The Hanging Hill

5

At dusk, the Riverstream Hospital for the Criminally Insane loomed like a dark castle set against angry red clouds in the lowering sky.

Two olive-skinned men, both sporting bushy mustaches and tasseled red hats, ascended the steep stone steps to the main entrance of the dilapidated building.

“Tell me, Hakeem,” asked one of the men, “why do we need him?”

“He is of the royal bloodline.”

“We could do it ourselves!”

“No, Habib. We could not.” Hakeem peered up at the weather-beaten six-story structure. In a small dormer jutting up through the crumbling slate roof, faint candlelight danced across the barred glass of a window. “Come. He waits for us.”

“He knows we are coming?”

“Of course. Do you think we would be here had he not summoned us? Hurry. His time draws near.”

“He is dying?”

Hakeem nodded solemnly.

“Then we must raise the army on our own!”

“No,” said Hakeem. “There is another. An heir we have secretly supported for many years.”

“Who?”

“Come. You ask far too many questions. All shall be revealed. Come.”

They clambered up the final steps and passed underneath a grand fieldstone arch shrouded by the veined web of long-dead ivy.

A guard was stationed in the cavernous lobby. “State your business.”

Hakeem did not recognize the young man. Typically, he dealt with a senile old sentry named Bob.

“Where is Bob?”

“Retired. State your business.”

“I am Hakeem. This is my associate Habib. We are here to visit the professor.”

The guard hiked up his gun belt, jangling an enormous ring of keys. “You’ve visited before?”

“Yes. Many times.”

“You know the rules?”

“Yes.”

The guard picked up a clipboard. “Go straight to his cell. Don’t talk to any of the others. Stay six feet away from him at all times.”

Hakeem nodded. “As I said, we know the rules.”

The guard eyed him suspiciously.

“You family?”

“No.”

“Friend?”

“Yes.”

“Known him a long time?”

“Yes.”

“So how old is he, anyway? Somebody told me he’s a hundred.”

“One hundred and five.”

“I hear he used to be in show business. A magician.”

“That is correct.”

“Did he do birthday parties? That where he killed the kid?”

“Please, sir. We are in a hurry. Time is of the essence.”

“Why? Your friend isn’t goin’ anywhere any time soon. He’s chained and shackled to his wheelchair. Has been ever since 1939 when he went berserk and murdered that little girl.”

“Please, sir. May we kindly proceed upstairs?”

“Sign here.” He handed Hakeem the clipboard. “Be careful up there. Stick to the middle of the corridors. Stay away from the bars on the cell doors. You never know when one of these psychos might try to reach out and kill somebody new.”