A Penny for the Hangman (8 page)

“Are we going far?” she asked the man beside her.

He smiled through his thick black beard.

“You’ll see,” he said again.

Rodney Harper’s Diary

J
UNE 5, 1958 (CONTINUED)

Wulf. Sometimes I watch him, his head bowed over the board in concentration, and I wonder at how handsome he is. Nobody should be that beautiful. He is my best friend, my only friend, and when we’re here in the Secret Place it seems as if we’re the only people in the world. He likes it here as much as I do, and for the same reason: It is a sanctuary, a respite from his dad the PERVERT and his mom the SLUT and all the STUPID kids and A-HOLE teachers in school. We are here, away from them all, because only we are worthy. We deserve each other, and no one else deserves us.

He’s going to love The Plan.

Sidney Singleton looked around at the landscape from the backseat of the Land Rover as they headed toward the east end of the island. Karen was in front beside Mr. Graves, who’d barely said a word since they’d left the hotel. The car glided along the hilly tropical roads, and Sid could almost hear Karen thinking, arranging the pending interview in her journalist’s mind.

Now that he’d seen Karen Tyler up close, spoken with her, he revised his opinion of her. It surprised him that this woman had chosen journalism of all professions, because she wasn’t the type. Oh, she was bright enough, but she was so disconcert
ingly sexy. Women like Gwen were one thing, but a woman like Karen Tyler was a
catch
.

Sid prided himself on his sexual prowess, and this one was a definite babe. Off limits, of course, as long as Gwen was still useful, with her connections and occasional financial largesse. Karen would inform Gwen the moment she learned that he was really—

He paused here, studying the back of the head of the woman in the seat in front of him. At some point in the near future Karen would see his article and realize who he was and what he’d done. That would be the end of Gwen Levene, Sidney Singleton’s well-placed meal ticket. He considered this for about ten seconds, then dismissed it as unimportant.

He indulged himself in his favorite daydream. After this little adventure, he wouldn’t need anyone else’s contacts, to say nothing of their spare change. This meeting with one of the actual legends of American crime would put him on the map for good! There’d be a book, of course, with his own photos from today’s shoot:
The Killer Beside Me
by Sidney Singleton. He’d get an agent, and the agent would hold an auction. All the big publishing houses would kill to get their hands on it.

It was a long trip, longer than he’d expected. He thought they’d go into Charlotte Amalie or, barring that, up a steep road into the hills above it. But at the top of the rise near the hotel, the Land Rover had turned right, moving through hills and valleys, past a private school and several resort hotels into the countryside. Another turnoff, another long stretch of road, and they arrived at American Yacht Harbor, a sprawling complex of docks, stores, and businesses that took up a sizable portion of Red Hook in the eastern end of the island.

“What’s this?” Karen asked.

Mr. Graves chuckled as he parked the Rover in the lot. “You’ll see.”

Karen glanced at Sid as they got out of the car, and he shrugged.
No big deal,
he tried to convey to her as they followed Graves into the complex at the water’s edge. Graves forged ahead, and Karen and Sid hurried to keep up with him. They passed through a series of buildings and patios, new shops and restaurants tarted up to look like an old West Indian village in a plastic, Disney sort of way that was clearly intended to make the tourists swoon with delight, toward the docks beyond them.

The place was bustling with people—boat people, Sid noted, most of them Caucasian, tanned, and probably island residents, judging from their casual attire and laid-back attitude. Many of these sailor types smiled and nodded a greeting at the little party as they passed. Sid was just beginning to wonder if their destination was one of the yachts that surrounded them—if, perhaps, the mystery man actually lived on one of them—when Mr. Graves abruptly stopped beside a berth that didn’t house a yacht at all but something far less impressive.

The medium-size Chris-Craft was considerably smaller than nearly everything else around here—a classic cabin cruiser from the ’60s or ’70s, old and sun-faded, incongruous in the glittering array. It had an inboard diesel motor, a small, windshielded bridge for the pilot, a hatchway leading down to a cabin, a plastic-cushioned bench at the stern, and two swivel chairs riveted to the center of the wood deck, the high chairs used by sport fishermen. A Boston Whaler trailing at the stern served as a dinghy.

He and Karen Tyler came to a halt beside the craft, and she looked expectantly at their large escort. Mr. Graves smiled at them, turned, and called, “Ahoy, the
Turnabout
!”

The small native man did not arrive from the boat; he simply materialized on the dock beside them. He was as little as Mr. Graves was big. He was very dark—nearly the gorgeous bluish-ebony of true Africans—with close-cropped gray hair and beard, and his face was deeply lined. Weathered, Sid thought. This man is a sailor of long standing. He wore a gray T-shirt, jean shorts, and gum-soled boat shoes, all of which were as old and faded as the boat and the man himself. He was probably in his fifties, but he gave the impression of being an ancient salt with all the wisdom of the sea.

“Ah, there you are,” Mr. Graves said. “And here we are. Karen Tyler, Don Price, this is Gabby.”

The man didn’t speak but looked briefly at them and nodded once. He stepped onto the
Turnabout
and reached out a hand to Karen, holding her arm in firm support as she followed him.

“A boat?” Karen said as she arrived on the deck. “Where on earth—?”

Sid thought this was turning into something of an adventure. He reminded himself to remain nonchalant—as an ostensible resident of St. Thomas, he’d be used to the ubiquity of water transports. Still, he could barely suppress his enthusiasm.

“Cool!” he murmured, cutting off Karen’s question as the silent man named Gabby manned the controls. With a low hum and a soothing vibration, the craft came to life. Mr. Graves untied them fore and aft, tossing the lines onto the decks before stepping on to join them. He took one of the fishing chairs, and his guests sat on the cushioned bench. Now Karen Tyler turned to look at Sid.

“What do you suppose this is all about?” she asked him.

He grinned. “Welcome to the Islands!”

After a moment, Karen nodded and relaxed beside him on the bench. The Chris-Craft glided smoothly away from the dock, maneuvered effortlessly between the yachts in the marina, and headed out into the sea, toward the eastern horizon. As they picked up speed, the cool wind arrived on his face, and Sid looked up into the early afternoon sky, noticing for the first time the dark clouds that had begun to gather there.

Rodney Harper’s Diary

J
UNE 14, 1958

Today was Toby’s high school graduation. Crown Prince Toby, beloved son of King Tobias and Queen Lucinda. The ceremony went on forever, speeches and photographs and flying mortarboards. Throughout the ordeal, I thought about The Plan.

I haven’t decided on a date yet, but it’ll probably be early next year, when Toby’s away at college. Toby doesn’t usually notice me, but he always seems to know when I’m “up to something,” as he says. I think it will be best to do it when he’s not around. I wouldn’t mind adding him to my list, but he might try to stop me if he figured out what I was planning.

I can just imagine Toby’s rotting head impaled on a spike on the battlements of my castle, his mangled body sprawled beneath it, carrion, a meal for the crows. Now, there’s a beautiful picture!

Karen looked out over the ocean, then up at the sky. Dark clouds were rolling in, obscuring the sun, turning the choppy sea a deep blue-gray color. The breeze was cooler than before, moist, almost chilly, and the seagulls that passed by in intermittent flocks seemed anxious, intent on reaching shelter before the inevitable rain arrived, calling out in alarm as they hurried toward the big island behind her.

Looking back over her shoulder, she was surprised to see just how far away St. Thomas already was. It seemed only minutes since they’d left the yacht harbor for the open sea, but the marina had disappeared. All she saw of St. Thomas now was a distant faint smudge of green beyond the long white wake of the boat, and even that was vanishing as she watched.

On the seat beside her, Don Price was straining around to see everything, and now and then he took a photo of the birds. He lit a cigarette with a silver Zippo lighter—no mean feat in the strong breeze—and Karen noticed that even on this overcast day his pale skin was taking on a bright pink hue. She thought again that he must spend an awful lot of time in darkrooms. He caught her looking his way and grinned.

“Sorry, I should have asked,” he called, holding up the cigarette and fairly shouting over the roar of the engine beneath the bench. “Do you mind?”

“No, not at all.”

“Would you like one?”

“No, thanks, I don’t smoke.” She pointed to the embossed red monogram on the lighter in his other hand. “What does the
S
stand for?”

He followed her gaze, then shrugged and returned the lighter to his shirt pocket. “Superman!”

Karen laughed.

“Actually, I kind of found it,” he went on quickly, “at the newspaper office. I don’t know whose it was, and no one ever claimed it, so…” With another grin, he lapsed into silence and turned back to the view.

She looked at her watch: 1:20. They’d been on the
Turnabout
for more than half an hour now. They’d passed St. John on their right—star
board?—side and one or two smaller islands. She scanned the water ahead, but so far there was nothing in sight. Where could her contact possibly live? Not St. Thomas, obviously, but how far from it? The other two men aboard were clearly unconcerned; they knew the boat’s destination. Mr. Graves was relaxed in his fishing chair, apparently dozing, and the quiet man named Gabby stood at the wheel, his back to her, steering them onward.

She noticed a rather tattered, faded photograph taped to the dash beside the wheel. Gabby and a pretty, friendly-looking native woman about his age were seated on a couch, flanked by two young couples. One of the young women held an infant, and three children sat on the floor in front of the group. Everyone grinned into the camera with the wide, unaffected smiles Karen had already noted in the hotel and Market Square yesterday, the smile of the Islands. The family portrait was charming, a gentle reminder of the real world back on shore.

The import of their journey away from the American Virgin Islands occurred to her then, and she knew beyond any doubt that her pending interview was with one of the two boys. She was about to meet Harper or Anderman, face-to-face. Mr. Graves knew that, which explained his air of mystery, his reiterated “You’ll see,” the standard line he used to answer every question.

Jim would like this sort of adventure, she thought, and she wondered what he was doing now. Writing, probably. It was almost twelve-thirty in New York City, and he was always at his computer at this time. Soon he’d stop for lunch, and then he’d write some more. He was going to a movie with a couple of friends this evening; he’d mentioned that on the phone last night. He’d told her he missed her, and she’d promised to call him tonight with all the news about the interview.

The idea of Jim eating lunch reminded her that she was hungry. She’d only had half a grapefruit at the Reef this morning, forgoing a full meal in favor of an early swim at Morning Star Beach below the hotel. She didn’t regret the choice, but she hoped her host had food waiting when they arrived…where? Where the hell were they going? Even as she thought this, she felt a tap on her arm. She turned to find Don Price grinning at her.

“Land, ho!” he cried, pointing.

She couldn’t see the view ahead from where she was, so she rose from the bench and made her unsteady way forward, holding on to chairs and rails as she moved. She stood on the narrow passage beside the bridge and peered out. At first she didn’t see anything but ocean and sky, but then she noticed a hazy green shape at the horizon. The Chris-Craft headed toward it, rising up on swells and sinking down again as the sea became choppier. Karen turned to look back at Mr. Graves.