by Jack Heath
PRAISE FOR HANGMAN
‘Jack Heath’s writing grabs you by the throat, gnaws on your bones and washes it all down with a hefty dose of funny. Sick, twisted, violent and oh so good. In Timothy Blake, Heath has created a one-of-a-kind character. I hope.’—Emma Viskic, internationally bestselling author of And Fire Came Down
‘Blake is a brilliant, complex character … this quiet and unassuming figure might just be the most dangerous man in the room. Hangman is cinematic and grubby, brimming with pulpy noir.’—Michael Offer, producer, How to Get Away with Murder and Homeland
‘Wild and original, Hangman stamps a high and bloodied mark on this dark genre. Hannibal Lecter will be adding Jack Heath to his reading list.’—Ben Sanders, internationally bestselling author of American Blood
‘Let’s cut to the chase: Hangman is a great read! Jack Heath’s boundless imagination and singular voice have produced a truly unique thriller. By turns psychologically insightful, wonderfully disturbed and even darkly comedic, Hangman will keep you coursing through the pages at a lightning pace. Brilliant! (Probably best read with lights on and doors locked. I’m just saying.)’—Jeffery Deaver, No. 1 international bestselling author
‘Hangman is ghoulish fun, and fills the Dexter- and Hannibal-shaped holes in our lives.’—Books + Publishing
‘A grisly, efficiently written nail-biter packed with riddles and suspense, Hangman has bestseller written all over it. It’s a dark book, but one with plenty of humour, and a twisty plot that keeps you guessing to the very end.’—Sydney Morning Herald
‘Compelling … Heath keeps the suspense at a high level through to its stunning conclusion. An addictive and suspenseful thriller that will keep you reading well into the night.’—Canberra Weekly
‘Blake is a classic kind of hard-boiled hero, mixing cynicism and honour, brutality and sentimentality … he’s a chivalrous knight of the kind we have never seen before.’—Weekend Australian Review
‘A cracking read full of well-crafted twists and turns … Heath manages to bring Blake out from behind the shadow of his predecessors and stand on his own.’—Australian Crime Fiction
‘Heath has given the crime world an anti-hero for this century. Gifted and flawed, Blake will horrify and entrance readers, quite often at the same time. An exceptionally taut novel both in action and execution, this sledge-hammer story is sure to entice fans of serial crime fiction, taking readers into the dark and dirty recesses of Blake’s mind.’—Good Reading
‘Hangman is a pulpy and perverse delight … Heath makes Blake young, rough, streetwise, and precisely the sort of person Dr Lecter would avoid in the street. This is a gobsmackingly (or lip-smackingly) violent tale, but it is also bizarre, hilarious, and a stealthily astute commentary on post-financial crisis America. Give me more.’—Christopher Richardson (blog)
‘Richer than Reacher … Hangman literally tingles with tension, and Heath injects a healthy dose of dark humour.’—Sydney Arts Guide
‘Hangman is cheerful in its gore, with a knack for unexpected violence that’ll leave even the most jaded crime readers at least a little bit impressed … It’s all the best parts of noir fiction, all the spatter pattern ghoulishness of forensics-focused dramas, and so much fun it might just concern you a little bit.’—Hush Hush Biz (blog)
PRAISE FOR HIDEOUT
‘Gloriously messed up, with a protagonist who manages to be likeable, reprehensible and totally singular all at once. A crime series like no other.’—Gabriel Bergmoser, author of The Hunted
‘Thrilling, grisly and inventive: Jack Heath has single-handedly increased my carbon footprint through lights left on.’—Benjamin Stevenson, author of Either Side of Midnight
‘Heath will make your spine tingle and your fingers flip pages.’—Candice Fox, author of Crimson Lake
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jack Heath is the award-winning author of more than thirty novels for adults and children. His books have been translated into several languages, adapted for film and optioned for television. He lives on the land of the Ngunnawal people in Canberra, Australia.
Hideout contains scenes readers may find disturbing. It is unsuitable for children, and some adults.
First published in 2020
Copyright © Jack Heath 2020
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
ISBN 978 1 76087 717 0
eISBN 978 1 76106 086 1
Set by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Cover design: Luke Causby/Blue Cork
Cover image: Nik Keevil /Arcangel
In memory of Peter Jordan
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Beware anyone who tries to make you angry.
—Jackie French
CHAPTER 1
Eject my skin so it won’t be found. What am I?
‘The other guys?’ I say.
‘Sure.’ Fred smiles. ‘You didn’t think it was just me out here, did you?’
That’s exactly what I thought. The plan was simple: kill Fred, then myself. But my only weapon is the hammer tucked into the back of my pants. If Fred has friends in this house, I’m in a whole world of trouble.
‘Great,’ I say. ‘Can’t wait to meet them.’
Fred is looking at the car I arrived in: a midnight-blue sedan, with supple leather seats and a stereo still playing light jazz, even though the engine is off. Blood on the passenger’s seat, mud on the driver’s. A bullet hole low on one of the doors.
Fred looks at the hole for a strangely long time. A shadow crosses his face.
‘Nice ride, Lux,’ he says finally.
‘Not my car.’ Not my name, either.
He nods, unsurprised. ‘Anyone looking for it?’
‘Maybe. Probably.’
‘I’ll tell Kyle to take care of that.’ He h
olds out a hand for my keys.
If I give them to him, I’m trapped. If I don’t, he might realise I’m not Lux.
‘You don’t need to do that,’ I say.
Fred waves this off. ‘It’s no trouble.’
Hesitating any longer would look suspicious. I pass him the keys. He slides the car key off the ring and tosses the rest back.
‘It’s fine for tonight, though,’ Fred says. ‘No one will see it. We’re miles from anywhere.’
He’s not wrong. The house is in the middle of the woods, at the end of a long driveway off a dirt road. None of my contacts at the FBI know where I am. I don’t even have a phone. If I die out here, no one will ever know what happened to me. That was the point.
‘Come on,’ Fred says. ‘You must be freezing.’
‘Yeah.’ My tattered white shirt, suit jacket and thin socks offer no protection from the night air, and I’m still getting used to having a shaved head. My ears hurt. Hunger burns in my gut, or maybe it’s fear. I broke my nose in a car crash two days ago—I can still taste blood pooling at the back of my throat.
Fred locks the car with the key remote. The music and the interior lights fade out, like in a cinema when the movie’s about to start. We crunch across the gravel towards the house.
Fred is white, lean and younger than I expected. Late twenties, maybe. Fair skin, scruffy hair, friendly wrinkles at the edges of his brown eyes. He has the voice of a venture capitalist or a junior lawyer. He doesn’t look or sound like he runs the most violent porn site on the dark web.
The house is made from many kinds of wood, carefully arranged. Pale slats around the foundations, darker beams up top, with a gradient in between, like a sunrise. Recycled timber, maybe, like in one of those expensive eco homes. The windows on either side look double glazed, the light inside dampened by thick curtains. The second level is smaller than the first, maybe just an attic.
It’s a fusion of the Old South and the New. Texans used to march into the wilderness with nothing but a hatchet and build a house to live in. If anyone else settled within a half-mile of them, they’d abandon the house and build another somewhere even more remote. That urge is still there—but now people want their isolated homes to have solar orientation and heated towel rails.
Fred is unlocking the front door, even though he only just walked out of it. ‘Automatic locks,’ he explains. ‘Can’t be too careful. There are some bad people out there.’
‘Oh?’ I say.
He welcomes me into the warmth of a short hallway, two mirrors gleaming on either side, like in an elevator. I can hear a fire crackling somewhere. The downlights are painfully bright, making me feel as though I’m in a dentist’s chair, about to be poked with something sharp.
Fred hangs his jacket on an old-fashioned coat stand. The door locks itself behind us with a crisp beep.
‘Come on.’ Fred leads me through the hallway, which opens out into a spacious living area. Two white men in muscle shirts drop their Xbox controllers and get up off a grey sofa. A refined-looking woman in a slinky dress appears at the far end of the room holding a glass of white wine. A young man—maybe a teenager—sits on a beanbag in a hoodie and a baseball cap, looking at his phone. A skinny guy in a suit turns away from the fireplace and looks at me through glassy eyes.
I worked hundreds of cases at the FBI and studied thousands of mugshots, but I don’t recognise any of these people. Am I supposed to? Lux never met Fred in person, but he might have met Fred’s friends. If he did, I’m screwed. I don’t look anything like him.
But everyone is giving me polite smiles. My cover is intact … for now.
‘Guys,’ Fred says, ‘this is Lux.’
Heads nod all around. The two muscle men each raise a hand in a small wave. The young guy says, ‘’Sup?’
‘These are the Guards.’ Fred points to each person. ‘Donnie, Samson, Zara, Kyle and Cedric. Now, repeat all that back to me.’
He’s kidding, and everyone laughs.
‘Sure.’ I point. ‘Donnie, Samson, Zara, Kyle, Cedric.’
Fred raises an eyebrow. ‘Not bad.’
Memorising names is easy. Sometimes I use celebrities—Donnie, one of the two brawny Xbox players, looks a bit like Mark Wahlberg, and I know Mark has a brother named Donnie, so that’s easy. The other player, Samson, has shoulder-length hair. I visualise him as the Samson from the Bible, a servant girl hacking off his locks as he sleeps.
Other associations also work. Zara, the elegant woman in the cocktail dress, has the same name as an upmarket shoe store in Houston. I used to beg for change on a nearby street corner. I imagine this Zara as the owner, shooing me away, threatening to call the cops.
The more emotional the connection is, the better it works. After my parents were shot, I was put in a group home, and one of the other orphans was named Cedric. He wasn’t a friend, but no one adopted either of us, so I knew him for longer than most of the other kids. We were both aware that when we turned eighteen, we’d be kicked out. The day before his birthday, Cedric hung himself with the cord of his bathrobe.
That Cedric was a white, heavy-set teenager, while this Cedric is in his mid-thirties, thin and Black. But if I picture a ring of bruises around his throat, the association is there.
I don’t know any Kyles, so I go for a rhyme. This Kyle, the teenager on the beanbag, has a Hitler-youth kind of look. Pasty, square-jawed, keen to follow orders. I imagine him at a rally, yelling, ‘Sieg Kyle!’
I don’t need any memory tricks to remember Fred’s name. The human brain has evolved to remember dangerous people.
This isn’t the first time I’ve assumed someone else’s identity. Once I dressed as an electrician so I could sneak into a half-constructed house for a shower. Another time I donated sperm for cash using a borrowed ID, because I was too young to do it legally. But now the stakes are higher. If there’s one thing rural Texans love, it’s guns. I might be the only person in this room who isn’t carrying. A single word wrong, and I could get a bullet in my skull.
Donnie, the bulkier of the two gamers, holds out his hand. I shake it. His grip is crushing.
‘Cold hands,’ he says.
‘Cold hands, warm heart,’ I say.
Donnie lets go. ‘My mom used to say that.’
‘What do you bench, bro?’ I don’t know exactly what this means, but I’ve heard gym junkies say it to each other like a greeting.
He shrugs modestly. ‘Two hundred, back in the day.’
I give a nod that could be interpreted as impressed or encouraging, depending on whether two hundred is high or low.
No one else tries to shake my hand.
Fred is unwinding his scarf. ‘Lux made some of our most requested videos.’
There’s an awkward round of applause, like after singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to a work colleague.
‘But he has to lie low for a while,’ Fred continues, ‘so he’s gonna stay with us.’
‘What happened?’ asks Cedric, the skinny guy in the suit. He gestures at his own face to show what he means.
‘Car wreck.’ I swallow some more blood.
Fred crosses his arms. ‘Where’s the FBI guy? Timothy Blake?’
It’s jarring to hear him use my name. How much did Lux tell him about me?
‘It’s all right.’ Fred has misread my hesitation. ‘They’re cool. I mean, you know what we do here.’
Some images flash through my head. Blood, chains, screaming.
‘I sure do.’ I should be mimicking Lux’s voice, in case one of these guys has talked to him on the phone. My Texas accent is broader than his was. Too late now.
‘So what happened to the cop?’
‘Blake’s not a cop. He’s a civilian consultant.’ I clear my throat. ‘Was, anyway. I shot him in the head. Left him in Huntsville State Park under six feet of dirt. No one will ever find him.’
The story sounds fake coming out of my mouth. But the people around me are visibly relaxing. If I’m a cop killer, I mus
t be okay.
It’s Lux buried in the park, not me. He was a teaching assistant who kidnapped a young woman and sent videos of her torture to Fred. Later, one of his other victims killed him in cold blood. I helped her dispose of the body.
‘You hear that, Donnie?’ Cedric says. ‘Six feet.’
Everyone laughs except Donnie and Samson. I chuckle, pretending to get the joke. Donnie looks about five foot eleven. Maybe Cedric is making fun of him for being short, even though he’s the tallest person in the room.
‘Blake was trying to shut us down, right?’ Donnie asks. He’s a bit older than the others—late-thirties—with shaggy hair and a silver chain around his neck. No cross on it.
‘He was trying to shut me down,’ I say. ‘Me and Fred. He didn’t know the rest of you existed. At least, I don’t think he did.’
Fred nods slowly. ‘Well, we can get you a driver’s licence in a new name. It’ll take five, six days.’
I’m not going to last five or six days. These people may not have met Lux, but they communicated with him on the dark web. I don’t know enough about him or them to pull this off.
‘That’s really kind of you,’ I say. ‘But I can’t stay long.’
Fred looks surprised. ‘Why not?’
‘The cops are searching for me.’ I wish this was true. ‘I don’t want to put the group in danger.’
‘You don’t need to worry about us,’ Samson says.
Fred pats me on the spine, just above the handle of the hammer.
‘We got your back,’ he says.
Zara speaks for the first time. ‘Can I get you a drink, Lux?’ Playing the host. Maybe this is her house, not Fred’s. Her black hair shines like a grand piano. She has access to expensive shampoo, which might mean regular trips to Houston. Maybe I can join her on one of them. Escape that way.
‘No thanks.’ For all I know, Lux didn’t drink and this is a test. ‘But I could use an aspirin.’
She beams. Dazzling white teeth appear between bright red lips. ‘Coming right up.’
She walks away, with just enough sway in her hips that I feel like I’m supposed to watch. Her high heels make no sound on the wooden floor, as though she’s coated the soles with felt.
