A Penny for the Hangman

by Tom Savage

  What now? she wondered. Dear God, what now?

  There were only her father and Rodney Harper on this island with her. That lunatic had brought them here to enact some scheme, and only she could stop him. She would have to get Rodney Harper out of that room and make her way to Wulf herself, free him from his bonds. The two of them must get away from this place. To accomplish this, she would need—

  A diversion. Karen stood there, pressed against the rough stone wall of the storehouse, remembering its contents: an old couch and a plywood worktable, shelves of tools and cans, insecticide and paint, and those three big wooden packing crates in one corner. She reached down into the pocket of her jeans, fingering the smooth object there, the silver Zippo lighter. S for Superman.

  She edged around to the front of the storehouse. Knowing it was necessary but regretting it just the same, she put down the machete just inside the open door. With luck, she’d be back for it soon enough. Keeping her gaze riveted to the front door and windows of the big house, she hunched down again and raced across the flagstones to the top of the stairs leading down to the beach. With another quick, furtive glance over at the windows of the living room and a silent prayer that she would have enough time, she grasped the iron rail and began the long descent to the sand, the jetty, and the last place on earth she ever wanted to enter again.

  The boathouse.

  —

  The Discs

  MARCH 13, 2009 (CONTINUED)

  When I’m through with him, I’ll find the girl. She’s probably in the big cave, Tintagel. There’s no way for her to leave the island, not unless she can swim like Esther Williams. Even then, the sharks would get her long before she reached Tortola. No, I have other plans for Miss Karen Tyler….

  Chapter Thirteen

  Wulf opened his eyes and tried to focus on the image in front of his face. At first he saw only a blur—light and dark shades of brown—but then his vision cleared. He was seated in a hard chair, his hands cuffed behind him. The blur in front of his eyes was the chessboard Roddy had made with his own hands many years ago. Beside it lay a revolver.

  There had been flashes of lucidity, freeze-frame moments in which he had known what was happening to him, but the frequent Taser jolts had kept him from reacting. He had been half dragged, half carried out of the bushes and across the patio, then in through the front door. He’d sensed, rather than felt, being deposited in the chair and bound, plastic at his wrists, tape on his ankles, rope around his chest. Somewhere nearby, a soprano was singing. Another jolt, and everything had blanked out again.

  Instinct told him not to move yet. He sat with his head bowed over the chessboard, listening to the music and watching the hands arranging the chessmen for a game. He knew where he was, and he was thinking furiously, trying to assess his situation and plan his next course of action. He must at least create a distraction, that was a certainty. Even now, Karen could be gliding by in the Whaler, in plain view through the glass doors behind him.

  Play the game, he decided. He raised his head and faced his opponent.

  “Well, hello there!” Rodney Harper said.

  Roddy was grinning at him. He seemed more than happy to see his old friend; he was clearly excited. His eyes burned with an ominous intensity. Wulf had seen that look before.

  “Hi, Roddy,” Wulf said as casually as possible. “Long time no see.” With an effort, he met Roddy’s grin with a smile of his own, willing himself not to look down at the revolver.

  “Welcome home,” Roddy said. “I’m so glad you could join me on this special occasion.”

  “Yes,” Wulf replied, nodding. “Fifty years, today. You look good.” A lie—Roddy looked like an overage Jungle Jim in that ridiculous get-up. Tristan und Isolde had ended, but now the prelude began again. Wulf noted out of the corner of his eye that his bag was on the couch. Was his gun still in it?

  Roddy beamed. “And you look wonderful, old friend. You’re as handsome as ever. I thought we’d have a game before lunch, just like old times.” He picked up two pawns, shuffled them in his hands, and then held out both fists. “Choose.”

  “Left,” Wulf said, and Roddy opened his hands. He’d chosen white, so he’d have the first move. “Um, Roddy, I can’t—”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it,” Roddy said. “Just call the moves, and I’ll do all the work.”

  Wulf nodded, thinking, Lunch. He mentioned lunch, so he isn’t planning to kill me right away.

  Then he thought, I haven’t played chess in fifty years. He only remembered one standard chess opening, but he took his time before calling it. When he felt that he’d stalled as long as he could, he jerked his chin toward the fourth pawn in his front rank and said, “D2 to D4.”

  Roddy chuckled. “You always start that way.” He moved Wulf’s piece for him, and the game began.

  —

  The Discs

  MARCH 13, 2009 (CONTINUED)

  The only thing of real importance now is the final gesture. Along with the guns and the security devices, I also ordered three large packages to be delivered to me here. They’re in the storehouse….

  —

  Karen reached the bottom of the stairs and raced across the damp sand toward the little building beside the stone dock. The broken latch swung free, and she pushed the door open, bracing herself for the scene inside. She willed herself to step forward into the boathouse, keeping her gaze on the ground in front of her and away from the boat in the center of the hot, cavernous room. The sound of the generator behind the building was all but drowned out by the buzzing of a thousand flies, and the stench of decaying flesh was worse than before.

  The two red plastic gasoline containers were in the far left corner, so she would have to walk past the boat. Determined not to look over at it, she kept to the left wall as she moved deeper into the darkness, swatting away the droning insects and holding her breath to keep from taking in the putrid smell. There was a single naked lightbulb hanging from a wire in the center of the high ceiling, but she wouldn’t need more than the light from the doorway for what she had to do. She stepped cautiously onward, stopping in alarm when her right shoe came down on something solid.

  She uttered a little cry and stepped backward, peering down. At first she thought the soft lump must be a dead rat, and she would have to kick it out of her way and continue. But a flick of Don Price’s lighter revealed what it was: a brown leather wallet lying wide open on the floor. Don Price’s wallet, she thought. It had fallen here, unnoticed, and she could give it to his family later. As she knelt to pick it up, she saw a photo in the plastic display compartment of a smiling dark-haired young woman. The face was familiar, and Karen looked closer in the glow of the lighter. Could it be…?

  Yes. The woman in the photo was her friend and colleague Gwen Levene.

  A horrible suspicion prompted her to search the wallet for Don Price’s driver’s license. When she found it, she looked from the neatly typed name to his identifying photo and back again, stunned.

  Singleton, Sidney J.

  Don Price, she thought. Sidney Singleton. Gwen! Oh God…

  She’d process all this later, when she and Wulf were safely away from here. She thrust the wallet into a pocket of her jeans and moved on. She found the two big red containers and bent down to pick one up. It was surprisingly heavy: five gallons. The other one was half empty—or half full, if she were optimistic, which she willed herself to be. She’d make do with the half-full one. She dragged it back the way she’d come, acutely aware of the stench and the flies and the thrumming of the generator. When she reached the door, she heaved the container up in her arms and staggered across the sand to the stairs.

  A sudden, shrill cry from the beach behind her almost made her drop the container. It sounded exactly like a woman’s scream. She gasped and whipped her head around, staring at the flock of gulls that swooped down over the water of the inlet. Exhaling, she clutched the plastic jug tightly to her and mounted the curved stairway. She forced herself
into a rhythm, moving swiftly and silently, her legs straining against the steep ascent, and her burden seemed to gain weight with every step. By the time she made it to the top, her body was aching in protest and slick with perspiration. Panting from the exertion, she moved across the patio to the storehouse.

  She placed the container on the floor beside the machete and moved around the space, taking inventory. The three crates that took up most of one side were the most promising for her purpose, so she grabbed the machete and sawed through the thick plastic tape that bound one of the two big rectangular ones. She had to use the machete as a pry to free the lid, wrenching a host of industrial staples free of their moorings. She raised the lid to expose a layer of Styrofoam packing material. She scooped the artificial popcorn aside and looked down at the huge, shiny object it had covered.

  It took a moment to register with her, because it was the last thing on earth she would have expected to see. But there it was, winking in the light. The crate beside it was identical in size and shape. She tore her gaze from the sight, fixing on the second crate. In mere seconds she pried the staples out and threw the lid aside, digging through the popcorn until she exposed it. Yes, it was exactly the same. There were two of them.

  Two sleek, gleaming ebony coffins.

  She turned and stared at the third crate, a sense of dread rising up in her. It was flatter than the other two, wider and heavier. It couldn’t possibly be…

  She had to know. She raised the machete and attacked it, yanking the plywood slats away, brushing aside the filler. A mountain of confetti poured down onto the floor as she stared down at the flat, black stone that now stood exposed to the weak light. She read the gilt lettering, the inscription carved into the granite. The machete slipped from her hand and fell to the ground.

  Oh God, she thought. Oh dear God, help me.

  Then she was moving again, throwing herself into the chore with renewed energy. These boxes were all the confirmation she needed that there wasn’t much time. She could already be too late, but she must try, anyway. Cans of paint and insecticide were piled on top of the packing material. She pushed the moldy couch out of its corner to rest against the two bigger crates and arranged everything else around the third crate. That flat box would be her centerpiece. It must be destroyed, completely destroyed….

  Sweat was pouring from her, and it was hard to breathe in the hot, crowded space. She used her blouse to wipe her face, then picked up the red plastic container. She poured, soaking the entire pile until the fumes threatened to knock her out, until it was empty. She threw it on the heap, grabbed an old cotton rag from a shelf in the disused brick oven, and stumbled over to the doorway.

  She peered out at the house across the patio, at the living room windows. Please, she thought, let them still be playing chess. She turned around to face the crowded room, reaching down into her pocket for the lighter. S for Superman.

  S for Sidney Singleton.

  As the rag ignited, she stared at the three crates, wondering what that monster could possibly be thinking.

  —

  The Discs

  MARCH 13, 2009 (CONTINUED)

  Wulf won’t be in any position to refuse me one final chess game. And I’ll win, as usual….

  —

  “Checkmate!” Roddy announced.

  Wulf stared down at his toppled king, thinking the game had been too short; it had lasted barely twenty minutes.

  “Sorry I wasn’t much of a challenge,” he said. “The last time I played, it was with you, here. But you’ve expanded the place since then.” He jerked his head toward the sundeck behind him. “That’s new. And you put glass in the windows.”

  Roddy smiled indulgently. “Yes, for air-conditioning.”

  “Hey,” Wulf said as though the thought had just occurred to him, “how about showing me around? I’d like to see what else you’ve done here.”

  Another indulgent smile. “Sorry, Wulfie, but that would mean untying you.”

  “Well, why not?” Wulf asked, and he even managed a light laugh. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

  Roddy nodded. “True. But you might try to hurt me. You’re mad at me because of her. Where is Miss Tyler, Wulf?”

  Wulf stared at him. Think! he commanded himself. Then he had an idea. “She fell in the storm, over by the caves. She broke her leg, so I put her in the big cave, Tintagel, and left her there.”

  Roddy’s wistful smile vanished, replaced by a sly one. “You know, Wulfie, you always were a terrible liar!”

  Wulf strained against his bonds, trying to loosen them. He stared across the table at the bald man in the safari suit, the lunatic with the terrible gleam in his blue eyes.

  “Sorry, Wulfie,” Roddy said. “Carl and his wife won’t hear you if you shout. And Miss Tyler is not going anywhere. I set the Whaler adrift this morning. I’ll find her after I’m finished here. Oh, the fun I’m going to have—with both of you!”

  Wulf lurched in his chair, but the ropes held him tightly. Roddy stood up from the table. He went over to the shelves and switched off the music. As he came back across the room, he reached into a pocket of his safari jacket and pulled out a clear plastic case. Opening it, he extracted a hypodermic syringe filled with amber liquid. He was no longer smiling.

  “I’m afraid I lied about lunch,” he said. “I just wanted to play one last game of chess with you, for auld lang syne. But this is the end of the line, old friend. Fifty years ago today, you betrayed me. Twenty-eight years ago today, I wrote you a letter exposing my heart, my most private feelings. You never responded. You took up with that woman—a receptionist, for God’s sake, a servant girl!—and you got a whelp out of her, a pretty, clever bitch named Karen. And in all these years, you’ve never once apologized to me for your cowardice, for your silence, for your betrayal, but most of all for not loving me. You condemned me to a lonely life, and today I will repay you, with interest. I condemn you to death, Wulf Anderman, and then I’m going to find that bitch and do to her what I did to my father.” He came nearer, holding out the needle. “Do you wish to beg for your life? Or, perhaps, your daughter’s life?”

  Wulf stared down at the syringe; then he looked up into the cold blue eyes of the man looming above him.

  “Go to hell!” he said.

  “In due time,” Roddy replied. “But first…” He reached out with his free hand to grasp Wulf’s chin, leaned down, and kissed him roughly on the lips. Then he lowered the hand and clamped it around Wulf’s left arm. The needle moved closer. With a last, massive effort, Wulf strained against the rope, jerking sideways, away from his captor. The chair toppled over, and he fell sideways, smashing the side of his head against the floor. He lay on his side, dazed and in pain, aware that Roddy was now kneeling beside him, grasping his arm again.

  Then the sounds reached them. For a frozen second, they both paused, listening. Wulf was aware of Roddy letting go of his arm and rising to his feet. They heard several small explosions, one after another, coming from somewhere outside. Through the front window, Wulf saw wisps of smoke. Then the unmistakable scent arrived in the living room, filling it. Something was burning.

  Roddy put the syringe back into its case and shoved it into his pocket, then picked up the revolver and ran to the door. Wulf lay on his side, listening as the running footsteps receded across the main hall, followed by the sound of the front door being opened. The ensuing shriek that Wulf heard was loud, even at this distance: a sharp, involuntary cry of rage. The door slammed shut, and the footsteps faded away.

  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 fee
t 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—frightened, 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.”