The Hanging Hill

7

The withered 105-year-old man sat slumped in his wheelchair near the cell door.

His ankles were shackled together. A heavy chain drooped in a loop between the rolling chair’s footrests. A turban, fashioned from a faded violet bath towel, was wrapped around his skull.

The shriveled old man spoke in a scratchy whisper: “It is time, Hakeem.”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Take this.” He produced a tiny key. “It will open the final compartment. See to it that the anointed one has all that he requires.”

“As you command, Exalted One. The boat left Tunisia three weeks ago and arrived safely. The truck from the harbor will arrive tomorrow.”

“And the other necessary arrangements?”

“Nearing completion, master.”

“Excellent. Well done, Hakeem.”

“Thank you, Exalted One.”

The professor reached into the tattered pocket of his frayed robe and removed a small slip of paper.

“More names I would add.”

Hakeem glanced at the list. “Who is this Mad Dog Murphy you have placed at the top?”

“One who should prove most useful to our cause.”

Hakeem tucked the paper away. “Your will shall be done.”

“Do not despair, my friend. We two shall meet again. Soon.”

Now Habib stepped forward. “When?” he asked. “When are you two meeting again?”

The old man narrowed his milky eyes. “Hakeem, who is this person?”

“His name is Habib, Excellency. He is newly arrived. From Tunis.”

“Is he one of us?”

“Of course.”

The old man grunted.

“I cannot begin to tell you what an honor it is to finally meet you, sir!” Habib prattled. “I am grievously saddened to hear of your impending death.”

The old man gestured with a gnarled claw. “Please. Come closer, Habib. This solitary candle casts but a dim and wavering light. I desire to see your face more fully.”

Habib stepped closer to the wheelchair.

“Is this better, Exalted One?”

“Oh, yes. Much.”

The withered old man reached up into the cuff of his bathrobe and extracted the bone-handled magician’s knife he kept hidden there at all times—a weapon Hakeem had easily smuggled into the prison one day when the ancient guard had been on duty.

“What’s that?” asked Habib.

“An omen of your impending death.”

Hakeem watched in awe as the professor—still possessing the fierce strength of a man eight decades his junior—lurched forward and, with a grunt, jammed the knife blade into Habib’s stomach. He twisted it sharply to the right.

Habib crumpled to the floor.

The inmates in the other cells hooted and cheered. Hakeem knew guards would soon be racing up the stairs to investigate the commotion.

The shackled old man rattled chains as he kicked at the limp body.

“Imbecile! Bring me no more such as this one, Hakeem, or next time, I swear by all that is sacred, my blade will find its resting place in your belly!”

Hakeem bowed. “Yes, master.”

“We two shall speak again. Soon. When the August moon grows full.”

“Yes, master.”

“Go. It is time.”

And suddenly, the old man’s head flopped forward as he rattled out his final breath.

“Master?”

There was no reply.

Hakeem grabbed the knife and slipped out of the cell before any guards arrived.

He knew the professor had died happy with much to look forward to.