A Penny for the Hangman

by Tom Savage

Karen looked up to see the large man looming over her, and her first reaction was to recoil. She actually thrashed her body and pushed herself backward, away from the figure. Her head collided with the rock wall behind her, and then it all came back. This man smiling down at her was the last person on earth who would ever want to harm her.

  She smiled back at him. “Good morning. Did you get any sleep?”

  “Don’t need much,” he said. “How do you feel?”

  “I’m all right, but I’ll feel better after breakfast.”

  He frowned. “Breakfast?”

  “Sure,” she said. “My favorite.” She reached inside her shoulder bag and came up with the big packet of peanut M&Ms and the bottle of Evian water she’d purchased in the hotel two days before. She handed them to him. “You start on these while I go powder my nose.” She crawled past him and out of the cave.

  If anyone had ever suggested to her that someday she’d remove her jeans and crouch down in the ocean to pee, she would have laughed at the notion. This morning, it seemed to be the least unusual of all the things she’d experienced on Hangman Cay. She quickly dressed again, glancing around to be sure no one was watching her. She half expected to see Rodney Harper or Carl Graves standing on the escarpment above the caves, leering down at her, but there was nobody anywhere.

  She found her compact mirror and checked her face, wincing at the little cut above her right eyebrow and the puffy, discolored skin around it. Her hands and arms were scratched from the fall down the rocky shelf, and one of her knees throbbed slightly when she moved. Purple bruises dotted her limbs, and there was a large one on her stomach that caused a slight aching similar to the pain in her knee. But she was fully functional, mobile; that was the important thing.

  The day was bright and warm. She stared around at the vivid sight of ocean, rocks, and trees, amazed at the fact that last night’s raging storm might never have happened at all. The hot morning sun had evaporated the rain, and even the usually violent breakers were smaller. Now she had to convince her father to leave this place with her. She made her way back to the cave, forming her argument in her mind.

  As it turned out, there wasn’t an argument. He was already standing outside the entrance, his bag slung over his shoulder. He handed her the candy and bottled water; he’d consumed exactly half of both. He glanced at his watch.

  “It’s just after eight,” he said. “The Whaler is tied to the rocks about fifty yards that way, on the other side of this point.” He jerked a thumb to his left. “Be careful climbing out to where the boat is; some of the boulders are partially submerged, so they’ll be slippery. Take the boat and head for Tortola, and get to the police there. Tell them Mr. Huxley is really Rodney Harper, and he murdered your friend—that should get them here in record time. And don’t come back with them. Stay in Tortola. I’ll—I’ll join you there when this is over.”

  She didn’t like the way he’d said that, as though he wasn’t sure he could keep his promise, but she let it pass. She also decided not to argue. She wondered if this was how all fathers sounded when issuing instructions to their children; she had no point of comparison.

  “Mr. Graves is the one to watch out for,” she told him. “He’s a big, mean-looking ex-con; he looks like he bench-presses tractors in his spare time. His wife is okay, I guess—she saved my life, so go easy on her. Rodney Harper limps—he uses a cane—so, I don’t think he should be a prob—”

  “Bull!” her father said, startling her. “That limp was for your benefit, Karen, to make you think he was less dangerous than he is. It’s his favorite chess strategy: Give your opponents the impression that you’re helpless, then wipe up the board with them. That’s how he wins. But don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

  She stared. “With the gun in your shoulder bag?” He registered surprise, and she smiled grimly. “Hey, I’m a reporter. We’re nosy. I saw it when you got the batteries. Please don’t do anything—”

  “Karen, it’s time for you to go,” he said. “I need you to go now. Do you hear me?” She stared at him some more, and he repeated, “Do you hear me?”

  She smiled. “ ‘Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.’ ”

  Wulf blinked. “That’s—what? Shakespeare?”

  “The Tempest. A little joke I had going with your friend up at the house.”

  “He’s not my friend,” he said.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” she replied.

  Father and daughter stood there, regarding each other. She felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to touch him, to make physical contact, so she raised her hand and placed it gently on the side of his face.

  “I’ve only just found you,” she whispered, willing herself to keep the tears from her eyes. “I don’t want to lose you now. We don’t even know each other yet.”

  Her father raised a rough hand to cover hers on his cheek. He smiled in a hesitant, shy way and didn’t reply directly to her statement. Instead, he said, “I love you, Karen. I’ve always loved you.” He leaned down to kiss her lightly on her forehead, and then he said, “Go.”

  She nodded and moved aside to let him pass. He stepped down into the breakers and waded around the farthest boulder, then climbed up onto the escarpment. Karen followed him that far, standing in ankle-deep water and watching the imposing figure moving up the rock shelf, one hand securely placed over the shoulder bag that contained the scary-looking gun. When he reached the forest at the top, he paused and looked back at her. With a final smile and a wave of his arm, he continued on his way, marching off into the trees and out of sight.

  Only then, when he was gone, did she allow the tears to fall.

  —

  The Discs

  MARCH 13, 2009

  This is a day unlike any other day, ever, in the history of the world. I remember writing those words once before, on my fifteenth birthday. They were true then, and they are true now. This is the day I complete what I started a lifetime ago. This is the day that guarantees our immortality.

  He is here.

  I was up all night, eager for the morning. The storm finally died out at about four a.m., and I stood on the terrace, listening to the silence that followed it. When the sun rose just after five-thirty, how beautiful my island looked in the first light of day! Of course curiosity got the better of me, and I ventured out to see what I could see.

  I took the forest path across the ridge to the other end of the island, and that’s when I saw the Whaler tied to an outcropping of rocks. I stole closer to the Hangman caves, just to be sure. I crossed the shelf down to the water beside the farthest boulder and peered around it.

  He stood at the water’s edge, just in front of the biggest cave in the center, our Tintagel of long ago. He was gazing out at the water, glancing back occasionally at the cave entrance. Miss Tyler was probably inside—I’m sure they met up on this tiny island. He was deep in thought: I know that look of old. I felt a thrill of purest pleasure at the sight of him here, where he is supposed to be. Where he was always destined to be.

  I made my way back around the point until I reached the Whaler. I untied it and gave it a shove. It drifted a moment, then got caught in the northerly current, gliding off past the other end of the island into the open sea.

  Back at the house, I showered and changed, and I made breakfast. I’m on my second cup of coffee here at the computer in the office. I’ve turned off all the alarms and motion sensors, rather beside the point now that he’s here. He’ll be along directly, I should imagine….

  —

  Wulf moved carefully along the hilly ridge at the top of the island, scanning the dense tropical forest around him for signs of activity. Sunlight dappled the surface of the water far below him, on both sides of the island.

  He’d made up his mind what he was going to do back in New Mexico three days ago, reading that fax in the Trading Post under the watchful eyes of Yolanda Velasquez. Last night’s long vigil in the cave beside his sleeping daughter, with the storm howlin
g just outside, had only served to reinforce his resolve. Karen was more than Grace’s daughter, more than a living embodiment of the woman he’d loved. Karen was the one good thing he could point to in a life full of misfortune. And the greatest misfortune of all was his friendship with Rodney Lawson Harper. Today, one way or another, it would end. Otherwise, he’d never be free of Roddy.

  The difference between fourteen and sixty-four was clear: Wulf the boy had thought getting rid of his parents was an acceptable proposition, whereas Wulf the man had a better grasp of ethics, a hard-earned appreciation of the value of a human life. A lesson learned behind a succession of locked doors, in tiny cells, over long days and months and years when survival became his most important goal. He’d decided that he would always keep clear of his former friend. As long as Roddy was willing to go along with that arrangement, Wulf was content to ignore him and get on with life. But that wasn’t how it had played out; so, here he was, back on Hangman Cay.

  Now Wulf had something—someone—to defend. He must protect Karen, keep her safe, no matter what he had to do or what happened to him.

  The sun had fully risen, and the day was warm. A few drops clung here and there, and an occasional glint of sunlight on not-yet-dried pools of moisture. Clutching the shoulder bag and studying every shadow around him as he passed, he crept forward through the trees.

  —

  The Discs

  MARCH 13, 2009 (CONTINUED)

  I’ve collected an interesting assortment of toys for this enterprise. There were the security things, of course, and the rifles and this little revolver, not to mention the cell phone jammer. And I have one more device that I shall make use of presently….

  —

  Karen dried the tears from her eyes and went back to the cave. She collected her shoulder bag, leaving the machete where it lay on the cave floor, and set off through the shallows in the direction her father had pointed out to her. The slippery rock formations in the water all around the wide shelf at this end of the island proved relatively easy to climb over, as long as she watched out for sea urchins. There seemed to be an infinite number of these odd creatures tucked into the crevices in the half-submerged boulders, and she’d been warned about the extreme discomfort of coming into contact with them. She moved gingerly through the shallows, scrambling up and down the rocks as they arrived before her, shaded from the sun by the towering monoliths on her left.

  She came around a point that marked the corner between the south shore of the island and the eastern side, and paused to get her bearings. She stood on a flat boulder with the waves lapping around her wet sneakers. The cliffs no longer shaded her, and she raised a hand to shield her eyes from the harsh light that poured down on everything.

  The sparkle of sunshine on whitecaps blocked her vision, but she thought she caught a glimpse of something—a boat?—far out to sea. She couldn’t make out exactly what it was, or how far from shore, but it was too distant to hail. She could scream and yell and jump up and down here on these rocks, but no one aboard would be able to see her.

  Her father was on his way to the house, and Rodney Harper was not alone there. He was ably assisted by the hulking Carl Graves. Wulf had a gun, but Rodney and Carl were most certainly armed, too. Her father was marching into their lair, and they were two against one.

  She stood on the half-submerged boulder, breakers crashing at her feet, staring at the wet, rocky way before her. The Boston Whaler was just ahead, around the curve of the point, and she could reach it in a matter of minutes. She could start the motor and glide away, past the other end of Hangman Cay and due north to the big island in the distance. Whatever happened here, she wouldn’t be a part of it. She’d be free, safe, away. She could go to Tortola, then back to St. Thomas, New York, and Jim. Jim—she thought of his smiling eyes, his happy grin, the warm solidity of him as he greeted her in the airport terminal and folded her in his arms….

  Two against one.

  Karen was no coward. Wulf Anderman was her father, and he would never let anyone harm her. He was the man her mother had loved, and Grace’s memory was reason enough. Karen would not leave him to face those awful men alone. It was time to even the odds.

  She turned around and made her way back to the cave.

  —

  The Discs

  MARCH 13, 2009 (CONTINUED)

  This will be my legacy, this running diary of my wonderful plan. My notebook of fifty years ago is locked in this desk drawer along with these discs. But all that has been mere preface to this day….

  —

  Wulf crouched in the tall grass beside the ridge path, in the shade of a big flamboyant tree in full, bright red bloom. He could just make out the front of the house through thick leaves and vivid flowers. He drew the gun from his shoulder bag and checked it. Six rounds, one chambered. Eighteen more in the box in his bag, if it came to that.

  —

  Fifty years ago, Roddy had killed five people, and Wulf had heard of the gang fight in Raleigh that had left three men permanently disfigured, one of them blind. Two nights ago, Roddy had killed and dismembered the photographer from the Daily News, probably aided by this Graves character. Roddy would have to die; it was the only way to stop him. Wulf hadn’t thought further than that. He would finally become the killer the world had long thought him to be. He knew what would happen if he was apprehended.

  He slipped the loaded weapon back into his bag and shut his eyes, listening to the sounds of the island. The breeze, the faraway surf, and something else: music. It took him a moment to make out the faint strains from the direction of the house, but he nodded grimly to himself when he identified it. Wagner. Tristan und Isolde. Wulf knew it well.

  He inched forward on the ground, careful to keep himself concealed in the thick grass. He scanned the house and the patio for movement, but there was none. Everyone was inside. Karen should just be reaching the Whaler now. Wulf would time his entrance as a diversion: She’d have to pass this northern end of the island to reach Tortola. If he moved now, he could keep the house’s occupants busy while Karen slipped away.

  He was halfway to his feet when the assault came. There was a rustle and a crackling sound from behind him, and then something cold touched the back of his neck. The sudden jolt of electricity through his body sent him pitching forward into the grass, and everything went black.

  —

  The Discs

  MARCH 13, 2009 (CONTINUED)

  Wulf will take the ridge route. He won’t chance a walk in plain sight across the beach and up the stairs. The girl won’t be with him—he’d never allow that. He’ll approach with caution, but I’m ready for him….

  —

  Karen clutched the machete in her right hand as she moved along the ridge path, following the route her father had taken. The hot sun bore down on her, and leaves and branches scraped against her as she passed. She slowed when she arrived at the huge flamboyant tree beside the patio, listening. Music—Wagner, of course—was coming from the living room.

  She shrugged off her shoulder bag and left it beneath the tree, moving cautiously forward. She crossed the patio to the nearest corner of the house, pressing herself against the wall. There was a window a few feet to her left: the living room. Tightening her hold on the handle of the machete, she inched her way over to the opening and peered in through the glass.

  There they were, at the little chess table in the corner by the glass doors to the sundeck. Rodney Harper sat with his back to her, and her father was across the table from him, facing her window. But there was no chance of Wulf seeing her here; he was slumped forward, his head hanging. Karen felt a chill of dread as she studied his still figure, but then she saw that he was bound, tied to the chair with rope around his chest, his hands apparently cuffed behind the chair’s back. His head bobbed up and down slightly. He’d been drugged or subdued in some way, but he wasn’t dead. Rodney was wearing his safari suit again. As she watched, he bent down over the table, his arms moving, and she r
ealized that he was setting up the chess pieces on the board, preparing for a game.

  Karen’s first, wild instinct was to charge into the room, shouting and brandishing the machete, but common sense prevailed. Her father was unconscious, or close to it, and therefore unable to help in the attack. And if Rodney had overpowered Wulf and tied him to a chair, it was reasonable to assume he was now in possession of Wulf’s gun, not to mention any other weapon that he might have. Storming the citadel wasn’t an option.

  She was already moving, crouched down and creeping along the patio under the living room windows toward the front door. She passed it and pressed her face against the leaded glass window beside it, squinting in at the main hall and staircase and the gallery above. There was no one in this part of the house. The dining room to the left of the hall was also empty. She moved through the kitchen door and stood in the middle of the room, shivering in the sudden blast of air-conditioning, listening. She could just make out faint music through the closed swinging door to the main hall.

  She turned her attention to the door at the other end of the kitchen. It was shut, and no sound came from beyond it. This was the room of Carl and Molly Graves, the only likely place for them to be. Hoping against hope that she’d be able to convince Mrs. Graves to summon help somehow, she raised the machete up in front of her and moved over to the doorway. Holding her breath, she turned the handle, pushed the door open, and stepped into the darkened room.

  It took a moment for her vision to adjust, but then everything slowly materialized in all its horrific detail. A huge bed dominated the small, cramped space, and Karen could just make out the two figures lying on it. Mrs. Graves looked as if she might be asleep, but her husband was another matter. His shattered face was obscured by a mask of blood, which had trickled down onto the sheets and pillows and seeped into the mattress, soaking it.

  Staring at the bodies, Karen backed slowly to the doorway. She couldn’t take in the significance of it, the reason behind this carnage. When she could will herself to move, she turned and slipped out of the room, shutting the door behind her. She made it back through the kitchen and out the door to the patio before a wave of nausea forced her to stop and take in huge gulps of fresh air. Instinct propelled her on, across the short space to the outbuilding, the storehouse that had once been the kitchen. She leaned against the wall of the structure, her fevered mind racing.