Miss Eells grinned. "Do you mean, dear brother Em," she said in a mocking tone, "that I can actually be of
some
small use to you?"
Emerson took off his wristwatch and wound it busily. "Of course," he said in a low voice, without looking up. "We've always done things together. But perhaps maybe to start with we could, uh, well... carry out the first part of my plan the way I've outlined it?" Emerson paused and glanced questioningly at his sister. "Okay?"
"I'll think about it," said Miss Eells, and she bit her lip to keep from laughing.
And so it was arranged. The three of them would meet on Saturday, the first of December, to implement step one in Emerson's plan. Anthony also wanted to help the demolition squad later, but he didn't have the power to change Emerson's mind. To make Anthony feel better, Emerson told him how smart he was for making the copy of old Mr. Borkman's journal and added that it was likely to be useful in their fight against Anders Borkman's evil plans.
"After all," he said, "if Borkman stole the journal back from you—and it looks very much as if that is what happened—then it must be important to him. As far as I'm concerned, most of it is gibberish, and we've deciphered the important information already. But maybe if we study it carefully, it will yield some more meaning."
After some additional planning Anthony, Miss Eells, and Emerson went back to the parlor and played
Scrabble for a while. Amid the good-natured post-game bickering between Miss Eells and her brother, Anthony noticed that it was way past ten o'clock. His mother always got upset when he stayed out late, and he did not want her to start calling around to locate him. So he said his good-byes hurriedly and left.
As Anthony disappeared down the walk the other two stood in the doorway and watched him go. Miss Eells looked worried.
"Do you think it was wise to include Anthony in this thing?" she said, turning to Emerson. "What if something goes wrong?"
Emerson smiled and blew a stream of pipe smoke into the chilly night air. "I haven't miscalculated," he said coolly. "We're not going to be at the estate very long, and it'll be during the day, when the power of those evil stones is at its weakest. We'll be in and out of there before Borkman knows what hit him."
Saturday the first of December was a cold, windy day. Anthony woke up feeling anxious, like a soldier who has just been told that he is going to be parachuting into enemy territory. For days he had been brooding about Anders Borkman and the evil ring of stones. Sometimes the whole situation seemed completely unbelievable. Could that nasty, cold-blooded man really control the weather? A year ago Anthony would have said that the idea was just too fantastic. But he had seen a lot of strange things lately, and Emerson had made him realize that Borkman's statues were as dangerous—in their way—as atomic bombs. But even though Anthony was pretty scared, in the midst of his fear he knew an expert was on his side. Emerson Eells had studied magic, and he
would use his knowledge to take care of Mr. Borkman and his crazy plans.
Anthony whiled away the morning. He rode down to the A&P with his dad and helped him bring the groceries home. Then he went out to the garage and watched his brother, Keith, tinker with a car. But while Keith tried to explain to Anthony about pistons and cylinder heads and camshafts Anthony's mind was elsewhere. He was thinking about three o'clock that afternoon and the four grim stone statues.
At a little after two Anthony went into the house and told his mother that he was going over to the high school athletic field to play touch football with some friends. Then he put on his red leather cap and his winter coat and headed off to begin his secret mission.
Number
611
Pine Street, the home of Miss Eells, was the first stop. When he got there, he saw a gray truck parked in the driveway next to the house; it had a blue gas flame in a yellow halo and the words HOOSAC GAS CO. painted on the side. Next to the truck stood Emerson Eells, wearing gray coveralls and a peaked cap with the gas company emblem on the front. He was smoking a cigarette and trying to look nonchalant. Anthony thought Miss Eells was right: Emerson did not look like a gas man. He seemed too... well, too intellectual. Perhaps Borkman would think that Emerson was an out-of-work professor who had to take a job with the gas company to make a living.
The front door of the house opened, and Miss Eells
stepped out, looking like she was ready to go for a hike in the woods. She wore a heavy brown tweed sweater, padded blue winter jacket, sensible brown oxfords, and white sweat socks. Anthony wondered what was in the big green bulging patent leather purse she was carrying.
Emerson spotted the purse too and immediately grew alarmed. "What the dickens have you got there? Are you taking penny rolls to the bank?"
"It's Grampa's old Colt forty-four dragoon pistol," she said, pulling it halfway out of her purse. "It doesn't have any bullets, but it looks impressive."
Emerson made a great effort to control himself. "My dear sister," he said in a tight, strained voice, "we are not going to the Battle of Antietam. We are taking part in a quick, smooth undercover operation. Please dump that piece of antique artillery in the house and come along! We're behind schedule—I told Borkman that I was coming to read his meter at three."
Miss Eells glanced disconsolately at the handbag. Then she disappeared into the house. When she came back, she was carrying a battered old field hockey stick.
"Can I take this? It'll make me feel better if I've got
something
to defend myself with."
Emerson covered his face with his hand. "Oh, all
right!
Jump in the back of the truck and let's get
moving!"
Out into the country they drove, past the Rolling Stone library and down into a hollow overhung by bare, wintry trees. After about ten minutes they saw a high
stone wall topped with spikes. In a few places the old wall had collapsed, but it had been repaired and reinforced by a shiny, new chain-link fence topped by three strands of barbed wire. Finally the truck rounded a curve, and Anthony saw the main entrance of the estate with its grim-looking gatehouse, boarded windows, and two stone gateposts. The gate was new, made of tubular steel and chain links, and a heavy steel lock held its two sections together.
"Looks friendly, doesn't it?" said Emerson as he stopped the truck in front of the gate.
Anthony and Miss Eells were crouching behind the front seat so they couldn't be seen from outside.
"What's going on, Em?" whispered Miss Eells hoarsely. "Are there guards or machine-gun nests? I can't see a blasted thing down here!"
"There aren't any guards," said Emerson calmly. "The whole place is remote-controlled. There's a squawk box on one of the gateposts that you can yell into, and if Borkman wants you in, he just pushes a button and the gates swing open. Simple, eh? Now you just wait here while I go talk to our friend."
Miss Eells spoke again, and she sounded worried. "Em? I have a bad feeling about all this. I think we ought to turn around and skedaddle back home while we have the chance."
Emerson snorted. "Oh, piffle, Myra! There are no guards on the estate—I think Borkman is too cheap to hire any—and I've asked that that stupid dog be chained
up while I'm there. Put all your worries out of your mind! Remember I wouldn't have led you two up here if I thought there was any real chance you'd get hurt. So stop fussing!"
Emerson got out of the truck, walked toward the gates, and spoke into the box. Sure enough, there was a loud
bzzzz-click!,
and then the gates swung open. With a jaunty, cocksure smile on his face Emerson got back into the truck and slammed the door.
"See?" he said as he started the engine. "No problems."
Miss Eells made no reply, but in the darkness she reached out and squeezed Anthony's hand.
"Good luck, kid," she whispered.
They heard the gates swing behind them with a loud crash as they drove on. Then Emerson put on the brakes again.
"Okay, everybody!" he said brusquely. "Out you go! The tennis court is off to the left, and the grove with the statues is beyond it. Just do what I've asked—nothing else. I'll come back pretty soon and give a little beep on the horn. Be there when I honk."
Anthony and Miss Eells clambered out of the back of the truck, pushed the doors shut, and the truck sped away in a cloud of exhaust smoke. Anthony stood blinking in the bright sunlight. Then he turned and looked at Miss Eells, and he almost laughed. She was holding the hockey stick upright like a shepherd's crook. It made her look like an elderly lady impersonating Bo-Peep or the world's oldest field hockey goalie.
"Laugh now," said Miss Eells, brandishing the stick. "We may need this dumb thing before today is over with." She straightened her glasses on her nose and marched off across the matted, frosty grass with Anthony following behind her.
They paused to look at the ruined tennis court. The concrete playing surface was cracked and pitted, and the wire fence that surrounded it was rusted and full of holes. The little building at one end had once had a red tile roof, but now half the tiles lay in broken, crumbling heaps on the ground.
Miss Eells sighed and looked around. "This place is certainly a mess, isn't it? Did I ever tell you that I was Singles Tennis Champion of my class at Bryn Mawr in
1906?
Well, I was. But time's a-wasting! We'd better go have a look at those ghastly statues."
Anthony and Miss Eells tramped on, past the tennis court and over a patch of weedy ground. Dead thistles hovered on tall stalks all around them, and the yellow grass felt spongy under their feet. Straight ahead was the cedar grove. It looked forbidding, a mass of inky green shadows under the pale, wintry sun. When they got to the grove, Miss Eells and Anthony found that there was no path leading to the open space in the middle, so they had to shove their way through the dark, perfumy boughs, which kept slapping them in the face and scratching at their arms and legs. As they battled their way through, the boughs resisted, as if they possessed their own hostile will. Anthony felt fear rising
inside him, but he fought the panic down and struggled on. By the time he had reached the inner circle he was weak and gasping for breath.
There before them were the four dark, rugged stones, looking every bit as sinister as they had in the garage. The eerie, staring faces and clawlike, groping hands gave the odd feeling that they were... well, somehow
alive.
It would not have surprised Anthony if those four masses of stone suddenly turned into pillars of smoke and spewed forth monstrous, fearful shapes. Anthony was glad he was not going to be here when Emerson and Miss Eells came at night to destroy them.
Anthony looked at Miss Eells, and she glanced quickly back at him. Her face was red, and her hair was mussed, but she was trying hard not to act nervous or frightened.
"Well, now," said Miss Eells, forcing her mouth into a businesslike frown. "We'd better get moving, because we don't have a lot of time. Let's find those holes, then hotfoot it back to the tennis court and wait for Emerson to show up." And with that she put down the hockey stick, stepped forward, and started to examine one of the stones. Cautiously she put out her hand to touch the rough granite surface.
"Ow!" she yelled, jerking her hand back. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she sucked at her fingertips. "Ow, ow, ow! That is
hot,
Anthony. Be careful!"
Anthony was startled. How could the stones be that hot? The sun hung low in the sky, and it was a cold December afternoon. Then Anthony realized that he
was sweating. The air inside this circle of trees was stuffy and humid.
"Lucky I brought some gloves," said Miss Eells in a tight, strained voice. She unzipped a side pocket of her jacket and pulled out two dirt-caked gardening gloves. She put them on and grimly stepped forward again. Anthony hadn't brought any gloves—he'd have to do his investigating without touching the stones.
Slowly Anthony's eyes traveled up and down the surface of one of the stone pillars. A gaping skull mask glared down at him, and he flinched as his eyes met this cold, inhuman stare. He shuffled to one side and went on examining the stone. Ah! There it was! A round spot about the size of a penny. Clever old Emerson Eells was right again!
"I found one, Miss Eells!" Anthony called, pointing triumphantly.
Miss Eells smiled and nodded. "Great! Mark the place with chalk and keep hunting. I haven't found any yet, but they may be cleverly—Hah! There's mine! Okay, we're really doing great!" Excitedly she fumbled in another pocket and came up with a squarish lump of white chalk. She marked the plugged hole with a small X and moved on to the next stone.
It took Anthony and Miss Eells only about twenty minutes to locate all four holes. But by the time they were finished they felt as if they had been in this evil, airless place for hours. Anthony found that he was beginning to imagine things... at least he hoped that he
was imagining them. He kept thinking that the carvings on the stones were
moving.
When he looked one way, he would see—out of the corner of his eye—something shifting, just a bit, on one of the other pillars. And more than ever now he found that he was having trouble breathing. It was getting harder and harder to fight down the panic. He wanted to leave; he wanted to leave now.
"Come on, Miss Eells!" said Anthony, grabbing his friend by the arm. "We've marked all the holes, so let's just..." Anthony's voice trailed away. He saw, to his horror, that Miss Eells was just standing there with a glazed look on her face and her arms hanging limp at her sides.