by Tom Savage
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.
“Is that where we’re going?” she shouted.
He nodded. “That’s it, miss. Hangman Cay.”
—
Rodney Harper’s Diary
AUGUST 23, 1958
I’ve been reading up on blunt force trauma. It’s in this marvelous book I found in Dr. Anderman’s medical library. I asked Mrs. Anderman—HJORDIS!??—if I could borrow it, and she smiled at me with her big white teeth and said, “Of course, Rodney. Just be careful with it.” I smiled right back and told her I would. What a phony! She’s Dad’s whore, and she knows I know, so I get the big phony smile.
The book is called Injury: An Illustrated Guide to Identification and Treatment by Warren Lamprecht, MD, and it has all these chapters on every kind of wound, with all the terms for them in Greek and Latin. I love the photo section in the middle. There are pictures of bruises and cuts and burns and bone fractures, and close-ups of this guy who was mauled by a bear and another guy who was eaten by a shark. And I’m learning a great deal about my favorite new subject: subdural hematoma. Such a beautiful phrase…
—
Bang, bang, bang. The flat echo of the gunshots rolled out across the desert, fading as it went. Bill Cochran leaned against the door frame of his cramped adobe hut, which was both home and gun shop, watching the silent older man outside take careful aim at the target. The old guy was his first customer of the day; there wasn’t much else to do but watch him. It was nine in the morning, and Bill was on his first cup of coffee. At least the cracks of gunfire were helping to wake him up.
The guy had arrived down the dirt road from the highway in an old Jeep, knocked on the shop door, and waited patiently while Bill dragged himself out of bed and opened for business. Claire had trudged into the kitchen to put on coffee and start breakfast. Now Bill could hear his wife clattering around back there, muttering obscenities after each loud report. In her opinion, it was much too early for target practice.
Still and all, that’s what the old guy wanted to do, and he was paying for it. He’d made it clear that he wasn’t in the market for a weapon; he just wanted to get in some practice. He’d looked through the display cases, settling on a simple S&W revolver, then he’d taken it outside to the target range. He wasn’t a bad shot—far from it.
An odd duck, Bill decided, watching the stranger reload. He hadn’t offered his name, but he’d let drop that Jorge from the gas station over to Taos had recommended Bill’s shop to him. Bill and Jorge went back a ways; they’d even shared a cell once, when Jorge was in that gang of his. If Jorge Velasquez knew this guy, he was okay with Bill.
Three full chambers—eighteen rounds. Bill glanced over at the target as the customer came back inside. Of the eighteen shots, only three were outside the hot zone, but not by much. The rest were dead-on, a small, neat mass of torn paper in the exact center. Bill didn’t see that kind of shooting every day of the week. Oh yeah, this dude was good.
The aroma of bacon permeated the building, and the sun outside was really beginning to hit its stride. Today would be a hot one. Bill went around behind the counter and replaced the gun in its case. The guy was contemplating the hand-printed cash only! sign beside the strongbox Bill used as a register. He pulled a wallet out of the back of his jeans and laid down for the session, but then he hesitated.
“Can I help you with somethin’ else today?” Bill asked, sensing what was coming. He’d seen this pantomime before.
Sure as shooting (Bill’s little joke), the man nodded, reached into his wallet again, pulled out several C-notes, and laid them on the counter. In his low, clear voice he said, “Jorge said you might be able to advise me. I’m taking a trip soon, to the Caribbean. St. Thomas. Ever been there?”
“Nope,” Bill said, neglecting to add that his current probation would leave little chance of travel, whether he wanted to or not. “I hear it’s nice there. Hot, like here, but they got these winds. What do they call ’em—?”
“Trade winds,” the stranger said.
“Yeah, trade winds—nice and cool, even when it’s hot.”
“Yes,” the man said. “I thought I could get back in practice while I’m down there, and I’ll need something.” He pointed down at the weapon he’d just been using. “Something like this. I want to buy it on the island. I couldn’t very well travel with it—you know how it is. Any ideas?”
Bill glanced over at the door to the living area, making sure Claire was out of earshot. Then he stared down at the money, nodding. It was just as he’d suspected. Jorge had sent him a live one, God bless him! He didn’t know what the guy needed a piece for, and he wouldn’t ask. He looked up from the benign gaze of Benjamin Franklin into the unyielding stare of the ice-blue eyes across the counter, and smiled.
“I think I can help you with that, friend,” he drawled, whisking the money silently into the strongbox and snapping it shut. “I just have to make a few phone calls, talk to some people, and I’ll let you know later today.” With a jerk of his head toward the kitchen, he added, “Mum’s the word.”
The stranger nodded, and that was that.
—
Rodney Harper’s Diary
OCTOBER 9, 1958
Weapons:
2 knives
1 machete
1 bottle secobarbital
Only 1 machete, not 2. Wulf won’t be able to do it—he’s much too squeamish. I don’t have that particular problem, I’m glad to say. I’ll take care of that part myself.
I’ve been practicing on coconuts.
—
The hazy shape grew larger, resolving into a small island. In a matter of moments it seemed to fill the sea in front of her, a stretch of land much higher at one end than the other, arriving out of the mist, ringed by crashing water and angry clouds. As the boat drew nearer, Karen saw that they were headed toward a beach at the center, a strip of sand with a jungle of palm and mangrove and sea grape trees rising up the hills behind it. To her right, the forest continued along the rocky coast for perhaps two hundred yards, ending abruptly at a gigantic formation of rock half in and half out of the water.
On the island’s highest point, the sheer cliff face to the left of the beach, she could just make out the general outline and sloping roof of a gray house, a two-story stone structure with white-shuttered wi
ndows, perched at the edge, peeking down at her through the thick foliage. She couldn’t see much of it at first, but more was revealed as the boat moved closer to the inlet. Her first impression of the building on the cliff was of a seaside fortress.
Gabby shifted gears, the roar of the engine subsided, and their progress slowed as they approached. A short point of land jutted out from the right side of the long beach, tapering down into the water. This point and the cliff at the other end formed a crescent-shaped cove. The sound of breakers was all around them as the Turnabout glided toward a small stone dock that extended out from the left end of the beach, at the base of the high hill. The photographer had joined her now, taking pictures of the sand and jungle in front of them and the house that loomed a hundred feet above them on their left. There was a building behind the dock, a stone structure the size of a boathouse, which is what Karen supposed it was. Beyond it, the first steps could be seen, a wide stone staircase that curved up from the beach toward the house, disappearing in the thick overgrowth of trees.
The sun was no longer in evidence, and the air was thick with moisture as the Turnabout came up to the dock. Mr. Graves stepped off the boat and tied it, then turned to help Karen onto the pier. She smiled and thanked him. Don Price clambered up behind her, and they gazed around at the dense forest and gleaming white sand. Behind them, Graves spoke softly to their pilot, who consulted his watch and nodded.
“Lovely,” Karen murmured as she looked up from the beach to the trees and the sky, but she wasn’t at all certain that’s what she meant. As she stood there, on that tiny wharf on the tiny islet in the Atlantic Ocean, she had the odd sensation that they were cut off, stranded in an alien land at the edge of the map, miles from anywhere. A chill of something that was almost claustrophobia swept through her. This is the last place on earth, she thought, the place where civilization ends. Beyond this point are monsters.
“This way,” Mr. Graves told them, and he headed toward the base of the stone steps. Karen and Don Price followed, stopping to read the wooden sign beside the bottom stair—PRIVATE PROPERTY–NO TRESPASSING—before climbing up and around, through the press of trees in a long curve. The steps were wide and deep, with a metal rail banister along one side, and the ascent wasn’t as difficult or tiring as she’d expected. Don Price, the smoker behind her, was panting with the effort, but Karen was merely grateful for the sun’s temporary respite. She knew she wouldn’t feel the same about these stairs on a hot day.
Up and up they went, and suddenly the trees seemed to part, receding from their path at either side to form a clearing. They came out onto a wide flagstone patio, and the house now stood before them at the edge of the cliff, stark against the water and sky. There was a big oak door at the center, with shuttered windows extending to the right and left of it and more in a long row above. It was obviously an old building, probably from the region’s Spanish days, and the thick stone walls were built to last in the volatile climate of the sea.
“Sweet!” the photographer beside her whispered, and Karen winced at the incongruity of using lame modern slang to describe such serious architecture. She shook her head in mock reproof, as though he were a child, which delighted him. He winked at her, clicking off several shots of the building.
The sudden buzz of an engine coming to life echoed up from the beach below them. Karen turned around. Her view of the cove was mostly blocked by trees from this vantage, but a moment later she saw the Turnabout in the distance, moving out between the two points of land toward the sea, back the way they had come. She tore her gaze from the sight and looked sharply at the big man beside them.
“He’ll be back for you,” Mr. Graves said. “We have another boat here, too, if necessary.” He smiled and moved toward the house.
Karen turned back to stare at the retreating craft, at the tiny dot that was Gabby at the controls, at the long white trail of foam he left behind him in the bay. The trail dispersed, vanished, and the sound of the engine faded. There’s no going back now, she told herself; I can only move forward—
Her thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the front door of the house, and a tall, well-dressed man came slowly out onto the patio, leaning on a cane. He limped slightly, but the impairment did nothing to diminish the impression of force and power. He was solidly built, with deep blue eyes that seemed to twinkle, and his handsome, tanned face and large hands were lined with age. He wore a suit of crisp white linen, a pale blue shirt and darker blue tie, and white canvas espadrilles. A silk handkerchief the color of the tie was neatly arranged in his breast pocket. There was something almost regal about him, but the smile on his thin lips was warm and friendly. Apart from the intense blue eyes, the most remarkable feature about him was the fact that he was perfectly bald. His round skull glistened in the weak light, and she had the brief impression that perhaps he actually polished it.
“At last,” he said, and his voice was clear and resonant, belying his age, as commanding as his visage. “Welcome to Hangman Cay, Miss Tyler. I know it’s been rather a long trip, and I hope your excursion hasn’t tired you, but you’re here now, and Mrs. Graves has refreshments for you. And who is this?”
“Don Price, from the Daily News,” the photographer offered, coming up to their host and extending his hand.
The old man declined to shake hands with him, covering with a courteous smile. “Welcome, Mr. Price,” he said before turning back to Karen. “A drink first, I think, then I’ll show you around. Then lunch. How does that sound, Miss Tyler?”
“It sounds wonderful,” she said, returning his smile, “but you must call me Karen.”
“Very well, Karen,” the old man said. “And now, allow me to introduce myself. Wulfgar Anderman, at your service.” He executed a small, formal bow, and then he straightened, smiling in the sunlight, a little glint of humor dancing in his incredibly blue eyes beneath thick, perfectly white brows. He turned and led the way into the house.
Even as she’d been expecting it, the revelation came as a shock to Karen. She stood still for a moment, absorbing this new information, staring at the retreating figure leaning on the cane as the shadows of the interior of the house engulfed him. Mr. Graves stood politely aside, waiting for her. She glanced over at Don Price, whose face was almost a comical picture of astonishment, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging slackly open. Of course, she thought. He hadn’t been told; he hadn’t known the subject of today’s assignment until this moment. But, as a resident of St. Thomas, he’d be well versed in the subject of the Harper/Anderman affair. No wonder he looked surprised. It would be like meeting Elvis or Marilyn Monroe. Or, more to the point, Jack the Ripper.
Wulfgar Anderman, she thought. This man is Wulf, one half of the most infamous duo in the history of the Virgin Islands, one of the most infamous people on earth. A murderer at fourteen, a convict for more than half his adult life, a legend that had grown over the years ever since. Fifty years ago, this courtly, elegant gentleman had taken the lives of five people in cold blood, in an act of unspeakable violence, for no apparent reason….
With an effort, she banished these thoughts and moved forward, accompanying Wulf Anderman into his fortress, her journalistic mind already arranging a hundred questions. Don Price and Carl Graves followed, and the big oak door closed behind them, shutting out the halfhearted sun.
—
Rodney Harper’s Diary
DECEMBER 23, 1958
I’ve decided just how we shall do it, and I’ve even chosen who will eventually be blamed for it. I’m already working on the anonymous letters. Everyone will believe it because I have history on my side.
In the early days of these islands, there were two tribes here, the Arawaks and the Caribs. The Arawaks were the peaceful group, with well-set-up communities where they grew crops and raised livestock and strung beads and whatever. They had lots of land and large stores of food and tools and jewelry. The Caribs were fierce warriors, more nomadic and certainly more violent. They preyed on the Arawak
s, killing and raping and plundering, taking whatever they wanted. They eventually obliterated their peaceable neighbors, claiming their land and making the surviving women and children their slaves. And what they did to the men was spectacular! It has inspired me in this plan. It involved knives and machetes.
With all that rich history among the local natives, there’s something rather fitting about my choice of a scapegoat. Who’s to say that their descendants wouldn’t behave the same way? I won’t have any trouble getting the cops to believe it.
I’ve chosen the ideal date: Friday, March 13, eleven weeks from now. I love the significance of Friday the thirteenth. The tradition goes back so far that no one is certain where it began. There’s a theory it was the day in 1307 when the Knights Templar were rounded up and killed, but other stories go back further. Jesus was crucified on a Friday, and some say it might have been the thirteenth of the month. The best early source is Norse mythology: When Christianity came to Scandinavia, the goddess Freya, for whom Friday is named, was cast out of the pantheon. On her day of the week, she called together eleven demons and the Devil himself to plot revenge, forming a coven of thirteen. Whatever the origin, it’s a suitable date for us.
I can’t wait to tell Wulf! I can’t wait to see the look on his face when I tell him what we’re going to do.
We’re going to kill them.
All of them.
Merry Christmas!
—
Gabby steered the Turnabout between the two long points of land at the center of Hangman Cay and headed out to sea. Rain was in the air, and he didn’t like the look of those clouds to the west. A big storm was brewing. Not tonight, maybe, but tomorrow for sure. Tomorrow night would be a wet one, winds near hurricane force. He’d grown up in these islands, and he’d seen it hundreds of times before. Unseasonable tropical storms—they always surprised with their intensity. Hurricanes, now—those were expected, and most were not so bad, but the spring and summer storms were unpredictable.
