And keep the change. Understand?”
“You’re letting me go?”
“Mr Kristoff was wrong to bring you here.”
Eleanor glanced at Kristoff, who stood behind Hayes. He was clearly angry but also powerless. The old man really was his boss. Eleanor hesitantly took the hundred-dollar bill and strode towards the door. Behind her, she heard Kristoff whisper to Hayes: “You’re making a mistake. We should get rid of her. Permanently. I know a place under the Bay Bridge where we can dispose of the body—”
“Enough. Make yourself useful and bring me more candles—”
“I’m not your servant—”
“You are in my home and you will follow my rules.”
Eleanor paused as she approached the door, catching sight of something above. She turned slowly, so Hayes and Kristoff wouldn’t notice—
And saw Brendan staring down at her.
He was upstairs, on the balcony, next to Will!
Have they been up there the whole time?
Eleanor had to get to them.
Two sets of doors stood in front of her: one that led out of the great hall and one that led to the street. She went through the first set and opened the second, so it would sound like she was leaving … but then she dashed left, climbing the stairs to the balcony. She squeezed her eyes shut as she passed a pedestal holding a glass-encased stuffed falcon with huge, sharp claws. She had to get past all the scary stuff in this place. She had to get to Brendan and Will. And there they were! So close …
Control yourself, stay steady, no sudden movements, she thought, but it was all she could do not to cry out as she fell into them.
Their three-way hug was as strong as it was silent. It had only been a few hours since Eleanor had finished her riding lesson with Crow, but she thought she was never going to see her family again, and knowing that Bren and Will had come reminded her: Sometimes your siblings annoy you, but sometimes they save your life.
Then, all of a sudden, the lights in the Bohemian Club went out.
Eleanor, Brendan and Will turned to the great room below, where there was a faint glow.
The white candles on the long table were arranged in a figure of eight stretching from one end to the other. Hayes and Kristoff stood at the centre of the table. Beside them was an ancient record player, equipped with a rusted wind-up crank and a large metal horn. Next to it was the wooden board that Hayes had brought to the table before. Brendan and Eleanor didn’t recognise it, but Will knew it was a planchette, a board used for “automatic writing”. A pencil was stuck through its middle, and the idea was that if a spirit contacted you during a séance, you placed your hand on the board and allowed the spirit to guide you, spelling out the words it wanted to say automatically on paper below. Planchettes were forerunners to the Ouija board, which Will knew since the whole idea of speaking with spirits was very popular in his time.
Hayes put a black vinyl record on the record player, dropped the needle and turned the crank. A squeaky, wince-inducing sound filled the room. Brendan, Eleanor and Will held their breath.
The record player let out a loud crack, and then staccato pops, signalling that music could start at any moment.
But the sound that followed wasn’t music.
It was a heartbeat – but very, very slow, as if a human heart had been slowed by a factor of fifty. It sounded like a cross between interstellar static and a giant’s footsteps. Fat Jagger’s footsteps! Eleanor thought, suddenly missing the brave and simple-minded colossus the Walkers had met in their last adventure. If only Fat Jagger were here, he would get us out of this. He was my friend.
As the slowed-down heartbeat played, a mist came out of nowhere – like the water on our car in the morning, thought Eleanor. It filled the room, from the air around Eleanor’s fingers to the space between the portraits of the old Bohemian Club members. And as it drifted around the room, the heartbeat began to get faster, just a tiny bit. Hayes and Kristoff started chanting.
“Diablo tan-tun-ka.” “Diablo tan-tun-ka.”
They reached for each other across the table. Their fingertips were just able to touch. They moved their arms back and forth in a fluid ellipse, almost as if they were dancing.
“Diablo tan-tun-ka.” “Diablo tan-tun-ka.”
The heartbeat got faster, like the heart of someone who had just run a marathon. And it wasn’t stopping. It galloped ahead, quicker and quicker, as the light from the candles began to change.
“Diablo tan-TUN-ka!” “Diablo tan-TUN-ka!”
The candles were blood-red. The mist became red too, looking as if it had soaked up the spray of a battlefield. Eleanor heard a scratching sound and turned – that stuffed falcon she had noticed? It was alive! Scraping its talons against the glass that trapped it, twitching its eyes—
Eleanor screamed, but Brendan covered her mouth. Will elbowed Brendan and Eleanor, pointing to the wall behind them. Two swords mounted there were twisting back and forth, like scissors. Drops of blood beaded up on the metal to plop fatly on the floor.
“Spirits of our brothers!” called Hayes. “We summon you!”
“Diablo tan-TUN-ka!” Kristoff said. “Diablo tan-TUN-ka!”
“We wish to speak to one departed! We seek … Dahlia Kristoff!”
A great groan came from the ceiling, and when Brendan, Eleanor and Will looked up, they couldn’t believe what they were seeing.
The Bohemian Club portraits were coming alive. Teddy Roosevelt, Richard Nixon and several other stern-looking men were moving, moaning and rolling their jaws, as if to test that their mouths still worked.
“Brothers, help us!” Hayes implored from the table below. The red candles flickered around him. The cloud of mist above obscured the portraits – until Richard Nixon leaned out of his frame, puffed out his cheeks, and blew down a gust of air.
The mist drifted to the sides of the room. Hayes and Kristoff looked up at portraits that now twitched and harrumphed in their frames. Along with Roosevelt and Nixon, with their names engraved in gold in each frame, were nineteenth-century satirist Ambrose Bierce; National Review founder William F. Buckley Jr; President Dwight D. Eisenhower; Joseph Coors of the Coors Brewing Company; Mark Twain; Call of the Wild author
