The Hanging Hill (5 page)

15

The spinning saw blade kept grinding against the rusty lock, sending up a shower of red-hot sparks.

Reginald Grimes and the man who called himself Hakeem were in one of the rooms in the maze that was the basement of the Hanging Hill Playhouse. Sparks streamed off the whirling teeth of the miniature power saw as it gnawed its way though the hinged shackle and lit up the cobweb-coated casement windows behind them.

For whatever reason, Hakeem was attempting to open an ancient steamer trunk that had been triple-looped with heavy chains, the links secured with padlocks.

“How did you know this trunk would be here?” asked Grimes.

Hakeem shut off his power tool and grinned. “Why do you think you are here?”

“What?”

“You were placed here to be the guardian of this treasure chest.”

“No. I came here after college to direct plays. Musicals. I am Reginald Grimes!”

“We know this, for we are the anonymous donors who agreed to endow the theater with one million dollars, provided, of course, they hired you to be the company’s artistic director.”

“Nonsense.”

“We are the same benefactors who made certain you received a college degree in either theater or theology.”

Grimes was shocked.

Theater or theology
.

That was precisely what his guidance counselor at the High School for Orphans and Helpless Youth had told him: An anonymous donor was willing to pay for his room, board, and college tuition, provided he studied theology or theater. At the time, Grimes had thought the bequest rather peculiar if not downright ridiculous. Why two subjects so alphabetically linked? Why the fixation on “t-h-e” degrees? He would have been foolish, of course, to turn down the offer for reasons related to spelling, because it was his ticket out of the orphanage, a chance to show the world the special talents he knew he had.

Grimes chose theater because he felt studying theology would have been a complete waste of his time, since he had stopped believing in God long ago—at least, any benevolent, all-powerful, halfway-caring god.

Hakeem’s saw blade started whirring again, chewing through the final lock’s steel shackle. Grimes shielded his eyes from the spew of sparks.

“Why me?” he called out over the harsh whine of steel on steel.

The final lock popped free. Hakeem turned off his power tool.

“I knew your grandfather.”

“Impossible. I have no family.”

“So you have always been told. However, in truth, you are the sole surviving male heir of a very noble line. Your family tree has its roots in antiquity and the most glorious civilization to ever spring forth along the coasts of the Mediterranean Sea!”

“Nonsense. I was raised in an orphanage.”

“For your own protection.”

“What?”

“We placed you there.”

“You put me in that godforsaken pit on purpose?”

“It was for the best.”

“Really? The best?” Rage engorged Grimes’s soul. His mangled left arm twitched at the shoulder. “Who do you think you are?”

“I am your loyal and obedient servant, Royal High Priest.”

“What?”

“I live only to serve and protect the true descendants of the high priest of Ba’al Hammon, lord of the incense altar, chief god of Carthage, consort of the goddess Tanit.”

“You’re a religious fanatic! No wonder you wanted me to study theology. But why theater?”

“Much religious ritual requires a certain theatricality,” said Hakeem. “We desired that you would receive the training required to stage our most spectacular rites.”

“Who are you people? Who is this ‘we’ you keep talking about?”

“The Brotherhood of Hannibal. Those who live but to see Carthage rise to its former glory!”

“Hannibal? The warrior who marched elephants over the Alps to attack ancient Rome?”

“The same, Exalted One.”

Hakeem bowed, his hands clasped together in a tent of supplication.

Grimes liked the bowing bit. Liked being called Exalted One, too. Maybe he could forgive his “loyal servants” for dumping him in a home for unwanted children if they all treated him this way.

“So,” he said, “you knew my grandfather?”

“Indeed, sire. He was a remarkably talented man.”

“What about my father? My mother?”

“I knew of them.”

“Are they alive?”

Hakeem shook his head. “Sadly, they are both deceased. You are the sole surviving male heir. You are the one chosen to fulfill the prophecy.”

Now Grimes felt his chest swell with pride.

The chosen one
.

“Very well,” he said, assuming the bearing of a haughty high priest. “What, pray tell, is inside this dusty trunk?”

“Much.”

“Open it!” Grimes commanded.

“As you say, Exalted One.” Hakeem pried apart the lid.

Grimes smelled mothballs. On one side, he saw dark costumes hanging on a closet rod; on the other, a stack of drawers, each with its own brass pull. The top drawer had a keyhole.

“We will open this locked compartment in due time,” said Hakeem.

“You have the key?”

“Yes.”

“Then open it now!” Grimes demanded.

“First you must read this.” Hakeem pulled open the second drawer and extracted a book the size of a big-city phone directory. The leather cover was crackled with age.

“What’s in this book?” asked Grimes as he felt the ancient volume’s heft.

“Your destiny!”

16

After spending the night at the Holiday Inn, Zack, Judy, and Zipper drove back to the Hanging Hill Playhouse first thing Sunday morning.

Zack liked the Holiday Inn. They stayed in one of the nonhaunted rooms. The only things sizzling in the breakfast room were the microwaved sausage links.

“The table meeting is at ten a.m.,” said Judy.

Zipper whined quizzically.

“You’re meeting a table?” asked Zack.

“That’s what they call it when the director, designers, writer, composer, and cast all get together for the first time. You sit around a big table, everybody introduces themselves, and then the actors read the script out loud.”

“Cool,” said Zack. “Can I come?”

“Sure.”

They parked in the spot where they had parked the night before. Zack looked up at the big white building perched on its hump of a hill. In the bright morning sunshine, it looked like a wedding cake with lots of frosting ribbons rippled around the edges.

A woman came out to the porch and started waving at them.

“That’s Monica,” said Judy. “She’s the company manager.”

“Welcome to the Hanging Hill!” the young woman called out with an enthusiasm bubbly enough to rival Judy’s. “We’re so glad you made it! Was the drive okay?”

“Fine,” said Judy. “This is my stepson, Zack.”

“The one the script’s dedicated to?”

“The same,” said Judy. “We arrived late last night.”

“Really?”

“Very late,” Judy said with a smile. “The janitor kicked us out.”

“Oh, don’t mind him. That’s Wilbur Kimble. He’s been here so long he thinks he runs the place. Come on, I’ll show you to your rooms.”

Zipper barked.

“Uh,” said Zack, “I think Zipper may need to see the bathroom first. I’ll take him around back for quick walk.”

“Good idea,” said Judy. “I’ll go inside with Monica, grab our room keys, and meet you guys in the lobby.”

“Cool. Come on, Zip.”

Zack and Zipper strolled up a shaded sidewalk paralleling the Connecticut River behind the theater for a couple hundred yards.

While Zipper sniffed, found the perfect patch of grass, and did his business, Zack glanced back at the theater. The basement windows were dark this morning. No sparks popping like flashes from a digital camera on hyperdrive. Maybe Mad Dog Murphy hadn’t followed him here after all.

“Come on, Zip,” Zack said when they reached the end of the river walk. “We better head back!”

Zipper wagged his tail and led the way.

Zack watched a long black limousine pull into the parking lot behind the theater near a loading dock for trucks hauling scenery. In fact, a big eighteen-wheeler was parked there now.

The limousine, on the other hand, was probably hauling one of the famous actors arriving for Judy’s first meeting with the cast. Zack hoped it was Tomasino Carrozza, the hysterically funny clown who would be playing the title character, Curiosity Cat. When he was little, Zack had seen Carrozza do some incredibly hilarious stuff as a regular on
Sesame Street
.

“Come on, Zip! I want to get Carrozza’s autograph!”

They scooted down the path into the parking lot just as a chauffeur marched around the stretch limousine to pull open the rear door.

A kid stepped out. A blond boy, about Zack’s age. Wearing a navy blue blazer, khaki pants, and some sort of silk scarf tucked into the collar of his shirt.

As soon as the boy saw Zack and Zipper, he started to wheeze.

And sneeze.

A blond woman with a drum-tight face stepped out of the limo. She had an orangish, Oompa-Loompa tan.

“Remove your dog immediately,” she snapped at Zack. “Or I will be forced to summon security!”

“I’m allergic,” whined the boy. He started to gasp and rattle while his mother did karate chops across his back. “I wanna go home!”

“We can’t go home, honey!” She karate-chopped harder. “We signed a contract, remember?”

“B-b-but this is a musical, Mommy! I c-c-can’t sing!” His words stuttered out as his mother’s fists flamenco-danced up and down his spine.

“You’re a star, Derek! A Hollywood star!”

“Yes, Mommy.”

Zack finally realized the hyperventilating blond boy was Derek Stone, former star of the
Ring My Bell
sitcom on ABC. His dimpled cheeks and boyish grin had been on the cover of about a billion magazines, because nine-year-old girls everywhere thought he was “Hot!” Or at least that was what they thought until he hit ten and got fired from the show, and some other blond with dimples took over his part.

“Young man? The dog?” Mrs. Stone flicked her hand to shoo Zack and Zipper away. Bracelets clacked.

“Sorry,” said Zack. When he bent down to scoop up Zipper, he heard a bicycle skid to a stop.

“Hey, Derek.” It was a girl, also about Zack’s age. “You’re not afraid of a little mutt like that, are you?”

Derek struck a hand-on-hip pose and looked like he might be modeling underwear for a Sears catalog. “Afraid? Don’t be ridiculous, Meghan.”

The girl on the bike thrust out her hand toward Zack.

“Hey. I’m Meghan McKenna.”

Wow. Meghan McKenna.
The
Meghan McKenna.

“Uh, hi. I’m Zack. Zack Jennings.”

“Cool. Any relation to Judy Magruder Jennings?”

“She’s my mom. Well, my stepmom. But she’s not mean or anything like all the wicked stepmothers in the fairy tales and stuff.”

“Well, she’s an awesome author!” said Meghan.
“Curiosity Cat Spies a Pigeon
was the first book I ever read and I totally
love
everything she’s written since!”

“So do we!” gushed Mrs. Stone. “We’ve enjoyed her entire oeuvre!”

Zack had no idea what an “oeuvre” was. It sounded like “oov-rah.” Maybe it was a vacuum cleaner. Or a body part near your nose.

“She means they’ve read everything your stepmom ever wrote,” Meghan explained.

“Oh. Thanks,” Zack said to Mrs. Stone. “Did you like
Curiosity Cat Bakes a Cake?”

“Marvelous! Incredible! Her best book ever!”

Zack grinned. So did Meghan. They both knew there was no such book.

“Well,” said Zack, “I need to go inside and unpack before the table meeting.”

“Are you in the show?” Meghan asked.

“No. I’m not an actor. You’re playing Claire, right?”

“Yeah, and I’m totally psyched! Claire is a great character!”

“Well, I know my stepmom was excited to hear you were available to do the part.” Casting Meghan had been what Judy called “a home run.” Meghan had already won a Golden Globe and had even been nominated for an Oscar.

Meghan shrugged. “I told my mom I just
had
to do this role. Hey, I’d do it for free!”

Mrs. Stone gave Derek a quick elbow to the ribs.

“I am also thrilled to be here,” he said, attempting to sound sincere but not doing a very good job of it.

“Hey, what’s your dog’s name?” Meghan asked Zack.

“Zipper.”

“Neat. Cool name. See you around, Zack!”

When Meghan McKenna flashed Zack her million-dollar movie-star smile, he almost dropped his dog. Zipper barked and panted and wagged his tail.

Apparently, he was a major-league Meghan McKenna fan, too.

17

Zack and Zipper climbed the loading dock steps.

The wide warehouse door had been rolled down tight, so they went into the theater through a smaller door off to the side. As soon as it slid shut behind them, they were plunged into inky blackness.

“Hello?”

Zack realized he and Zipper were backstage. Faint light glowed up ahead, leaking through the doorways and windows cut into scenery panels.

“Hello?”

He walked toward the light, past long tables covered with brown paper and filled with all sorts of hand props for the Dracula musical. Wooden stakes. Strings of garlic cloves. Jars of fake blood.

“Hello?”

His voice echoed off the stage’s towering brick walls.

He put Zipper down. The dog’s toenails clicked across the bare floor as he headed downstage toward a door in a wall made out of wooden slats and tightly stretched canvas.

Through that doorway, Zack could see the bare bulb glowing inside its metal cage—the same pole lamp he had seen last night from up in the box seats.

“What are
you
doing here?”

It was the grizzled old janitor. Wilbur Kimble. He came shuffling across the stage, pushing a wobble-wheeled mop bucket.

“Sorry. I guess we came in the wrong door and got lost.”

“Bad place to get lost.”

Kimble moved closer. In the harsh light of the single naked bulb, Zack could see that unlike the mannequin-faced Mrs. Stone, this guy was creased like a sunbaked mud pie.

“You in the show?” the old man asked.

“No, sir.”

“Good.”

“Yeah,” said Zack, trying to sound friendly. “Because I can’t really sing or act. I can dance a little—but not the kind of dancing people would actually pay money to see someone do.”

The old man wasn’t smiling.

“Beware Pandemonium!” he whispered dramatically.

“Hunh?”

“Beware Pandemonium!”

“Oh-kay. Will do. Thanks.”

The old man pointed a gnarled finger toward a red exit sign. “Go! Get out of here before it’s too late!”

“Yes, sir!” Zack turned and almost tripped over the thick electrical cable snaking across the floor.

“Careful, boy! You’ll pull down the ghost light!”

Zack froze. “The what?”

The old man gestured toward the solitary lamp.

“The ghost light. It burns onstage all night, every night.”

Great. A ghost light
.

The janitor creaked his rolling bucket forward. “Every theater has one. You know why we call it a ghost light?”

Zack thought fast. “Um, because if you didn’t leave it on, people would stumble around in the dark, fall off the stage, crack open their skulls, and turn into ghosts?”

The old man shook his head then peered into the darkness above their heads. “No. We leave it on as a courtesy. To help all the ghosts haunting this theater find the children who shouldn’t be here!”

Zack looked up into the dim fly space climbing high above the stage. It was filled with ropes and scenery panels and curtains and darkness.

He couldn’t see any floating fiends or phantoms.

But that didn’t mean they weren’t up there, biding their time, waiting for a chance to swoop down and terrify Zack.

They’d probably all heard how special he was.