by M. E. Kerr
Meatloaf began barking. “Don’t, darling,” Deem told the dog. “Hush and don’t make trouble.” He put his thumb and finger over Meatloaf’s nose like a muzzle.
Hunter unlocked the study door and appeared with an armful of clothes, a gun peeking out from under trousers and shirts, underpants, coats, and shoes.
“I’ll take your car keys, David,” he said.
I petted Meatloaf with trembling hands. He was making low sounds close to growling. The gun in Hunter’s hand was aimed at me and the dachshund.
The dog jumped down as Deem reached into his pocket.
Hunter looked at me and said, “You’re coming!”
“Why take the boy?” Deem asked.
“For a shield,” Hunter said.
Deem dropped the keys into Hunter’s palm.
At first when I heard the noise, I thought there was a radio on in the house.
Then, as it became louder, I knew what it was.
“What the hell is that?” Hunter snapped.
He walked over to the window.
I could see the look on his face, and I knew I’d always remember it. The flesh caved in, and the eyes got wide.
“Get over here!” he said to me. “What the hell is this?”
They were in the yard with their gold flashlights shining on their faces. Singing.
I could see Charles Dickens and Charles II, Charles Bronson and two Charlie Chaplins.
There were about a dozen Sevens there. Kidder I recognized, and Fisher. Schwartz next to Fisher.
They were in good voice and I’d never felt more like joining in.
The time will come as the years go by,
When my heart will thrill
At the thought of The Hill,
And the Sevens who came
With their bold cry,
WELCOME TO SEVENS!
Then they began to shout our names, seven times apiece.
“DEEM! DEEM! DEEM! DEEM! DEEM! DEEM! DEEM!”
Behind me Meatloaf was dancing to the door and barking.
“Shut that damn dog up!” Hunter cried out.
There were tears rolling down Deem’s cheeks as he realized they’d come to rescue him, however they had gotten word he needed them.
I might have bawled myself, but I had gone to quiet Meatloaf, near the door, telling him to be still, a moment before my hand reached for the knob and my legs did the rest.
I had my own cheering section to spur me on.
“FELL! FELL! FELL! FELL! FELL!” — and I was out of there for the last two.
Chapter 25
When the Cottersville police arrived in their car, Dr. Skinner pulled up in the Gardner limo.
I told one cop about the naked man in the crawl space while another began calling to Deem and Lowell Hunter through a bullhorn, advising them that the house was surrounded, to come out hands up.
“I want you and Schwartz to come with me, Fell,” Skinner said to me.
“Can’t we wait to see them come out?”
“No. We’re going back to The Hill with Lieutenant Hatch. He’s going to ask some questions, and I hope he’s going to answer some…. Schwartz had better answer some, too — about how Sevens got dragged into this!”
Skinner went over and tapped Schwartz on the shoulder.
I could hear Schwartz tell him he’d go back in Kidder’s van with the other Sevens. But Skinner shook his head no. He pointed to the limo.
“Right now?” Schwartz said.
“Right this minute!” said Skinner. Then he walked over to The Sevens and said that they were to leave. Immediately.
Even though we were coatless in the bitter cold, we dragged our heels getting down to the limo. We were looking over our shoulders at the red brick house, the front porch illuminated by mobile spotlights.
In his brown flannel suit, striped cotton shirt, and silk tie, with the square cotton pocket handkerchief, Deem appeared there like someone yanked out of a PBS-TV play and pushed into the set of a cops-and-robbers sitcom. He had his hands up. He was smiling grimly.
“Is his daughter in there, too?” Schwartz asked me.
“No. But she’s all right.”
“What in the hell was going on, Fell? Did Dragon try to run off with her?”
Dr. Skinner said, “Get in back, boys! You’ll have ample opportunity to discuss this on The Hill! Ready, Lieutenant?”
Hatch was looking over his shoulder too, in time to see Lowell Hunter follow Deem. All four of us were standing by the limo gawking.
Then Skinner said to the lieutenant, “I don’t have a driver. You sit up front with me.”
We got in, reluctantly.
Skinner leaned around to say, “I’m going to put up this window, but I advise you boys not to try collaborating on any story to shield Sevens! I’ve had my fill of Sevens skulduggery! … I’ll put the heat on. Fell, you’re shivering.”
He didn’t have to tell me that. My teeth were chattering.
The glass partition between the front and the backseats went up, and soon after we began gliding down Jericho, I felt the warm air.
Schwartz said, “Lauren and I couldn’t figure out what happened to you. Kidder said you took off after the Deem girl like a bat out of hell.”
“I did.” I was beginning to feel all the fear I hadn’t dared feel for my own poor ass. Fear, then the fatigue coming in with the relief that it was over.
“Skinner doesn’t know it, but I called the police,” Schwartz said. “I told them to call Deem. They said the phones were out here, that something was going on down here, but they didn’t know what. And Saturday night — most of their cars are out looking for impaired drivers…. They said they were going to radio them over to Jericho, where you were, probably…. How did they know that, Fell?”
The yawn came moaning out of me. I couldn’t help it. It was the delayed sound of panic or relief, all that was left from a frustrated scream, probably.
Schwartz gave me a look. “You’re a cool one, Fell.”
“Far from it.”
Schwartz continued, “We figured you two Sevens could use some help maybe. We were warned not to go into the house, so I said we’d do a little street theater outside and see what happened.”
“I was never so glad to see you all! Thanks, Lion!”
“How did Creery’s stepbrother get in on the act, Fell? And where’s Eddie Dragon?”
I held one hand up. “Later. Not right now.”
Schwartz gave my leg a punch. “See? I told you Fate arranges exits and entrances…. But I have to admit I never really thought Dragon would pull something like this!”
Another punch, that time to my arm. “We came through for you, though, Fell!”
Whatever Schwartz imagined had been going on at the Deems’, it had him bubbling over. “That Deem!” He laughed. “Did you see him come out? Nothing ruffles our boy, does it? He looked like he was coming out of church on a Sunday morning.”
“Since when do you come out of church with your hands up?” I said.
“The police didn’t mean for Deem to do it. And I think they got Hunter confused with Dragon…. But I never liked the looks of Lowell Hunter. Guys in their thirties with white hair make me nervous.”
“How about guys seventeen with white hair?” I said. “I think mine’s turning white after tonight.”
“Not you, Fell. You’re too nervy.”
I put my head back against the leather seat and shut my eyes. I didn’t want to think about Nina, but it was hard not to. Not to imagine her face when she found out about her dad. Not to wonder how she’d deal with that, and with the stunt Dragon had played on her: making her think her dreams had come true, he was whisking her away with him … and she’d worn that white dress, the kind a bride would choose.
Schwartz was humming a familiar tune.
What was it … Something about your voice calling … something right on the tip of my tongue.
Then he was whistling it softly.
Heavenly shades of night are
falling —
it’s Twilight Time,
Out of the mist your voice is calling —
it’s Twilight Time.
I opened my eyes and turned my head to see his face. “Yes, Fell, that’s for you,” he said. “You owe Sevens a Twilight Truth.”
“I do?”
“You do. Because you are nervy, Fell…. You never should have attended The Charles Dance as Damon Charles. That’s disrespectful, Fell. We don’t make fun of our founder!”
“You’re not kidding, either,” I said.
“I don’t kid about Sevens,” said The Lion.
He wasn’t the only Sevens who felt that way. Until I went home for Easter vacation, that song was whistled at me through my door, on campus, in the dining room at The Tower — wherever I passed another Sevens.
By the time I got back from Brooklyn, no one was whistling anymore. Maybe because of what happened at the end of those nine days.
I spent them cooking for Mom and Jazzy, and walking around God’s country. Down to the Brooklyn Bridge, and across to the Promenade with its great view of the New York skyline. Up to the Botanical Gardens, where the Japanese cherry trees were in bloom, and over to the Brooklyn Museum.
In Carroll Gardens I dropped in to see my grandfather in the nursing home and listen to him tell me again why he was named after Theodore Roosevelt.
One night I made a lot of telephone calls until I connected with Nina. She was staying with her aunt Peggy up in Hartford, Connecticut.
“I’m glad you called, Fell,” she said. “I thought you’d be mad at me. He’s called too, Eddie has. We’re friends now. Just good friends.”
We didn’t talk about her father. She didn’t seem to want to, and neither did I.
At the end of our conversation I said I hoped we’d be good friends too, and Nina said she’d like that.
“Am I a good friend?” Jazzy asked me after I’d hung up. “Yes.”
“Then do I get Mr. Mysterious if I’m a good friend?” I sat her down and talked about gift giving with her for a while. “Sometimes the best gifts are ones you don’t ask for,” I told her.
“But I like to know what I’m getting Johnny. I always know what I want.”
“Don’t you ever want something money can’t buy?”
“Like what?”
“Well, what we were just talking about. Friends.”
“Girlfriends or boyfriends?”
“You can’t buy either kind. You can’t buy a true friend.”
“What’s a true friend?”
How did I answer her? I don’t remember. But whatever I said only reminded me of Dib. What had happened between us was all my fault. I’d left him out. I’d become too full of myself and Sevens. Dib had been right that morning he’d told me that I was the one impressed by the gold 7. Mom hardly ever wore it, even with the head charms hanging beside it.
• • •
Going back to The Hill on the train, I came upon the newspaper story about David Deem’s death. Out on bail, he was found in his Lincoln shot seven times through the heart. Neighbors heard the gun go off at five in the afternoon … At twilight, I thought.
• • •
Police have not determined yet if the dead rat found between his teeth has some tie-in with underworld ritual. Purportedly he had no Mafia connections.
Lowell Hunter, alleged to be kingpin behind the DOT operation, has been held without bail charged with the murder of his stepbrother, Cyril Creery.
• • •
The Hill was buzzing with rumors about the three murders, Deem’s in particular, because of The Sevens Revenge.
Since everyone in Sevens House had been on Easter vacation, far from Cottersville, it was being whispered that an alumnus had caught up with David Deem.
But Schwartz insisted it was someone with connections to Hunter. Someone who wanted Deem silenced, and chose to make it look like The Revenge.
There were stern notices posted everywhere on bulletin boards, insisting that more than ever now, Gardner had to put the past behind it.
GOSSIP INNUENDO REHASHING OF OUR CRISES
CAN ONLY DO GRAVE INJURY TO THE FUTURE
OF THE SCHOOL! DO NOT LOOK BACK.
GO FORWARD.
That was my intention when I went down to the dorm late in the afternoon, after I’d unpacked.
Dib was coming out as I was heading up the walk.
“I want to talk, Dib.”
“Not now, Fell. I’m going out to dinner.”
I walked along with him, toward the familiar green Mustang parked at the curb.
“How come Little Jack’s driving? I thought he was pulled over on a DWI?”
“You know, Fell, I’d worry more about your crowd than mine. You could end up with a big mouse in your mouth.”
I let that go. “Let’s get together tomorrow,” I said.
“Maybe. If there’s time.”
Little Jack rolled down the window and gave me a salute. “Aye, aye, sir!” he said.
I walked up closer. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Aren’t you giving my boy some orders, Fell?”
Dib said, “He doesn’t give me orders.” He went around to get in the passenger seat.
“I thought he did,” said Little Jack.
He smelled of beer or whiskey; maybe both.
“You’re in great condition to drive,” I said.
“Cork it, Fell!” Dib shouted at me.
“Dib, he’s drunk!”
“Dib” — Little Jack made what I’d said into a high whine — ”he’s drunk!”
I should have gone around, opened the door, and yanked Dib out.
That was what I told myself as I stood there while Little Jack took off, waving at me. “Bye-bye, Felly!”
Dib was staring straight ahead.
I watched the car weave down the street toward the hill.
Little Jack Horner
Sat in a corner.
I couldn’t remember the rest of the nursery rhyme that began humming in my head, not then and there. Just those two lines.
But later on it came back to me. All that long, sad spring it did.
Then, when summer came, I went looking for Little Jack.
Oh, yes. He was still around.
This edition published by
Prologue Books
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
4700 East Galbraith Road
Cincinnati, Ohio 45236
www.prologuebooks.com
Copyright © 1989 by M. E. Kerr
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-3934-0
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-3934-3
Fell Down
M. E. Kerr
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Copyright
chapter 1
Fell, you’re a mess,” Keats said, “and you’re wallowing in it.”
“I don’t want to talk about it now.”
“Then when?”
The waiter asked if he could tell us the specials.
It wouldn’t have surprised me if Keats had made him stand there while I explained all the deep trouble my
mind was in, but instead she listened to him. Then she said she’d have the fettuccine with seafood.
I ordered the Long Island duck.
“You look awful, too,” Keats said while the waiter was taking the menus from our hands.
“Thanks for pointing that out,” I said.
“I should have suggested someplace tacky for dinner. Not here,” she continued.
We were in the Edwardian Room, in the Plaza Hotel. She’d come all the way into New York City to take me out. I knew that it was really Daddy who would pay the charge: Lawrence O. Keating, an architect whose dreams for his only daughter did not include John Fell.
He didn’t have to worry about it anymore. We were just friends, though he’d never believe it.
“Promise me one thing before you tell me what this is all about,” she said.
“Okay. One thing.”
“When your food comes, don’t tell me what’s wrong with it. Don’t taste mine and tell me what’s wrong with mine. If something’s overpowered by its sauce or underseasoned, keep it a secret, okay? I like to think everything’s wonderful.”
“At these prices, I don’t blame you.”
“Even if we were eating at McDonald’s, I’d feel the same way, Fell. Who wants to hear a whole critique? Just eat, drink, and be merry.”
“Give me a break,” I said. “I don’t complain that much.”
“Yes, you do. If you don’t, you’ve changed.” “Well, yeah. That I’ve done.”
“Talk!” she said.
“What do you want to know?”
“Why you’re a jet crash.”
“I wrote you about it.”
“You said a close friend died in an automobile accident. But since when do you go to pieces over a friend’s death? You didn’t crack up when your dad died.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Maybe if you started back at the beginning,” said Keats.
So I did. I told her Dib was my first friend at Gardner School, and maybe my only real friend there. I told her how we grew apart when I got into Sevens, the elite club on The Hill, with its own residence and clubhouse.
I told her how Dib took up with Jack Horner, known as Little Jack. I took the story up to the last time I saw Dib. He was getting into Little Jack’s green Mustang. Little Jack had been drinking. Little Jack was driving.