The Black Tower (4 page)

Herculeah frowned. That was obviously not what she wanted to hear. “Anyway,” she said with a shrug, “we can't be sure the message is for me.”

“It's for you.”

“It could be a wrong number.”

“It's no wrong number.”

“It could be for my mom. And my mom has lots of cases she's working on. It could be a warning to her.”

“Yeah, right.”

Herculeah leaned back in her mother's chair. Her mother, Mim Jones, used this front room for her office. She saw her clients here. And Herculeah, sitting in her mother's chair, always felt more like a detective than she usually did.

“I wonder,” she said, picking up a pencil and putting it behind her ear as her mother sometimes did, “if I should let my mom hear this.”

“Of course.”

“I don't know. She might take it seriously.”

“I should hope so.”

“And make me stop going.”

“You should stop going. Remember your hair frizzling. And your hair is never wrong.”

“I can't stop. Things are just starting to get interesting. Let's listen one more time, and this time try to see if there's any background noise—any clocks ticking or doorbells ringing or cars in the street outside.”

She rewound the machine and the message came again.

“—s a murderer. Stay away from the—”

Meat clamped his lips together so he couldn't say “tower,” but it was not necessary. A voice spoke from the doorway.

“What's going on here?”

Herculeah and Meat looked up to see Herculeah's mother.

“What is going on here?” she repeated, separating the words to show her displeasure.

“Nothing,” Meat stammered, but he knew it was not going to satisfy her. It wouldn't have satisfied her daughter. He then said something that might satisfy them all.

He said, “I'd better be getting home.”

Meat crossed the room quickly only to find that Herculeah's mother, looking very immovable, was blocking the doorway.

“Excuse me,” he said.

She didn't even do him the courtesy of looking at him. He cleared his throat, but that didn't do any good, either.

“What's going on, Herculeah? I want an answer. Now.”

“Mom, nothing's going on,” Herculeah said.

Good start, Meat thought.

“Anyway, it's not what you're thinking,” Herculeah continued.

“You have no idea what I'm thinking.”

Meat thought he knew. He remembered the last time Herculeah's mother had caught them in her office. They had been listening to one of her private taped conversations with the Moloch, and he was sure that was going through her mind as well as his own.

“We weren't snooping this time,” he said, hoping to ease the situation. He wished he hadn't said “this time,” because if she hadn't been thinking about that, then she would be now.

“I'll handle it, Meat,” Herculeah said.

“Thanks.”

Herculeah took a deep breath and lifted her head. This caused the pencil behind her ear to fall onto the desk. She carefully put it beside the yellow legal pad where she found it.

“When Meat and I came in the front door, we heard someone leaving a message. I thought it might be important, so we came in here to listen, That's the entire story. You're too suspicious.”

“Was the message for me?”

“We don't know. It was anonymous.”

“I'd better be going,” Meat said.

Herculeah said, “Well, it wasn't so much anonymous. It was just a piece of a message, Mom.
Whoever left it
started too soon and broke off in the middle. It was an old person, and some old people aren't used to using answering machines.”

“Old people are impatient, too, and sometimes won't wait for the beep, or they might not even know what a beep is,” Meat offered, though he could see at once that no one was interested in his knowledge of old people.

“Play it,” Herculeah's mom said.

“I've already heard it, so I'll be going.”

This time it worked, and Herculeah's mom stepped aside, allowing him to move through the doorway.

As soon as the front door closed behind him, he felt instant relief, but almost immediately he wished he were back inside. He could be hearing what Herculeah and her mom were saying. If only he had been slower opening the door.

What Herculeah was saying was, “Listen for yourself.”

The message was played, and in the silence that followed, Herculeah said, “Meat has some silly idea that the message was to warn us to stay away from the tower at Haunt—I mean, Hunt—House.”

“I had a silly idea, too.”

“Oh, Mom, you never have silly ideas.”

She kept her eyes on her daughter. “My silly idea was that I could trust you to read to Mr. Hunt without stirring up trouble.”

“I can't believe your mom is letting you go back to read to Mr. Hunt,” Meat said.

Herculeah didn't answer.

It was three thirty in the afternoon, and Meat and Herculeah were on their way to Hunt House.

They had been walking in silence. Herculeah had been admiring the fall afternoon, the way the leaves fell from the old trees. Meat was trying not to sound like his mother, though his last statement—“I can't believe your mom is letting you go back”—came close.

“She is letting you go back, isn't she?”

Herculeah didn't answer. Meat thought she was avoiding questions by feigning interest in nature.

“Does she even know you're going?”

“Yes, she knows I'm going. She's giving me one last chance, mainly because I convinced her that Mr. Hunt would be very disappointed if I didn't show.”

“Did she have anything to say about the message?”

“Very little. She did let it slip that she thought it might be one of the Hunts.”

“One of them! How many are there?”

“There's a portrait of the family in the hallway and it shows four children, but I could only recognize Shivers Hunt. Mom thinks it might be the older of the sisters. She's been loony for about fifty years.”

“Your mom said ‘loony'?”

“No, she actually said ‘childlike,' but that's what she meant. If it was the sister, Mom said you can't rely on anything she says.”

“Like phone messages,” Meat said.

“Exactly. Mom said she knows our number and has left messages before—well, parts of messages.”

“I don't suppose it could have been Mr. Hunt's voice, because he's paralyzed.” A sudden thought crossed his mind. “He is paralyzed, isn't he?”

“Yes, he is paralyzed.”

“Because you do read about things like this happening. Someone pretends to be paralyzed and then when nobody's looking, they get up and do things.” He warmed to the thought. “For all we know, he could have made the threatening phone call.”

“He didn't make the call.”

“But think of this: He's lying there. You're engrossed in reading to him. You're completely off your guard because the man can't move. Then all of a sudden you hear a sound. You don't pay any attention because the man can't move. Then the sound is closer, but you still don't pay any attention. Then without warning you feel hands around your throat. Now you pay attention but it's too late. Gotcha!”

“Oh, Meat, don't be silly.”

“If it's so silly, then why are you rubbing your neck?”

They rounded the corner, and Hunt House lay ahead. They passed through the gates and down the shaded drive.

Meat rang the ding-dong bell, and they waited for a long time before the door was opened.

“You again,” Nurse Wegman said.

“Yes.”

“Well, you'd better come in.” She looked at Meat. “You wait.”

Herculeah followed Nurse Wegman up the stairs and went directly to Mr. Hunt's bedroom. “Well, I'm not going to waste any time today,” she said, crossing the room and picking up the book. “We are going to read!”

She spoke loudly for Nurse Wegman's benefit. Apparently satisfied by what she had heard, Nurse Wegman left the room.

Herculeah sat and opened the book. “Here's where we were ... sound of breathing ... she whispers that she's coming....”

She turned the page. “Oh, I was right. A flashback is coming up.” As she straightened, a yellowed piece of paper slipped from the book and fluttered to the floor.

Herculeah said, “Oh, what's this?” She bent and picked it up. “Why, it's a clipping from an old newspaper. Well, part of one. It's been folded in half and unfolded so many times that it's torn. Either that or somebody tore it deliberately.”

She opened the book and riffled the pages gently to see if the rest of the clipping would drop out.

“No, I guess this is all there is.... Strange.”

She held the clipping to the light and, without thinking, began to read aloud.

 

She broke off. “Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Hunt. I wasn't thinking. You probably don't want to hear this. This is your family, isn't it?” She didn't wait for a blink. “You were probably at this party. I'm sure you don't want to relive it.”

She paused, and once again she had the feeling that Mr. Hunt was telling her something.

“Or do you?”

One blink. Yes.

“I mean, I know you don't want to relive it—nobody would—but I think you want to hear this, am I right?'

Blink.

“Then we might as well read the rest, or what there is of it. I'll be honest with you. I would like to know about the tragedy. It's not,” she went on truthfully, “that I enjoy tragedies, but that I always, always have to know what really happened. Do you want me to read on?”

And although she knew the answer, she waited.

Blink.

“Here goes.”

Meat got up from the steps and stretched. He felt he had been sitting here on these stone steps for hours.

He looked at his watch. Only fifteen minutes had passed. Shaking his arm, he tried to rouse the watch and remind it that it had better keep the right time or else.

He walked a few steps away from the house. He bent and pretended to tie his shoe. His shoe did not need tying, of course—the straps were Velcro—but he needed to glance up and see if the scary lady was watching him from the window.

But the windows were empty. Even so, Meat thought, they had the look of eyes—blind eyes, perhaps. He shuddered.

The tower was to the right of the house. Meat glanced at it, examining it. Why, he wondered, was Herculeah so fascinated by it? He moved closer for a better look.

And, his thoughts continued, she really was fascinated. When she had first seen the tower today she had said, “When I see that tower, I feel as if I'm waiting for something to happen, something unknown, something I can't even imagine, something I can't understand.” Then she added firmly, “That I can't understand yet!”

He still didn't understand why anyone would want to put one of these hideous things on their house. The house was hideous, too, of course, but that was no reason to put a tower on it.

Again he glanced up at the house, his eyes focusing on the window. He thought he saw a movement there; he waited for a long time, but no face appeared.

Turning his attention back to the tower, he thought about the tragedy that had happened here. It would be nice if he could discover what that tragedy was before Herculeah did.

He heard a noise overhead and looked up, startled.

Birds were flying out of the tower, through the slotted windows, their wings beating fast. They were struggling for their lives as if something were after them.

The sun was in Meat's eyes, and he put one hand up to shield them. Now it seemed that the last of the birds were free from the tower. They had gotten away from whatever had startled them.

Meat took one step closer. Something else was coming out of the tower, but he couldn't make it out. What was that? A stick? Surely it couldn't be an arm.

Then he heard a laugh. It was faint, muted by the thick tower walls, but it could only have come from one throat—that of the woman who had looked down at him from the window.

In his mind he saw it again, the face that had haunted his dreams for two nights, even appearing in his bathroom window, which was a double shock since his bathroom had no window. No wonder the birds were frightened.

Now he could make out that other object coming out of the tower. It was an arm, and at the end of the arm was a hand that was just as he had described to Herculeah. Talons—the hand had talons instead of fingers.

And something was clutched in those terrible talons. It was something round. A stone? Could it be a stone? Why hold a stone out the tower window? Was she going to throw it? The only person she could possibly want to hit with a stone was—

He looked around the empty yard. Him. Him!

Meat gasped. He wanted to run. It was the only sensible thing to do. But he seemed to be rooted to the spot, as unable to move as Mr. Hunt was upstairs in his bed.

The arm lifted. It was the movement a pitcher might make to test the weight of the ball.