“Diversion?” McCool asked. “What kind?”
“Do I have to tell you everything?” Thomas asked. “Something, something big. That will attract a lot of attention. Figure it out yourself. Now go, before I have to remind you how to breathe, as well.”
McCool took the rebuke remarkably well. He bobbed and smiled and even put a hand to his forehead in a kind of quick salute. He was always more docile, Thomas thought, when he was on the job. It was best to keep him excited and busy. He’d turned out, after all, to be pretty handy to have around. Too bad, Thomas thought, he wouldn’t be around much longer. Once they’d reclaimed the missing trousers Tully McCool would have to vanish with them. He knew too much. Too bad, but there it was. Besides, there were hundreds like him in Five Points. He’d be easy to replace.
McCool threw open the study door as he exited the room, stopped, bowed sketchily, and stepped aside.
[242] “Pardon, Your Honors,” he said, and scurried out after Seth and James entered the room.
“Well,” Thomas said. He settled back behind the desk, just having risen to go wait for McCool’s diversion near the bunkhouse. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” He smiled heartily and took his watch out of his vest pocket and made a show of checking the time. “Unfortunately, I have little time to spare. I’m due at, uh, my fiancé’s in a few moments.”
Seth smiled. But, un-Seth-like, there was an edge to it. He had a large ledger underneath his arm. James stood by his side, apparently sober, and every inch as grim.
“This won’t take long,” Seth said.
“We’ve come to say good-bye,” James added.
“You have?” Thomas echoed, losing his wide, false smile.
“Yes,” Seth said. “The thought of staying at Noir Manor under your ... leadership ... is not appealing. We’ve had a long-standing invitation to join our brother Daniel in business in Boston. We’ve decided to take him up on it. Immediately.”
“You have?” Thomas echoed. He looked from brother to brother. “Even you, James?”
“Even me, Thomas,” James said. “It’s time I stood on my own two feet.”
Thomas laughed. “Can you?”
“He can,” Seth said. “Perhaps he’ll need a little help at first, but he can lean on me for a while.”
James looked at him gratefully, and Seth returned the look and nodded decisively.
Thomas laughed again. “Well, far be it for me to stand [243] in your way, dear, dear brothers. Have fun selling shoes in Boston, or whatever it is you will do.”
“Daniel has a growing import-export business,” Seth said, approaching Thomas’s desk. “Shoes are only one of the many items he handles.”
“What’s this?” Thomas said, automatically taking the ledger as Seth extended it to him.
“The current book on the farm. I thought you’d better have a look at it.”
“Of course.” He opened the tome and started to thumb through it.
Seth laid his hand on James arm when they reached the study door and they stopped. Seth turned back to Thomas who was frowning over the columns of figures on the ledger’s last page.
“I thought we should tell you,” Seth said. “We’re asking Jon to come with us, as well.”
Thomas looked up at him and shrugged.
“It should be just as easy to replace a cowherd as it is to replace a bookkeeper and a drunk,” he said.
Seth smiled. “Charming to the end, I see,” he said, and he and James left the study.
Thomas frowned over the ledger for a few moments. He wasn’t a trained accountant, but he could read figures. And what these figures told him was that Noir Manor was not, contrary to his belief, a richly remunerative enterprise. In fact, if he was reading them right, it was in debt. Deep debt to a Manhattan bank, and had been for several years. Thomas looked up, stunned, his mind blank and groping for explanations.
But there was no one left, he realized, who could tell [244] him anything. He was all alone in his new study and he was deep in debt.
15.
Jon felt confused, and angry at his confusion, as he headed for Derlicht Haus, so wrapped up in his inner turmoil that he didn’t even realize that many villagers called out condolences or well-wishes as he passed by.
His life had changed so suddenly, so irrevocably. There was no possibility of going back to the way things were just four days ago. More so—Jon couldn’t let the situation continue as it currently stood. Thomas couldn’t remain in charge of the Noir fortunes. He had committed terrible crimes, and must pay for them. But how? Jon was repelled by the murders within the family. There had already been patricide and attempted filicide. Should he add fratricide to the list, as well?
Perhaps the best course open to him, after all, was to give his evidence to Constable Pierce, and let the law take its course. The resultant scandal would shame the name of Noir for all time, but perhaps that was the price they all had to pay.
He stopped at the door to Derlicht Haus, but it swung open before he could knock, as if someone had been waiting for his arrival. Pompey was at the door, a look of concern over lying his usual superciliousness.
“What is it?” Jon asked when he saw the expression on the butler’s face.
“It’s Madame Agatha, sir,” the butler said. For the first time ever Jon saw age and doubt quivering on his [246] features. “She’s not well. She’s taken to her bed. She ... she’s been asking for you, and you alone.”
“Take me to her.”
Pompey bobbed his head in a nervous nod.
“This way, sir.”
Agatha Derlicht ill? Jon was stunned at the thought. What next? His father dead. Agatha Derlicht, ailing. The small, placid universe that was Geiststadt was being torn apart with no hope of repair. He wondered if this was part of Thomas’s scheme. If, like the Trudi doll, he’d had an Agatha Derlicht doll upon which he’d laid a different kind of spell.
Jon pondered that as Pompey led him up the stairs to the second floor of the gloomy dwelling. He opened the door to Agatha Derlicht’s bedroom quietly and Jon looked inside. It was all massive dark wood furniture and guttering candles with small windows heavily curtained to block the sunlight. There was a distinct, unhealthy chill to the air. Agatha Derlicht herself was a pale shadow reclining upon a cluster of pillows in a huge four poster bed. She looked wan and tired, more ghostly than her sister Katja.
Pompey gestured silently and Jon slowly entered the room as the door closed softly behind him.
Jon approached her bedside. “Frau Derlicht?”
Her head turned on her vast white pillow. She seemed to notice and recognize him. She lifted a hand. Some impulse made Jon reach out and gently take it. It was cold as if no blood at all ran through it. It shook constantly, but as Jon held it his warmth crept into the old woman’s flesh and the shaking diminished.
[247] “Jon,” she said in a thin, tired voice. She spoke without her stutter, as if she lacked the energy for such unnecessary things. “Jon. I need to see Katja. I need to tell her—to say—say I’m sorry. Sorry for what happened between us. For what I did to her.”
“She’d be happy to hear it.”
“Can you take me to her?” Agatha Derlicht asked.
Jon looked at her, shaking his head.
“I don’t think you’d be able to make the climb up HangedMan’s Hill. Maybe if you got stronger, in a few days.”
Agatha Derlicht smiled faintly. “My strength is draining from me like water through a broken dam. I don’t know how many days I have left.”
Jon held her hand more tightly.
“You can’t mean that!” he said. “You can’t fade now. You have to make Roderick into the new leader for the Derlicht family. You have to train him so he’ll be able to stand up to Thomas. You said so yourself.”
She shook her head. “I’m an old woman. I’m tired. I don’t know if anyone can stand up to Thomas.”
“I will,” Jon said. “I’m going to put him away where he’ll ne
ver be able to harm anyone again.” He paused. “At least, I’m going to try. But if I fail—you have to be there. For Geiststadt. For all the good and decent people who depend on you.”
Agatha Derlicht nodded, seeming to take strength from Jon’s words. Her grip hardened. It seemed as if Jon could feel some of his vitality pass on to her. That was all right. Suddenly he felt strong as a mountain, steadfast and mighty. He had strength to spare.
[248] “You couldn’t make it up HangedMan’s Hill,” he said, struck by a sudden idea, “but perhaps you can make it up to the attic.”
“The attic? Why?”
“Your sister was ... imprisoned ... there for many years. I-I have a feeling that if we called to her from that place, she might be able to respond. She spent so much time there—perhaps she could return.”
“That sounds ungodly,” Agatha Derlicht said. “But I don’t know any more what’s heaven-sent or demon-cursed. I only know that I have to see my sister again. I have to talk to her before I die. It’s the only way I’ll be able to find peace ...”
Jon helped her sit up. She was dressed in a thick flannel nightgown. Her hair was a snowy cascade down her back and breast. She grasped his shoulder, swung her legs out of the bed, and stood shakily. Jon half supported her as she took small, trembling steps. They stopped to rest at the foot of the back staircase that led to the attic. Finally she nodded and they started the ascent.
The stair was dark and dusty. Jon was grateful that he’d thought to grab a candelabrum as they’d left the bedroom. The candles threw gloomy, fitful light ahead of them as they made their way up the narrow staircase and stopped to rest at the top. Jon unlatched the trapdoor to the attic and pushed it open.
He led Agatha into the dark that was but little dispelled by the guttering candles. They looked around. It was a large space, mostly empty. An old bed sagged against one wall. There were small round windows on all walls, [249] north, south, east, and west, grilled and barred. For forty years they had been Katja Derlicht’s only eyes onto the world.
Agatha Derlicht sighed as if in insupportable pain.
“What a terrible thing I did to her.”
“That was in the past,” Jon said. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from this whole appalling week, it’s that redemption is possible. If the Hessian could find redemption after his awful deeds, you can as well. We all can.”
Agatha Derlicht gripped his hands tightly. He could feel an awesome strength flow from him into her as she closed her eyes and whispered her sister’s name, over and over again.
It didn’t take long. After only a few moments a mist began to roil in one corner of the dusty attic. A swirling white fog seemed to come from nowhere, but steadily resolved itself into a human size and shape and slowly took on distinct features that settled into those of an old woman with a strong familial resemblance to Agatha Derlicht.
“Agatha,” she said in a soft voice that nevertheless somehow penetrated to every corner of the room.
Agatha Derlicht opened her eyes, and shrunk against Jon at the sight of the apparition that stood across the room smiling at her.
“Don’t be afraid,” Jon said supportively. “There’s nothing to fear.”
“He’s right, dear,” Katja Derlicht said. “You’ve called to me and I’ve come.”
“Is that ...” Agatha Derlicht said hesitantly. “Is that all it takes?”
[250] Katja nodded. “Oh, some years ago I would have been somewhat irate if you’d summoned me. I’m not a saint, you know. It took me some time to work off the anger of my life. But it peeled away from me during my years on the Hill. After all, it wasn’t hate or fury that bound me to this earth. It was love.”
“Oh K-K-Katja,” Agatha Derlicht tottered away from Jon, reaching out for her sister. “Can you ever forgive me?”
“I forgave you years ago, sister.”
“Is there nothing I can do for you?” Agatha Derlicht asked.
“There is, dear sister. All things come to end—and I think it is time I move from this earth. Bury my bones in the old cemetery. Bury me with my Hessian, who, thanks to Jon, is ready to move on as well.”
“Thanks to me?” Jon asked. “What did I do?”
“You believed in his redemption. And your words helped convince Constable Pierce that his spirit was innocent of the terrible crimes laid at his feet.”
“That was nothing,” Jon said.
Katja smiled. “It was enough.”
“But—the Hessian,” Agatha Derlicht said. “No one knows where he lies—”
It was Jon’s turn to smile. “His bones lie in a wooden casket hidden behind the stand of lime trees in the Glass House.”
“How—?” Agatha began.
“I’ll explain it all later,” Jon said.
Agatha nodded. She went to her sister. They met and hugged one another. Katja had taken on a degree of [251] solidity, but Jon could still see her form sink partly into Agatha as they embraced. They held each other for a long minute, Agatha Derlicht softly weeping. Then her weeping stopped and her eyes closed and she slipped slowly to the floor, Katja supporting the weight of her as best she could, gently letting her down. Jon looked on, dismayed. “Is she dead?” Katja straightened, looked at him, and smiled. “No, Jon Noir, only sleeping. Sleeping deeply and profoundly. Perhaps for the first time in years. Her greatest fear has been soothed, and now she’s at peace.” Jon smiled. If only everything could work out so smoothly, so happily.
“Goodbye, Jon,” Katja said. “Good fortune and happiness follow you, though I’m afraid your road will be long and hard.”
Jon frowned. He didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?” he asked. But Katja was fading. With a final shake of her head and a smile, and a last fond look at her sister dead asleep on the floor, she broke up like morning mist in the summer sun. Like smoke on the wind—Jon paused. Smoke? Why did he think of that? He took a deep, thoughtful breath and realized what had brought the word to his mind. He could smell smoke faintly on the thick, enclosed attic air.
“Well,” a voice said behind him, “what’s all this then?”
Jon whirled, to see Tully McCool standing by the open trapdoor. He had a smile on his face and a long-bladed dagger in his hand, and Jon couldn’t say which looked worse.
[252] “What are you doing?” Jon asked as the Irishman came towards him, smiling that too-bright and too-fixed smile.
“Killing two birds with one stone, Your Honor,” he said. “Creating a diversion by firing Derlicht Haus. And finding out what you’ve done with my master’s goods.” He lifted his blade higher, as if by way of emphasis.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Jon said, backing away as McCool advanced.
“Jaysus,” McCool said, “don’t play the fool. We haven’t the time, have we? The fire will be licking at our arses at any moment. You tell me where the item you took from my master’s room is, I’ll let you and the old lady go. That’s all we need, isn’t it?”
Jon glanced down at Agatha Derlicht, still lost in deep slumber. If he woke her—
“Agatha!”
She stirred, but didn’t awaken. He tried to go by her side to shake her, but, McCool advanced and he had to back off.
“Leave the old bitch be,” McCool said. “Do you tell me, or do I have to cut you?”
Jon circled around. If he could reach the staircase, he could get help. If there was time.
Jon was quick, but so was McCool. Jon lunged for the stairway, but McCool was between them. His hand flashed out, his knife cut Jon from cheek to earlobe.
“Ain’t got time for this, you stupid sod,” McCool said through clenched teeth. “The fire will be upon us. This old place will burn like a thatched cottage during the drought.”
[253] “Kill me and you’ll never find the trousers,” Jon ground out through gritted teeth.
“Trousers?” McCool shrugged. “Just as well, then. If no one ever finds them I’m sure the master will be happy.”
&nb
sp; He leaped at Jon, knife held low for an underhanded slashing blow. Jon met him chest to chest. He grabbed for McCool’s throat with one hand and his knife wrist with the other, but the Irish tough was a wily, experienced fighter. He twisted his wrist and it came free. He struck and Jon felt a bite of cold pain as the blade slipped into his chest. It was like ice in his heart. Jon gasped. McCool smiled viciously, but Jon caught his wrist in an iron grip, preventing him from twisting the blade or thrusting it further as Jon’s fingers bit like claws into McCool’s throat.
Hang on, Jon told himself desperately. Hang on. Strangle the bastard. It’s your only hope.
They surged about the floor, dancing a clumsy waltz. McCool’s vicious grin turned into a fixed rictus as Jon cut off his air supply with one hand while striving to prevent the Irishman from gutting him by trapping his knife wrist with the other.
Jon was the stronger, McCool the more experienced hand-to-hand fighter. McCool threw himself from side to side, trying to break Jon’s grip, but he couldn’t. He brought up his knee, trying to slam it into Jon’s groin, but somehow Jon managed to shift weight, blocking each thrust.
Time, though, was running out. Jon knew it. McCool’s blade had just missed its target, barely grazing Jon’s [254] heart. Still, it hurt like the devil, and his heart, still pumping, was filling his chest cavity and soaking his shirt with blood. He didn’t have much time or strength left.
McCool finally tore away and yanked his knife out of the wound. A gush of blood followed. Jon pressed his hand against his chest despite the pain. He choked on the smoke that was now roiling up the staircase into the attic and wove dizzily on his feet.
“Die, you bloody bastard!” McCool cried, advancing for the killing blow.
Jon stood there, wounded and angry, praying for one last chance, one last opportunity to overcome his murderous enemy.
THE TWILIGHT ZONE, Book 1: Shades of Night, Falling Page 20