The Black Tower

by Byars, Betsy

  “I’ve been dialing and dialing this number,” Meat told her, “and I keep getting a busy signal. It’s very important that I get through. A girl’s life might depend upon it.”

  “I’ll check the line.”

  Meat waited for an eternity.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “That line appears to be out of order.”

  “Can you do something? Can you send somebody out there to fix it?”

  “Probably not till Monday.”

  “But a girl’s life might be at stake.”

  “I’ll report it to customer service.”

  “But the girl is Herculeah,” he told the operator as if that would make a difference. It should. “Herculeah’s my best friend—actually she’s pretty much my only real friend, but if Herculeah is your friend, you don’t need any others.”

  “I’ll tell customer service. Have a nice day.”

  And she was gone.

  22

  TERROR IN THE TOWER

  Herculeah stood in front of the door that led to the tower. She listened. The house around her was quiet. The tower in front of her was quiet. Only the beating of her own heart broke the stillness.

  The hallway was dark. There were no windows, and Herculeah wished for a flashlight. Or a candle. The book she had been reading to Mr. Hunt flashed into her mind. The girl in the book had also stood at the tower door. She had not had a flashlight or a candle. She had managed to proceed. So would Herculeah.

  With one hand she felt for the keyhole. Her fingers found the opening, and her heart raced.

  There was nothing like getting to the end of a mystery, Herculeah thought. Nothing like finding the last piece of the puzzle and setting it in place.

  She took a deep breath, put the key in the lock, and turned. It resisted.

  Another deep breath and a quick glance over her shoulder, and she turned the key the other way. With a click, the old lock yielded. Herculeah pulled the narrow, surprisingly heavy door toward her.

  The hinges creaked loudly and Herculeah paused. She knew that anyone who was in the house would have heard that creak and known where she was.

  As she waited to be discovered, she peered inside. The air that met her face was dank and cold. She could still turn back, she reminded herself, yet—just like the girl in the book—she could not. She stepped into the dark, unwelcoming interior of the tower.

  She crossed the stone floor to the first of the circular stairs and looked up. Above her, the stairs twisted, snakelike, up the walls. They stopped at what appeared to be a trapdoor. Slowly Herculeah began to climb. She knew now that she had no control over the matter.

  She continued up the stairs slowly, taking them one by one. Halfway up the stairs, she paused. She heard the sound of the tower door closing below her. Had it been a hand that closed it? She looked down. The thought that she might be trapped made her dizzy.

  She touched the wall to steady herself. There was an eerie coldness to the stone beneath her hand.

  She lifted her head. She listened.

  She heard nothing, but she knew someone was up there, waiting for her.

  And whoever it was knew she was coming. The creaking of the tower door would have given her away.

  Slowly she took another step and another. Higher ... higher. With each step, her fear grew until it seemed to swirl around her like a dark cape that held no warmth.

  Herculeah continued to move slowly, deliberately up the stone stairs. Her steps were silent.

  Suddenly she froze. She had heard a noise from the tower room above. She listened.

  The noise was unlike anything she had heard before. It was not a human sound, nor was it the sound of an animal—at least no animal Herculeah had heard of.

  It was breathing, and yet not ordinary breathing. It was a labored, troubling sound, almost a moan.

  Herculeah glanced at one of the slotted windows. She could not see outside, but maybe the sound she had heard was the wind. A storm was coming. She knew that. She had seen the dark clouds. She had felt the rain. And now she could feel the wind moving around the tower.

  What was it she had said to Mr. Hunt? “Dramatic things always happen during storms—though it’s dramatic enough with something waiting for her at the top of the tower.”

  But, no, what she was hearing was not the wind around the tower. It was inside the tower.

  Seven steps remained now.

  It was just as it had been in the book, she thought, just as she had known it would be. But there would be no Meat waiting outside Hunt House to walk her home and make her laugh.

  Six steps remained.

  The trapdoor was overhead. Herculeah looked at it for a moment, trying to judge its weight. The wood was heavy. Perhaps it would take all her strength to open it.

  She decided she would open it just a crack, just wide enough so she could see what was in the room. Then she could close it if she saw.... Her thoughts trailed off because she had no idea what she would see.

  Five steps remained.

  What was it she had said to Mr. Hunt? “People have climbed Everest in the time it’s taken this girl to get to the top of the tower.”

  Four.

  But then people want to get to the top of Everest.

  Three.

  She could go no higher without opening the trapdoor. She brushed her hands together, raised them, and, with all her strength, she pushed on the trapdoor.

  Herculeah had misjudged. The trapdoor was not heavy at all. Perhaps it was even on some sort of pulley, because the trapdoor sprang open.

  Herculeah did not have time to see what awaited her in the tower room and to close the door if she didn’t like what she saw.

  The trapdoor seemed to pull her with it. Her momentum carried her into the tower room and left her sprawled across the dusty floor.

  She lifted her head. She was not alone.

  23

  THE ANGEL OF DEATH

  Meat walked slowly toward Haunt House. His mother had not wanted him to come here, but he had said, “I have to go, Mom, even though I may be in danger myself. I’m sorry if that causes you discomfort, but Herculeah needs me.”

  Well, actually, he had not said that. He had written it.

  Well, actually he had not written those exact words. The note he had left pinned by a magnet to the refrigerator door said, “I’ve gone out—save me some pork chops.”

  The gate loomed ahead. He could make out the lions with their lifted claws.

  He was still standing there, planning what he was going to do and say at the front door of Hunt House when he heard a car approach.

  Meat closed his eyes. He knew it was his mother. It would be just like her. She treated him like a child! Probably as soon as she discovered he had left the house, she had grabbed her car keys.

  He heard the window roll down. He waited for his mother’s voice to say, “Albert Ambrose McMannis, you get in this car this minute.” And he would get in the car like a good little boy—No, he would not!

  He opened his eyes, turned and stared into the stony face of the Angel of Death herself—Nurse Wegman.

  Meat had never particularly cared for nurses. They were mainly used, in Meat’s experience, for carrying out orders too unpleasant for doctors to do themselves, like give shots.

  Although Meat would rather it be Nurse Wegman than his mother, he still could not help noticing that Nurse Wegman was the kind of nurse who would carry out the most unpleasant orders with joy.

  “What are you doing here?” Nurse Wegman asked.

  “I tried to call, but—”

  “I know. The phone’s out.”

  Nurse Wegman waited, looking at him so fiercely that Meat wished car windows could be rolled up from the outside. If any engineer ever found himself being looked at by Nurse Wegman like that, he’d invent one.

  “So what are you doing here?”

  “I came about Herculeah.”

  “Who?”

  “Herculeah, the
girl who reads to Mr. Hunt.”

  “Oh, her.” Nurse Wegman’s look got even more unpleasant. “She’s here?”

  “I think so.”

  “In the house?”

  “I think so.”

  “She couldn’t be. There’s nobody to let her in. I’ve fired the housekeeper.”

  “If Herculeah wanted to get in, she’d find a way.”

  Nurse Wegman’s hands—they were big hands—hit the steering wheel in frustration. The horn, as if startled, gave a quick honk.

  Nurse Wegman took a breath. “You go home. I had to leave to make a call ... the ... doctor. Mr. Hunt needs the doctor, and the doctor should be arriving any minute. The girl will have to be taken care of.”

  “Taken care of?” Meat asked. He didn’t like the sound of that.

  “She will have to—to go home.”

  “Oh.”

  “If she hasn’t already gone, I mean.”

  “I guess she could’ve, though I didn’t pass her on the way.”

  Nurse Wegman continued to stare at him. “Well, go on! Go!”

  He continued to stand by the car. He couldn’t leave. Herculeah was inside Hunt House—he knew that now—and she needed him.

  As if reading his mind, Nurse Wegman said, “You aren’t needed here.”

  Meat wished he could be sure of that.

  “Go! Go!”

  Still he could not move.

  “May I give you some nursely advice?” Her tone was sweet now, but the same cold, bird-of-prey eyes watched him, as if swooping in for the kill.

  “I guess.”

  “You need to lose some weight.”

  Meat drew in his breath. Nurse Wegman rolled up the window. Not until the car was halfway down the drive was Meat able to turn and take a few steps toward home.

  When he was out of sight of the house, he stopped. He breathed deeply. He thought.

  If I had not just thought about my dad ... if I had not been reminded that my dad was my exact size at this age ... if I had not been the son of Macho Man and a gentleman, I would have said, “And you, madam, need a shave.”

  But Son of Macho Man did not stoop to petty insults. He was a man of action.

  Maybe he himself could not handle Nurse Wegman, but Son of Macho Man knew someone who could.

  24

  IN THE DEATH GRIP OF A HUNDRED MEN

  On the floor of the tower room, Herculeah lay where she had fallen, but only for a moment.

  Then she scrambled to her feet. Her hands were fists. She was ready to do battle. What she saw caused her arms to sag. She took a step forward, moving away from the trapdoor.

  Lying in front of her was a small woman. She lay on her side, curled toward Herculeah. Her face was streaked with blood and tears.

  Around her lay—like remnants of an old picnic—crusts of bread, empty cups, a half-eaten apple, cake crumbs in an old napkin. Perhaps these offerings were what had been keeping the woman alive.

  “Help me,” the woman whispered. She reached out for Herculeah with a hand that trembled.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Help me.”

  “Yes, yes, of course I’ll help you. Who are you?”

  The woman spoke so softly Herculeah could not make out the words.

  “Who?”

  This time the words were clearer. “I’m Ida Wegman.”

  Herculeah took in a deep breath. “Wegman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nurse Wegman?”

  “Yes. This man hit me on the head....” Her eyes focused on Herculeah’s for the first time. “It’s coming back to me now. The man stopped me at the gate to ask directions, and before I knew what was happening, he struck me here.” She raised her hand to the side of her head.

  “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.r />
  25

  A MURDERER’S CHILD

  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.”