by Byars, Betsy
“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.
26
SON OF MACHO MAN
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.”
“I’m on my way. See you there.”
Meat hung up the phone.
A customer had heard Meat’s side of the conversation and gotten interested. She said, “Is everything all right?”
“I hope so,” Meat said, then added what was causing him to continue sweating, “if we’re not too late.”
27
ON THE TOWER STAIRS
“Push!” Herculeah shouted again.
The woman did not seem to hear her. She seemed intent on only one thing—not being left alone in the tower again.
“Help me! Help!” She was pleading with the man now. “Please!” He was no longer the man who had wounded her; he was her salvation.
“Let go of
me, you fool!”
She managed to get to her knees, but she had no intention of letting go. The struggle to her knees was too much. She fell forward, and as she fell forward, the man fell backward.
Herculeah gasped. She saw what was going to happen. The man was going to fall down the tower stairs, and his momentum would take the woman with him.
Herculeah rushed forward. In two strides she was there. She encircled the woman’s body with her arms.
For one terrible moment the three of them were locked together at the top of the stairs.
“Push!” Herculeah cried, and this time, the woman had a moment of clarity. She understood. This was the man who had hurt her. This was the man who wanted to kill her. This was the man they were trying to get away from. She pushed.
The three of them fell at the same time. Herculeah fell backward. She sat down hard on the tower floor. The woman fell with her, landing on Herculeah’s lap like a child.
The man teetered for a moment on the edge of the stone steps. Then, with a terrible scream, he went over the edge, hitting his head hard on the edge of the trapdoor as he disappeared.
The nurse moaned. “What happened?”
“You saved our lives. That’s what happened.”
Herculeah lost no time. She shifted the woman’s body to the floor and got to her feet. She moved quickly to the opening of the trapdoor and peered down the stairs. She was prepared to slam the trapdoor shut if the man was conscious and likely to come up to the tower room again.
She didn’t think he was going anywhere. He lay halfway down the stairs. He was not moving. His eyes stared blindly up at her.
As she looked at his thick features, the shadow of stubble on his face, she wondered how she had ever mistaken him for a woman.
“He was the man at the gate, the man who hit me,” the woman said, speaking as if she was trying to get the facts straight in her mind.
“Oh, yes,” said Herculeah.
“He would have killed us.”
“That, too,” Herculeah said.
“Is he gone now?”
“Yes. He’s on the stairs. He’s unconscious, though, so he won’t be bothering us anymore. I’m going for help.”
She kept her distance because she was afraid the woman might try again to restrain her, but the woman seemed to be lucid now. Herculeah went down one step without incident.
“Will you see the old woman who tried to help me?”
“I don’t know. Miss Hunt comes and goes. She did try to help you, but in her own way. She couldn’t call the police....”
“Papa wouldn’t have liked it,” the woman said with a faint smile.
Herculeah smiled back. “Exactly. But she did the best she could. Did you know she threw your coat from the tower to let us know you were here?”
“I remember her calling to someone, ‘She’s up here, up here,’ but nobody came.”
“Finally, I got the message and I came. Now I do have to go. You need a doctor. That man needs a doctor, and Mr. Hunt does, too. You’ll be fine now.”
The sound of the woman’s voice followed Herculeah down three more steps, though Herculeah couldn’t make out her words. She knew the woman was remembering more and more of her ordeal.
Halfway down the stairs lay the man’s body. It blocked Herculeah’s way. The stairs were narrow. There was no room between his body and the stone wall, but there was a small space to the outside of the steps. She would have to be very careful.
She paused for a moment, examining the man. He had not moved. His eyes were blank. But he was breathing. He was still alive.
She took one more step, then one more. The man’s shoulders were broad and blocked the next two stairs. She would have to step over him, but then the danger would be over. She could fly down the rest of the steps and be on her way.
Just this one long step.
She took a deep breath. She was lifting her foot when the man’s eyes focused. She did not see this, but she knew something had happened by a sudden twitch in his shoulder muscle. She must move quickly.
At that exact moment, she felt his fingers encircle her other foot. Not another death grip! she screamed to herself. Then she let out a real scream. It echoed within the circular walls, and seemed to go on and on.
“Let me go!”
Then from the bottom of the stairs came an old quavering voice. “Let her go or I’ll shoot.”
Both Herculeah and the man looked down the stairs. At the bottom, gun in hand, stood old Miss Hunt. In her trembling hands was a gun.
28
AT GUNPOINT
This was the oldest gun Herculeah had ever seen in her life. This gun would probably have been outdated in the Civil War.
Herculeah knew instantly that she was in much more danger from Miss Hunt with a gun than she was from the man lying beside her. Already his hand was losing its grip on her ankle.
“Don’t shoot, Miss Hunt,” Herculeah said.
“Wants to kill us.”
“Put the gun down. We’re fine.”
“I’ll kill him first.”
“Miss Hunt—”
“His mother killed my sister.”
“Maybe she did or maybe it was an accident.”
“No accident.” The gun was waving back and forth, and Miss Hunt held it with both hands to steady it. One finger was on the trigger.
“He’s sly.”
“Yes,” Herculeah agreed.
“He pretended to be a nurse. Didn’t fool me.”
“No.” Herculeah’s ankle was free now, and she went down one step. “He’s hurt now. He can’t harm us.”
“Pretending to be hurt.”
“He’s not pretending. He’s unconscious. Look at him.” Herculeah reached down and touched his shoulder. “See? Now put the gun down.”
Herculeah straightened. She came down the rest of the stairs slowly. Her hands were raised in the classic gesture of having no weapon.
She paused at the bottom of the stairs. Miss Hunt backed away from the tower, through the open door, and into the hallway beyond. The gun was still pointed in Herculeah’s direction.
“Please put the gun down. I have so much I want to tell you, but I can’t tell you with that gun pointed at me.”
“This is an old gun. Won’t hurt anyone.”
“I’m afraid of all guns,” Herculeah said truthfully.
“This was Papa’s gun. It’s never been shot. It’s not even loaded.”
She pointed the gun upward, pulled the trigger, and blew a hole in the ceiling.
“Well, I’ll be,” she said.
There was a moment of silence while the smoke cleared, and then a voice broke the silence. “I’ll take that gun.”
It was the voice of a man, a man of authority.
Herculeah had covered her ears with her hands when the gun went off. She lowered her hands now and saw Meat.
She couldn’t believe that Meat had spoken in such a manly way. She had always thought he had the same aversion to guns as she did.
Then she looked behind Meat and saw her father.
Miss Hunt was eyeing her father’s outstretched hand with suspicion. She looked at his face. “Are you the police?” she asked.
“I am.”
“Papa never wanted the police here.”
“But your papa would have wanted you to give me the gun.” Her father’s voice was kind, reassuring, forceful.
“Here,” Miss Hunt said. She thrust the gun on him. Then in a moment she disappeared down the hall with only a wisp of smoke from the old gun to show she had ever been there.
Her father handed the gun to an officer behind him.
“You’ll never, never know how glad I am to see you!” Herculeah cried. She opened her arms and rushed forward.
Meat thought for one glorious moment she was coming to throw her arms around him. He was just getting his hands out of his jacket pockets so he could participate in the hug when she rushed past him and threw her arms around her father.
“Dad! Dad! How did you know I was in trouble? How did you know to come?”
“You can thank your friend for that. Albert called me. Then I got your mom on her cell phone. She’s been worried about you—obviously with good reason. You’re all right?”
“Yes, now that you’re here I’m fine.”
“Let’s go where we can talk.”
“There’s a man on the stairs.” She nodded toward the stairs behind her without leaving the safety of her dad’s arms. “And up in the tower room there’s the real Nurse Wegman. She has a head injury, and ... oh, it was too much for me.” She buried her head in her father’s chest.
“It’s not your problem anymore. I’ll get some officers to see about them. I’ve got half the police force here with me.”
She lifted her head. “And old Mr. Hunt—the man I was reading to upstairs—was unconscious when I left him.”
“Check upstairs, too,” he told an officer.
Herculeah glanced over her shoulder and saw Meat. “And Meat!” she said, acknowledging him at last. “How did you get here?”
“I was waiting out by the gate, and your dad gave me a lift the rest of the way.” He did not mention that the only good way to arrive at Haunt House was in a police car with two policemen in the front seat.
“Meat filled me in on some of what happened, but you’ll have to tell me the rest.”
They walked down the hall, and Herculeah was gracious enough to call over her shoulder, “You come, too, Meat. I need you.”
He came.
29
OH, MOM
“I see now that I absolutely cannot trust you,” Herculeah’s mother said.
Herculeah said, “Oh, Mom.”
“You’re worse than an infant. I ought to have my head examined for asking you to read to Mr. Hunt. I should have known you’d go poking your nose in where it didn’t belong.”
Herculeah and her mom were driving home through the black gates of Hunt House. They were in the front seat of the car, talking. Meat sat alone in the backseat, listening.
They had seen the two Nurse Wegmans and Mr. Hunt loaded into ambulances and on their way to the hospital. They had waited for the housekeeper to arrive and look after the sister. “I knew something was wrong about that nurse as soon as she fired me,” the housekeeper had said. Now the three of them were on their way home.
