A Penny for the Hangman (29 page)

Fifty years ago, Roddy had killed five people, and Wulf had heard of the gang fight in Raleigh that had left three men permanently disfigured, one of them blind. Two nights ago, Roddy had killed and dismembered the photographer from the
Daily News,
probably aided by this Graves character. Roddy would have to die; it was the only way to stop him. Wulf hadn’t thought further than that. He would finally become the killer the world had long thought him to be. He knew what would happen if he was apprehended.

He slipped the loaded weapon back into his bag and shut his eyes, listening to the sounds of the island. The breeze, the faraway surf, and something else: music. It took him a moment to make out the faint strains from the direction of the house, but he nodded grimly to himself when he identified it. Wagner.
Tristan und Isolde
. Wulf knew it well.

He inched forward on the ground, careful to keep himself concealed in the thick grass. He scanned the house and the patio for movement, but there was none. Everyone was inside. Karen should just be reaching the Whaler now. Wulf would time his entrance as a diversion: She’d have to pass this northern end of the island to reach Tortola. If he moved now, he could keep the house’s occupants busy while Karen slipped away.

He was halfway to his feet when the assault came. There was a rustle and a crackling sound from behind him, and then something cold touched the back of his neck. The sudden jolt of electricity through his body sent him pitching forward into the grass, and everything went black.

The Discs

M
ARCH 13, 2009 (CONTINUED)

Wulf will take the ridge route. He won’t chance a walk in plain sight across the beach and up the stairs. The girl won’t be with him—he’d never allow that. He’ll approach with caution, but I’m ready for him….

Karen clutched the machete in her right hand as she moved along the ridge path, following the route her father had taken. The hot sun bore down on her, and leaves and branches scraped against her as she passed. She slowed when she arrived at the huge flamboyant tree beside the patio, listening. Music—Wagner, of course—was coming from the living room.

She shrugged off her shoulder bag and left it beneath the tree, moving cautiously forward. She crossed the patio to the nearest corner of the house, pressing herself against the wall. There was a window a few feet to her left: the living room. Tightening her hold on the handle of the machete, she inched her way over to the opening and peered in through the glass.

There they were, at the little chess table in the corner by the glass doors to the sundeck. Rodney Harper sat with his back to her, and her father was across the table from him, facing her window. But there was no chance of Wulf seeing her here; he was slumped forward, his head hanging. Karen felt a chill of dread as she studied his still figure, but then she saw that he was bound, tied to the chair with rope around his chest, his hands apparently cuffed behind the chair’s back. His head bobbed up and down slightly. He’d been drugged or subdued in some way, but he wasn’t dead. Rodney was wearing his safari suit again. As she watched, he bent down over the table, his arms moving, and she realized that he was setting up the chess pieces on the board, preparing for a game.

Karen’s first, wild instinct was to charge into the room, shouting and brandishing the machete, but common sense prevailed. Her father was unconscious, or close to it, and therefore unable to help in the attack. And if Rodney had overpowered Wulf and tied him to a chair, it was reasonable to assume he was now in possession of Wulf’s gun, not to mention any other weapon that he might have. Storming the citadel wasn’t an option.

She was already moving, crouched down and creeping along the patio under the living room windows toward the front door. She passed it and pressed her face against the leaded glass window beside it, squinting in at the main hall and staircase and the gallery above. There was no one in this part of the house. The dining room to the left of the hall was also empty. She moved through the kitchen door and stood in the middle of the room, shivering in the sudden blast of air-conditioning, listening. She could just make out faint music through the closed swinging door to the main hall.

She turned her attention to the door at the other end of the kitchen. It was shut, and no sound came from beyond it. This was the room of Carl and Molly Graves, the only likely place for them to be. Hoping against hope that she’d be able to convince Mrs. Graves to summon help somehow, she raised the machete up in front of her and moved over to the doorway. Holding her breath, she turned the handle, pushed the door open, and stepped into the darkened room.

It took a moment for her vision to adjust, but then everything slowly materialized in all its horrific detail. A huge bed dominated the small, cramped space, and Karen could just make out the two figures lying on it. Mrs. Graves looked as if she might be asleep, but her husband was another matter. His shattered face was obscured by a mask of blood, which had trickled down onto the sheets and pillows and seeped into the mattress, soaking it.

Staring at the bodies, Karen backed slowly to the doorway. She couldn’t take in the significance of it, the reason behind this carnage. When she could will herself to move, she turned and slipped out of the room, shutting the door behind her. She made it back through the kitchen and out the door to the patio before a wave of nausea forced her to stop and take in huge gulps of fresh air. Instinct propelled her on, across the short space to the outbuilding, the storehouse that had once been the kitchen. She leaned against the wall of the structure, her fevered mind racing.

What now? she wondered. Dear God, what now?

There were only her father and Rodney Harper on this island with her. That lunatic had brought them here to enact some scheme, and only she could stop him. She would have to get Rodney Harper out of that room and make her way to Wulf herself, free him from his bonds. The two of them must get away from this place. To accomplish this, she would need—

A diversion
. Karen stood there, pressed against the rough stone wall of the storehouse, remembering its contents: an old couch and a plywood worktable, shelves of tools and cans, insecticide and paint, and those three big wooden packing crates in one corner. She reached down into the pocket of her jeans, fingering the smooth object there, the silver Zippo lighter.
S
for Superman.

She edged around to the front of the storehouse. Knowing it was necessary but regretting it just the same, she put down the machete just inside the open door. With luck, she’d be back for it soon enough. Keeping her gaze riveted to the front door and windows of the big house, she hunched down again and raced across the flagstones to the top of the stairs leading down to the beach. With another quick, furtive glance over at the windows of the living room and a silent prayer that she would have enough time, she grasped the iron rail and began the long descent to the sand, the jetty, and the last place on earth she ever wanted to enter again.

The boathouse.

The Discs

M
ARCH 13, 2009 (CONTINUED)

When I’m through with him, I’ll find the girl. She’s probably in the big cave, Tintagel. There’s no way for her to leave the island, not unless she can swim like Esther Williams. Even then, the sharks would get her long before she reached Tortola. No, I have other plans for Miss Karen Tyler….

Wulf opened his eyes and tried to focus on the image in front of his face. At first he saw only a blur—light and dark shades of brown—but then his vision cleared. He was seated in a hard chair, his hands cuffed behind him. The blur in front of his eyes was the chessboard Roddy had made with his own hands many years ago. Beside it lay a revolver.

There had been flashes of lucidity, freeze-frame moments in which he had known what was happening to him, but the frequent Taser jolts had kept him from reacting. He had been half dragged, half carried out of the bushes and across the patio, then in through the front door. He’d sensed, rather than felt, being deposited in the chair and bound, plastic at his wrists, tape on his ankles, rope around his chest. Somewhere nearby, a soprano was singing. Another jolt, and everything had blanked out again.

Instinct told him not to move yet. He sat with his head bowed over the chessboard, listening to the music and watching the hands arranging the chessmen for a game. He knew where he was, and he was thinking furiously, trying to assess his situation and plan his next course of action. He must at least create a distraction, that was a certainty. Even now, Karen could be gliding by in the Whaler, in plain view through the glass doors behind him.

Play the game, he decided. He raised his head and faced his opponent.

“Well, hello there!” Rodney Harper said.

Roddy was grinning at him. He seemed more than happy to see his old friend; he was clearly excited. His eyes burned with an ominous intensity. Wulf had seen that look before.

“Hi, Roddy,” Wulf said as casually as possible. “Long time no see.” With an effort, he met Roddy’s grin with a smile of his own, willing himself not to look down at the revolver.

“Welcome home,” Roddy said. “I’m so glad you could join me on this special occasion.”

“Yes,” Wulf replied, nodding. “Fifty years, today. You look good.” A lie—Roddy looked like an overage Jungle Jim in that ridiculous get-up.
Tristan und Isolde
had ended, but now the prelude began again. Wulf noted out of the corner of his eye that his bag was on the couch. Was his gun still in it?

Roddy beamed. “And you look wonderful, old friend. You’re as handsome as ever. I thought we’d have a game before lunch, just like old times.” He picked up two pawns, shuffled them in his hands, and then held out both fists. “Choose.”

“Left,” Wulf said, and Roddy opened his hands. He’d chosen white, so he’d have the first move. “Um, Roddy, I can’t—”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Roddy said. “Just call the moves, and I’ll do all the work.”

Wulf nodded, thinking, Lunch. He mentioned lunch, so he isn’t planning to kill me right away.

Then he thought, I haven’t played chess in fifty years. He only remembered one standard chess opening, but he took his time before calling it. When he felt that he’d stalled as long as he could, he jerked his chin toward the fourth pawn in his front rank and said, “D2 to D4.”

Roddy chuckled. “You
always
start that way.” He moved Wulf’s piece for him, and the game began.

The Discs

M
ARCH 13, 2009 (CONTINUED)

The only thing of real importance now is the final gesture. Along with the guns and the security devices, I also ordered three large packages to be delivered to me here. They’re in the storehouse….

Karen reached the bottom of the stairs and raced across the damp sand toward the little building beside the stone dock. The broken latch swung free, and she pushed the door open, bracing herself for the scene inside. She willed herself to step forward into the boathouse, keeping her gaze on the ground in front of her and away from the boat in the center of the hot, cavernous room. The sound of the generator behind the building was all but drowned out by the buzzing of a thousand flies, and the stench of decaying flesh was worse than before.

The two red plastic gasoline containers were in the far left corner, so she would have to walk past the boat. Determined not to look over at it, she kept to the left wall as she moved deeper into the darkness, swatting away the droning insects and holding her breath to keep from taking in the putrid smell. There was a single naked lightbulb hanging from a wire in the center of the high ceiling, but she wouldn’t need more than the light from the doorway for what she had to do. She stepped cautiously onward, stopping in alarm when her right shoe came down on something solid.

She uttered a little cry and stepped backward, peering down. At first she thought the soft lump must be a dead rat, and she would have to kick it out of her way and continue. But a flick of Don Price’s lighter revealed what it was: a brown leather wallet lying wide open on the floor. Don Price’s wallet, she thought. It had fallen here, unnoticed, and she could give it to his family later. As she knelt to pick it up, she saw a photo in the plastic display compartment of a smiling dark-haired young woman. The face was familiar, and Karen looked closer in the glow of the lighter. Could it be…?

Yes. The woman in the photo was her friend and colleague Gwen Levene.

A horrible suspicion prompted her to search the wallet for Don Price’s driver’s license. When she found it, she looked from the neatly typed name to his identifying photo and back again, stunned.

Singleton, Sidney J
.

Don Price, she thought. Sidney Singleton. Gwen! Oh God…

She’d process all this later, when she and Wulf were safely away from here. She thrust the wallet into a pocket of her jeans and moved on. She found the two big red containers and bent down to pick one up. It was surprisingly heavy: five gallons. The other one was half empty—or half full, if she were optimistic, which she willed herself to be. She’d make do with the half-full one. She dragged it back the way she’d come, acutely aware of the stench and the flies and the thrumming of the generator. When she reached the door, she heaved the container up in her arms and staggered across the sand to the stairs.

A sudden, shrill cry from the beach behind her almost made her drop the container. It sounded exactly like a woman’s scream. She gasped and whipped her head around, staring at the flock of gulls that swooped down over the water of the inlet. Exhaling, she clutched the plastic jug tightly to her and mounted the curved stairway. She forced herself into a rhythm, moving swiftly and silently, her legs straining against the steep ascent, and her burden seemed to gain weight with every step. By the time she made it to the top, her body was aching in protest and slick with perspiration. Panting from the exertion, she moved across the patio to the storehouse.

She placed the container on the floor beside the machete and moved around the space, taking inventory. The three crates that took up most of one side were the most promising for her purpose, so she grabbed the machete and sawed through the thick plastic tape that bound one of the two big rectangular ones. She had to use the machete as a pry to free the lid, wrenching a host of industrial staples free of their moorings. She raised the lid to expose a layer of Styrofoam packing material. She scooped the artificial popcorn aside and looked down at the huge, shiny object it had covered.

It took a moment to register with her, because it was the last thing on earth she would have expected to see. But there it was, winking in the light. The crate beside it was identical in size and shape. She tore her gaze from the sight, fixing on the second crate. In mere seconds she pried the staples out and threw the lid aside, digging through the popcorn until she exposed it. Yes, it was exactly the same. There were two of them.

Two sleek, gleaming ebony coffins.

She turned and stared at the third crate, a sense of dread rising up in her. It was flatter than the other two, wider and heavier. It couldn’t
possibly
be…

She had to know. She raised the machete and attacked it, yanking the plywood slats away, brushing aside the filler. A mountain of confetti poured down onto the floor as she stared down at the flat, black stone that now stood exposed to the weak light. She read the gilt lettering, the inscription carved into the granite. The machete slipped from her hand and fell to the ground.

Oh God, she thought. Oh dear God, help me.

Then she was moving again, throwing herself into the chore with renewed energy. These boxes were all the confirmation she needed that there wasn’t much time. She could already be too late, but she must try, anyway. Cans of paint and insecticide were piled on top of the packing material. She pushed the moldy couch out of its corner to rest against the two bigger crates and arranged everything else around the third crate. That flat box would be her centerpiece. It must be destroyed,
completely
destroyed….

Sweat was pouring from her, and it was hard to breathe in the hot, crowded space. She used her blouse to wipe her face, then picked up the red plastic container. She poured, soaking the entire pile until the fumes threatened to knock her out, until it was empty. She threw it on the heap, grabbed an old cotton rag from a shelf in the disused brick oven, and stumbled over to the doorway.

She peered out at the house across the patio, at the living room windows. Please, she thought, let them still be playing chess. She turned around to face the crowded room, reaching down into her pocket for the lighter.
S
for Superman.

S
for Sidney Singleton.

As the rag ignited, she stared at the three crates, wondering what that monster could possibly be thinking.

The Discs

M
ARCH 13, 2009 (CONTINUED)

Wulf won’t be in any position to refuse me one final chess game. And I’ll win, as usual….

“Checkmate!” Roddy announced.

Wulf stared down at his toppled king, thinking the game had been too short; it had lasted barely twenty minutes.

“Sorry I wasn’t much of a challenge,” he said. “The last time I played, it was with you, here. But you’ve expanded the place since then.” He jerked his head toward the sundeck behind him. “That’s new. And you put glass in the windows.”

Roddy smiled indulgently. “Yes, for air-conditioning.”

“Hey,” Wulf said as though the thought had just occurred to him, “how about showing me around? I’d like to see what else you’ve done here.”

Another indulgent smile. “Sorry, Wulfie, but that would mean untying you.”

“Well, why not?” Wulf asked, and he even managed a light laugh. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

Roddy nodded. “True. But you might try to hurt me. You’re mad at me because of
her
. Where is Miss Tyler, Wulf?”

Wulf stared at him.
Think!
he commanded himself. Then he had an idea. “She fell in the storm, over by the caves. She broke her leg, so I put her in the big cave, Tintagel, and left her there.”

Roddy’s wistful smile vanished, replaced by a sly one. “You know, Wulfie, you always were a terrible liar!”

Wulf strained against his bonds, trying to loosen them. He stared across the table at the bald man in the safari suit, the lunatic with the terrible gleam in his blue eyes.

“Sorry, Wulfie,” Roddy said. “Carl and his wife won’t hear you if you shout. And Miss Tyler is not going anywhere. I set the Whaler adrift this morning. I’ll find her after I’m finished here. Oh, the fun I’m going to have—with
both
of you!”

Wulf lurched in his chair, but the ropes held him tightly. Roddy stood up from the table. He went over to the shelves and switched off the music. As he came back across the room, he reached into a pocket of his safari jacket and pulled out a clear plastic case. Opening it, he extracted a hypodermic syringe filled with amber liquid. He was no longer smiling.

“I’m afraid I lied about lunch,” he said. “I just wanted to play one last game of chess with you, for
auld lang syne
. But this is the end of the line, old friend. Fifty years ago today, you betrayed me. Twenty-eight years ago today, I wrote you a letter exposing my heart, my most private feelings. You never responded. You took up with that woman—a receptionist, for God’s sake, a servant girl!—and you got a whelp out of her, a pretty, clever bitch named Karen. And in all these years, you’ve never once apologized to me for your cowardice, for your silence, for your betrayal, but most of all for not loving me. You condemned me to a lonely life, and today I will repay you, with interest. I condemn you to death, Wulf Anderman, and then I’m going to find that bitch and do to her what I did to my father.” He came nearer, holding out the needle. “Do you wish to beg for your life? Or, perhaps, your daughter’s life?”

Wulf stared down at the syringe; then he looked up into the cold blue eyes of the man looming above him.

“Go to hell!” he said.

“In due time,” Roddy replied. “But first…” He reached out with his free hand to grasp Wulf’s chin, leaned down, and kissed him roughly on the lips. Then he lowered the hand and clamped it around Wulf’s left arm. The needle moved closer. With a last, massive effort, Wulf strained against the rope, jerking sideways, away from his captor. The chair toppled over, and he fell sideways, smashing the side of his head against the floor. He lay on his side, dazed and in pain, aware that Roddy was now kneeling beside him, grasping his arm again.

Then the sounds reached them. For a frozen second, they both paused, listening. Wulf was aware of Roddy letting go of his arm and rising to his feet. They heard several small explosions, one after another, coming from somewhere outside. Through the front window, Wulf saw wisps of smoke. Then the unmistakable scent arrived in the living room, filling it. Something was burning.

Roddy put the syringe back into its case and shoved it into his pocket, then picked up the revolver and ran to the door. Wulf lay on his side, listening as the running footsteps receded across the main hall, followed by the sound of the front door being opened. The ensuing shriek that Wulf heard was loud, even at this distance: a sharp, involuntary cry of rage. The door slammed shut, and the footsteps faded away.