King of Murder (12 page)

“Do you know what's up there?”

Yes.

“Because you've read the book before?”

“Time,” the nurse reminded her.

“I have to go.” Herculeah smiled at the old man, his face pale against the pillows, his bright bird eyes trying to tell her something, something important.

The nurse said, “Your friend is waiting for you outside.”

“Meat?”

“I think that's his name. I tried to get him to come inside, but he wouldn't.”

“That's Meat.”

Herculeah almost explained that Meat was afraid of this house, that he half believed the ghost stories that surrounded it, believed the stories that the portraits had holes in the eyes so that someone in a secret passage behind the wall could watch your every move.

“Meat ... Herculeah ...” the nurse said. “What wonderful names!”

“Meat got his because there's a lot of him. I got mine because my mom was watching a Hercules movie when she was waiting for me to be born. Mom was kidding around about naming me Hercules if I was a boy. The nurse said, ‘What about if it's a girl?' Mom said, ‘She'll be Herculeah.' I guess I was lucky. The doctor got in the act and said, ‘How about Samson?' He even sang it, ‘Oh, Samson-ya!'” She laughed. “Anyway, everyone who knows me says it suits.”

“I only met you this afternoon,” the nurse said, “but I think it suits you, too.”

As they moved into the hall, Herculeah said, “You know, I can't stop wondering why he chose this book.” She smiled. “Although I'm always looking for the reasons people do things.”

“I wondered about that, too.”

“Really?”

“Because I've had other patients like Mr. Hunt, patients who have been deprived of everything but their minds. And it seems that another sense has been heightened. They seem to know what's ahead, the way an animal can sense a storm.”

“Premonitions.”

“Yes. If Mr. Hunt had some way of knowing there would be trouble in that tower, he would have picked this book. Well, I've got to get back to my patient.”

“Right. I'll see you both tomorrow.”

“Oh, I won't be here,” the nurse said, smiling. “New grandchild. A Miss Wegman is taking over for me. Do you need me to show you the way out?”

“No, I remember the way.”

“Because this house has a lot of halls that don't go anywhere and oddly shaped rooms. It's easy to get lost in here.”

“I won't.”

She started down the stairs. She was lost in thought until she glanced at the painting on the wall. It was a family portrait: old man Hunt—Lionus Hunt, who had built the house—his wife, and the four children. Mr. Shivers Hunt was the oldest of the children. Then there was a younger sister and twin girls.

Herculeah paused, half hoping to see someone peering at her through holes in the old man's eyes.

Oh, well, she told herself, it was too much to hope for.

She was turning to go when something about the twins caught her eye. The twins were dressed alike—in middy blouses—but there was something about the blouse of the smaller twin.

She bent closer. She rubbed her fingers over the painting. The figure of the smaller twin had been damaged in some way. It had been repaired, but not by the same artist who had done the original picture. Strange.

Strange, too, about Mr. Hunt's choosing the book. There was so much she didn't know, so much she would have to find out.

With a shiver of anticipation, she continued down the stairs.