Summer of Night (25 page)

This little man and ungodly artist brought these designs and heathen images to the apartments of the Borgia Pope in his Tower. Within the most private of the Corrupt Pope's secret chambers, these pagan images prevailed-covering walls, arches, ceilings, and even the massive iron bell which was said to be the Borgia talisman high in the Torre.

To this day, the lost paintings are called, by the ignorant, grotesques, because they were found and copied from the unholy subterranean caverns, or grotte, in the darkness beneath Rome.

Uncle Art leaned over Duane's shoulder and said, "Ready to go yet?" The boy jumped, reset his glasses on his nose, and managed a smile.

"Just about."

While Uncle Art wandered restlessly in the nearby stacks, Duane flipped through the final volumes. He found only one more mention of the bell, and again it related to the art of the wizened muralist named Pinturicchio: But in the chamber which led from the Room of the Seven Mysteries to the locked staircase ascending to the belltower where only the Borgias might tread, the painter had reproduced the essence of those buried and forgotten murals which he had studied by the light of torches while water dripped from broken stone. Here, in what later would be called the Room of the Saints because of the seven great murals there, Pinturicchio had fulfilled his commission by filling every space between the paintings, every arch, nook, and column, with hundreds-some experts say thousands-of images of bulls.

The mystery is not that bulls should appear in his work or this hidden place; the bull was the emblem of the Borgia family; the benevolent ox had long been the metaphor for the papal procession.

But these bulls, as repeated almost endlessly in the dark hallways and grottos and entrance to the forbidden stairway above the Room of the Seven Mysteries, were neither of these emblems.

These were not the noble Borgia symbol, nor the peaceful ox. Reproduced countless times in these apartments was the stylized but unmistak able figure of the sacrificial bull of Osiris, the Egyptian god who ruled over the kingdom of the dead.

Duane closed the book and took off his glasses.

"Ready yet?" asked Uncle Art.

Duane nodded.

"Let's try that McDonald's drive-in place on War Memorial Drive," said his uncle. "Their hamburgers have gone up to a quarter, but they're pretty good."

Duane nodded, still thinking, and followed Uncle Art out of the basement and into the light.

The footsteps outside of Camp Three had stopped. Not receded, not gone away, merely… stopped. Mike, Dale, and Lawrence crouched by the low entrance and waited, barely breathing in their effort not to make noise. The sounds of the woods were quite distinct: a squirrel scolding someone or something far up the hill toward Dale's Uncle Henry's property; an occasional shout from Chuck Sperling's gang, farther away now, probably south of the quarry; the screech of crows in the treetops up the other hill toward Calvary Cemetery. But no sound from where the unseen soldier waited just outside the ring of bushes.

Dale slithered back to his previous vantage point, but there was nothing in view.

Suddenly there came a flurry of noise outside, footsteps pounding on the trail. Leaves rustled and the bushes on the east side of Camp Three shook as someone began forcing his way through the convoluted opening. Dale jumped back to one side of the gap and raised his stick. Mike did the same on the other side of the opening. Lawrence crouched with his club ready.

Branches bent upward, leaves shook, and Kevin Grum-bacher crawled into the grassy circle.

Dale and Mike looked at each other, lowered their sticks, and let out a breath.

Kevin grinned at them. "What were you going to do, brain me?"

"We thought you were them," said Lawrence, lowering his stick with an expression of regret. Lawrence liked scuffles.

Dale blinked and then realized that the others hadn't seen the man's boots with the puttees. Mike and Lawrence probably thought that the noise out there had been Sperling's bunch.

"You alone?" asked Mike, crouching to check in the tunnel of branches.

"Sure I'm alone. I wouldn't come back here unless I was alone."

Lawrence scowled at the older boy. "You didn't tell them about the Camp, did you?"

Kevin gave Dale's brother a disgusted look and spoke to Mike. "They said I could be on their side if I told where the hiding places were. I wouldn't. So that dipstick Fussner tied my arms behind my back with some clothesline and they dragged me around with them like I was a slave or something." Kev held out his arms to show the red welts on his wrists and upper arms.

"How'd you get away?" asked Dale.

Kevin grinned again, his large teeth, bristly crew cut, and bobbing Adam's apple giving an amusing picture of self-satisfaction. "When they started chasing you guys this way, Fussner couldn't keep up while dragging me along. The dope tied me to a tree and ran up the trail to see which way they'd gone. I still had my fingers free so I just backed up to the tree and untied the rope."

"Stay here," whispered Mike and slipped through the opening without touching a branch. The other three sat in silence for several minutes, Kev rubbing his wrists, Lawrence eating some Milk Duds he'd brought along. Dale waited for a shout, a scuffle… some signs of the guy he'd seen through the bushes.

Mike slipped back in. "They're gone from around here. I heard their voices way out by County Six. It sounds like Sperling and Digger are going home."

"Yeah," said Kevin. "They were getting bored. Said they had better things to do at home. Day singer wanted them to stay. The Fussners wanted to stick with Sperling."

Mike nodded. "Daysinger and McKown will hang around, wait for us to come out so they can ambush us." He used his stick to draw a map on a patch of bare soil near the entrance. "If I know Gerry, he'll head back to the quarry where there are lots of clods so he can see us if we head back that way from Dale's uncle's pasture or the woods and Gypsy Lane down here. He and Bob will probably hide out in the high ground here…"He had scribbled in the paths, the quarry ponds, and now drew a mound on the west side of the gravel pits. "There's that sort of low place on the top of the biggest hill, remember?"

"We camped there a couple of summers ago," said Dale.

Lawrence shook his head. "I don't remember that."

Dale poked him. "You were too little to go with us on an overnight." He looked back at Mike. "Go on."

Mike poked lines in the dirt, showing a path from Camp Three, over the hill, across the woods and pasture behind the cemetery, and up the back of the gravel-pit mountain where he figured Daysinger and McKown would be waiting. "They'll be looking these three directions," he said, drawing arrows south, east, and west. "But if we use those pine trees on the south slope for cover, we'll be able to climb right up on'em without them seeing us."

Kevin frowned at the map. "The last fifty feet or so will be in the open. That hilltop's just dirt up there."

"Right," said Mike, still grinning. "We have to be extra quiet. But remember, the gaps in their little fort up there look the other way. As long as we don't make noise, we'll be up above them and behind them before they know we're anywhere near."

Dale felt his excitement growing. "And we can pick up clods as we climb. There'll be plenty of ammunition."

Kevin was still frowning. "If they catch us in the open, we're dead. I mean, they've been throwing rocks."

"If it comes to that," said Mike,"we can throw rocks too." He looked at them. "Who's for it?"

"I am!" Lawrence's vote was almost a shout. His face was bright with anticipation.

"Yeah," said Dale, still studying the map and thinking about how Mike had come up with this complicated plan with almost no hesitation. Every foot of the route he'd drawn between Camp Three and the dirt hill used maximum concealment. Dale had hiked these woods for years, but he wouldn't have thought to use the low ditch across the field behind the cemetery for cover. "Yeah," he said again. "Let's do it."

Kevin shrugged. "As long as they don't take me prisoner again."

Mike grinned at them, made a fist, and ducked down through the opening. The others followed as quietly as they could.

"You seem preoccupied, kiddo," Uncle Art said on the way home. They were just descending into the Spoon River valley. The sky was cloudless and the June heat seemed to have intensified after they had spent so many hours in the air-conditioned, dehumidified library. Uncle Art had the windows down with the air rushing in, even though the Caddy's air conditioner was rumbling at the same time. He glanced over at Duane. "Anything I could help with?"

Duane hesitated. It didn't seem right telling Uncle Art somehow. But why not? All he was doing was trying to find some background information On Old Central. They hummed over the Spoon River bridge. Duane glanced at the dark water below, winding away to the north under overhanging branches, and then looked back at his uncle. Why not?

Duane told him about the newspaper articles. About the Borgia Bell. About the Cellini stuff he'd found in the library. When he was finished, he felt oddly tired and embarrassed, almost as if he'd exposed something shameful about himself. But he felt relieved at the same time.

Uncle Art whistled and said nothing for a moment, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. His blue eyes seemed to be focused on something other than the Hard Road. They reached the dirt road running north to County Six and Uncle Art turned right, slowing so the Cadillac didn't throw stones against the undercarriage or bump too fiercely on the ruts." "Do you think that bell could still be there?" he asked at last. "Still be in the school?"

Duane adjusted his glasses. "I don't know. I've never heard of it, have you?"

Uncle Art shook his head. "Not in the years I've lived around here. Of course, that's just been since just after the war. It was your momma's people who had roots here. All the same, I would've heard something if such a bell were general knowledge." They reached the junction of County Six and Jubilee College Road and Uncle Art paused. His home was three miles east on the gravel Jubilee College Road, but he had to bring Duane home. Ahead and to their left, the Black Tree Tavern was just visible under the elms and oaks. A few pickups were there already, although it was just early afternoon. Duane looked away before he could tell if the Old Man's truck was among them.

"I'll tell you what, kiddo," said Uncle Art. "I'll ask around about the bell in town… check with some of the other old farts I know… and I'll look in my library to see if there's anything on the legend of the damned thing. OK?"

Duane brightened up. "You think you might have something on it?"

Uncle Art shrugged. "The thing sounds like it's more myth than metal. I've always had an interest in the supernatural stuff-I like to debunk it. So I'll check my reference books, Crowley, stuff like that. Fair enough?"

"Great!" said Duane. It was like a weight off his shoulders.

He glanced before they descended the first hill. The Old Man's truck wasn't at the Black Tree! It might be a good day after all. Past the cemetery and Duane caught a glimpse of a stack of bikes near the fence at the rear: it might be Dale and those guys and if he got out now, he might find them in the woods. Duane shook his head. He'd taken enough time out of his chores.

The Old Man was home and sober and working in their vegetable garden that took up three-quarters of an acre. His face was sunburned and his hands looked blistered, but he was in a good mood and Uncle Art stayed for a beer while Duane sipped an RC Cola and listened to the banter. Uncle Art didn't mention the bell.

After his uncle left, Duane rolled up the sleeves of his flannel shirt and went out to weed and hoe and work the rows with the Old Man. They worked in companionable silence for an hour or two and then went in to wash up for supper, the Old Man wandering in to tinker with one of his new machines while Duane cooked the hamburger and rice and boiled the coffee.

They talked about politics during supper, the Old Man describing his work for Adlai Stevenson in the previous elections. "I don't know about Kennedy," he said. "He's sure to get the nomination, but I've never trusted millionaires. It'd be good if a Catholic got elected, though. Break down some of the discrimination in the country." He told Duane about Alfred E. Smith's unsuccessful 1928 campaign.

Duane had read about it, but he listened and nodded, happy just to be listening to the Old Man when he was sober and not angry at somebody.

"So the chances of a Catholic getting elected are pretty slim," the Old Man concluded. He sat a moment, nodded as if concluding that there were no weaknesses in his analysis, and stood to clear the table, rinsing the dishes under the tap and setting them aside for washing.

Duane glanced outside. It was after five, still early, but the shade of the poplar behind the house was moving across the window. He asked the question he'd been dreading all afternoon, trying to keep his voice light and casual. "You going out tonight?"

The Old Man paused in the act of filling the sink. The steam had fogged his glasses. He took them off and wiped them on a shirttail, as if contemplating the question. "Guess not," he said at last. "I've got some things to do in the workroom and I thought we might finish that game of chess we've let gather dust."