The Black Tower (10 page)

“Do you remember anything else?”

“He was a strong man. I remember he carried me up the circular stairs. He left me here ... like this.”

“Oh, my,” Herculeah said. As she knelt beside the woman, her thoughts raced.

The man who hit her on the head is the man pretending to be Nurse Wegman. Nurse Wegman is a man! I should have known that. The first time we met him, he was dressed like a woman, but when he asked Meat a question, Meat answered, “Yes, sir.” Sir! Meat sensed it, and I—like an idiot—

She broke off her thoughts.

“Listen, we've got to get out of here. The fake Nurse Wegman drove off in a car about an hour ago—I saw him leave—but he may come back, and we don't want to be up here in this tower if he does. We'd be trapped.”

“Yes.”

“Can you sit up?”

“If you help me.”

Herculeah bent to put one arm around the woman's shoulder and raised her into a sitting position. The woman's head sagged against Herculeah.

“I'm dizzy.”

“Take deep breaths,” Herculeah advised. “Can you stand?”

“I don't think so.”

“Then I'd better go for help.”

“No, no, don't leave me. I'll stand. Just don't let go of me.”

Herculeah lifted the woman into a standing position, but her legs crumpled and she sank back to the floor.

“I'll go for help.”

“You won't come back.”

“I will.”

“Someone went for help before.”

“Who?” Herculeah's thoughts lifted with the hope that help might already be on the way.

“An old woman. Very old. She brought me food. I asked her to call the police. She said Papa wouldn't like it.”

“Oh.” Herculeah realized that she meant Miss Hunt. She realized, too, that Miss Hunt's way of helping was by throwing a blood-stained coat out of the tower, by leaving phone messages, by opening the front door to let Herculeah inside, by leaving the key to the tower where she would find it. The old woman was like a child. She wouldn't call the police because Papa wouldn't like it.

“I've got to go for help.”

“Don't leave me.”

The woman's arms encircled Herculeah's legs with surprising strength. Her face was pressed against Herculeah's knees. Herculeah tried to move her legs, but she couldn't even take a step.

“If I don't go for help, we might—” She didn't want to say the word “die.” That would upset the woman even more. “We might be trapped here.”

The woman lifted her head. “Was that a car?”

“You heard a car?”

“I don't know. I heard something.”

“Maybe it was the storm. I hope that's what it was, but I've got to get out of here. You have to let go of my legs.”

“No! No! You'll leave me!” she wailed.

Herculeah pulled at the woman's arms, but her grip was like steel.

Herculeah had heard of something like this. It was called a death grip. It happened when people who were dying suddenly got enormous strength and could hold on to someone so tightly a hundred men couldn't break the grip.

Herculeah didn't think the woman was dying, but she did think she had a death grip a hundred men couldn't break.

“Look,” Herculeah said in her most reasonable and, she hoped, reassuring voice, “at least loosen your grip a little, just enough so that I can get over to the trapdoor and close it.”

“No, it's a trick. As soon as you get over there you'll go down the stairs and leave. I won't be left again. I won't. I'll die if I'm left again.”

“Look, let's inch over to the trapdoor. You can be with me every step of the way. We'll go over slowly. I'll close the door and we'll sit on it. That way, if the man does come back, he won't be able to get up here, and sooner or later my mom will come to see what's wrong and—”

She didn't finish because at that moment she heard something that froze her blood.

She heard the creaking of the tower door as it opened. Then she heard a heavy footstep on the stairs.

It's too late, she told herself, he's here.

Herculeah lunged toward the trapdoor. She was determined to get there even if she had to crawl, dragging this wounded woman with her. The woman screamed with pain as they fell to the floor, but she did not loosen her grip.

The footsteps on the circular stairs were coming closer. Herculeah was on her stomach now, pulling herself along with her elbows, but the woman was a terrible burden. She reached for the trapdoor, but there was not enough time.

A huge hand reached in the opening, holding the trapdoor in place, and Nurse Wegman‘s—the wrong Nurse Wegman's—face appeared in the opening. Then his chest. With his weight on his arms, he pulled himself up and sat in the opening, his feet swinging down over the circular stairs. The look on his face told Herculeah he was enjoying himself.

The woman moaned. Herculeah felt her arms go limp. She had fainted, and now—too late—Herculeah was free.

“It's you,” she said. She got to her feet and began to move away from the trapdoor.

“You should have stayed away,” the man said. “This was no concern of yours.”

“I guess I made it my concern.”

“That was a mistake.”

“You're no nurse.”

“Never have been.”

“No woman.”

Another cruel smiler “Never have been.”

“You're one of the Hunt family, though, aren't you?”

“Lionus Hunt the Second, at your service.”

“I thought so. You've got the Hunt eyes.” Herculeah did not intend that as a compliment.

Herculeah took another step back. The man stood and glanced down at the unconscious woman at his feet. Herculeah thought he was going to step over her body and come after her, but he did not.

Herculeah said, “Does all this”—she made a gesture that took in his disguise, the woman's body, the whole house—“have to do with that family reunion?”

“That was a long time ago. How did you find out about that?”

“I read about it in a news clipping.” Herculeah kept talking. She knew from past experience that when you were facing a killer, you kept talking. “There was a game at the reunion—hide-and-seek, I believe.”

“Yes, a child's game.”

“The governess was killed. A stone was thrown from this tower, I believe.”

“The stone wasn't meant for the governess.”

“Who then?”

“My mother's twin sister.”

“And who threw the stone?”

“My mother.”

Herculeah said, “Your mother hated her own twin that much—enough to try to kill her?”

“Oh, yes. Her twin was the good one. Everyone loved her twin. It started as jealousy, I guess—normal in sisters. It was petty things at first. She'd hide her twin's toys, spill her milk, make her cry.”

He paused, and Herculeah said quickly, “But it didn't stop there.”

“No, it got physical. She would shove her twin, push her down the stairs. Once she even stabbed her twin's portrait with a knife.”

“That should have been a warning to the family.” “Oh, my mother was punished all right, but that only made her hate her twin more.”

“What happened then?”

“There were several accidents—near misses, like the stone from the tower. I believe it was the poison mushrooms that finally did her in.”

“Your mother gave her poison mushrooms?”

“The family thought so. They kicked her out. She was only seventeen.” He glanced down at the unconscious woman at his feet before he continued. “But my mother is dying now, half out of her mind with pain. I just went out to call her for more instructions and only got babbling. Earlier I managed to piece the story together. I didn't even know she had a twin. She had never even mentioned her family. Now I learn that not only is there a family, but a family with a great deal of money. And this money is quite probably hidden in the family house.”

“And you had to get inside.”

“Yes.”

“But you're family. Why couldn't you just come for a visit?”

“The family made my mother an offer she couldn't refuse. They wouldn't contact the police if she would leave. The old man didn't trust the police, but he mistrusted her even more. She left, and I—a murderer's child—would not have been welcome.” He gave that cruel smile that Herculeah was beginning to hate. “Because a murderer's child could also turn out to be a murderer, don't you think?”

“But you haven't murdered anybody. The nurse is still alive.” “I just wanted her out of the way. So you're right. I haven't killed anyone. Not yet.” Another smile, and then he changed the subject. “Once I came here and saw the situation, it wasn't hard to make plans. It was simple. I'd take the place of one of the nurses. I'd find the money. I'd leave with nobody the wiser.”

“But how did you get the nurse up here? I almost got lost just finding the tower door.”

“I slipped in the house through the side door. So convenient. The door led directly into the hall and the tower door. My mother told me a lot of shortcuts. She knew how to get around in the house without being noticed.”

“The tower door was locked, wasn't it?”

“Anybody could open these old locks, if”—he touched his pocket—“if he had the right knife.”

Herculeah drew in her breath. He had a knife! To divert him, she said quickly, “You haven't found the money! There may not even be any money.”

“I think there is. All I have to do ...” He trailed off.

Herculeah could sense a subtle change in him. His body was no longer relaxed; he was ready in a way he had not been before.

“Listen,” she said, stepping back, “my friend knows I'm here. He'll tell my father. My father's a police detective.”

“I've taken care of your friend.”

“What? You did something to Meat? What?”

Now Herculeah was also ready in a way she had not been before.

“If you hurt Meat...”

She stepped forward, prepared for battle. Now the unconscious body of the woman was all that lay between them.

The woman stirred. She lifted her head. It came to her that just before she lost consciousness, she had held on to legs. Those legs had been all that lay between her and death.

With a cry, she reached out for the only legs she saw—the wrong Nurse Wegman's.

“What?” he cried. “What are you doing? Get off, you fool.”

He took a step back, trying to escape the clutching hands, but his heel caught in the opening of the trapdoor.

“Push!” Herculeah cried.

She waited with her heart in her throat to see if the woman had the strength to obey.

Meat rubbed his hands over his sweatshirt to dry them of sweat. He tried to calm himself by humming “Macho Man.” When his hands were as dry as they were going to get, he turned to the pay phone. He deposited the coins in the slot, dialed the number, and waited for three rings.

A voice said, “Police Department. Zone three. This is Sergeant Rossini. Can I help you?”

Meat cleared his throat. “I sure hope so,” he said. “I need to speak to Detective Chico Jones. It's important.”

“What's the problem?”

“It's about his daughter. She's—”

“Herculeah?”

Meat sighed with relief. Everyone in the county—in the United States, probably—knew Herculeah. “Yes, sir. There's something he needs to know. Herculeah may be in trouble.”

“Is this, er, some kind of personal problem? I've met Mrs. Jones, Herculeah's mom, and she seems to be the kind of woman who can handle most anything.”

“I can't get her—just her answering machine—and I believe this is a matter for the police. Also, I'm at a pay phone and I'm running out of coins.”

“I'll see if he's in.” There was a pause.

Meat waited. When the police put you on hold, they didn't bother piping in soothing music to ease the wait. You just had to hold the phone and hope for the best.

Since there was nothing else to do, Meat let his thoughts continue. The chorus of “Macho Man” would have been a perfect waiting song for him.

Other callers, of course, might like something different, something to lift their spirits. What was the name of that song that went, “When you walk through a storm, hold your head up,” or something like that? A lady sang it in an old movie.

Anybody calling the police was bound to be in some kind of storm. That was a given. You wouldn't want to walk through them with your head up, however, because—

“Chico Jones,” a voice said.

“Oh, hi.” Meat was brought back from his musical interlude abruptly. “Thank you for taking the call, Mr. Jones. It's me from across the street.”

“Albert?”

“Yes.”

“What's up?”

“Herculeah's at a place called Hunt House, and I think she may be in trouble.”

“I spoke with her mom this morning, and she assured me Herculeah wasn't going back there anymore to read to Mr. Hunt.”

“I don't think she went there to read.”

“I'll check into it. Where are you?”

“I'm at a gas station. It's not far from the house. I could meet you at the gate to Hunt House, if you don't mind. I'm worried.”