A Penny for the Hangman

by Tom Savage

  It was difficult, but Wulf told the story—all of it—in a clear, steady voice. It was the story of two boys, sons of scandalous parents, teenage outcasts who clung together for friendship. A kind of friendship, anyway: The dark-haired one pulled the strings, and the blond one danced like a marionette. When the bolder of the two pronounced his crazy plan, the other went along at first, as he always did. He made only one demand: that the housekeeper, the innocent bystander, be spared. Only at the moment of truth did he waver. Faced with the reality of it, with a knife in his hand, he fainted and missed it all. He was tried and convicted, just the same, and he’d remained silent, sharing the other boy’s sentence. He’d decided that prison was exactly what he deserved—for the fifth victim. If he’d remained conscious, if he’d been brave, he might have stopped it. He endured twenty-two years of incarceration because he had failed to save Bernice Watkins. And he came here last night for two reasons: to save his daughter and to kill Rodney Harper.

  There were two people in the world who truly deserved to hear his story, and both of them were in this boat. He’d repeat it for Karen later, if there was a later. Now it was up to Gabriel Watkins. Only he could decide Wulf’s future.

  —

  The Discs

  MARCH 13, 2009 (CONTINUED)

  I will settle him beneath the tree, that blasted oak on the cliff, and then I shall climb it. The rope is ready. It will be our “Liebestod,” our love-death, Wulf’s and mine. They will find us there together, he lying peacefully in the shade and I swaying gracefully in the trade winds, suspended over the ocean from that branch where all those wonderful swaggering bad boys once met their glorious ends. One final pirate, one last grand gesture for Hangman Cay…

  —

  Karen sat on the edge of the bunk in the boat’s tiny, cramped cabin, watching over Molly Graves. She was acutely aware of the bound, gagged man on the opposite bunk, a mere three feet away, but she made a point of ignoring him.

  She’d examined Mrs. Graves, cleaning and bandaging the cuts and bruises, but she didn’t know what to do about the other injuries. Her nose was broken and at least one rib, and she was going to need dental work. Karen was relieved when the woman stirred, opening her undamaged eye and gazing around her.

  “Where—where am I?”

  “Shh,” Karen said. “Try not to move. You’re on the Turnabout, and we’re taking you to St. Thomas, to the hospital.”

  Mrs. Graves turned her head and looked past Karen, over at Rodney Harper on the other bunk. Then she looked up at Karen again. “Carl—he’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is,” Karen said. “I’m sorry.”

  The woman relaxed back on the pillow and shut her eyes. Tears began to slide down her battered face. Karen held Mrs. Graves’s hands in her own, resolving to find some way to repay this woman’s kindness to her. When she was certain Mrs. Graves was asleep, she let go of her hands and stood up. She glanced over at the cabin’s other occupant.

  Rodney Harper lay perfectly still on his bunk. Karen looked down at the cut on his bald dome and his bloody sleeve, debating whether or not to do something for him. Then she saw the eyes above the silver tape, the expression of pure hatred he aimed at her. She quickly turned away and left the cabin. The wind on the deck washed that look in his eyes from her, and she breathed easier. Her father was talking quietly to Gabriel Watkins, so she went over to sit on the aft bench, gazing back at Hangman Cay as it diminished in their wake.

  A great pillar of black smoke rose up from the house on the cliff, and the entire landscape around it was ablaze. The only thing she could make out clearly was the stark figure of the oak tree at the edge, outlined against the flames. The journalist in her relished the irony: It was the tree where the early settlers had strung up the predators among them, ensuring the safety and well-being of the innocent. That makeshift gibbet had no place in the world anymore; its time had come and gone. As she watched, the fire reached it and began to lick at the bark and branches. In moments, the old hanging tree was engulfed.

  From somewhere in the distance, she heard a wailing siren and the buzzing of approaching helicopters. Two of them glided across the sea from Tortola toward the burning island, with the fireboats not far behind them. Only the thick stone walls would remain by the time they arrived there, and the contents of the storehouse would be destroyed. Good. She turned to face forward, and she didn’t look back again.

  A little while later, her father came back to sit beside her on the bench. She should have been surprised when he held out a cell phone to her, but she wasn’t. This man carried flashlight batteries in his shoulder bag: She was getting used to his quiet efficiency.

  He indicated Gabriel at the wheel. “He says to wait till we’re close to shore, then you’ll get a signal. But don’t stay on too long; it’s his ‘family phone.’ ”

  Karen nodded, regarding the back of Gabriel Watkins as he steered. Her gaze dropped to the family photo taped to the dash, and she noticed that now there was another picture beside it, an old black-and-white snapshot of a plump, smiling woman she recognized from her research. Now that the villains had been apprehended and Gabby’s true identity had been revealed, his mother had taken a place of honor beside the grandchildren and great-grandchildren she hadn’t lived to see.

  Karen felt a surge of emotion rise up in her, and she reached over to grasp her father’s hand. He returned the pressure, not speaking, not even looking a question. He was obviously getting used to her, too.

  “So,” Karen said at last, “what happens now?”

  Wulfgar Anderman shrugged, and a long sigh escaped him. “The minute I set foot on St. Thomas, I go right back to prison. Gabriel knows that.”

  Karen nodded and flipped open the phone. As she punched in the familiar number, she squeezed her father’s hand again. The call was answered immediately.

  “Hi, Jim,” she said, “it’s me. I’m sorry it’s been so long….”

  —

  The Discs

  MARCH 13, 2009 (CONCLUSION)

  They will find the three crates in the storehouse. My wish is that we be buried on the cliff, under that tree, together for all time. What really happened fifty years ago is unimportant in the great scheme of things. What matters is the legend, the one the world believes to be true. These are the words etched in gold on the black granite stone—our single, joint monument:

  RODNEY LAWSON HARPER

  MAY 26, 1943–MARCH 13, 2009

  AND

  WULFGAR NILS ANDERMAN

  AUGUST 4, 1944–MARCH 13, 2009

  TOGETHER IN FAME ON MARCH 13, 1959

  TOGETHER IN DEATH ON THEIR GOLDEN ANNIVERSARY

  Rodney Harper

  Hangman Cay

  March 13, 2009

  —

  Gabby nodded to Karen Tyler as she returned the cell phone to him. When she was back on the bench with Anderman, he made a quick call. A while later, a speedboat pulled away from one of the docks and raced toward them. Gabby cut his engine as it came alongside, and the native man at the wheel tossed Gabby a line, securing their temporary connection. He gave Gabby a thumbs-up and pointed off toward the island.

  Gabby spoke to Karen Tyler. “This is Curtis. He’ll take you to the Reef, where Lieutenant Faison is waiting for you. You can talk to him, then Curtis will take you to the airport.”

  Wulf Anderman jumped up from his seat. “Are you serious?”

  Gabby pointed to the dinghy tied behind the Turnabout. “You notice that my Whaler is back where it belongs. When I saw Harper set it adrift this morning, I knew something was up, and I figured you were in trouble. When she told me you were her dad, I knew all I needed to know. So, I called Curtis, and Curtis called Faison. Go along, the two of you. I’ll take care of the others.”

  Now Karen Tyler was on her feet, too, and they both stared at him. Wulf Anderman said, “Is Faison going to arrest me?”

  Gabby didn’t feel much like smiling today, of all days, but he very nearly did. He ca
refully concealed it from them. He said, “Now, why would he want to arrest you, Mr. Brown?”

  The girl surprised Gabby: She stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek. Her eyes were glistening.

  “Thank you,” she whispered into his ear.

  Gabby nodded again, then he picked up the two shoulder bags and handed them down to Curtis. He helped Karen Tyler into the speedboat and turned to face Wulfgar Anderman.

  Anderman was watching him intently. “Are we square?”

  Gabby returned the man’s gaze. “I reckon so.”

  “What will you do now?” Anderman asked him.

  Gabby looked over at the photos beside the wheel. His wife, his sons, their wives, his grandchildren—everyone was smiling. Bernice, in the picture beside them, was smiling, too. Karen Tyler sat in the speedboat, waiting for her father, and her face as she gazed up at them said it all. The monster that had killed Gabby’s mother was lying on a bunk in the cabin. Fifty years ago, Wulfgar Anderman had been a lonely, abused fourteen-year-old, and he’d spent his whole life since then suffering for it. That girl in the boat, looking up with her hopeful smile, was going to change all that.

  “I’m going home,” Gabby told him. “And you should, too.”

  He held out his hand, and after a moment, Wulfgar Anderman took it. Then he climbed down to sit beside his daughter. Gabby tossed Curtis the line, and the boat sped away, around the point toward Charlotte Amalie. He watched it disappear, then he started the engine of the Turnabout.

  The Turnabout. That had been his private joke, the naming of his vessel. It was one of his wife’s favorite aphorisms: Turnabout is fair play. Alma would be relieved that it was over, once and for all. She’d never approved of his plan in the first place. He’d waited all these years for vengeance, but at the last possible moment, the machete in his hand, he just couldn’t strike the blow. He wasn’t a killer like Rodney Harper, and he never would be. But now he had a new way—a better way—to honor his mother.

  When he docked at the marina, two men came aboard with a stretcher and carried Mrs. Graves away to the waiting ambulance. Gabby stepped onto the dock, watching as a tall, awkward native man in a starched VIPD uniform ambled down to join him.

  “Afternoon, Gabby,” the young man drawled.

  “Hey, Brick. Are you here for the prisoner?”

  Officer Wall’s eyes widened in excitement. “Prisoner? Wow! The boss said I should report to you when you got here, but he didn’t say why. You got a prisoner in your boat?”

  The two men with the stretcher came back and boarded. The gangly policeman stared as they brought their second patient out onto the dock. The bound and gagged Rodney Harper was writhing on the pallet, glaring furiously around at everyone. The policeman took an involuntary step back.

  “One moment,” Gabby said to the technicians, and they stopped. “Brick, I want you to arrest this man.”

  Officer Wall was delighted. “Wow! I’ve never arrested anybody before. Umm, why am I arresting him?”

  Gabby looked over Brick’s shoulder as the reporters and photographers rushed down toward the dock. They’d obviously intercepted Curtis’s call to the VIPD, and they’d made it here in record time. A crowd had gathered, everyone craning to see what was going on, and tourists and locals were holding up cell phones and snapping away. The TV people were setting up cameras, preparing on-the-spot broadcasts. Gabby took in the circus. He’d been wise to get rid of Anderman and his daughter before sailing into this. He turned back to the officer.

  “Well, for now, you can just charge him with violating the terms of his release and criminal trespassing.”

  “Okay.” Brick scratched his head. “Umm, I gotta have his name if I’m gonna arrest him. Who is he, Gabby?”

  For the first time that day, Gabriel Watkins actually smiled.

  “Son,” he said, “get ready to have your picture taken.”

  New York City

  I was throwing clothes into a suitcase when the phone rang. It was the afternoon of Friday, March 13, 2009, and I was on my way to the airport for a flight to St. Thomas. I snatched up the phone, hoping against hope that it was one of the VIPD cops I’d been pestering since that morning, when the hotel confirmed that Karen hadn’t been seen there for three days.

  It wasn’t the police.

  “Hi, Jim, it’s me. I’m sorry it’s been so long, but I—Jim? Jim, what’s wrong?”

  I must have cried out. The surge of relief that coursed through me when I heard her voice actually buckled my knees, causing me to sink heavily down onto the couch.

  “Karen! Karen!” The words came out of me as a strangled croak. I fumbled for something else to say, perhaps a coherent sentence, but all I could manage was another inane “Karen!”

  It took me a long time and several more phone calls from various locations to be caught up with all the details, but I got the gist of it from that first conversation. The next time I heard from her, Karen was high above the Atlantic—on her way to Denmark, of all places—and she was giving me instructions about the package she’d mailed to me from St. Thomas. She also told me that the man with her was Wulfgar Anderman. Her father.

  The package arrived here a few days later, and it was soon followed by another phone call and this typically Karen email:

  Hi Jim,

  Greetings from Copenhagen! I know you’ve been here—you’ve been everywhere—but I enjoy being a tourist. This is where Daddy wanted to come when we fled St. Thomas. I’ve attached some pix of us at Tivoli and me at the Little Mermaid statue. The lady next to me is Rina Kendricks—she’s the daughter of Hjordis Anderman’s best friend, Bridget Haller.

  I met “Aunt Brid,” and she’s marvelous—88 and still going strong! She and Rina were understandably nervous about receiving Daddy, but he had a long talk with them, and they insisted on meeting me. Brid told me some wonderful stories about my grandmother and herself when they were girls. There aren’t any Andermans or Olands alive anymore, so that’s one hurdle he won’t have to jump. But these family friends have been kind to him. Rina even took us to see his mother’s house. I know it meant a lot to him. Nobody mentions his father the doctor, and that’s fine with him, too.

  What a beautiful city! This morning I went into Sankt Ansgars Kirke to light a candle for Mom, and something weird happened on the way back from the church. There’s a supermarket near our hotel, so I stopped in there on the off chance they might have imported M&Ms here (they do!), and what do you suppose was playing on the sound system? “We Are the Night.” Ugh! I was glad that Daddy wasn’t there to hear it.

  Daddy and I have decided to come home sometime after his birthday, August 4, so let’s plan on a September wedding, okay? I’ll call you again before we leave Denmark. If you’re serious about taking up the story I couldn’t bring myself to continue, go for it. It’s a good idea. Usually I’d say I can’t wait to read it, but in this case I think I can. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to read it.

  BCNU L8R! XOXOXO! IU!

  —Karen

  Hangman Cay is technically British, but everyone involved was American, so England let the U.S. deal with Rodney Harper. There was no trial, just a plea hearing in St. Thomas. He was offered life without parole, and he took it. Gabriel Watkins and Officer Wall—now Sergeant Wall, if you please!—were the only witnesses. Karen and “Mr. Brown” were not called, nor Mrs. Graves. Lieutenant Faison read their statements, but he kept them out of it.

  Wulf moved to New York; he lives near us in the Village. He gave his house in New Mexico to Jorge and Yolanda Velasquez. Their baby was a boy, and they named him Juan after their benefactor, Mr. Jonathan Brown. He also gave an undisclosed sum to Mrs. Graves, who’s back in North Carolina. She used her new fortune to buy a place with a garden. Roses and geraniums.

  My parents adore Wulf, especially Dad. It seems the Pulitzer-winning future Nobel laureate is a secret fan of action-packed thrillers, and Jonathan Brown is one of his favorites. The fact that Jonathan Brown is really Wulfga
r Anderman is even more appealing. Mom and Dad are forever throwing parties for him, to introduce him to Mom’s divorced or widowed girlfriends. Poor Wulf doesn’t stand a chance against all this good will. But he enjoys his new life, now that he’s with his daughter.

  It seems appropriate that the one who began all this fifty years ago should have the last word. It is the final entry in the schoolbook journal, written the night before the original murders. He was fifteen years old—I have trouble remembering that whenever I read it. Here it is, anyway, and you can make of it what you want.

  Me, I’m off to join my wife and her father for dinner.

  —

  Rodney Harper’s Diary

  MARCH 12, 1959

  Tomorrow, as evening falls on St. Thomas, the four people we hate most in the world and a negligible servant will die at our hands. Wulf will do it because my faithful friend can deny me nothing. He’s made me promise not to kill the maid, but he’ll soon see the wisdom of getting rid of her.

  And I? Why am I doing it? “What I’ve dared, I’ve willed; and what I’ve willed, I’ll…do!” Mrs. Gould would be so proud of me for remembering my Melville. I shall do this extraordinary thing because I am extraordinary!

  I’ve read everything I can find about Lizzie Borden, and the poem they made up about her is the most attractive thing about her story. Well, I’ve saved everyone the trouble of making up a poem commemorating our audacity. I wrote it in English class last week, while Mrs. Gould was droning on about Anne Frank’s The Diary of a Young Girl. Here it is:

  “The Cost of the Kill” by Rodney Harper

  Sixpence for the mistress,

  Fivepence for the queen,

  Fourpence for the housemaid