The Hanging Hill

93

“I’ve had seventy years to think about what I said that night,” Kimble mumbled. “I memorized those Latin words. Found a priest who translated ’em for me, taught me all about Moloch.”

“Who is he?” Zack asked.

“Pagan god. Phoenicians worshipped him. Folks who lived in Carthage, what they call Tunisia these days.” Kimble reached for the bottle of juice Zack had found in the lunch bag, and took a long swallow. “A lot of ancient civilizations used to practice child sacrifice. Aztecs. Incas. Carthaginians.”

“And the parents let them do this?”

“Aya. In some cultures, the families had so many children they were willing to sacrifice one of it meant they’d receive some sort of special favor from the gods for all the rest. Good crop. Wealth and riches. New life for a bunch of dead criminals so you can send ’em out into the world to do your bidding. That’s what Professor Nicodemus was up to.”

“He was a necromancer,” said Zack, remembering the poster.

“That’s right. And he was the real deal. Could actually call forth the dead, have ’em float across the stage. I’ve seen it. Clara and I were on the same vaudeville bill with him.”

“You saw him call up demons from the dead?”

“At every show. He knew all the ancient rites. Carried around this big leather book. The Book of Ba’al. He figured he could run the resurrection ritual and all of the demons would come back to life beholden to him.”

He’d be the mayor of demon city, thought Zack. Pandemonium.

“Wish I’d known what he was making me say,” Kimble continued. “Clara and I thought we were auditioning for roles as his juvenile assistants.”

“He killed your sister? Burned her alive?”

“Aya. But, he forgot to vent his grill properly. Smoke billowed out all the windows. Fire trucks showed up. Police, too. I lived. Clara died. The professor was shipped off to the loony bin. The sacrifice was not completed. Moloch’s promise remained unfulfilled.”

“So you stayed here all these years to protect kids from falling into the same trap you and your sister did?”

“That’s right. I never knew when the next descendant of the high priest of Ba’al might show up, try to kill another child like my sister, Baby Clara. The best juggler in all vaudeville.”

“Juggler Girl!”

“What?”

“And your name’s Wilbur! She sent Zipper and me down to rescue you. Dropped one of her balls down the stairwell.”

“When?”

“Just now.”

“You saw Clara?”

“Sure. I’ve seen her a couple times.”

Kimble’s lips quivered. “How does she look?”

“Fine. Has on this frilly dress. Juggles all sorts of stuff. Balls. Bowling pins.”

“Is she burned?”

“What?”

“Is she scarred from the fire?”

“No. Like I said, she looks fine.”

“You promise?”

“Cross my heart!”

Kimble swiped his rough hand across his damp eyes. “What I wouldn’t give to see her face again.”

“Well, most adults can’t see ghosts…”

“It’s because I killed her. That’s why I could see that ugly ghost in the closet but not my baby sister!”

“No. It’s just how it is. Besides, you didn’t kill Clara. That psycho professor guy did.”

“But it was my fault.”

For a split second, Zack wondered if that was why he could see all sorts of spirits but not his own mother’s!

Was it his fault she was dead?

“You’ll see her,” Zack said, trying to comfort the old man.

“When?”

Zack didn’t know the answer to that one, so he made something up. “Just as soon as we stop these people from killing Meghan and Derek! Where’s the nearest phone? We need to call the police!”

“Upstairs,” said Kimble. “Stage manager’s desk in the wings backstage.”

“Let’s go!”

Kimble hauled himself up off the floor. “We need to be careful, son. Moloch is mighty!”

Yeah. So Zack had heard. In the original Latin, too.