,” navigator Zack shot back. “The markings on its tail fin flaps suggest it’s an intergalactic grocery hauler from the planet Krogerus. How ever, I suspect it’s actually a pirate ship carrying concealed contraband from the mining colony on Melkior Six.”

  Judy flicked on her turn signal and, increasing speed, eased into the passing lane.

  “Houston, we are initiating aggressive counter-measures.”

  “Careful, man!”

  “Careful? Ha! I laugh in your general direction. Ha, ha, ha!”

  “You might run into a meteor shower,” said the nervous radio voice back on earth.

  “No thanks,” the cocky space cadet voice snapped back. “I already washed my hair.”

  Zack knew every good space movie needed a couple corny jokes. They called it witty banter.

  Suddenly, a glowing missile came flying out of the truck.

  A cigarette butt.

  Its tip flared red as it left the driver’s window and flew like a hot coal shot from a cannon. It would’ve scored a direct hit on their windshield, but the small car’s sleek aerodynamic design sent it up and over the roof!

  Ha!

  The invisible force field had once again proven to be an excellent defense against sneak butt attacks!

  Zack checked out the side-view mirror and saw the cigarette smack into the pavement, where it exploded into a shower of a thousand tiny sparks.

  Cigarettes.

  They were always out to get him.

  Cigarettes were what killed his real mother. Gave her cancer. Of course, she said she only smoked so much because Zack drove her crazy and ruined her life just by being born.

  He felt the turbocharger kick in as they eased past the rumbling truck. Zack looked up to give the trucker a wave—just to let the guy behind the wheel know how not afraid of flying butts he was.

  Only the truck driver wasn’t a guy.

  It was a woman, a fresh cigarette already jammed between her lips.

  She flicked her lighter and Zack saw her face, illuminated by the candling flame.

  She looked angry. Furious at the whole world. She looked exactly like his real mother had looked right before she’d gotten sick and died.

  9

  Reginald Grimes lurked in the shadows at the back of the auditorium, watching the cast of Bats in Her Belfry take their curtain calls.

  Near one of the exit alcoves, Grimes noticed a terrified usher. She was staring at him.

  So Grimes glared at her.

  She scurried away.

  They always did.

  The audience was on its feet now, giving Grimes’s staging of the beloved Broadway musical comedy a standing ovation. As the show’s director, Grimes did not attend every performance after opening night. But tomorrow he was scheduled to begin rehearsals for Curiosity Cat. A perfectionist, Grimes wanted to make certain Bats was in the best shape possible before he moved on to his next project.

  It was not.

  He would need to go backstage. Have a word with the cast.

  Heads would roll. Well, at least one very pretty head.

  As the audience continued to applaud and thunder “Bravo!,” Thurston Powell, the actor playing Dracula, came to center stage to twirl his cape and take his solo bow.

  Grimes wondered once again how that must feel.

  To savor the limelight. To bask in the glory of a triumphant performance. To soak up the love and adulation of a thousand total strangers.

  Yes, there had been a time when Reginald Grimes had dreamed of being a world-renowned actor, but his physical deformity prevented it from ever becoming a reality. As a small child, barely two, he had been left alone in the orphanage laundry with a gas-powered wringer washer. He had, or so he had always been told by the nurse who witnessed the mangling of his left arm, been mesmerized by the machine’s rolling cylin
ders, engineered to squeeze the wash water out of soaked bedsheets. Little Reggie placed his fingertips into the rollers and the ravenous machine had done its job: it had pulled him forward like a limp rag, mashing and crushing his arm up to the elbow.

  Forty years and several crude surgeries later, his left arm remained bent and locked at a severe angle. It looked as if it were frozen inside a permanent plaster cast without the need of a sling. Ever since he was a child, fearing the taunts of his classmates, Grimes had worn long-sleeved shirts and sweaters, even in the summer, hoping to forever hide the patchwork of quilted flesh grafted to his ruined arm.

  Of course there was no way he could act in Shakespearean tragedies or Broadway comedies without the ability to move his left arm. No way could he become a movie star when the bare skin of his forearm resembled a mound of white cheese slices melted on top of each other.

  “Bravo!”

  The whole cast was onstage, standing in a line. They locked hands and took one last group bow. When they rose out of it, they beamed.

  Grimes grinned.

  He knew that at least one of those bright, shiny faces would soon be filled with tears.

  10

  “Excuse me Pardon me.”

  Grimes pushed his way through the standing-room-only crowd to the curtained exit closest to the stage. The house was, of course, packed. The show, completely sold out. Reginald Grimes musicals always were, long before they opened. He had been the Hanging Hill’s artistic director for nearly twenty years. Fresh out of drama school (which he had only been able to attend thanks to a scholarship provided by an anonymous donor), he was awarded a generous grant (given by another anonymous donor), to become artistic director of the Pandemonium Players—the acting company in residence at the Hanging Hill Playhouse throughout its repertory season.

  He pulled open a door labeled “To Stage,” and headed up the cinder block hallway toward the greenroom, the lounge where the cast typically assembled following a performance to meet and greet their friends and adoring fans.

  “Good evening, Mr. Grimes!” said the stage manager. “Wasn’t the show terrific tonight?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “No. It was not. Tell the cast I wish to speak to them. Now.”