He should have been staring at his own brother. He might have noticed how angry Nat was growing.
By the time the ceiling fell, it was too late.
Dex was back at the helm of Vince’s infernal karaoke machine. He’d passed the mic around, but it always seemed to land in his hands. The room had been thrumming for nearly an hour, which had to be part of Vince’s plan, royally pissing off the neighbors in the dead of night. The crack in the wall had spread up to the ceiling, shedding giant hunks of plaster like broken ice floes, with assistance from some of the objects on the pedestals – a slingshot, a thrown bowling pin, a Frisbee. Alex, the bulked-up trainer dressed as the Hulk, had slammed his fist into the wall and sent a new crack spiraling up. The more plaster fell, the more they could see the hidden mural beneath. It was a painting of people in fancy dress, overlapping and gesturing and milling about as if they were at a party. “It’s Brookline’s answer to the Sistine Chapel,” Tuesday said. She was pacing, making a tight circle between her podium and his, hugging her arms to her stomach. Alive with discovery, her eyes bright and beautiful. “How much do you want to bet those are portraits of actual historical Bostonians? Circa whenever this Matilda Tillerman died? What if – does it look like Sargent to you? Is it a lost Sargent?” She seemed to have forgotten about the well in the basement. Archie knew her enough to know it was only for the moment.
Dex was now dueting with an enthusiastic girl dressed as the rear half of a horse, on a pop song with a dramatic, drawn-out chorus, something about falling from cloud nine. They were making the speakers, and Archie’s sternum, vibrate. And the ceiling – by the time they reached the second chorus, the ceiling had had it.
Whatever sound it may have made at first was swallowed by the sustained vowels of Dex and the half-horse leeeeetting goooooo toniiiiight. The split in the plaster shot up the middle like an unzipping zipper and the edges peeled back and rained down, another world entering this one from above. Dex stopped singing. People shouted and ran for cover beneath the balcony. Archie jumped back, but shielded his eyes and stared up.
What lay beneath the plaster was a mural, but it didn’t look painted.
Tuesday was beside him now.
“Holy,” she said. “Shit.”
The ceiling of the great hall was covered with silver clouds and golden sky.
The clouds and the sky shone like metal in the gloom.
“Is that—” Dex coughed. He was crouching on the staircase, hiding under the black umbrella covered with white dust. The air was thick with it. Dex scrambled to his feet and cut the music off mid-verse.
Verena Parkman stood and walked carefully to the center of the room, neck craned. Then she let out a small joyful bark of a laugh.
“So. She did take her fortune,” she said. “Her gold and her silver, up to the ceiling of heaven.”
And that – that was the moment Nat had had it too.
The other players, the kids, the contractors, Trudy, and the Hulk, stepped back into the center of the hall and looked up. Some of them cheered. Some gasped. Some clapped. Archie only heard them. Because he had turned to look at Nat.
And Nathaniel Arches was livid.
His chin was low, forehead jutting, like a bull preparing to gore someone. His lips were tight. He was breathing hard enough for Archie to notice six feet away.
He looked like their father, right before the first blow.
This was what Archie had come back for. To stop this man.
“Hey, Arch – I mean. Are we really pretending you’re your brother?” Tuesday asked, hanging back from the gathering crowd. Tuesday was waiting for him to join the others. Him. Not Nathaniel. He couldn’t pretend to be anyone anymore; he had to be himself.
“Nat,” Archie said to his brother, “get out of this house.”
“It was mine, you know,” Nat spat. “I owned it.”
Tuesday stilled. Archie felt her attention shimmer, assess, and refocus on what was happening between him and Nat.
“We know,” she told him.
“And I sold it,” Nat said. “I sold a house covered in fucking—”
“We know,” Tuesday repeated.
“That—” Nat wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That shit Vincent Pryce. If he weren’t dead, I would kill him. Right now.”
“He didn’t know,” said Archie. “How could he have known about a hidden—” He gestured at the painted wall, the gold ceiling, and felt like an idiot for trying to defend Vince. Trying to reason with his brother. Trying to talk to his brother like his brother was someone you could talk to.
“Vince didn’t know about the mural,” said Tuesday. “It’s not why he bought the house.”
“I would still kill him,” said Nat.
“I don’t know how, exactly,” said Tuesday, “but he knew about the well.”
Archie didn’t understand, at first, what she had said.
It was impossible to imagine she would have said it.
“What?” said Nat.
“Pryce knew about the well,” said Tuesday.
“What?” said Nat again.
“He knew about the well.” Tuesday reached into her pocket. “What I want to know,” she told Nat, and Archie – this was happening, this was happening, this was what he came back to stop and it was still happening, he was such an idiot for ever thinking he could stop any of this—
“Is what you know,” said Tuesday. “About the well.”
She held up their father’s pocket watch.
Tuesday, said Abby.
Nathaniel wasn’t answering. She hadn’t expected him to. He stared at her with eyes that looked dead.
Tuesday, said Abby. Run.
No, thought Tuesday.
What are you doing? said Abby. Seriously. Why did you – what are you hoping to—
“That’s my watch,” said Nathaniel.
“It’s not your watch,” said Tuesday.
“Yes,” said Nathaniel. “I am my father’s eldest son. My father is dead. It’s my watch.”
“I thought your father was missing,” said Tuesday.
“No,” said Nathaniel. He took a step closer. “He’s not.”
Tuesday inhaled slowly through her nose. She felt her chest fill with air and her head tighten.
Tuesday, said Abby. Do not go up against this animal alone.
I’m not alone, she thought back. I have you.
I don’t count, said Abby.
Nat moved. He collapsed the six feet between them in one long stride and snatched at the watch.
Tuesday was faster. She yanked the watch away and stepped back.
She felt her heart in her chest, squeezing.
Nat raised his hand.
There’s a whole room, Tuesday thought at Abby. A room full of witnesses. She looked over at the crowd in the center. They weren’t paying attention to anyone or anything but the ceiling.
He can’t do anything.
Yes, said Abby, he can.
Tuesday swallowed.
Nat snatched at the watch and Tuesday yanked it away again, and when she stepped back, she bumped into Archie. Who was just standing there, pale as cheese, stiff with fear.
He’s terrified, said Abby.
But Tuesday – wasn’t.
She felt for her heart again, felt for it with her mind. It was beating hard, but it wasn’t mindless, wasn’t trying to fly out of her chest. It was working. Priming itself. Getting ready to—
“Give me back my watch.” Nat’s voice was low and cold.
“Tell me what happened,” said Tuesday.
Nat’s face splintered. On another mouth, it might have been a smile.
“You want to play?” he said. “Really?”
Tuesday chose not to respond. She straightened her back.
Nat spun away from her, walking to a pedestal with a tall display mounted on top.
He took the baseball bat out of its stand.
Run, said Abby again.
Nat tossed the b
at lightly from hand to hand. It was wood. It made a vicious whoosh when he sliced it through the air.
Why are you not running? said Abby.
Nat whipped the bat through the display on top of what had been Tuesday’s podium. The bell jar holding a taxidermied tarantula shattered, and everyone in the room, at last, was paying attention. For a heartbeat, the world was silence.
In the silence Nat advanced.
Tuesday stepped to her left. She didn’t look away from Nat’s face. She felt the floor change from wood to carpet under her feet, and sensed something rising behind her. He was corralling her, forcing her back up against the stairs. She still wasn’t afraid. She felt a massive wave building behind her breastbone, a wave of energy. Nathaniel Arches was a bully and an asshole, probably a psychopath, more than likely a murderer, and some of that he couldn’t help. He couldn’t help that he’d been born to outrageous privilege and never wanted for anything material; he couldn’t help the chemistry of his brain, or that his father had been a violent bully. He couldn’t help the fact that the world didn’t exist solely for his pleasure, that there were other people in it; and he couldn’t help that no one had ever tried to teach him to be better. Or stood up to him. Her mental files ruffled, and her brain leaped: no one other than Vincent Pryce. When Nat kidnapped her to lunch, he told her his brother had been harassing him, threatening him through the years – with postcards. But it couldn’t have been. Archie was a mess around Nat. It must have been Pryce, all that time.
And now Vincent Pryce was dead. He’d left a trap for Nathaniel Arches, and Tuesday was dying to spring it. Because how dare he intimidate her. Threaten her. Make her feel she was anything less than she was.
Fuck. This. Guy.
Tuesday, said Abby.
No – it wasn’t Abby. It wasn’t Abby’s voice.
It was Dex.
“Tuesday,” he said again, and she turned from Nat long enough to see Dex standing by her side. He looked shocked. He’d been watching, then. He hadn’t been distracted by the ceiling.
He was holding out a long black umbrella.
Collapsed, still dusty. She saw the sharp silver point at the end.
She wrapped her fingers around the handle and turned back and Nat was raising the bat like a cudgel and Tuesday slid the silky umbrella long between her hands, horizontal like a staff, and straightened both arms and blocked the hit.
Her arms shook. Nat was not playing with her.
But she knew that. She’d always known that. None of this had ever been a game.
And now she knew what she was fighting for.
“Get out of my life,” she hissed, and shoved Nat and the bat away.
She slid her foot back until it reached the stairs and stepped up. And up. And up again. She moved the umbrella to one hand and held it at her side like a sword.
Like you know how to hold a sword, said Abby.
Nat lowered the bat. He put his foot on the bottom step.
She was focused hard on Nat, but she could hear the other players in the background. Murmurs of disbelief and confusion. What is he doing? Is this part of the game? And one voice, a voice she knew, a voice that was – her heart, for the first time, quailed a little – Dorry’s. This is real. Someone call—
Tuesday took a risk. She turned and ran up the stairs.
Nat’s feet thundered behind her and she spun as soon as she reached the landing, umbrella out. Nat was there a second later, bat out, fingers squeezing the wood, squeezing hard.
They faced each other at the top of the stairs. Tuesday’s back was to the left wing. Nat’s was to the right.
“This is the part where we taunt each other,” she said.
Nat swung. She blocked. He swung again and she blocked again, stepping back, stepping back, praying there was no debris, no lump in the carpet to trip over, thanking all that was good and kind in the universe that she wasn’t wearing heels. Like you would ever be wearing heels, said Abby, and Tuesday thought, Sometimes I conform to gender norms, and Abby said, STOP DEFENDING YOURSELF. HIT HIM.
Tuesday thrust low and stabbed Nat square in the toe with the pointed tip of the umbrella.
It went straight into his shoe.
He screamed.
Tuesday had never physically hurt anyone before. She might have slapped her brother once or twice when they were kids, but she’d learned very early that physical violence was not her weapon of choice. If Tuesday meant to wound, or even if she didn’t, she used words.
She had to yank hard to free the umbrella from where it was lodged. In Nat. The tip came back red.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she said, before she could help herself.
But are you really? said Abby.
She was horrified, slightly nauseated, with her own ability to cause pain. It wasn’t a good feeling.
But she wasn’t sorry at all.
Nat was doubled over. One palm rested on the end of the bat. The other was pressed against his thigh. He was breathing strangely.
Tuesday raised her umbrella. They had moved about twenty feet around the balcony.
She could see through a doorway and into one of the rooms lining the hall.
There was a long lump on the floor. A bright grass-green lump, splattered with red.
It was a body.
Lifeless and bloody.
Her brain leapt again.
Of course.
Of course Lyle hadn’t let Nat in. He hadn’t arrived in a coffin like the others; he’d let himself in. He suspected his brother would be here, and he knew what secrets this house contained, knew what needed to be kept hidden. The only problem: the final game involved a set number of players. Nat’s solution was to remove one of those players so he could take their place.
She looked away from the bloody body and back to Nat.
He had straightened to his full height. He stared at her.
And smiled.
He was rabid now. He swung and she blocked, again and again. She thought about ducking into one of the rooms, but that seemed like a trap. She didn’t want to disappear from sight. The other players were yelling below, cheering when she swung her umbrella around and clocked Nat on the jaw with the handle. Someone shouted that they’d called 911. Tuesday didn’t know what good that would do. By the time the police got there, whatever was happening between her and Nat would be over.
Her body was wearing out. Her will was still a shrieking Valkyrie, but she was getting clumsy. Slower. Her throat burned from breathing. Her heart was starting to ache. She needed to end this.
“Nat,” she said, holding up her hand. “Stop.”
“No,” he said.
“Why not?” she asked.
His answer was to haul the bat back with both arms.
Tuesday rushed him. Not with the umbrella, but with her head aimed squarely at his stomach. It worked. Not the rush, but the surprise. He dropped the bat and was knocked just enough off balance that Tuesday pushed him down. She bolted past, back around the balcony toward the stairs.
She felt the toe of her sneaker—
She never knew what her sneaker caught on. It could have been an uneven board. It could have been a twist of ancient carpet fringe. It could have been air, nothing, her great body, exhausted, losing its own balance and pitching forward into space.
She slammed against the ground.
The umbrella flew out of her hands and skidded down the hall.
Tuesday, said Abby.
Her lungs were squashed.
Tuesday, said Abby. Her voice was different. It wasn’t alarmed, though it should have been. Nat was still back there. He would get up and come after her. In seconds.
But Abby wasn’t scared. She sounded – almost happy. And almost sad.
I’m going to miss you, Abby said. So much.
What are you talking—
Tuesday lifted her head. At the top of the stairs, not twenty feet away, her face red from running up the steps, those goggles – those silly green goggle
s shoved into her hair like sunglasses—
Dorry.
That was the first time Tuesday Mooney was afraid. Because Nat was back there. Nat would always be there, he was coming, and when he was done with Tuesday, Dorry would be right—
It lasted five seconds.
Maybe less.
To Dorry it felt like forever.
She got to the top of the stairs. She put her hand on the column to steady herself, and there was Tuesday flat on her stomach. She’d tripped. All Dorry had seen from below was Tuesday standing and suddenly not, she was gone, down like a pratfall.
Now she was lifting her head. She was looking at Dorry.
And the man who looked like Archie was walking toward her.
And the man who looked like Archie swung high and brought the baseball bat in his hands down fast on one of Tuesday’s legs.
Like he was chopping a piece of wood.
Dorry heard Tuesday’s leg break.
Her own legs dropped her. Hard. She collapsed on the floor with a jolt. Her goggles slid down from her forehead and she thought: Thank God. Thank God. I don’t want to see. I don’t want to see this. But she couldn’t not look. She’d come up here to save – to help—
She had to get up.
She opened her eyes.
She saw the girl.
The girl must have been hiding in one of these rooms, hiding all this time. Dorry didn’t know how she and Ned had missed her. But here she was. Walking around the balcony. Quickly. Getting closer. A teenager, a few years older than Dorry. Her face was pale green through the goggles. Her mounds of curly hair bounced with each step. She was dressed in shiny black, with long black gloves and a giant cape high around her neck and shoulders.
The man who wasn’t Archie didn’t notice her. He was too busy raising the bat to hit Tuesday again.
But he never got the chance.
The girl in black walked straight up to him and pushed him over the balcony.
18
MORE THAN A FEELING
Tuesday opened her eyes.
She was still here.
Tuesday Mooney Wore Black Page 36
