Drum, the Doll, and the Zombie Page 10

  "I see," said Professor Childermass slowly. "This poor man absconded with the drum, and without the drum the priests could no longer do their dirty work. That is why the revolution in St. Ives against General LeGrande has almost succeeded."

  "Has it?" asked Dr. Coote, a dark satisfaction in his voice. "Good! But I also figured out why the drum was so important. Young Devereaux had taken it just before a big ceremony, while the loa, or spirit, of the Baron of the Dead was in the drum. By the way, you told me you wondered why the vandals who ransacked my house didn't break anything. It was for a very good reason: They were afraid I had transferred this spirit into some object inside my house, and if they happened to break whatever housed the loa, then the entity would burst forth in all his uncontrolled power. By accident Fergie let just a little of that power out by beating the drum, and the result rocked your house to the foundation. Imagine what it could do if it burst out at full force—or if a genuine voudon priestess pounded out her unholy rhythm on that prehistoric drumhead!"

  Professor Childermass felt a chill, although the house was growing warmer by the minute. "Prehistoric?"

  With a bleak smile, Dr. Coote said, "I'll tell you more about that some other time. But the important thing is, I learned how to make the spirit in the drum absolutely helpless. You see, the loas have no power if they are in a river. Running water insulates them, turns them in on their evil selves."

  "You chunked it in the river?" asked the professor.

  "Not quite." Dr. Coote rose. "Come with me."

  They went to Dr. Coote's bedroom, and then into the bathroom. His toilet was the old-fashioned kind with a tank high on the wall and a lever with a chain attached that you had to pull to flush. At Dr. Coote's urging, the professor dragged a chair into the bathroom and climbed up on it. He took off the top of the toilet tank and thrust his arm inside, grimacing at the cold water. He hauled out something sealed in a waterproof oilcloth bag, something the size and shape of a large Dixie cup. "No wonder the blasted toilet wouldn't stop dribbling," muttered the professor, stepping down.

  "Of course it wouldn't," growled Dr. Coote. "I used a nail to stick a hole in the flush ball. The water has to be running, remember."

  Professor Childermass groaned. "And idiot that I am, I let Lamort stay here! It's lucky for us he never investigated this drippy tank himself."

  "It certainly is," responded Dr. Coote dryly. "On the other hand, he probably never even thought of the tank as the equivalent of a running river. After all, the drum is something that he would revere, and one doesn't think of revered objects in such unlikely places."

  The professor stood with the oilcloth package dripping in his hands. "Well, now that we have this, any suggestions? We have to save the boys, but I have a sneaky suspicion that if we turn this over to dear sweet Mama S., we're all gone gooses anyway."

  "Geese," muttered Dr. Coote, who hated to hear words misused. "We have to reach a bargain somehow, and make it so binding that not even the evil Priests of the Midnight Blood can break their word. Shall we go to see Todd Lamort now?"

  Just then the telephone rang. Professor Childermass narrowed his eyes. "No one knows we're here," he said. "But I'll bet you my own phalanges against the five chunks of bone on this drum that the person calling us right now is either Todd Lamort—or Mama Sinestra!"

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Johnny struggled to loosen the rope that tied his hands behind him. Beside him on the backseat of the cold, rusty old Ford, Fergie was writhing too. Night had fallen. Todd Lamort drove his rickety car, and in the front passenger seat sat his grandmother, the evil Mama Sinestra. All that day Johnny and Fergie had been locked in a chilly, windowless room of the ramshackle old farmhouse. They had tried to think of a way of escape, but none had come to them. Fergie discovered, however, that he could press his head against one of the walls and hear their captors talking on the other side. That was how the boys knew what lay before them tonight.

  Fergie had heard Lamort's side of a telephone conversation with Professor Childermass. From the sound of it, the boys' captors were bargaining for something that they wanted in exchange for Johnny and Fergie. They wanted the professor to bring the drum to the farmhouse, but the old man must have balked at that idea. Finally, Lamort agreed to meet Professor Childermass somewhere else. After the phone conversation was over, Fergie heard some chilling words. First, Lamort laughed in a nasty way. "The old fool chose the place where you found your servant. What an idiot he is! He really thinks we will make the exchange and then let him and those two brats go free," he had said.

  And with an ugly laugh of her own, his grandmother answered, "Then he is worse than a fool. I think perhaps tonight we will gain more good servants, eh, my grandson?"

  "High time that we killed our enemies. I would never have handled things the way you did," returned Lamort, sounding whiny and petulant. "You sent that old fool into a coma, and then you made me sit by his side day after day, just in case he talked. I would have used the power of magic to force him to talk."

  The old woman fairly snarled: "You ambitious young fool! We are in a strange place, and our powers are not at their strongest here. What good would it do to torture the old man if torture would kill him? Then where would we be? All those weeks you stayed in his house or at his bedside, and you never even came close to finding out where he hid the drum."

  "But when I get to be a priest—"

  "Silence!" snapped the old woman.

  And that was all Fergie could hear. "Whaddaya suppose the old bat meant by good servants?" asked Fergie.

  "I think she wants to—to turn us into zombies," gulped Johnny.

  Fergie looked very angry at that. "Just let the old battleaxe try!" he growled.

  That had been not long after noon. Since then, Lamort had driven away from the house, had stayed away for several hours, and had returned. At twilight he and Mama Sinestra came to tie the boys up and herd them into the icy old Ford. Hungry, frightened, and half frozen, they jounced along as Lamort drove to the meeting place. Johnny and Fergie were low in the seat, and although he could not see much, Johnny got the idea that they were heading back toward Portsmouth.

  "Where ya takin' us?" demanded Fergie.

  "Shut up," ordered Lamort, who was still in a mean, surly mood. "Grand-mère, we soon will be going through the town. Make sure these brats don't cry out."

  The old crone twisted around in her seat. She made some mystic signs in the air and chanted:

  "Magic law, lockjaw! Silence now rules!

  Freeze lungs, hold tongues, quiet these fools!"

  Fergie made an odd choking sound, and Johnny felt his tongue and jaw turn very cold, as if he had closed his mouth on a round ball of ice. He struggled to talk but couldn't. He panicked, because he had always been terrified of stepping on a rusty nail and getting tetanus, or lockjaw, and now he thought the voodoo witch had somehow given him the disease. He struggled desperately but managed only a soft squeak or two.

  "You should have done better than that," complained Lamort. "I still hear them."

  "The fair one is fighting the spell," answered the old woman. She gave an evil chuckle. "Let him struggle! The more he fights, the stronger the magic will grow!"

  That at last made Johnny try to relax. When he did, the terrible vise that clamped his mouth shut and the invisible band that tightened on his chest both eased. He realized that the spell merely kept him from crying out or screaming a warning. If he breathed slowly and regularly, he thought he might be able to whisper, so he tried to save his strength.

  At last the car stopped, but the night was so dark that Johnny could not see where they were. "We are early," Lamort said. "I'll just get things ready for our little meeting." He climbed out of the car. Johnny heard him go around back and unlock the trunk, but he did not seem to take anything out of it. In a moment Lamort had climbed back into the driver's seat. "It won't be long," he said. "Did you bring the doll?"

  "I have it here," Mama Sinestra said. "Toni
ght, if you like, we will use it to kill the old man. He was the beginning of all our troubles."

  "No, Grand-mere" Lamort said. "I gave my word that we would turn over the boys and the doll if the dear professor will give us what we want." He giggled. "Of course, I said nothing about what might happen after we make the exchange, so if you should find the doll of Dr. Coote lying around on the ground then, why, I wouldn't object if you wanted to stab a pin or two through the heart."

  Both of them laughed. Johnny's heart sank. He knew all too well that these wicked people had no intention of letting him, Fergie, the professor, or Dr. Coote live. His mind raced furiously. How could he warn the professor about what the two were plotting to do?

  After a few minutes Mama Sinestra muttered, "Eh, I will be glad to return once more to St. Ives, where it is warm all the year. This cold hurts my old bones."

  "We will be home again soon enough," responded Lamort. "And when we are, we will use your magic to kill all those foolish rebels who thought they could overthrow Papa. Then you will teach me to wield the power of the drum and be a Priest of the Midnight Blood, just like Papa."

  The old woman's voice was firm and angry as she said, "Not until you are ready, my grandson."

  Lamort burst into belligerence: "Curse you, I am ready now! I have served you for seven years already. I want to use my powers to punish those fools who have insulted and blocked me. The magic should be strong in me by now."

  The old woman snarled, "Foolish boy!"

  "How am I foolish?" he demanded. "Didn't I take care of these two meddlers? Didn't I keep watch on the old man in the hospital?"

  "Didn't you tell all sorts of idiotic lies?" taunted Mama Sinestra. "Saying you were a student, you had organized a blood drive—how easily our enemies could have checked any of those imbecilic stories! You had the luck of a fool, no?"

  "No one did check," argued Lamort stubbornly. "And I am sure that I am ready to be a priest, that I could summon a spirit just as you do."

  The old woman snorted. "Anyone can summon a spirit with the drum—but can you control it? I think not, my grandson. And if you summoned a spirit without being able to direct it, it would be better for you had you never been born."

  After a moment Lamort said sullenly, "If I controlled the drum, I would turn them all into zombies! Such peasants deserve to be punished even beyond death. And when we are the masters again, we will—"

  "Shh," said Mama Sinestra. "There is a light."

  "It must be the professor," muttered Lamort. "All right! Everyone out!"

  He got out of the car and pulled the back door open. Johnny's and Fergie's ankles were not tied, so they could stand. It took Johnny a moment to get his bearings. The car was parked on a slushy street, but no lights showed anywhere. Then a glow came from ahead. Johnny recognized the glare of headlights, and he saw silhouetted shapes. His heart thudded. They were in another cemetery, with rows and rows of headstones all around them. A nearby grave was thick with wreaths, as if the funeral had been that very day. What had Lamort said about the place where Mama Sinestra had found her first servant? Of course—this must be the graveyard where poor Mr. Dupont had been buried! Why had the professor agreed to meet the evil sorceress and her grandson in such a place?

  "Wait here," ordered Lamort as he reached in through the driver's window and turned on the Ford's headlights. They glowed a sickly yellow and showed the snow-covered hills of the cemetery. Johnny edged slowly away from the car, and silently Fergie followed him. They did not go a great distance—just a few feet. Still, they moved to a place where they could back up against a tall, spiky monument. Johnny stretched his wrists as far apart as he could and began to rub the rope binding them against the rough stone. He could hear Fergie doing the same thing. Just keep Mama Sinestra away for a couple of minutes, he thought, and we can get free.

  And then what? Johnny had no idea—he just knew that he wanted desperately to get out of his bonds and to run from the despicable old woman and her treacherous grandson. Where was she, anyway? Mama Sinestra had melted into the darkness, and Johnny could not tell where she might be lurking.

  The approaching car stopped about fifty feet away. Johnny heard doors slam, and then he saw a short figure and a tall, weedy one step into the space between the cars. His heart leaped. Although he had to lean on a cane, Dr. Coote was up and walking, and Professor Childermass was at his side. Then Johnny remembered the deadly trap that the two were walking into, and he felt a wrenching stab of despair. He heard his elderly friend's raspy, cantankerous voice: "All right, blast you, Lamort, here's your package. Turn over the boys and the doll, and you can have it."

  "Gladly," said Lamort. He turned back and said, "Come on, boys. Your gallant rescuers are here!"

  Johnny gave one last desperate rub, but he did not break through the rope. He and Fergie stumbled forward. Lamort held something up. "I will put the doll in the blond boy's jacket," he said. He unzipped Johnny's jacket and stuck the voodoo doll inside. In the light from the two cars, Johnny was able to glimpse it. The doll might have been featureless when first made, but now it was a little replica of Dr. Coote, down to the fluffy hair on the crown of his head and the horn-rimmed spectacles. "All right," said Lamort, "the boys will walk forward. You come to meet them, Professor. Place the drum on the road when you get to them. Then back up with them, but no more than ten feet. When I have the drum and have returned to my car, you may leave."

  Johnny heard Fergie straining, but all his friend could do was make desperate little mmph! noises. The freezing enchantment was still holding Johnny's tongue too, though he desperately wanted to shout a warning.

  "Very well," said Professor Childermass. "Here I come."

  "Boys," said Lamort, "go join your friends, but walk slowly."

  Johnny and Fergie walked almost in step through the slushed snow as the professor came forward to meet them. He had a bundle under his arm. When they were very close, Lamort cried out, "Stop! I want to see the drum!"

  The professor held the bundle up. It was wrapped in oilcloth. Dramatically, he unwrapped it. The hateful little drum was inside, its ebony-colored body gleaming dully in the glare of the car headlights. "There," said Professor Childermass. "Is that what you want, you snake in the grass?"

  "That is it," said Lamort. "Put down the drum, and then back away with the boys. I am coming to get our property."

  The professor carefully rewrapped the drum and set it down. "Come along, gentlemen," he said. "We're almost out of this."

  Johnny and Fergie went to join him. They backed away. Lamort came cautiously forward, picked up the drum, and retreated toward his car, unwrapping the package. He laughed in a wild, triumphant way when he held the drum in his hands. "You fools!" he shouted. "Now, Grand-mère! Release the zombie!"

  Behind Johnny Dr. Coote cried out in alarm. Professor Childermass seized Johnny's and Fergie's shoulders and spun them around so they could run for the safety of his Pontiac. Too late! A plodding, shambling figure had broken into the light from behind Dr. Coote. It stalked toward them, cutting off their escape.

  Johnny strained again at his bonds—and they snapped! He must have worn the rope almost completely through against the granite monument. With a careless swipe of its arms the zombie shoved Professor Childermass aside, and he went tumbling down. Fergie staggered away from the creature, but lost his footing and fell to his knees. Somewhere to the left a pipe played a weird tune, and the zombie's head swung blindly toward the struggling boy. The figure stooped and seized Fergie and swung him up over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Then the zombie blundered toward Johnny.

  Johnny ran, his heart exploding with terror. So that was what Mama Sinestra meant—she and Lamort would kill Dr. Coote and the professor and make zombies out of him and Fergie! Lamort stepped to intercept him, but Johnny swerved around beside the Ford. He slipped and fell, and his hands sloshed through the slushy snow as he tried to catch himself. The rope burns on his wrists suddenly stung as though he had rubbe
d alcohol into them. Alcohol or—salt!

  Salt was the one thing that could break the spell animating a zombie! What had the professor said? In New Hampshire, they threw salt all over the roads! The fresh grave meant that the cemetery drive had been sprinkled with rock salt. Johnny grabbed a double handful of slush and spun. The zombie was almost on top of him. He would have only one chance. Desperately, he threw the slushy snowball as hard as he could.

  Splat! It connected. The slush splashed across the zombie's face. It dripped from the creature's cheekbones and chin and nose. And it must have dribbled into its open mouth.

  The figure stopped. Fergie kicked himself loose and fell to the ground with a whump. As Johnny watched fearfully, the zombie's black, dead tongue came out and licked its black, dead lips. Then the blank eyes smoldered with awareness. Awareness and hatred. The zombie turned and lurched away into the darkness. "Where are you going?" shouted Lamort. "Grand-mère, what is wrong?"

  The pipes played frantically. The zombie growled, a harsh, awful, inhuman sound. From ahead of it in the dark came the terrified screams of Mama Sinestra: "No! No! Keep away, I command you! Help me! Help me! Not into the grave, I order you! No! My grandson, help me! Helllp meee. . . ."

  The screech faded to an awful wail, and then silence. Johnny staggered and gasped as an invisible fist loosened its hold on him. His frozen mouth suddenly felt hot, as if he had taken a gulp of scalding tea. "I can talk!" he said.

  "Joy of joys," growled the sopping-wet Fergie, who had staggered to his knees. "Help me up, Dixon, and get these ropes off me!"

  It had all taken just a moment. Professor Childermass had risen too, and he was stalking toward Lamort, with Dr. Coote close behind him, brandishing his cane like a club. "Now," thundered the professor, "by heaven, sir, defend yourself! I'll teach you to play such a shabby trick—"