A Penny for the Hangman (30 page)

Wulf got down to business. Ignoring the pain in his head and neck, he strained every muscle in his arms, contracting them, pulling upward along the floor. The ropes around his chest slid up the back of the chair, imperceptibly at first, then a definite few inches. He wriggled his torso forward, moving the ropes a little more. He felt the sudden, satisfying release of pressure as the top coils slid past the top of the chair and came free. Another series of jerks and slides, and only his feet were connecting him to the overturned chair.

The coils of rope were loose enough to slip over his head, even without the use of his hands. Straining to bend backward far enough to reach his left foot strapped to the chair leg, he grasped the thick duct tape in the fingers of his cuffed hands, almost crying out at the pain in his back.

He found one end of the tape and worked on it with his fingernails. The plastic cuffs made this difficult, but he persisted, constantly glancing over toward the living room door, expecting that at any moment Roddy would return to finish what he’d begun. Wulf had pulled up a flap of tape, yanking at it to unwind it, when he felt a hand clamp down on his arm.

“Shh,” a voice whispered. “Be still. Let me do that.”

He twisted his head around and looked up. Karen knelt beside him, reaching for his feet, and she was raising something up in her hand. The machete! She lowered the blade to the tape between his ankle and the chair and began a strong sawing action. In seconds, his feet were free, and she stood, reached down, and hauled him up to a standing position.

He stared at her. “Where did you come from? I—”

Karen was reaching into her pocket for something.

“Turn around,” she commanded. He did as instructed, and he heard the click and hiss of a lighter. He felt heat on his hands, and the plastic melted away, freeing him.

“What’s happening out there?” he whispered.

She still looked worried—fr
ightened, actually—but she managed a brief, wicked grin. “The barn’s on fire. I torched the storehouse and hid in the kitchen till he went running out there, screaming and cursing. Then he came toward the kitchen door—the fire extinguishers must be in there—and I got through the swinging door to the hall just in time.” She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “And here I am.”

“Good girl!” he said, moving across the room toward his bag on the table. He stuck his hand in and felt around. No weapon, just as he’d suspected; Roddy had taken it. “Come on. We’ve got to go.” He took the machete from her and started toward the door. “He must have figured out that you’re in here with me by now. I don’t know why he isn’t just coming back here with his gun—”

“He can’t,” she said. “He has to put out that fire first. There’s something in the storehouse that’s
really
important to him.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Never mind. I’ll tell you later. But we can’t just walk out there. Is there some other way out?”

He glanced at the sundeck. “Not unless you can dive a hundred feet and hit the water instead of the rocks.”

“Can we climb down?”

“It’s a sheer cliff face.”

“Upstairs? We could hide there.”

“No,” he said, moving toward the doorway again. “We’d be trapped, and he has all the weapons. Our only chance is out in the open. We’re going out the front door, and then we’ve got to move fast. Go left, toward the ridge trail, and don’t stop, whatever happens. Get to the caves.”

He was already out in the main hall, moving toward the front door. He peered through the glass beside it, but all he could see was a blur of movement over by the storehouse. He heard the whooshing of an extinguisher and the crackle of flames and Roddy’s shouted expletives. Black smoke billowed out of the building and blew across the patio. Wulf turned to the girl beside him.

She was so like her mother. He reached up to touch her cheek with his fingers, marveling at the reality of her.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Now
run
!”

He opened the door and stepped out onto the smoky patio. Peering through the haze, he saw Roddy at the entrance to the storehouse, his back to them, busy with the extinguisher. Karen passed him in the doorway, then took off toward the trees. As soon as she was gone, Wulf moved, but he didn’t follow her. Raising the machete high above his head, he turned to his right and rushed directly toward Rodney Harper.

He didn’t make it. He was closing in, aiming at his adversary’s neck, when Roddy suddenly whirled around, spraying a blast of foam directly in Wulf’s face. With a cry, Wulf crashed into the wall of the storehouse. The collision knocked him to the ground, the machete flying off to land on the patio several yards away, at the top of the stairs to the beach. He lay on his back, stunned, peering through a mask of chemical foam and the smoke that poured out of the door beside him.

Rodney stood over him, staring down, an expression of murderous anger on his heat-reddened face. He drew back his leg and kicked the side of Wulf’s head just below his left eye. The force of it pitched him over onto his stomach. Wulf scrambled to his knees, attempting to rise to his feet. A second kick knocked him down again. Wulf lay on his side, his hands clutching his stomach, the acrid taste of dry chemicals in his mouth, feeling the trickle of blood down his face, thinking, The machete. It’s over by the stairs. If I can just…make it…to the machete…

The soft click above him ended that idea. Wulf twisted into a sitting position, leaning back against the wall of the burning storehouse, his legs splayed, staring directly into the barrel of the revolver two feet in front of his face.

He thought,
Karen!

Then he shut his eyes and waited to die.

The Discs

M
ARCH 13, 2009 (CONTINUED)

I have only ever loved one person, but he was never mine. He didn’t go through with our plan. He betrayed me then, and he’s avoided me ever since. He wasn’t the outlaw hero, the partner in crime I hoped he’d be, and he must pay for that. I will exploit the legend the world has already built around us, and I will bury him in it….

Karen had just reached the edge of the clearing when she became aware of the commotion on the patio behind her. Her father suddenly cried out, and there was a thump as though he’d collided with something, followed by another sound that could only be a body falling heavily to the flagstones. Karen whirled around.

I should have known he wasn’t right behind me, she thought. He had no intention of escaping. He sent me off so he could confront that animal alone….

She moved back toward the noise. The scene before her was indistinct at first, clouded with thick billows of smoke. She crouched down at the edge of the patio, peering through the black curtain. A sudden gust dispersed the smoke, and she stared at the activity, noting two things at once.

From this distance she could see the full import of the fire she’d started as a distraction: The storehouse was ablaze, a pillar of fire bursting from its roof, and the wind was bending the flames sideways, toward the main house. But the threat of the flames was not as frightening as the other, more immediate danger.

Her father lay on the patio in front of the door to the storehouse, and it seemed he had been doused with a sack of flour. Rodney Harper towered over him, the fire extinguisher dangling from one hand. She watched in horror as her father attempted to rise and the other man reared back and kicked him viciously in the head. Karen winced at the sight and began to stand, her hand closing over a large, heavy rock beside the terrace.

She ran forward, watching as Rodney tossed the extinguisher aside and reached into a pocket of his safari jacket. Her father tried to rise again, but this time Rodney kicked him in the stomach, and he went sprawling. Karen raised the rock in her hand as she charged across the patio toward the two men. Rodney Harper stood above Wulf, uttering a high, keening sound as he yanked a gun from his pocket and pointed it straight down at the man who lay back against the storehouse wall.

Ceasing to think, Karen simply moved. She launched herself at Rodney Harper’s back, closing both hands around the big rock as she raised it up. Just as she smashed it down with all her strength on that gleaming, bald skull, the world exploded.

The noise was deafening. Karen felt the jolt in her arms as the rock struck Rodney Harper, and he cried out and dropped to his knees. A parabola of blood streaked through the air in front of her, and at first she thought it was from the wound on his head. The sound of the explosion continued, ringing in her ears, as Rodney toppled sideways to the patio, landing a few feet from where her father lay. He hadn’t even hit the ground before she finally identified the loud bang: a gunshot.

Oh God, she thought, he shot Daddy before I could—

She stopped short, staring down at her father. He was half sitting, half lying against the wall, gazing up at her, a blank expression on his bloody, powdered face. She lunged toward him, sure that he was injured, but his sudden grin stopped her. She blinked down at him as he began to pull himself up from the ground.

“I’m all right,” he said, rising to his feet.

Karen exhaled as relief flooded through her, then she remembered Rodney Harper’s gun and looked over at him. He was facedown on the flagstones, groaning. Blood was seeping from an impressive gash in the center of his skull, where she’d struck him, and now she saw that more blood was saturating the sleeve of his right arm, the one still holding the gun. Karen dropped the rock and bent down to snatch the weapon from his hand. Satisfied that he was out of commission, she straightened up and turned back to her father. She began to speak, but he was no longer looking at her; he was staring over her shoulder at something on the other side of the patio.

The sudden silence was even more dramatic than the explosion of a few moments before. It froze the very air and blotted out the crackling of the flames. Karen studied her father’s face, his expression of surprise, as she finally put the sequence of events together in her mind. The crack of gunfire had not come from his weapon but from somewhere else, somewhere on her left. Her father continued to stare past her, and the world seemed very still. Slowly, as in a dream, she turned around and followed his gaze. She gasped.

There, at the top of the stairs to the beach, stood the figure of a man silhouetted against the fog of smoke and the bright sky beyond. Legs firmly planted, both arms extended straight out in front of him, he clutched the biggest handgun Karen had ever seen. The mist around him cleared when he took a step forward. Now Karen saw that it was the captain from the boat, the man called Gabby. He lowered his weapon, secured it in a holster strapped to his belt, and reached down to pick up something that lay at his feet.

The machete.

Gabby was not looking at them; he was focused on the man lying on the patio behind them. He walked forward, raising the blade up in his right hand. Karen moved out of his way, into the waiting arms of her father, who pulled her to him as they turned to watch. Gabby walked straight past them to stand above the prostrate, moaning figure, staring down.

“Get up,” he commanded. “On your knees!”

Rodney craned his head around and squinted up at him.

“Gabby?” he whispered. “What are you doing here? Why did you—?”

In answer, the boatman kicked Rodney in his bleeding right arm.
“On your knees! Now!”

With a scream of pain, Rodney struggled to a kneeling position, blinking up at the man. Karen saw the pained expression on his face change instantly to one of pure outrage, and his voice was high and furious.

“Have you lost your mind?”
he shouted at the boatman. “You can’t speak to me that way! You just
shot
me, you filthy slave! Who the hell do you think you
are
?”

The blade came up. Karen clutched her father, riveted to the sight. As much as she wanted to, she could not look away. But instead of bringing the machete down into Rodney’s flesh, the little man froze. He glared at the man on his knees before him for a long moment. Then, with a sharp cry of despair, he flung the machete away. It clattered to the patio. He leaned down until his face was mere inches from the face of his would-be victim.

“I know who the hell I am,” he said. “And I know who the hell
you
are, Rodney Harper! Almost two years I’ve worked for you, and you never recognized me, you never even
looked
at me. I don’t have a face. I’m just Gabby Smith, the nigger with the boat.” He grabbed Rodney’s uninjured left arm and yanked him to his feet. “Look at me now, Mr. Harper. I don’t want you to ever forget my face again. Fifty years I’ve waited for this day, and here it is, at last. I knew you’d come back, and here you are. And here
I
am. My name is Gabriel Watkins.”

He glared into Rodney’s astonished face, then whirled him around, pinning his arms behind his back. Rodney shrieked in pain. Karen heard the click as handcuffs were fastened to his wrists. Gabby—Gabr
iel—removed a needle case and a black plastic object—a Taser?—from Rodney’s pockets and tossed them away, then he pulled him roughly toward the stairway. When they reached the top stair, Gabriel Watkins turned to Karen and her father.

“I saw what’s left of Mr. Price in the boathouse,” he said. “Where are the others?”

“Dead,” Wulf told him, nodding his head toward Rodney Harper. “He killed them. All of them.”

Gabby grimaced. “Just like fifty years ago, Mr. Anderman? You
are
Wulf Anderman; don’t bother to deny it. I remember you. So, he killed Mr. and Mrs. Graves and Mr. Price. And you helped him, I suppose, like you did the first time.”

Wulf shook his head. “No, Gabriel, I didn’t. Not now—and not then. I’ve never killed anyone in my life.”

Now Karen stepped forward. “It’s true, Mr. Watkins. My father is telling the truth.”

His eyes widened, and he studied her face a moment. “Your
father
? Well, wonders never cease! But as for the rest, I’ll have to think on it, decide if I believe it. Now come on, we’re getting out of here.”

Wulf pointed at the house. “My stuff is in there, my bag with my passport. I’ll just be a minute.”

Gabriel Watkins frowned. “Well, be quick about it or I’m leaving without you, and you can explain all this to the police when they get here. I wouldn’t advise that, Mr. Anderman. Move!”

Karen stared after him as he dragged his prisoner away down the stairs. Then a crash of falling timbers nearby brought her back to the moment. The storehouse continued to burn, and the main house was ablaze as well.

“Wait here,” her father said, and he ran over to the front door of the house.

The entire upper floor was on fire. The bedroom where she’d slept two nights ago was now a wall of flames. Karen gazed up at the destruction, trying to take in everything that had occurred in the last few minutes. Gabriel Watkins…

Then, from the direction of the kitchen on her left, she heard a noise that was definitely not the fire. She strained to listen above the conflagration, making sure, and then she moved. The revolver fell from her hand to the patio as she raced toward the sound.

The Discs

M
ARCH 13, 2009 (CONTINUED)

I can’t bring myself to desecrate that perfect body, so his end will be gentle, an injection that will put him to sleep. The girl will live, if only to take my diaries with her and write the story. I’ll call that Gabby creature to take her back to St. Thomas. Then I’ll lift Wulf up in my arms and carry him to his final resting place. Gabby will summon the authorities as soon as he finds her here, but it will be too late….

Wulf was standing next to the couch where his shoulder bag lay, staring down at the odd display of objects neatly laid out on the end table, when he noticed the smoke. He’d run into the house, straight to this room, glancing around the front hall and staircase as he moved. The upstairs rooms were on fire, and it wouldn’t be long before their wood floors and crossbeams gave way and the flames crashed down to this level, but he’d thought he had more time. Now the smoke in the room and the heightened noises above his head told him otherwise.

He snatched his bag up off the couch and threw the little collection into it. He recognized Roddy’s old schoolbook diary, and he assumed the camera and the pile of CDs were somehow connected to it. He’d examine it all later. He looked over at the chessboard on the table in the corner. On an impulse, he went to it, scooped the board and all the handmade chess pieces into the bag, and headed for the doorway. He was almost there when he glanced up and saw the big painting on the wall above the television.

He hadn’t noticed it before. He’d sat there, tied to a chair, facing the room throughout the chess game, and the painting had not once registered on him, so frantic had he been to get himself and his daughter out of Roddy’s trap. Now he stopped in his tracks, staring up at it. His fourteen-year-old self stood, hands on hips and head thrown back, laughing in the sunshine, too perfect to have ever been real. Giving the portrait one last, cold glance before turning away, he thought, Let the fire have it.

He’d made it out to the main hall, aiming for the open front door, when he heard his daughter cry out.

“Help! Help me!”

He froze, disoriented. Above him, the crackling sounds intensified. Karen’s voice seemed to be coming from somewhere inside the house.

“Karen!”
he shouted.
“Where are you?”

“In here!”

He turned toward the swinging door at the far end of the hallway, past the dining room. He ran, barreling through the door into the kitchen. The ceiling here was burning; any second it could collapse. But the kitchen was empty—

“Help!”

He followed the sound across the room to another doorway, a bedroom. Karen was leaning over the bed, attempting to raise a heavyset woman up from the blood-soaked mattress. Beside her, an enormous, bearded man lay dead, his face half gone from what looked to be a gunshot at close range. The woman was moaning softly, and Karen was straining from the weight. Thick black smoke was filling the room.

“Here!”
he shouted, tossing Karen his shoulder bag.
“Go, get out!”
He leaned down and picked the large woman up in his arms. One of her eyes was open in her damaged face, the other was swollen shut and blackened, and her parted lips revealed some teeth missing. Bending with the woman’s considerable weight, he followed Karen’s running figure through the kitchen and out the door to the patio. He paused there, coughing and inhaling fresh air, wincing at the huge crash right behind them as the kitchen ceiling came down.

“My bag is right over there,” Karen said. She flew across the patio to the flamboyant tree and came running back with both bags, one over each shoulder. She preceded him down the long, curved stairway to the beach. He moved as quickly as he could, but the moaning woman in his arms made it difficult. When they finally reached the bottom, he staggered through the soft sand to the pier. Gabby—Gabriel Watkins—ar
rived at the gunwale, took the woman from him in surprisingly strong arms, and carried her toward the cabin. Karen stepped down into the boat.