The Hanging Hill (3 page)

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 cylinders, 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.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lock the door. No one is to be allowed into this room until I am finished giving my notes.”

“Yes, sir!”

As the stage manager assembled all the actors, Grimes stood silently in a dark corner, hidden in the shadows behind a funnel of dusty light cascading down from a dim ceiling fixture. Dressed in a black turtleneck and black slacks, he all but disappeared, although there was no mistaking the sheen from his gleaming coal black eyes. He stroked his pencil-thin mustache. Smoothed his eyebrows with the middle finger of his one good hand.

He waited.

Soon the entire company was standing in a hushed half circle in front of him: Thurston Powell in cape and fangs; Amy Jo and Laura Joy Tiedeman, the actresses playing the tap-dancing Transylvania Twins; the chorus boys and chorus girls decked out in their werewolf and bat costumes.

Grimes didn’t say a word. Not at first. He let his stillness fill the terrified thespians with dread. An actor’s life was a hard one. Paying jobs were few and far between and it was the director who determined which actors worked and which went back to the unemployment line. Grimes had the power to crush each and every one of their dreams as surely as that horribly antique wringer washer had crushed his.

Finally, he spoke.

“I saw the show tonight.” He let his words hang like icicles in the air. “I have a few notes.”

Thurston Powell, the dashing leading man, nodded eagerly, pretending to be delighted to hear an honest critique of his performance. The man was a complete suck-up. No wonder he played such a convincing vampire.

“Kelly?” said Grimes.

A nervous young showgirl in black tights and sparkling bat wings stepped forward half an inch. The beautiful and talented Kelly Fagan was trembling so much her sequins were shimmering. Her frightened little toes
tappity-taptapped
against the hard tile floor.

Well, well, well
.

Hadn’t it been just last weekend that this same young woman had refused Reginald Grimes’s invitation to dinner? Oh, yes, she had smiled when, quite politely, she said, “I’m already dating someone,” but Grimes was certain he had registered the slightest hint of revulsion crossing her pretty face as she contemplated the prospect of being seen in public with a gimp.

Fine. Tonight he would extend her another invitation: to kindly go home.

“You were late for your entrance, Miss Fagan.”

“I know,” she said, her voice a frightened bird twitter. “We had some trouble making the costume change.”

“You were late.”

“Right. The bat wings wouldn’t…”

“You. Were. Late.”

“I just missed my entrance by a beat or two …”

“No, Ms. Fagan. You missed it by a full measure. Four counts.” He tapped his right hand against his stiff left arm. “Five, six, seven, eight! You see, Ms. Fagan, unlike some members of my cast, I pay very strict attention to the conductor waving his baton up and down in the orchestra pit.”

“But, I …”

“You’re fired.”

“What?”

“Your services are no longer required. I am terminating your contract, effective immediately.”

“But…”

He turned to the others in the cast. “Let this be a warning to you all. I will not tolerate unprofessional behavior!”

“But… my parents,” Fagan sniffled, “my parents were in the audience tonight.”

“Really?” said Grimes. “How nice. They were able to see your final performance at the Hanging Hill Playhouse!”

Feeling better than he had in weeks, Grimes climbed a winding staircase to the second floor and entered his office.

There was a swarthy man waiting for him.

“Mr. Grimes?”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Reginald Grimes?”

“Yes.”

“The orphan child?”

Grimes’s pale skin blanched even whiter. “Who. Are. You?”

“My name is Hakeem. We have much to discuss.”