13 Hangmen

by Art Corriveau

  “Where did you get this?” Angelo asked.

  “After everybody suddenly vanished, I decided I might as well head downstairs to celebrate Christmas Eve with my family,” Finn said. “Mam had set this deed on the tree for me. She’d been keeping it a secret till she could finally give it to me. I wanted to run straight to the pub, even though it was late, to make sure Jack was OK, thank him for his amazing kindness, and invite him over for Christmas breakfast. Paddy told me there wasn’t any point. He had actually stopped by the pub himself on his way home from buying presents—to repay Jack the money the Tailboard Thieves had stolen out of his register. Paddy had found Jack unconscious in the corner booth, completely ashen-faced. He’d rushed Jack to the Negro hospital over on Beacon Hill—none of the neighborhood infirmaries would see a black man—where the doctor soon discovered one of Jack’s broken ribs had punctured a lung. In the meantime, Jack had slipped into a coma.” Finn turned to Solly. “Do you know if he ever gets better?”

  Solly shook his head. He laid a hand on Finn’s shoulder. There was a somber moment of silence.

  “I can’t help you lads change history,” Finn said. “It’s clear from this here deed that Jack didn’t want me to sell Number Thirteen to a Hagmann—for whatever reason he had of his own—and I’m not going to. I owe him that. I’m truly sorry for your troubles, lads, but that’s final.”

  Tony assured him that was OK. None of them had ever felt comfortable with that plan. They had already moved on to Plan B—finding the treasure themselves—while Finn was celebrating Christmas, and he quickly explained why. With any luck, the treasure would now go to the highest bidder in 2009 without a Hagmann setting foot in No. 13.

  “Count me in, then,” Finn said, relieved. “Where do we start looking?”

  “What if we conjure thirteen-year-old Jack?” Angelo said. “He obviously knows how to get into some sort of secret place where he hid as a runaway slave. If there’s a treasure in there, he’d know about it.”

  Angey burst into the room. “Mission accomplished,” he said.

  “Angey!” Tony said, to alert the others. “What’s up?”

  “I just had a little chat with Maria Gomez, RN,” he said, flopping onto the bed. “She didn’t quit at all. Benedict Hagmann fired her.” He filled in the details: Hagmann had told her that Zio Angelo was too embarrassed to let her go himself but that his savings had run out and he could no longer afford a private nurse. From now on, Hagmann would take over making Zio Angelo’s meals, doing his laundry, helping him up and down the stairs, administering his medicine.

  “What’s happening?” Angelo said.

  “Hang on a sec,” Tony said. “Hagmann was in charge of Zio Angelo’s daily meds? According to the coroner’s report, there wasn’t a trace of heart medicine in Zio Angelo’s bloodstream. That’s supposedly why his ticker suddenly seized up.”

  “Doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to put two and two together,” Angey said. “Do we call the cops or what?”

  Tony shook his head. “We don’t have any proof. Hagmann could just say he did give Zio Angelo his pills, but Zio Angelo forgot to take them. The only way to nail Benedict Hagmann for murder is to get him to confess to withholding Zio’s medicine.”

  “I knew it!” Angelo cried. “He did kill me, that rat!”

  “Well, that ain’t gonna happen,” Angey said, sighing. “So how did it go with Dad? He wasn’t in his office on my way up here. Was he able to dig up any sort of history angle on this place?”

  Tony shook his head. “Right now he can’t even figure out a way to plug the hole in his dissertation.”

  “So what do we do?” Angey said.

  Tony appreciated the fact his brother was just trying to help. If it were any other time, he’d think it was great that they were finally making a real connection. But right now the clock was totally ticking, and Tony needed to get rid of him. “Maybe you could sneak onto Dad’s computer, if it’s still up and running,” Tony said. “See if you can surf up anything historical about Hangmen Court from, say, Revolutionary times. Skip the witch trials. That’s a dead end.”

  Angey slid off the bed. “Too bad this room isn’t haunted,” he said.

  “Why do you say that?” Tony asked, startled.

  “We could just ask the ghost of Zio Angelo why Hagmann would bump him off to get his hands on this dump,” Angey said. “Knowing Hagmann’s motive might at least lead us to some other proof besides a confession.”

  Mikey strode into the room. “I’ve been looking all over for you,” he said to Angey. “Why aren’t you answering your cell phone?”

  “Out of juice,” Angey said.

  “What are you doing up here?” Mikey asked.

  “Just getting more packing tape,” Angey said. He hoisted himself off the bed. He grabbed a roll off the top of the dresser. He brushed past Mikey out of the room.

  “I’m not talking to you!” Mikey said to Tony.

  “Then get out,” Tony said.

  Mikey glared at him. But he didn’t have a comeback, and he just left.

  “Is he gone?” Angelo asked.

  Tony nodded.

  “So where were we?”

  “Conjuring Jack,” Angelo prompted.

  “It’s worth a try.” Tony shrugged. “All we need is the right nine-ish object.”

  “It’s got to be that heart hook thingy from the knocker,” Finn said. “Jack had to turn it nine times with the clapper—remember?—before it would pop out.”

  Tony yawned. He volunteered to go down to the front stoop to fetch it. He needed some fresh air. Having just pulled his first all-nighter, he seemed to be going from moments of hyper-awareness to feeling like he was sleepwalking in a nightmare.

  Tony sized up the knocker. What had Jack done to get the heart hook out? First he splayed the wrought-iron hands away from the heart. Next he pried the crown out of its slot on top of the heart with the screwdriver he’d pilfered from a toolbox on the workbench in the basement. He shoved the crown into the slot below the heart. He tried turning the clapper to the right. He couldn’t get it to budge. The heart seemed to be rusted in place. Was he going to have to pry the entire knocker off the door and set it whole on the spiral?

  “What are you doing?”

  The hair on the back of Tony’s neck went straight up. Old Man Hagmann. He was now standing at the bottom of the stoop, watching him. Tony flipped the Health & Safety notice back over the knocker. “None of your beeswax,” he said. Beeswax might work, come to think of it. He wondered if there was any in the cleaning supplies.

  Hagmann just stood there.

  “What?” Tony said.

  “I’d like a word with you,” he said.

  “Yeah, well, if you’re here to rub it in, sorry, but we’re all a little busy packing,” Tony said. He tapped the word EVICTION with the screwdriver.

  “Actually, I’ve got a proposition for you,” Hagmann said. “A way out of your current housing difficulties.”

  It was all Tony could do not to fling the screwdriver, ninja-style, at Hagmann’s heart. Instead he gripped the handle and counted to three. This might be his only chance to trick Hagmann into revealing what the treasure was, or where it was hidden. “Make it fast,” he said. “We’ve got to start loading the car.”

  Tony was not expecting what came next.

  “It’s about that key,” Hagmann said. “The one I lost at this house while I was looking after Angelo. The one that usually hangs around my neck with this triskele.” He pulled the triple spiral out of his collar.

  “The what?” Tony said.

  “It’s the Greek term for any object with three legs,” Hagmann said.

  “What’s it for?” Tony said.

  “Who knows?” Hagmann said. “It’s probably Druidic. An ancestor of mine brought it over from England. He helped John Winthrop settle Boston.”

  By hanging all the Indians who were already here.

  “No. I mean, what’s the key for?” Tony said. “Wha
t does it open? A door? A chest?”

  “I doubt anyone remembers,” Hagmann said. “It’s just a keepsake, really. But we Hagmanns are a sentimental lot. And I’d like it back.”

  Yeah, right. “Cut to the chase,” Tony said.

  “All right, I will,” Hagmann said. “This house is coming down, one way or the other. You won’t get a red cent if the city dismantles it as a safety hazard. And the final decision about that rests with me. They’re waiting for my call. On the other hand, I am still prepared to make you a modest offer for the place—enough to get your family comfortably settled elsewhere—if you find that key and return it to me.”

  “I’ll need more time,” Tony said. “Health & Safety are escorting us out of here at six o’clock. Maybe you could get them to hold off on evicting us for a day or two. That way I can make a thorough search of the house.”

  “You don’t need to search the house. I’m certain I lost the key either in the kitchen or in the parlor where Angelo moved his bed.”

  “Still,” Tony said.

  “You have until Health & Safety get here at six,” Hagmann said. “Otherwise, the city will throw you out as planned, then raze this house to the ground. I’ll just pick through the rubble for that key—and whatever else I want—and get myself a bigger rose garden in the bargain.”

  Without another word, Hagmann returned next door and disappeared inside.

  Tony lifted the eviction notice. He slipped the screwdriver through the loop of the knocker. He grabbed both ends and, channeling all his pent-up rage, tried turning the clapper to the right. Slowly, it started to move. One, two, three turns. You have until six. Four, five, six. Yeah, well, with any luck Tony would have that treasure by six. Seven, eight, nine. The wrought-iron heart popped out of the middle of the knocker into his hand. There was indeed an old-fashioned hook at the end of it, just as Finn had predicted. Now they just had to figure out what it—not to mention the key in his wallet—opened.

  Tony set the heart hook on the spiral. Behind him the other boys waited in tense anticipation. He hovered his hand. Prickle of static. Echo of the word riddle. “Riddle?” he muttered to himself. “You could say that again.” He leaned closer and whispered, “Where is your heart?”

  Jack materialized almost immediately. In fact, he was standing right beside Tony, having just placed the very same heart hook on the mantel. Jack startled when he noticed Tony with his good eye. He was even more surprised when he whirled around to find himself surrounded by a gang of white kids his own age.

  Something about Jack’s lithe body, ready to leap and flee, reminded Tony of an antelope. Jack’s animal totem? Tony wondered again which animal he resembled to the other boys. If his own totem was indeed a hamster, he was more determined than ever to drop those twenty-five pounds and trade it in for something better.

  “You’re Jack Douglass, right?” Tony said.

  Jack shook his head no.

  “But you must be One-Eyed Jack,” Finn insisted. “You’re wearing a patch.”

  “I am Jack. But I don’t have a last name.”

  To Tony, Jack’s English sounded straight out of some late-night cable movie like Gone with the Wind.

  “But you did just turn thirteen,” Solly prompted.

  “I—I don’t know,” Jack stammered, terrified. “Are you slave catchers?”

  Tony did his best to explain—as he had done three times before—who they were, how the pawcorance worked, and why they had all ended up in the same room: They had reason to believe a half dozen Hagmanns throughout history would stop at nothing—including the murder of poor Angelo here—to get their hands on a treasure stowed in the attic someplace. And the only way to prevent Angelo’s death was for them to find that treasure first.

  Jack just stood there.

  “You have to believe us,” Angelo.

  “I do,” Jack said. “The Hagmanns are definitely after that treasure.”

  “We’re almost positive it’s in the secret room you’ve been hiding in,” Solly said.

  “It is,” Jack said. “Tobias told me so himself.”

  “How do we get inside?” Finn said.

  “You just use that heart hook on the spiral,” Jack said. “I’ll show you.”

  “And then you’ll lead us to the treasure?” Tony said, excitedly.

  “Sorry. I can’t,” Jack said.

  “Why not?” they all cried at once.

  “I don’t know where it is,” Jack said. “In fact, I was hoping—if you’re really from the future—that you’d show me where it’s hidden.”

  “Wait, you’re looking for the treasure too?” Solly said.

  “For most of the night,” Jack said. “I have to find it before Tobias’s next-door neighbor, Horatio Hagmann, turns up at daybreak with slave catchers and the constable. I need to buy my own freedom with it. Otherwise the constable will arrest Tobias for harboring a fugitive slave, and the slave catchers will drag me back to North Carolina in chains. If only I knew my letters!”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Angelo said.

  “For the riddle,” Jack cried.

  “What riddle?” Finn said.

  “And who’s this Tobias?” Solly added.

  “Better start from the beginning,” Tony advised.

  And so Jack did.

  ith his good eye, Jack searched the door of every house in the Negro neighborhood of Boston called the New Guinea. He was looking for his next station along the Underground Railroad to Canada. He would know it by a brass knocker in the shape of a heart flying out of a crown. Jack had run away from a tobacco plantation in North Carolina six weeks ago. He could no longer feel his fingers and toes. He hadn’t eaten in three days. His left eye socket ached horribly under its patch.

  The eye itself was gone. Master O’Connor had gouged it out during a beating. Jack had stolen a pumpkin so that Auntie Sukey could make the slaves a Christmas pie. The master had wanted to set an example. Lucky for Jack, Auntie Sukey was slave row’s resident healer. She had packed the socket with a poultice of herbs, then covered it with a flannel patch. It was Auntie Sukey who had arranged for Jack to join the next band of fugitive slaves headed north on the local liberty line. He had fled the plantation while the master was celebrating New Year’s Eve.

  Six weeks had never felt more like six years. Jack had thought more than once he might freeze to death without a winter coat or pair of waterproof boots. Most of the stations northbound had been barn lofts and root cellars, so Jack had barely slept. Food had always been scarce and rarely hot. But fear had gnawed at Jack’s belly more than hunger. Always the threat of being tracked down by bloodhounds, dragged back in chains, dangled by a noose from the eaves of Master O’Connor’s front porch—an even sterner example. Jack’s only comfort had been the other runaways in his band, all dreaming of the same thing: freedom. But even they were gone now. They had all split up in Providence, to take separate lines to the Canadian border.

  Where was that knocker? Jack was just about to give up hope when he stumbled into a small side court of brick row houses built around a giant oak. At the far end he spied an iron knocker with a heart at its center. But it wasn’t right. It was in the shape of two hands clutching a crowned heart—just like the ring Master O’Connor wore. And the person sitting wrapped in a buffalo robe on the front stoop wasn’t black, like the other safe-house operators Jack had encountered after crossing into the North. It was an elderly white gentleman smoking a clay pipe.

  Disappointed, Jack saw little choice but to turn around and keep looking.

  “I don’t suppose you go by the name of Jack?” the old man said.

  Jack nodded, utterly surprised.

  “Thirteen, are you?” he said.

  “Thereabouts,” Jack said. “I don’t know my birth date.”

  The old gentleman suddenly broke into a grin. “I’m Tobias Tucker,” he said. “Well, it must be today. I’ve been waiting here a long time to wish you a happy birthday.”

/>   To Jack’s continued surprise, Tobias stood. He converted the knocker behind him into the very flying heart Jack had been hunting for.

  Tobias cranked the clapper nine times to the right, then pulled it out. It had an odd hook on the end of it. “Better get ourselves inside,” he said, and winked. “Before my busybody next-door neighbor, Horatio Hagmann, sees what we’re up to.”

  Tobias led Jack up to the attic, which he declared to be his bedroom. Jack watched him use the heart hook to open the back of the fireplace. Tobias ushered Jack through a secret passage into a tiny room. He lit a hurricane lantern and hung it from the eaves. “This is where you’ll hide,” Tobias said, “until we make contact with the local stationmaster about which liberty line you should take to Canada.” A rap at the front door echoed up the stairwell. Tobias frowned. “Be back as soon as I can,” he said.

  He ducked through the fireplace and sealed Jack inside.

  Jack surveyed his surroundings. In one corner, a mattress had been laid across several small casks. This was made up with blankets and a pillow. Beside it there was a chamber pot, and a washbasin and an ewer of water. Jack took a seat on the mattress. From three more upturned kegs a makeshift table and two chairs had been fashioned. There wasn’t really much else to look at, apart from a piece of parchment nailed to the wall. This was inked with five lines of writing.

  Jack fell almost immediately asleep, the deepest sleep of his life.

  Eventually Tobias returned and woke him up. He was carrying a plate of sausages and potatoes, and a mug of cool water. He set these on the table. Jack wolfed the food while Tobias told him it had been his neighbor, Horatio Hagmann, at the door. Hagmann was getting suspicious. He swore he had heard someone bumping around in Tobias’s attic the week before, and echoes of voices coming through the walls. Tobias had tried his best to calm Hagmann’s suspicions by informing him he’d been interviewing for an apprentice to take over his silversmithing business. He had then ushered Hagmann out of his house with the excuse he was late for an appointment in town. From now on, though, neither Jack nor Tobias should speak above a whisper, and Jack would need to keep quiet as a mouse up here.