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

by Blake, Bruce

  We hurried forward as the other teen gawked at his friend. He grabbed him by the pant leg and gave it a tug, but the other boy didn’t budge from his place stuck between the bars. A second later, the stocky kid noted our approach and let go, setting the dead kid’s legs penduluming back and forth. He backed away, hands in the air.

  “I didn’t do anything,” he said, then bolted across the field, forgetting the figure at the far end who’d distracted them in the first place.

  Dido stared after him and the shadowy, indistinct figure viewing the proceedings around the monkey bars.

  “That’s him,” she said and took off across the field.

  “What?” I didn’t bother stopping her, though I didn’t know why she wanted to chase the stocky teen. I was a harvester, not a detective, proven by my lackluster investigation into finding Meg’s son.

  I approached the body dangling between the bars and saw the kid standing near his feet staring up at him. The young boy looked around six-years-old—a more appropriate age for a child you’d expect to find playing on the monkey bars, and with a head small enough to go between them without killing him. He wore the same clothes as the dead teen: jeans, Adidas runners, and a tee-shirt emblazoned with the big-nosed gray bird from The Muppet Show.

  “Sebastian Coe, I presume?”

  The kid nodded at me. “My friends call me Gonzo.”

  Of course they do.

  “Come with me, Gonzo.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Manny stooped over near the willow tree, breathing hard to catch his breath. He didn’t think the guy he'd seen near the monkey bars had chased him, but Manny had run anyway while three years of smoking and skipping gym class caught up to him even if he didn’t.

  He leaned against the tree, his hand on the tree’s rough bark, steadying himself until his lungs found their rhythm and the stitch in his side unknotted itself. When his breathing returned to normal and the hammering in his chest slowed, he straightened and surveyed the park from beneath the willow’s drooping branches, eyes darting from dim shape to vague shadow, expecting any one of them to leap up and chase him.

  Dark silhouettes of sleeping ducks floated on the pond in front of him, and the expanse of field beyond stretched on for yards, empty and quiet, until it sloped up into a hill. Manny was alone in the park. A heavy sigh convinced his lungs the oxygen they needed was coming and he slouched out from under the tree to the bench at the edge of the duck pond. His butt slipped on the frost-rimed wood and he grasped the cold metal armrest to keep from sliding off, then leaned back, scanning the area again before collecting his thoughts and reaching into his pocket.

  The lighter sparked once, twice before catching. His shaking hand jittered the flame as he raised it to the tip of his last joint and inhaled the sweet flavor of good weed, his chest shuddering. Smoke rasped against his throat and burned his lungs, bringing calmness that otherwise eluded him; he jammed the blue Bic lighter back into his pocket.

  “What the fuck was that?” he said aloud in a billow of smoke and mist. He rested his head in his palms, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “What the fuck?”

  Manny ran his fingers through his hair, touched the sweat his flight from the elementary school had brought to his brow. Had he been running from the man, or from Gonzo’s accident? Didn’t matter. Either way, the cops would for sure be knocking on his door when they found him. With the grass calming him, allowing him to think, he realized he needed a story, what the cops called an alibi. He thought about telling them he’d been with Tom, but he hadn’t seen the bastard in a couple of days. No way to know when he might show up, and if the cops talked to him first...so long, alibi.

  Maybe I should tell the truth.

  “Yeah, right. Like they’d believe me.”

  A duck splashed and quacked; Manny glanced up as it flapped its wings then settled, neck craned around and beak tucked under its wing. He sighed, brought the joint back to his lips and partook again. The burner glowed orange and he closed one eye as the smoke curled up into his face. He hated eye tokes, his least favorite risk of his most favorite pastime.

  “Ungh,” he sighed and leaned back with his arms draped over the bench.

  He tilted his head to gaze up at the charcoal sky. Clouds had rolled in as the sun sank toward twilight and, now that it was fully night, their unseen billows disguised the moon and stars and threw the world into deeper darkness. As he watched, the veil parted to allow the bright half-moon to shine through. He stared at it for a few seconds, releasing the smoke from his lungs, the fog of his breath shrouding the moon’s glow, encircling it with a hazy corona. Maybe if he stared hard enough, he’d be transported away from here, from his dead friend and the trouble to come.

  Don’t be a baby.

  Manny let his chin settle on his chest, relishing the tingle creeping along the surface of his skin and into his muscles as his mind mulled over his predicament. The reflection of the moon on the duck pond caught his attention and he leaned forward, elbows on thighs. In its illumination, he saw ducks bobbing on the water, the dark layer of algae, and the far edge of the pond.

  And the figure standing on the opposite bank.

  Manny jumped to his feet, threw his hands up in the air, the joint’s burner cutting a brief orange trail through the night.

  “I didn’t do anything,” he said, raising his voice. The closest duck quacked and flapped its wings, annoyed. “It was an accident.”

  The figure responded with neither words nor movement. Manny took another hit off the joint and tossed it in the water, the tiny hiss as it extinguished before its time causing him to cringe at the waste.

  “Leave me alone.”

  No reaction. Manny stared hard, but it wasn't the man he’d seen. He’d worn an overcoat and this guy wasn’t wearing any jacket despite the frost on the grass and the ice building around the edge of the pond. He looked bigger, too.

  The man took an unhurried step to his left and moonlight glinted on something covering his chest—black and shiny in the darkness of the night. The shape illuminated by the moon seemed familiar to Manny.

  His flesh went cold.

  In his flight and panic to get away, he’d forgotten what distracted him and Gonzo, made them climb off the monkey bars. He’d forgotten the figure watching them from the edge of the field.

  The same man standing across the pond from him.

  Anger forced the chill from Manny’s skin and fear from his heart. Whoever this was, he’d caused Gonzo’s death. If they hadn’t been climbing down to go after him, his friend wouldn’t have miss-stepped and fallen between the bars.

  “You bastard,” Manny breathed in a puff of vapor.

  His hands curled into fists accustomed to being thrown in anger, and he stalked toward the far end of the pond, shoulders hunched, eyes narrowed. His gaze remained on the figure as he walked, watching the man’s steady progress to meet him.

  “You don’t want a piece of this,” Manny called, shaking a fist at the man.

  No response.

  Manny followed the curve of the pond, his battered runners crunching frosty duck shit beneath his feet. As he got closer, he noticed the man’s arms and legs were black like his chest, as though he wore a wet suit, but shiny and hard. Manny’s step faltered, along with his nerve. His fists loosened and his hands hung limp at his side; the expression of anger and determination on his face sagged.

  “Get the hell out of here and there won’t be any trouble.” His voice trembled. “I’m giving you a chance. You better take it.”

  The figure continued its advance with slow, measured steps, either not hearing Manny or not caring. Closer, the man’s size became more apparent, not only in the broadness of his shoulders and thickness through the chest, but Manny realized he’d tower over the teen if they stood side-by-side. The chill returned to Manny’s skin, this time penetrating, chattering his teeth despite his effort to stop them.

  “We don’t need this, man,” he said, his voice
cracking. “We don’t have to--”

  The words caught in his throat as the man drew close enough for Manny to see his face. He could only hope the guy wore a mask to look like that, but he wasn’t going to hang around long enough to find out.

  His foot slipped and he had to put his hand on the frosted ground to retain his footing, then took off across the grass toward the rocky, broom-strewn section of the park. He broke into a run, his feet desperate to keep up with the pace set by the blood pounding at his temples.

  The clouds overhead regrouped to hide the moon and steal its light.

  Manny hit the first rocky slope at full speed, leaping up it and leaning forward to use his hands to help him on his way. He scrabbled to the top and paused to steal a peek back at his pursuer. The figure was twenty yards behind and moving with the same deliberate steps as before, its shape reduced to a vague outline with the moonlight gone.

  The teen bully returned his attention to the slope ahead, following a slippery trail along the base of a twenty-five foot sheer face. When the path bent around a sharp corner and wound its way up a steep hill, his foot slipped and he went down, ankle twisting as he hit the ground. He sucked a pained breath through his teeth, struggled to his feet and glanced back.

  Closer.

  He considered the rocky trail winding up the difficult incline and decided not to chance it, turning the other direction. Blackberry bushes tugged at the sleeves of his jacket as he crashed through the brush and stumbled down a modest embankment, his ankle threatening to give out each time his weight rested on it. The pain clenched his teeth together firmly enough to bring an ache to his jaw.

  The shallow grade dropped away beneath his feet and Manny grabbed the stock of a bush to keep from going over the edge. Thorns dug deep into his palm, but he held on, stopping his forward momentum.

  “Fuck.”

  A glance over his shoulder showed the figure closing on him, his pace unchanged.

  “Fuck!”

  How can he be gaining?

  Manny shook his head and peered over the edge at the drainage ditch below. He and Gonzo and Tom hid here dozens of times before, smoking weed and reading porno mags shoplifted from the local drug store. The grate capping the end appeared solid, but he knew it could be pulled far enough away with a good tug to wriggle through into the tunnel beneath the road, but not far enough to allow the behemoth chasing him in.

  A smile crept across Manny’s face. Scared or not, he’d lose this guy. He released his grip on the blackberry bush, blood trickling between his fingers and across the palm of his hand, and found a less painful handhold suitable for lowering himself to the drainage ditch.

  Awkward and clumsy with a twisted ankle and a cut hand, he succeeded without falling, descending onto a section of frozen mud beside the ditch thirty feet from the grate. Manny picked his footing along the bank with care. Ahead, water gurgled out of the sewer, over rocks and into the ditch, but the sound of his pursuer rattling through the bushes behind him seemed loud enough to drown it out.

  Manny pushed himself faster, concentrating on the grate ahead and the hope of safety beyond it. He closed in, stepping from stone to stone on his toes, the muscles in his legs tensed to keep his footing. When he reached it, he grasped the bars in his hands to steady himself, cold steel pressing against his fingers, their touch sending an electric charge of relief through him. Years before, during a winter long ago, he’d convinced Trevor Fell to put his tongue on one of the bars, then laughed when it stuck and Trevor cried in pain tearing it free.

  A deep breath filled Manny’s nostrils with the rank odor of the runoff, the smell emanating from the culvert worse than he remembered, the garbage stuck against the bars thicker than usual.

  What the hell got stuck in there?

  He swallowed hard and held his breath, forcing worry from his mind. To get through the bars, he’d have to pull on the bottom, a process best accomplished with two people—one to hold them while the other squeezed through—but he’d done it on his own before and the figure closing in left him no other choice.

  Bent at the waist, Manny slid his hands along the bars, pitted and rough with years of corrosion. A tangle of garbage pressed against them, bigger than he’d seen before and, as he pulled on the bars, the refuge shifted, a rush of water released from behind it.

  Manny gaped down at the bloated white face of his missing friend.

  “Holy shit!”

  He released the bars, stumbled back, his foot slipping on an icy rock and sending him to the ground. His ass squished in mud, his foot went into the runoff, the water’s coldness penetrating him instantly, shocking his flesh. He scrambled back, pulling his runner out of the water, and raised his head to find his pursuer ten feet away.

  Adrenaline exploded through the teen and he jumped to his feet, ignoring the pains in his ankle, his ass, his hand. He splashed across the drainage ditch, arms waving above his head, each step shattering the thin layer of ice struggling to form on the surface of the water. Wet, cold, and more scared than he’d ever been in his life, Manny forgot his plan and scrambled up the embankment, panting hard, his heart pounding.

  At the top, he paused and leaned on the metal guard rail, traffic whizzing by in a tangle of white and red lights and dark shadows to his panicked eyes. Air squeaked around a knot in his throat as he inhaled. He wanted to stop running, to catch his breath, lay down and rest for a while. His head felt too heavy for his neck to carry, but he wrestled it around to look back down the embankment.

  His pursuer was gone.

  Manny waited, expecting the man’s plodding steps to carry him into view any second. Nothing. He struggled to his feet, traversed the guard rail, and bumped into the man.

  The teen gasped and blundered back a step, legs bumping against the barrier. The guy stood taller and wider than he imagined, and the black suit was neither armor nor a wet suit at all, but scales. A long tail flicked behind him.

  “No.”

  Manny’s legs faltered, the guard rail keeping him erect, and the thing took a pace toward him. The teen found his legs and bolted the street. Horns blared. Brakes screeched. Manny screamed.

  Chapter Twenty

  4 Years Ago

  Cory sat at the back of the room, hands in his lap, listening to the priest drone on about precious life. He talked of the loss experienced when someone is taken from us too soon, explained that God has other plans for them. The teen fought to keep his eyes open by watching the back of his mother’s head as she sat in the front row clad in the black dress she’d purchased at Value Village to play the part of grieving widow.

  He shuffled his feet and surveyed the mourners gathered to pay their respects. Some of them he recognized as either his mother’s or Robert’s family—the few still left alive—some he didn’t know. All the mourners together occupied only half the folding chairs while the others sat empty.

  It seems no one liked Ugly Robert.

  No casket attended the funeral, only a table with a picture of the man smiling out at the small group who felt compelled to attend, a vase of flowers beside it and rose petals scattered across its top. When a man dies in a freak accident with a ride-on mower, the chances of putting things back together for an open casket funeral are slim. They diminish exponentially when the lawn mower reverses itself and drives over him a second time.

  Cory searched for anything to avoid looking at Robert’s photo. He craned his neck and peered over his shoulder at the man standing at the back of the room, observing the gathering. His outfit made it obvious he didn’t belong; he wore a tie, but no suit jacket beneath his overcoat. Though they hadn’t met, Cory recognized him as the detective investigating Robert’s death. He’d been to the house to talk to his mother, but Cory had stayed in his room, ear pressed to the door to hear their conversation in the living room; they didn’t keep their voices quiet because they didn’t expect him to listen in.

  Why didn’t you tell him, Ma?

  He glanced back at his mother, her
head sagging forward as the minister finished and asked if anyone else wanted to say a few words. The lace edging the collar of her dress she’d safety-pinned in place had come away at the side of her neck and dangled down the back.

  You should have told him what he did to you.

  No further eulogizing followed the minister; no one got up to share their memories of the dead man or to wax eloquent on his contributions to the human race. The mourners went by the table, each saying their last good bye—or good riddance, more likely—before offering condolences to his mother, then taking their leave. Before they were all done, his mother rose from her seat and made her way along the aisle toward the door, supporting herself on the arm of Robert’s friend, Al.

  He raised his head at her approach, a sliver inside him hoping she’d smile or give him a thumbs-up, letting him know their lives would be better without her second husband. She didn’t look at him until she drew even with his seat and , when she did, he noticed things in her eyes he’d never seen. They held sorrow and sadness, to be sure, but also disappointment and accusation. She didn’t say anything; she didn’t need to. In her expression, Cory understood she suspected his link to Robert’s ‘accidental’ death, maybe Kaitlin’s, his Grandmother’s, and his baby sitter’s, too. And so many others she couldn’t possibly imagine, some Cory himself didn’t know.

  Maybe even his father’s.

  She continued past, stopping to talk to the detective for a few seconds in the doorway. Cory couldn’t hear the words that passed between them, but when the man put his hand on her shoulder, his mother began to cry. She collapsed against the cop, catching him by surprise, but he patted her back and looked more than a bit uncomfortable. He scanned the room of mourners once more, perhaps to see if anyone was watching. When his eyes met Cory’s, he paused and nodded. Cory didn’t respond.

  The detective led his mother from the funeral.

  Cory remained in his seat for a while, head bowed. By the time the priest stood beside him, they were the last ones in the room.