It was for this same reason that the headsman’s clients were forced to receive the blade while lying on their backs. It gave them an opportunity to anticipate.
He moved closer, holding the ax in his left hand and raising it so that the blades were at eye level. He leaned forward and with his right hand seized the young man’s shoulder.
It was as if the boy had been jabbed with a firebrand. He jumped, twisting his head to see who had assailed him. His eyes were wide, and when they caught sight of the hooded figure they bulged in shock and fright. He struggled, but the headsman clamped him in a powerful grip, splaying him across the fender of the car. The boy was holding a wrench, and he writhed and bucked in an effort to bring it around so that he could strike the man in black.
His struggles were like those of a rat caught in a trap. The headsman tightened his grip, his thick, gloved fingers biting into the thin shoulder until the youth’s mouth opened and a cry of pain sounded over the hellish music.
At that point the boy managed to turn onto his back, so that he was facing his attacker. He swung the wrench, but the headsman blocked the blow by moving the ax a few inches to the left, the tool clanging as it bounced off the steel blade and fell to the floor. The headsman slammed the boy back down onto the fender and drove a massive knee into his groin.
He heard a groan, saw the youth’s eyes fill with tears of agony. The slender body grew limp, and resistance flowed out of him like grain from a leaking sack. Shifting his grip to his victim’s jaw, the headsman drew the youth away from the car and threw him to the floor.
For an instant it seemed as if he might somehow find the strength to regain his feet. He groaned again and tried to stand up. But the headsman sent a heavy boot crashing into his belly. The boy collapsed face down and lay sobbing for breath.
The headsman moved very deliberately. With the tip of his boot he rolled the youth over onto his back. He looked down at him, seeing the terror in his eyes, the expression of horror on his face. The boy’s mouth was wide open, but no sound came out of it. He continued to clutch his gut as he stared upward, lips drawn back from his teeth.
The headsman stomped down on the boy’s chest, paralyzing him. Then he rotated the axhead slowly, so that the youth could see the twin blades. He raised the instrument high in the air, holding it there for several seconds, as the boy’s lips formed the word no.
The aiming point was the larynx. The bulge it made in the slender throat provided a perfect target. Not only would it guide the blade to a point midway between jaw and thorax, but striking it would ensure a clean cut between the vertebrae. His muscles tensed, and he raised himself up onto his toes.
With great force he swung the ax.
3
Karen sat in the bath for a long time, replenishing the hot water and feeling her muscles slowly relax. She still had a slight headache, but that was nothing new; she’d had one in varying degrees of intensity for days. And no wonder. The tension lately had been damn near unbearable.
There’d been the strain of the Mariski experience, and that had left her feeling as if somebody had used her as a football. Getting up the courage to go to that family and tell them what she knew had happened to their son had been so difficult she still didn’t know how she’d done it. And as bad as it would have been under any circumstances, their reaction had made it much worse.
Mrs. Mariski had eyed her as if she were a freak—a creature compelled to tell lies. And her husband was at first suspicious and then disgusted, implying that Karen was out looking for a thrill, trying to involve herself in somebody’s misery purely for the sensation. Or that she just wanted to be part of the excitement. He hadn’t said it in those words, but that was what he’d seemed to think.
And then when she stood with him at the edge of the pond that morning, when she looked at the stone wall and the old barn and knew without any doubt about the awful bloated dead thing under the coating of snow and ice, he’d been so angry. As if it couldn’t be true—but if by some crazy fluke it was, then it had to be her fault.
After that had come the meeting with the chief of police. He’d seemed like a nice enough guy, but his probing had frightened and intimidated her. He’d tried to cover his feelings, but Karen had sensed that he too thought she was some kind of freak. All of it had been hideous, and she hoped fervently she’d never be faced with a situation like it again.
But wouldn’t she be? She’d had those terrible sightings of the man with the ax, and in a way that had been even worse. Still, she could rationalize that was different; they were just nightmares caused by awareness of the murder of that poor girl. Everybody was talking about how she’d been decapitated with an ax, and about the legend of the headsman. Those idiot salesmen at Boggs Ford had even made jokes about it. There had been news stories on TV and in all the papers, many of them going on about how this kind of thing had been happening in Braddock off and on for over two hundred years. So if Karen had been having nightmares after hearing and seeing so much of it, that was only to be expected.
Except for one thing.
She had seen the man with the ax before the girl’s mutilated body was discovered.
As much as she tried to push it away, the truth sat there in the deepest corner of her mind, laughing at her like some evil troll who enjoyed torturing her. Damn it, why couldn’t this power she had leave her alone? Why had she been singled out, as if she’d been given a special talent other people didn’t have? A talent that instead of being something she could develop and be proud of, like a great voice or a gift for dancing, was hurtful and mean, showing her events she didn’t want to see—events that were dark and horrible?
The thing had followed her all her life. When she was a small child, she saw her kindergarten teacher, Miss Eggert, driving her car at night on a country road. There was a horrendous crash, with torn metal and smoke and blood running, and Karen had screamed and screamed and even after her mother had taken her into her parents’ bed and let her spend the rest of the night there, she had lain awake until dawn, listening to her father snore, afraid to go back to sleep. And then in the morning when her mother took her to the kindergarten class in the annex of Hill Street School, there had been the shocking news that confirmed exactly what she’d seen in her vision.
Most of the time the images weren’t that clear. She would see only fragments, bits of action or parts of objects, often seemingly unconnected to actual events in her life. And there had been periods when she’d gone for months or even years without seeing anything. Even when important events took place, milestones in her life. When her father left them, for instance, when he just sort of slipped away one balmy summer evening, leaving them with no money and no apparent way of supporting themselves, she had neither sensed nor seen a thing.
And then during the years when she was growing up, the hard years when her mother worked as an office clerk in Shippensburg, the images had returned. Usually they were just brief snippets or hazy impressions. But there had been another kind of vision as well.
She was sixteen when the Collier boy had noticed her. He was a year older, a senior in the high school they attended, and by Karen’s standards he was rich. He drove a red BMW his father had given him, and his family lived in a stone and clapboard house that looked just like one Karen had seen on the cover of a magazine. His first name was Danny, and every girl Karen knew wanted him for a boyfriend.
He’d asked her to go to the movies with him and she was thrilled. She wore her new blue sweater that was a little on the tight side, which pleased her because it showed off her newly developed breasts and she was proud of them.
After the movie they drove out to a back road and parked, and Karen let him kiss her and touch her in the first real necking experience she’d ever had. He tried to go further but she stopped him—that time. The following week when his parents were out for the evening Karen went up to his room with him and they spent two wildly exciting, blissful hours in bed. She was in love then—blindly, madly in love
. It made no sense whatever, she was just a teenager, but if Danny had asked her to marry him she would have done it. She’d never felt anything like this; it was achingly wonderful.
Two days later she saw the images in her mind, as sharply defined as in a color photograph. She saw Danny naked, and he was with an older woman, a beautiful woman with dark eyes and dark hair, and she was masturbating him.
Karen was shocked and then angry with herself. The vision wasn’t true this time. It wasn’t real—it had nothing to do with reality. She’d made it up, imagined it, and in doing so she’d stained Danny. She’d made him dirty, and it was unfair of her and she was ashamed. She promised herself she’d never again permit such a filthy lie to enter her mind.
That Friday afternoon after school Danny drove her over to his house for Cokes and to listen to records and he introduced her to his mother. Karen had never met Mrs. Collier before but she recognized her the instant she saw her. She was the beautiful woman in Karen’s vision. After that day Karen never spoke to Danny again.
Eventually the vision had led to her leaving Shippensburg. She hadn’t been able to afford to go away to college but instead had attended Shippensburg University as a day student. Which wasn’t so bad, but wasn’t so good, either. Her mother tried to make it as pleasant as possible for her, encouraging her to invite friends to their shabby little apartment, but it was nothing like the college life she’d always hoped she’d have.
The vision was with her off and on during those years as well. Usually it was just a flash or an impression, but sometimes it was much more than that, and seeing the images took its toll. She became moody and withdrawn, often hating herself. Her friends drifted away, and even boys who were hungry for the girl with the chestnut hair and the big jugs and the great legs were put off when they found her glum and bitter much of the time.
So when her mother died of lung cancer just after Karen finished college, she had no reason to stay in Shippensburg. She came to Braddock to live with her widowed grandmother until she could afford a place of her own, hoping she could make a fresh start among people who didn’t know her, believing a change of scene might even put an end to the visions. But she learned soon enough that the one thing she couldn’t run away from was herself.
Tonight she felt she could stay in the bath for hours more, luxuriating in the hot water and the suds, but it was already past nine o’clock and there was a movie on TV she wanted to see. Reluctantly she stepped out of the tub and toweled herself down, shivering a little as the cool air touched her skin. She went into her room and put on pajamas and a robe and slippers and then went downstairs to the living room.
The house was small and simple but adequate for the two women. In fact, compared to what Karen had grown up in, it was opulent. Her grandmother apparently had already gone to bed, which was unusual, because the old lady liked to stay up late. Karen turned on the TV and tuned it to the channel carrying the movie.
It was a Clint Eastwood picture, one of his Dirty Harry stories, and it had just started. She liked Eastwood. He’d been so handsome when he was young, and now that he was older he didn’t try to hide the lines in his face or his receding hairline and she admired him for it. In a way middle age made him seem all the more masculine. She wished she knew a man like him—someone strong and dependable and uncomplicated, who would be tender and understanding toward her.
Instead of the jerks she did know. Her romance with Ted had definitely cooled—she was sure of it. Even though they’d gotten along well enough at first, sharing many likes and dislikes, enjoying each other’s company, the relationship eventually had gone the way of all the others. She’d become tense and irritable, often experiencing the headaches and the mood swings that had plagued her for so long, until he’d backed off. Even the sex they’d enjoyed had become more of a routine than a pleasure. She was sure now that she’d never hear from him again.
A commercial came on—some dopey thing about how eating Nabisco crackers would fill your life with love—and Karen went out to the kitchen to get herself a glass of milk. Her weight was okay but it was too easy for her to put on pounds; she had to watch it.
She put the milk carton back into the fridge and as she did a sensation passed through her head. It wasn’t painful exactly—not one of the smashing headaches she sometimes experienced—but more like a faint electric shock. She’d had them before, God knew, and she sensed what would happen next. She stood by the counter and closed her eyes, touching her temples with the tips of her fingers.
It was the man with the ax.
She saw him as clearly as if he’d been standing in front of her. He looked just the way he had the other time, monstrous in that black hood with the slanted eyes, and he was holding the ax in both hands. There was music, too—hard rock—and it was thunderously loud.
In a series of flashing images she saw him struggling with someone. There were bursts of light, and the fighting was violent. A young man with long brown hair strained and twisted in the headsman’s grip. Metal glinted as the young man swung a tool of some kind at his assailant.
The headsman slammed the boy to the floor and as he did Karen caught a glimpse of what looked like the front end of a car. Then the images speeded up and the action was herky-jerky, as in an old-time movie. The headsman raised the ax and the boy’s eyes were wide with terror and his mouth formed No!
The ax struck, and all Karen saw after that was blood. Torrents of brilliant red, splashing blood.
And then nothing.
She put her hand out to the counter to steady herself and as she did she knocked over the glass of milk.
Shit.
For a minute or so she couldn’t move to clean it up or even set the glass upright. Her head hurt and she felt faint. She closed her eyes again and opened them. Her stomach was turning over, and she thought she might fall.
All of it—the terrible burden of knowing what she’d witnessed—came down on her like some huge weight. There were times in her life when Karen wanted to die, and this was one of them.
She forced herself to move, to get out a sponge and paper towels. Then she set about cleaning up the mess.
Eight
THE SUSPECT
1
JUD ARRIVED AT police headquarters earlier than usual; it was only a few minutes past eight when he parked the cruiser in the town hall lot and went inside the building. He said good morning to Grady and the cop who’d just come off the midnight tour, and got himself a mug of coffee. Then he entered his office and hung up his cap and jacket before sitting down at his desk and going through the copies of the previous night’s reports.
A guy in a pickup truck had hooked another driver’s bumper in front of the Sears store on Main Street, and instead of simply exchanging insurance information these two characters had punched each other around. The investigating officer had issued summonses to both of them. It was funny, the way minor vehicle damage could get people so riled up they’d try to commit mayhem. Maybe it recalled primitive instincts, the kind of thing cowboys felt about their horses.
Whatever it was, people seemed to take on a whole new dimension of aggressiveness when they got behind a wheel. Put a guy in a driver’s seat and he was ready to do battle if anybody as much as brushed him or even crossed his path.
There had also been one domestic squabble, but that wasn’t much either: a guy who worked at Squam’s Dairy came home drunk and found his wife had locked him out. He broke a window to get in and she called the cops. By the time a patrol car arrived the guy had passed out. The whole thing was resolved when the cop helped the drunk’s old lady roll him into bed.
An altercation on Weaver Street had been more serious. Two young men had cut each other with knives in an argument over an issue that was unclear. The cops hauled both of them to the emergency room for a patch-up and then brought them in and booked them. They’d spent the night in separate cells.
That one caused Jud concern. Weaver Street was in the town’s black neighborhood, and
there had been reports lately of an increase in crack use. He’d look into it; if there was anything he didn’t want boiling up in Braddock it was a crack problem.
Pot he could live with. There was no way it could really be controlled anyway—the stuff was cheap and available anywhere. And while smoking it no longer had the cachet it once had, when if you blew grass you were making some kind of political statement, using it was still considered hip by a lot of kids.
Coke was even less of a worry, chiefly because it was so much more expensive. Some of the more well-to-do young people in town could afford a toot now and then, but by and large its use wasn’t all that common. As long as it stayed small-time and nobody got into trouble over it, Jud would leave it alone.
Of course, this kind of hard-headed acceptance was an attitude the cops kept to themselves. As far as the town was concerned, they were battling drugs tooth and nail, but as with any small-town police force, that was so much bullshit. If they really tried to run down everybody who bought, used or sold an illegal substance, they’d never have time for anything else.
Crack, on the other hand, was another thing entirely. For only a few bucks you could buy a high that would take you over the moon, and while you were on it anything was possible. The national crime statistics showed skyrocketing increases in crack traffic and homicide, with a direct link between the two. The mere thought of a crack epidemic could cause Jud to break out in a cold sweat. And right on the heels of crack was this new thing from the West Coast, something called ice. Where the hell was it all leading to? And did he really want to know?
The Headsman Page 20