Secrets of the Hanged Man (Icarus Fell #3) (An Icarus Fell Novel)

by Blake, Bruce

  “Don’t have to be a detective to figure it out,” Williams said with a humorless laugh. “The rats did.”

  He stepped aside and Dodd got his first clear view of the dead man. He might have started off leaning against the wall, but he’d fallen over onto a pile of plastic garbage bags. Blood covered his face, soaked the front of his shirt and pooled in the folds of the green sacks; a puddle of puke lay on the ground near his mouth.

  His tongue poked through the ragged hole chewed in his throat by the alley’s hungry rats.

  “Jesus Christ,” Dodd said and ran his fingers through his hair.

  Chapter Two

  Ben Trounce sat on the bench at the bus stop, the world passing him by unnoticed. People came and went, buses growled to a stop, air brakes popping, then pulled away again, leaving him alone.

  Alone.

  A word with an ominous, foreboding connotation. He stared at the cell phone gripped too tight in his right hand, but saw it no more than he saw the people, the buses, the cars. Her words consumed him.

  She was having an affair: he knew it, she knew he knew it. The fact followed them everywhere, stalking them. It forced their conversations into talk of weather and work surrounded by uncomfortable silence, it lay between them in their bed like an ugly child neither of them dared acknowledge. But they lived on with it, ignoring it and pretending it didn’t exist.

  Until now.

  She’d called half-an-hour before saying she needed to talk. Nothing unusual in what she said, but her tone caused the knot in his throat, the twisting of his gut. The way her words formed—hesitant, halting, choked—told him she’d made a decision, and the quake in her voice suggested it would change his life forever, and not in a good way.

  Ben stood, jammed the phone into his pocket and looked up at the gray sky. The unyielding rain that had beaten the city into a uniform state of depression since January began had stopped at last, and puddles lay on the sidewalk, waiting to ambush anyone walking without care. Another day, he might have taken solace in the lack of precipitation, might have allowed it to lift his mood, but not today. Today, worry gnawed his gut like a rat determined to escape its cage.

  He turned to his right and bumped shoulders with a teenager arriving at the bus stop. The young man cursed at him, called him an asshole, but Ben walked on without apology. He trod in a lurking puddle, soaking his foot, but paid it no more attention than he did the angry teen.

  He lived a few blocks away, so he had no need for a bus. The bench at the bus stop on the number 30 route had been the closest place to sit when her call made his knees threaten to buckle with dread anticipation. A convenient place to collect his thoughts.

  The walk home drifted by like a dream flirting with becoming a nightmare, one in which the dreamer sensed the beauty would soon be consumed by flame. Robin red-breasts sat vigil on lawns, waiting for earthworms to emerge from their soggy lairs; he identified with those worms as his runners splashed through puddles in every low spot on the sidewalk on his way to confront his wife. Like the worms, he knew the danger lurking at his destination, but had to go anyway.

  Ben stopped by the low gate at the end of the path to the bungalow they’d purchased four years before, at a time when he was her one-and-only, not her one-of-two. A fixer-upper with dark green paint flaking around the windows and boards in the fence loose and leaning, he’d never gotten around to the fixing-up part of the deal. The grass should have been cut once more before winter, but its pre-spring lushness afforded better opportunity for the worm to escape the robin’s eye. He should be so lucky.

  He started down the path, his roiling gut performing back flips. Ten feet shy of the entrance, he noticed the front door standing ajar, beckoning. Taylor never left the door open; she was fastidious about making sure every entry to the house remained locked for their safety, more so with Ben out of the house. Perhaps the end of their marriage distracted her, too. Maybe ruining the life of a man she’d once loved made her forgetful, careless, the way she’d been with his heart.

  Ben stepped up to the door and peered through the crack.

  “Hello?”

  No answer. He pushed the door open on a creaking hinge he’d been meaning to oil for months and stepped across the threshold into the entrance way, listening. At first, he detected nothing but the heavy breathing of the furnace keeping the house warm against January’s occasional chill. A minute passed leaving him standing in the doorway, not wanting to go in far enough to find his wife, and the end of his marriage.

  A movement in the living room.

  “Daddy?”

  Their eight-year-old daughter, Dallas. Someone shushed her and an unexpected spark of hope flickered to life in his chest. Was he wrong about his wife? Did he misinterpret the signs? Had his wife’s affair occurred in his head?

  No. Late night hang-ups, days staying hours after work, uncorroborated weekends away with girlfriends, surreptitious lingerie never worn, the sound of her voice on the phone. Nothing suggested this might be a surprise party rather than the end of their lives together.

  “It’s me, sweetie,” he said, putting on a saccharine tone for his daughter, as much to soothe her as to hide his pain. “Daddy’s home.”

  He walked the few steps from the door and, as his foot stepped off the real-wood-look laminate floor of the hall onto the cream carpet of the living room, he wondered why Dallas wasn’t in school at eleven in the morning on a Wednesday. Was it a good sign? Having Dallas around would keep Taylor from doing anything extreme, saying anything hurtful. But maybe something was wrong with their daughter.

  Or maybe Taylor’s taking her away from me.

  Ben passed through the arched doorway into the modest living room and, at first glance, things seemed odd, but not uncommon. Taylor lay on the worn brown sofa they’d gotten as a wedding present—it pulled out into a double bed in case anyone came to visit, but they’d only used the mattress two or three times and springs already poked through the side—her head in Dallas’ lap, eyes closed. A smile flirted with the edges of Ben’s mouth at the precious sight of mother and daughter, but then other details became clear: tears streaking Dallas’ cheek, an over-turned end table, the line of blood on Taylor’s forehead. His expression faltered and the sour, electric taste of fear flooded his tongue. Did she fall and hit her head? Why didn’t Dallas tell him when he came through the door?

  “What--?”

  He took a step toward them and an arm encircled his throat, cutting off his words, halting his movement. Surprised, he grabbed the arm with both hands; it tightened around his neck, choking him. The weight of the unseen attacker pushed against his back, forcing him to his knees. His fingers slipped as he clawed the nylon sleeve of a waterproof wind breaker. Ben’s eyes darted side to side, searching for a clue to his assailant’s identity, searching for a weapon. His daughter’s face reflected the terror exploding in his own chest, but she didn’t move from the couch, didn’t leave her mother.

  Good girl.

  Cold metal pressed to his left temple drained the fight out of him. He didn’t need anyone to tell him it was a gun held to his head. Dallas screeched.

  “What do you want?” The words wheezed through his constricted windpipe.

  “I’ve got what I want.”

  “What?”

  “You, Ben. You and your family.”

  Ben’s heartbeat sped up, pummeling his ribs.

  He called me Ben.

  “Who are you?”

  “Oh, we’ve never met, but we know each other.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We want the same thing.”

  Confusion and lack of oxygen spun Ben’s head with a wave of vertigo. On the couch, Taylor stirred, her eyelids fluttering, then squinting closed like a drunk waking after a night of hard partying. Dallas began crying again, her sobs shaking her mother’s head in her lap, and the movement seemed to clear the cobwebs from Taylor’s brain, her mothering instincts taking over. Though she’d failed a
s a wife, she’d been a good mother from the start.

  “Dallas,” she said, voice groggy. “Are you all right?”

  She propped herself up on one elbow and touched her hand to her forehead. When she moved it away, she saw the blood on her palm and her eyes went wide. She looked across the living room at Ben on his knees, the man behind him.

  “Ben?” she said forcing herself up, face pinched with the ache in her head. “Tim? What are you doing?”

  Tim?

  Her words slammed the pieces of the puzzle together into a picture that should have been obvious. We both want the same thing, the man named Tim had said...his wife.

  Rage exploded through Ben; he struggled against the man’s grip, scrabbling at his arm. The man shoved the muzzle against Ben’s temple hard enough to push his head to the side.

  “Shut up,” he screamed, the words ringing in Ben’s ears. “And you, too, Tay. Shut up or I’ll fucking kill him, I swear I will.”

  Tears spilled from Taylor’s eyes; a droplet of blood from her forehead ran down the side of her nose, mixed with the tears, stained them pink. Ben recognized the taut line of her mouth signifying her attempt to hold them back, but she couldn’t; he’d seen her try many times before, always without success.

  Has this guy ever seen her cry? Has he ever comforted her when she was sick? Held her when she was sad?

  “Daddy?”

  Taylor hugged Dallas so close, she nearly disappeared into her side and, between that and the gun at his head, Ben had forgotten her presence. New panic swelled inside him. It wasn’t just his life and his wife’s at stake here, but their little girl’s, too. A man whacked enough to break into their home and threaten them wouldn’t stop at an eight-year-old girl.

  “It’ll be okay, baby,” Taylor said smoothing the girl’s hair. Ben wanted to add his own words of comfort, but the arm squeezing his neck prevented him.

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  They did. Dallas moved her head to see her father, her bottom lip quivering. The gun pressed against Ben’s temple hard enough to leave a small red circle indented in his skin. The sleeve of the man’s jacket brushing his face smelled of coffee, like he’d spent a long time sitting in a Starbucks, planning or building his courage before deciding to violate their family.

  Tim leaned close to Ben’s ear.

  “Alright, big boy, it’s up to you.”

  “What?” he squeaked out. Tim rewarded him by compressing his throat further.

  “You get to decide who dies: you or the bitch.”

  “No.” Taylor bounced on the couch like she wanted to stand, but didn’t. “Ben, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “Shut up.” Tim moved the gun away from Ben’s temple and pointed it at Taylor; she cringed and hugged Dallas tighter. “Shut up or I’ll decide who dies.”

  Ben jumped on the only opportunity he might get. He let go of his ineffective grip on the gunman’s arm around his neck and reached for the one leveling the gun at his wife, but Tim anticipated his attempt. He leaned forward, throwing Ben off balance, pushing him to the floor. He caught the fall on his elbows instead of his face, but the man pinned him to the floor, a knee on his spine, the gun back at his temple.

  Tim leaned close and growled in his ear: “Any more and everyone dies.”

  Dallas sobbed, the sound muffled against Taylor’s side, and it made Ben realize he would do anything to save his family. What happened in the past didn’t matter, it only mattered that they have a future, all three of them together.

  “Before you decide, you deserve all the details,” Tim said, his breathing heavy. “Tell him what you did. Tell him what a whore you are.”

  “I--”

  “Tell him this is all your fault.”

  “I-- I’m sorry, Ben. It meant nothing. I love you.”

  “Shut up. That’s not what you’re supposed to say.”

  “I love you, too, Taylor.”

  Tim pushed Ben’s head harder against the floor with the gun. “She doesn’t love you,” he screamed. “She loves me. She told me.”

  “No,” Taylor said. “Please.”

  “You lying whore. She fucked me, Ben. She fucked me and she loved it. She screamed when she came, she called out my name. She told me she loved me and she told me she’d leave you.”

  “It’s not true. I told him it was a mistake. I told him we were through.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” he snapped then returned his attention to Ben. “So what’s it going to be, Benny-my-boy? Do I kill the cheating, lying whore? Or you?”

  “Ben--”

  “Shut up, Tay.”

  “Daddy!”

  The pressure on Ben’s temple eased and he thought Tim might point the gun at Dallas. Two other thoughts occurred to him then: she still loves me and he’s going to kill them both.

  “Who’s it going to be?”

  “Leave them alone.”

  Except for their breathing and Dallas’s muffled sobs, silence gathered in the room for a full minute. Ben wondered if the gunman, finally come to the moment of truth, lost his nerve.

  Please, God.

  “Sounds like your decision is made,” Tim said, dispelling Ben’s hope. “I have to admit, I’m a little disappointed. I was looking forward to killing her for dumping me.”

  Time slowed, allowing Ben the chance to note many things in his last seconds. Dallas gasped. Taylor yelled out: “No.” A mechanical ticking as Tim pulled the trigger—the sound of the hammer cocking. Ben moved his mouth, the rough texture of the carpet sandpapering against his lips. His heart fluttered.

  He wanted to tell his family he loved them once more.

  But his movements slowed along with everything else, so no words formed before it was too late.

  The explosion of the gun firing shredded his eardrum at the same instant the bullet turned his head to hamburger.

  ***

  I hated these kinds of jobs. Most of the time, my target is either alone or in a public place, both of them easier than this. When they’re alone, there’s no one to see me; when it’s busy, I blend in. One or two people around makes my job far more difficult because I stand out like an albino in the Blue Man Group. Gabe must take some perverted pleasure in giving me the most difficult harvests.

  I turned my attention to the goings-on inside the little green-and-white bungalow. Luckily, a window on the side of the house facing away from the road looked into the living room, so I’d settled in to wait and watch the proceedings from a bush that would have shocking pink flowers when spring came along. Lurking didn’t number among my favorite activities, but it ranked higher than being arrested.

  The man I presumed to be Benjamin Trounce—one of two names on the scroll Gabe gave me—walked down the path to the front door. Inside, another man holding a gun hid around the corner in the living room, a finger pressed to his lips, telling the woman and girl on the couch to keep quiet. One of them must be Taylor, the second name. I hoped it turned out to be the woman because the girl was too young to meet me yet.

  From my hiding spot I saw everything: the little girl calling her father, the man with the gun hitting Benjamin Trounce, threatening and jamming the gun against his head. He yelled, too, but the double-paned window prevented me from hearing what he said. I didn’t really want to know, anyway. During my own marriage, I’d been involved in enough domestic disputes to skip the particulars of theirs. Rae and I had many, but none of them escalated to gun play, perhaps because she didn’t own a gun.

  I pulled up my sleeve and looked at the three watches strapped to my wrist. Anyone spying on me would have thought them stolen and arrayed as wares for sale, but they weren’t worth selling. Places that don’t specialize in time pieces sell this kind—the type with a battery worth more than the watch. I made use of their countdown timers and wore three because I didn’t trust them. I was late collecting souls a couple of times, and it was a costly mistake for the soul I was supposed to harvest. After a few close calls with a carrion or two, I de
cided the adage about safe being better than sorry might be one I should adopt.

  The man with the gun pushed Benjamin to the floor, landing with his knee on his back, and a tongue of anger flared in me. In the past, more than one knee ended up in my back, so it pissed me off even seeing it happen. I didn’t do anything, though; I’d learned my lesson about interfering in these things: nothing good comes of it. What’s the saying? ‘The road to Hell is paved with good intentions?’ I don’t think in any case but mine could that saying be taken so literally.

  The principals in the drama before me yelled at each other for half-a-minute, then went quiet. Part of me wondered how they came to find themselves in such a situation, but I forced my curiosity aside. It wouldn’t make any difference if I knew; I had a job to do, and the less I knew, the easier it was.

  The high-pitched beep of the first alarm sounded, startling me. Nothing happened in the living room. A few seconds later, the second alert went off, followed by the third. I frowned. No death, no soul released from its earthly vessel. Piece of crap watches didn’t keep time worth shit.

  What should I expect for ten bucks?

  I groped for the tiny buttons on the side of each watch to silence their annoying chirps. As the last one stopped, the man sitting on Ben Trounce’s back pulled the trigger, the blast smearing red and gray brain matter across the carpet.

  That stain ain’t going to come out.

  It would be at least fifteen minutes before the cops showed, possibly longer. In suburban neighborhoods like these, where guns are seldom fired, most residents write them off as backfires, slammed doors, or leftover Halloween firecrackers. In all likelihood, the police wouldn’t be alerted until the little girl got to a phone to call 911, assuming her name wasn’t Taylor. I looked away from the window. If it turned out I had to collect the youngster’s soul, I didn’t want to witness it happen.

  The figure clad in a black overcoat standing five paces away startled me, but I can’t say his presence surprised me. With his broad-rimmed hat pulled low in the front to hide his face, he resembled a much smaller version of wrestling’s Undertaker.