The Hanging Hill (12 page)

53

First thing Monday morning, Hakeem, Badir, and Jamal escorted Reginald Grimes back to the basement.

This time, they led him into the vast warehouse located two stories below the theater’s scene shop. Hakeem flicked on a work light and Grimes was staring up at a brass statue of his new god.

“Is it the original?”

“No, oh Holy One. However, it is an exact replica. Handcrafted by our faithful artisans in Kairouan.”

“Are they also my devoted followers?”

“But of course. They have provided much financial assistance for our endeavors.”

Grimes stared at the metal beast. “The dog days are upon us, Hakeem!” he declared. “Sirius, the Dog Star, the brightest star in all the heavens, now rises and sets in sync with the sun. We enter a time of sweltering heat, when none will feel the hot blast from hell’s furnace door as we pry it open. This is the evilest time of the rolling year, when the seas boil, wine turns sour, dogs grow mad, and mankind burns with fevers and frenzies!”

“You have studied well,” said Hakeem.

“I took the book home last night. Reread a few chapters.”

“Then you are ready!” Hakeem held up his key. “Let us go open the final drawer!”

The four men scurried across the basement to the room where the trunk was stored.

“It is time, Exalted One.”

Hakeem’s brass key glistened in the sharply angled beam of sunshine slicing through the casement windows.

The birds outside ceased chirping.

“It is time!”

He slowly inserted the key into the lock on the one drawer that remained sealed.

“Hurry up!” said Grimes. “Open it!”

“Guard the door,” Hakeem commanded Badir and Jamal. “Let no infidels approach!”

They grunted. Went to the door.

Hakeem turned the key. The locked drawer clicked open.

“Show me!” said Grimes, quivering with anticipation.

Hakeem bowed, slid open the creaking drawer, and extracted a brittle parchment roll.

“What is it? Another ritual? More necro- or necyomancy?”

Hakeem grinned. “What if you could not only summon forth the spirits of the damned but restore them to full life?”

Grimes thought about that. “Bring the dead back to life? Resurrect them? Are such things possible?”

“Yes, Exalted One. Here, in this place, at this time, such things are very possible, indeed.” He gestured toward the scroll. “Behold the resurrection ritual! Your grandfather, may Ba’al rest his soul, attempted to perform it. Once.”

“When?”

“Many years ago.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“Why here?”

“This building was erected on what some might call cursed land. What we would call sacred soil. It is a power spot. A vortex where negative energies collide. A swarming place for the foulest demons imaginable! It is land ripe for our resurrection ritual!”

54

Zack was eating Cheerios out of a paper bowl in Judy’s room.

She went with the box of Frosted Mini-Wheats. They’d sliced up a banana and shared it, too. Zack figured he should probably be eating steak and eggs, biscuits and gravy. Something with tons of protein. Might bulk him up. Make him look more like what he imagined a demon slayer ought to look like. Like the superheroes in the comic books.

Zack had tossed and turned all night. Kept dreaming about show-people ghosts.

Not to mention demons in top hats toting bloody meat cleavers.

And Native American girls with bloated black tongues.

And …

“How’d you sleep?” Judy asked.

“Not so good.”

“Me neither. Lumpy pillow. Strange bed. Too quiet.”

“Too quiet?”

“We’ve been living in that motel so long, I’m used to my nightly traffic serenade. Tires humming. Brakes squealing. Eighteen-wheelers rumbling along the interstate at five a.m. Last night, all I heard was quiet. And crickets.”

Zack nodded.

Maybe the whole deal with Mr. Willowmeier and the ghosts had been a dream. Either that or they had worked up some kind of spell so nobody heard everybody shouting “Huzzah!” but him. Zachary Jennings.

Mr. Demon Slayer.

He needed another bowl of Cheerios. Maybe a multi-vitamin with iron. Not to mention a sword or something.

55

“With this final ritual,” Hakeem explained to Grimes, “you will assemble the ultimate cast! A living, breathing army of demons eager to do your bidding.”

Grimes understood. “They could rob banks for me.”

“Yes, Your Eminence.”

“Steal gold. Jewelry. Stocks. Bonds. Anything. Everything!”

“Yes, Your Eminence.”

Grimes felt the blood surging through his crippled arm. “A monster like Lilly Pruett could take revenge on all my enemies.”

“And she will. She will do whatever you tell her to do. So will they all. They will be your puppets. You will be their puppet master.”

“Show me what must be done.”

“These are the words the male child must speak during the ceremonial offering.”

Grimes moved to snatch the scroll out of Hakeem’s hands.

“Careful! It is two thousand years old!”

“Then read it to me!”

“As you wish.”

Carefully, very carefully, Hakeem unrolled the parchment and recited the ancient words. When he was finished, Grimes fully understood the magnitude of his destiny, the tremendous power he had been given.

The bloody deed that must be done to make it all so.

He was more than special.

He was very close to being a god.

His eyes grew wider and wilder.

“The boy must chant these words before the two children enter the holy place,” said Hakeem. “Tonight. When the moon is full.”

“Why these two children?”

“They were both born under a full moon.”

“So that’s why you got rid of Brad Doyle and hired Derek Stone.”

“Indeed.”

“Clever. And once Derek and Meghan have played their parts, once they make their ‘exits,’ I will become the undisputed ruler of all the reanimated demons we have summoned forth?”

Hakeem nodded.

“Good. Good.”

“We, of course, hope you will see fit to share whatever riches you acquire with your loyal acolytes in the Brotherhood of Hannibal.”

“Fear not,” said Grimes. “You people have proved faithful and true. I shall prove generous and munificent.”

“Badir? Jamal?” Hakeem clapped his hands. “Take the trunk. Hide it where no heathen might stumble upon it.”

“Yes, Hakeem!”

“Then finish your preparations! All must be in readiness by moonrise tonight!”

“Fear not,” said Grimes. “I shall be ready! So shall the children!”

56

Derek Stone sat in the corridor outside his bedroom on the fifth floor, thumbing the remote for his radio-controlled monster truck, the only vehicle his mother had allowed him to bring on this stupid trip to Connecticut.

He zipped it up the carpeted hallway. Slammed it into a spinning U-turn. Sent it flying over a bump in the rug and watched it carom off the baseboards. It was totally awesome.

“Derek?”

His mother. Calling from her room. He sidewinded the monster truck—with anodized aluminum wheel hexes and slipper clutch—into a sliding skid near the elevator alcove. Parked it. Out of sight. Out of mind.

“Yes, Mommy?”

“Rehearsal starts at ten a.m.”

“So?”

“You’ve got an hour!”

“I know.”

She stuck her head out her door. Her hair was in all kinds of curlers. There was green goop on her face.

“Have you memorized your lines?”

Derek gestured toward the script sitting in his lap, where it did an excellent job of hiding the monster-truck remote. “I’m working on it.”

“Out here?”

“I concentrate better in the hallway.”

“Fine. I need to finish putting on my makeup.” She slammed the door.

Derek chucked the script aside. Clutched the handgrip controller. Sent the monster truck zipping into an amazing one-eighty backward tailspin.

The elevator bell pinged. The cage door slid open.

“Hello, Derek.”

It was the director. Reginald Grimes.

Derek popped up. Waved. He was still holding the pistol grip controller in his hand.

“Working on your script?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Excellent.” Grimes walked up the hall. He had a slippery, loping kind of gait. Looked like a camel with a mustache.

“First of all, Derek, let me say how thrilled I am to have you in my cast. You were always my first choice for the role of Charlie.”

“Really? What about Brad Doyle?”

“Bah!” Grimes waved one arm dismissively. His other arm remained locked and frozen at his side. “Brad Doyle! That boy couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag.”

Derek smiled. It felt like it was his birthday. Maybe Christmas. “So you wanted me? Really?”

“Really! In fact, I don’t want to overburden your artistic talents, but…”

Derek stiffened his spine. “What is it, Mr. Grimes?”

“Well, I am considering expanding your role.”

“Really? Wow!”

“Yes. I’d like to attempt an artistic experiment. Make the part of Charlie a bit more dynamic. A bit more interesting.”

“Awesome, sir!”

“Of course, no one must know about this. As I said, it’s all very experimental. Very avant-garde.”

Derek had no idea what “avant-garde” meant but it sounded better than his mother’s constant reminders that he was a lousy actor, that he only got by on his dimples.

“I’m all about avant-garde, sir.”

“Excellent. Wonderful.” Grimes reached into a pocket with his good hand and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “You’re not to show this to anyone. Not your mother. Not Miss McKenna. Not the Jennings boy.”

“Of course not.”

“It’s in Latin.”

“Okay.”

“I spelled it out phonetically for you.”

“Thank you, sir. That was very kind of you.”

“Commit these new lines to memory before sundown.”

“No problem, Mr. Grimes. I’m a very quick study.”

“Excellent. See you at rehearsal.”

“Ten o’clock, sir. I’ll be there! And I’ll memorize all these new lines, too!”

“Wonderful.”

Wow.

This was it! His big break!

He really was a brilliant actor.

Reginald Grimes had said so!

57

Zack saw Meghan sitting on a sun-drenched bench in the lobby.

“Hey!” he said.

“Hi!” Meghan closed her script. “Do anything exciting last night?”

Zack shrugged. “Read a little. Watched an old movie on TV.”

Chatted with Justus Willowmeier III, Bartholomew Buckingham, and a whole bunch of other dead people
.

Zack wanted to tell Meghan all about the theatrical ghosts he had seen swarming outside the theater last night. But Mr. Willowmeier had specifically told him not to say a word to Judy, Meghan, or even Derek about what he had seen and heard.

I’m afraid they may soon need the protection of a demon slayer even more than we do!

Why? Was there some sort of demonic conspiracy brewing against
Curiosity Cat?
Didn’t demons have more important stuff to do than mess around with musicals?

“So what’d
you
do last night?” Zack asked.

“Homework. Studied my lines.”

“Homework? In August?”

“The principal of my school doesn’t believe in summer vacations.”

“Your mom?”

“Yeah. So where’s your stepmom?”

“She went upstairs to talk to Mr. Grimes.”

“Oh,” said Meghan, “I almost forgot! I figured out why that girl downstairs was crying!”

“Yeah?”

“I think her name is Princess Nepauduckett. There was this etching that looked just like her—the buckskin dress, the beads, the hairdo—in this obscure Native American history book my mom brought back from the library.”

“Cool.”

“Not really. It was an etching of her execution. They hanged her for stealing food from the first settlers. The Pilgrims.”

Zack pretended to be surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah. Hey, I wonder if Princess Nepauduckett knows
your
Pilgrim Guy!”

“We’ll have to ask her next time we see her.”

“Yeah! We know where to find her. I figure she’s stuck downstairs.”

Zack wanted to say
No. She also rides the elevator. Especially real early in the morning
.

But he didn’t.

58

Reginald Grimes sat behind the cluttered desk in his office on the second floor, staring at the wall filled with framed posters from the many shows he had directed over the years:
Put On Your Shoes; My Gal Sal; Sing, Sing, Sing
.

All had received rave reviews.

All had brought him glory.

But none of those triumphs could compare with the glory awaiting him when the full August moon rose in the east and he, the anointed one, performed the sacred resurrection rite with the two children.

His worldly cares and concerns, his fears and his hates, his loneliness and isolation, all of it was fading away now.

He reached into a desk drawer and found the special hat Hakeem had given him to wear in his role as high priest. A purple turban with a luminous emerald clasp at its center. Just like his grandfather’s. He placed it on his head. Felt its plump lushness.

There was a knock at the door.

“Mr. Grimes?”

It was Judy Magruder Jennings. The author.

“Yes?”

She was staring at his hat.

“Is that a costume piece?”

“Yes.”

“For
Curiosity Cat?”

“No.”

“Good. Because none of my characters is a genie.”

Grimes assumed that the woman was attempting to be funny.

“Is there something I can help you with, Ms. Jennings?”

“Yes. I wanted to talk to you before rehearsal. I don’t think the lyrics should be changed.”

“I see.”

“So I’m not going to change them.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“It was simply a suggestion.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks.”

“Is that all?”

“Yep. See you at rehearsal. Ten a.m., right?”

Grimes nodded slowly. He wasn’t even there. Wasn’t really listening. The woman’s words sounded like the
wahwah
blaring from the bell of a muted trombone. Reginald Grimes cared nothing for
Curiosity Cat
or the Pandemonium Players or the playwright currently darkening his doorway.

He was the exalted one, the high priest of Ba’al Hammon—the voracious creator, king of the two regions, and ruler of the underworld!