The Headsman

by James Neal Harvey

  When Sally finished her typing she ran it off on a printer and gave the pages to Maxwell’s secretary. Jud heard her say, “Be sure Ray sees this.” Then she got her coat out of a closet and he helped her on with it.

  As they went out the door he said, “That another one of your feature stories?”

  “Yes, and it’s terrific.”

  “You gonna let me in on it, or do I have to wait to get my copy?”

  “No, I’ll tell you about it. You remember the little boy who drowned in Kretchmer’s pond? Name was Mariski?”

  Jud’s antenna went up. “What about him?”

  They got into the Blazer, and as Jud started the engine and pulled away from the curb she said, “I had a tip on it today. I heard that a woman told the Mariskis where the boy’s body was. The woman saw it in a vision.”

  Jud felt his stomach sink.

  “So I called Mrs. Mariski and asked her if I could talk to her about it. At first she didn’t want me to. But then I went over there, and she told me the whole story. How this young woman came to their house right out of the blue and told them exactly where the boy was. She said he was in Kretchmer’s pond. And get this. The woman described the pond, even though she’d never been there. Is that strange?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, don’t you think it is? Mrs. Mariski said the woman didn’t even know the name of the pond. She just knew that’s where their boy was. Her husband didn’t believe the woman. He thought she was a fake, just out to give herself some kind of a sick thrill—you know how some people are? If there’s trouble they’re fascinated. They want to get near it. They’re like groupies, only what turns them on is disaster.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But Mariski was wrong. He stewed about it, and then finally he called the cops and said he thought maybe the boy had been fooling around on the ice at Kretchmer’s. You know the rest—they dragged the pond and found his body in less than an hour.”

  “Um.”

  “Well, is that all you’ve got to say—just um?” I think it’s a great story. It’s so odd, the way she knew exactly where to look.”

  “Is that the end of it?”

  “Of course not. I’m too good a reporter for that. I called the woman right after I left Mrs. Mariski. Her name is Karen Wilson, and she works for Boggs Ford as a secretary. Came here last summer from Shippensburg. She had a fit when I told her who I was. Refused to see me. But I told her if she wouldn’t talk to me I’d just run Mrs. Mariski’s version of the story. So finally she agreed to meet me and discuss it. When I saw her, all she did was try to talk me out of it. Which was obviously her real reason for agreeing to see me. When I tried to pin her down she was very evasive, but I kept after her and she more or less admitted what Mrs. Mariski told me was true. But she kept trying to downplay it, telling me it was just a hunch.”

  “So? Maybe it was.”

  “Hey, whoever heard of anybody pulling off a thing like that with just a hunch?”

  “Then how do you think she did it?”

  “Maybe she’s psychic. She knew because she received a message.”

  “A message.”

  “Oh, Jud—I don’t believe in parapsychology any more than you do. And yet something came to her. Somehow she got some kind of a signal or something and she took Philip Mariski directly to where his son’s body was. So whether you or I believe in telepathy, or extra-sensory perception, or anything else doesn’t matter. That’s what happened. It’s strange, but it’s also one great story.”

  They were approaching Armando’s. It was an old country house the restaurateur had converted so that the first floor contained a bar, two dining rooms and the kitchen. He’d also had the exterior painted purple, for some unfathomable reason.

  Jud wheeled the Blazer into the parking lot. As they got out and he guided Sally up the walk he wondered how long it would take her to come up with her next brilliant idea, knowing just what it would be.

  “I tried to get more out of her,” Sally said. “You know, background stuff. I asked her how long she’d had this ability, and if she’d ever used it for anything like this before. But she wouldn’t tell me. Just kept brushing it all off.”

  He opened the front door and they went inside. Armando’s was a popular restaurant, combining good food with a pleasant atmosphere. There were red leather banquettes that were cozy for couples to sit on side by side, which was one of the reasons he’d chosen it. As he checked their coats he saw that the place was crowded. Several people were ahead of them, waiting for tables.

  Armando himself spotted Jud and moved toward them with a wide grin on his face and his arms extended. “Hey, Chief. It’s good to see you. Welcome to my restaurant.” He gave Jud a hug and then turned to Sally. “This your lady? Beautiful.” He grabbed her hand and kissed it. She was wearing a red dress and a gold chain necklace and Jud had to agree she looked wonderful.

  Armando stepped toward the dining rooms. “Come on, follow me. I gotta nice table for you.”

  He led them past the people who were waiting, and when they were seated he clapped his hands and a waiter scurried over. Armando told him to take the Chief’s drink order and to make it quick, and after getting it the waiter hurried off.

  “What’s good tonight?” Jud asked.

  “Everything. But the veal rollatini is very special.”

  “Great, we’ll try it.” He glanced at Sally. “Okay with you?”

  “Sounds fine.”

  “Okay,” Armando said. “You leave the rest to me. I’ll take care of everything for you.”

  When he’d left them Sally said, “No wonder you like coming here.”

  “It’s a nice place, and as you just saw, I’m famous.”

  “Not yet you’re not, but you will be if you stick with me.”

  “The great writer?”

  “Of course. And you knew me when.”

  The waiter brought a bourbon on the rocks for Sally, a beer for Jud. They touched glasses and drank, and she said, “The story I was telling you about? At first Maxwell was a little reluctant, too. But one thing about Ray, he’ll run anything he thinks will sell newspapers.”

  “So I gather.”

  “But you wait and see, I wrote a really good piece.”

  “Can’t wait to read it.”

  She missed the irony in his tone. “That’s better. Be sure to let me know what you think. Which reminds me—there’s something I wanted to ask you. Did Mariski tell the police anything about the psychic when he had you drag the pond?”

  He stiffened. “I heard something, but I didn’t pay much attention. It sounded kind of way out to me.”

  “So you didn’t believe it?”

  “Like I said, I didn’t pay too much attention. The boy’s body was recovered, and that was what counted.”

  Their first course arrived, angel’s hair pasta tossed with basil and butter. When he tasted it, Jud realized how hungry he was.

  “So that gave me another idea,” Sally said.

  Here it comes, he thought.

  “Now don’t tell me I’m crazy, but just listen to what I have to say, okay?”

  He nodded resignedly, his mouth full of pasta.

  “Why not talk to this Wilson woman and see if she can tell you anything about the headsman?”

  “Mm.”

  “All right, I knew you’d say it was a little nuts, but think about it. What would you have to lose? Nobody’d have to know about it, either.”

  “Except you.”

  Her eyes widened. “Well, sure, except me. I just gave you the idea, didn’t I? Oh, I see. You’re afraid of what I might write about it—is that it?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Okay, look. I give you my word of honor, I wouldn’t write anything that would upset anybody or hinder anything you were doing. Fair?”

  “No.”

  “No? What do you mean, no?”

  He put his fork down. “Listen. The case is tough enough as it is. Most of the
people in Braddock already believe the headsman came back and killed Marcy Dickens. They don’t even consider any other possibility.”

  “Except maybe that the Harper boy did it after all?”

  “I don’t think they pay much attention to that, either. As far as they’re concerned, the killer was the headsman. So now, as if that wasn’t bad enough, you want to write stories that say the chief of police is lighting candles and looking into a crystal ball or whatever.”

  “Oh, Jud—be reasonable. I still think it’s a great idea, and for all you know it could be valuable to you. The fact is, she found that boy. You can’t take that away from her, regardless of how you may feel about it.”

  When their entrees were served, Jud ordered a bottle of Chianti. The rollatini was everything Armando had said it was and then some. Jud never ate veal at home; it was too much trouble to fix. Steak was much easier. Couple of minutes under the broiler and there you had it. But this was superb. The veal slices were paper thin and very tender, rolled around a marvelously spicy stuffing. Along with them was a baked dish that combined zucchini with tomatoes and peppers and mushrooms, and on the side a tossed salad with gorgonzola dressing. There was also plenty of Armando’s renowned homemade bread. Sally ate lightly, but Jud waded in like a trencherman.

  She wasn’t about to give up. After the waiter refilled their wine glasses she said, “How about this idea? And don’t get mad, just hear me out. Suppose I promise not to write a thing about this angle until the case is broken?”

  “So now you’re off in a new direction? A few days ago you were telling me I ought to go on the assumption that the headsman was real.”

  “Hey, will you try not to be so pigheaded?”

  “Me? I’m the one who’s pigheaded?”

  “You certainly are. I made that suggestion, if you’ll recall, because it was the one idea you hadn’t thought of.”

  “The answer is still no deal. I don’t want to mess with some woman who claims to be telepathic and then have you write a story on it.” He should have left it at that, but he didn’t. “Even though you think all this could be your ticket to a great job on a big-time newspaper.”

  She thrust out her jaw. “Now that’s not fair. I’m just trying to do the best I can. I’m a reporter, and this case is certainly the biggest thing I’ve ever worked on. No matter what happens, I’m going to make the most of it.”

  “Okay, take it easy. I understand.” He tried to make small talk after that, staying away from the subject of Karen Wilson and the headsman altogether. But his mind kept churning the problem. If Karen suspected complicity between Sally and the cops—especially with Jud himself—he could forget about any further help from her. As it was, Sally’s story in the Express tomorrow could stir up trouble. From what he knew of Karen Wilson, she’d be devastated. The thing she feared most was the possibility that the media would get a line on her psychic power and begin to exploit it. And now here was Sally leading the way.

  The other side of the coin was almost as grim. If Sally were to learn about the time he’d already spent with Karen Wilson she’d accuse him of deceiving her. Which was just too damn bad. His job was to run a police department, not to worry about the interests of a newspaper reporter—even if she was his girlfriend. All that part of it did was complicate things further. Christ. Everyplace he looked, he saw hornets.

  They refused dessert but had coffee, small cups of strong, rich espresso.

  Karen put her hand on his. And then she turned his mood around with one sentence. “Now let’s forget all these silly arguments and go to my place—I’ll bet you have some interesting ideas of your own.”

  He grinned. “I do, and they’re all obscene.”

  “Wonderful.”

  He signaled the waiter for the check.

  2

  Her apartment was on the top floor of a four-story building on Water Street. She’d told him one of the things she liked about living there was that she could walk to work, which she said was good for her figure. He knew she also went through a lengthy routine of calisthenics each morning, and sometimes she put on a sweatsuit and jogged a mile or two before her shower and breakfast.

  Whatever it was, the figure was terrific. She was full-breasted and her belly was taut and flat, her buttocks and legs smoothly rounded. Whenever he saw a layout in one of the skin magazines, he inevitably made a comparison of the girl in the picture with Sally, and Sally always won. But then, he was prejudiced.

  He was feeling fine by the time they reached the apartment, full of good food and a little flushed from the wine, but most of all he was excited by the prospect of what was to happen next. He promised himself he’d take his time, make every move last as long as possible. No matter how many times he’d undressed her, going about it just this way, very slowly and deliberately, it never failed to get him so excited he felt like a kid going to bed with a girl for the first time in his life.

  She put on some mellow, dreamy music and turned the lights down, and then she kicked the rug back from the parquet floor and folded herself into his arms. The music was awful—some saccharine thing with strings and a rippling piano—but the beat was right in sync with his mood. It was steady and pulsing and Sally pressed her body against his and moved with him as if they were joined together. By the time the music ended and he eased her into the bedroom he could almost taste her.

  He started with the blouse. It was made of light, slippery material—silk, probably—and it fastened down the front. He turned her around so that he was tight against her rear end and as she felt him pressing against her she squirmed a little. He undid the buttons one at a time, starting from the top. The music playing in the living room drifted into the bedroom as fragile as smoke. He kissed her neck as he worked on the buttons, and she nuzzled him with her cheek.

  When he got her blouse open he didn’t pull it off but instead draped it back from her shoulders. He put his hands under her breasts, continuing to kiss her neck, moving his lips down to the hollow where it joined her shoulder. He held her like that for a long time, his hands barely moving, just enough so that she could feel him caressing her.

  His fingers moved to the front of the bra, and he deftly unhooked it. Then her breasts were free and he was stroking them, his fingers lightly brushing over her nipples, feeling them grow erect. She’d begun to make little whimpering sounds in her throat, and he knew what that meant. He slipped the blouse away from her and tossed it to one side. It floated to the floor like gossamer.

  Then she turned around again to face him, and her eyes had that wanton look he loved. They were half-closed, but he could see the fire in them. He kissed her hard then, her mouth opening to him and her tongue probing. She put her arms around his neck and stood on her tiptoes and he held her buttocks in his hands, feeling the tautness as she strained against him. She pulled back, and her fingers went to his belt buckle, fumbling to get it open.

  They were standing at the foot of the bed. Jud pulled her bra away and flipped it to the floor. Then he placed both hands on her shoulders and shoved just hard enough to make her topple over. She lay on her back, the hungry expression on her face deeper now, and he unbuttoned her skirt and pulled it off. She’d kicked off her shoes, and that left only her pantyhose. He reached down and took hold of them by the waistband, peeling them off. When he drew them down to her buttocks she arched her back so that he could get them down, and as he pulled them off the fragrance of her came up to his nostrils and he could feel his pulse pounding in his temples. She lay before him, watching, and it took an effort to stay with the slow, steady pace.

  He took almost as much time removing his own clothes as he had hers. She kept her eyes on him through every second of it, staring at the broad shoulders and the heavy pectoral muscles as the shirt came off. When he got down to his shorts, she raised herself up on her elbows for a better view. He pushed her back down again.

  He began by kissing her. All of her. Her mouth and her eyes and her ears and her throat, her back a
nd her buttocks. He kissed the soles of her feet and licked her toes until she shivered. Then he lay between her legs and buried his face in the hot sweet musk of her. His head was whirling now, his heart pounding as she writhed and moaned.

  After that he had no concept of the passage of time or the exact order in which things happened. They went through a slow-motion ballet, sweat glistening on their bodies, twisting and turning, trading places, moving in the rhythm of love.

  Later they lay quiet in each other’s arms, warm and relaxed and content. When Jud opened his eyes he realized the music had stopped. The room was silent.

  “Jud?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Do you love me?”

  “Yes. Of course I do.”

  She snuggled closer and seemed to doze, as if his reply had reassured her, leaving her secure and happy.

  Did he love her? Not just enjoy her company both in and out of bed, but really care for her with all the commitment the term meant? Absolutely. He had for some time, in fact had almost taken it for granted they’d be married, perhaps within the year. But the relationship suddenly seemed different.

  Why?

  It was because Sally was different, he realized. She was the same bright, enthusiastic, interesting young woman who’d dazzled him from the first time he’d seen her, but now she was showing him a dimension he’d never known existed. You could call it ambition, but it was more than that. What this case had provided wasn’t just an opportunity to do well in her job; it had given her the chance to perform on a level much higher than probably even she had imagined she was capable of. And so her horizons had broadened, and she’d gained confidence. And she’d never again be the same person he thought he knew.

  Then too, the momentous events of the last few days had changed Jud as well. It was strange, the way you could work to organize your life, thinking you had everything in hand, that you were going in exactly the direction you’d set for yourself, and then in an eyeblink something could happen to make you see you had no more control over your fate than if you were a speck of dust tumbling in the wind. And could also make you see that what you’d been so rock-solid sure of wasn’t necessarily true at all.