The Headsman

by James Neal Harvey

  1

  JUD WAS LUCKY to get home, even with the car’s snowtires and its limited-slip rear end. He had to crawl along the icy roads at a pace not much faster than walking, and twice he narrowly avoided sliding off into a ditch. When he reached his cottage he parked the Plymouth out front and decided to leave it there. For the rest of the night he’d use the Blazer. Only a vehicle with four-wheel drive would be able to move in this storm.

  Once inside he kicked off his brogans, which were soaked through, and then stripped and went into the shower. The hot needle spray was restorative, helping to soothe and relax muscles stiff from tension.

  When he’d toweled down he put on a fresh uniform and heavy wool socks and a pair of hunting boots that came almost to his knees. He went into the kitchen and cracked a can of beer, and by the time he’d drunk it he was feeling better. He tossed the empty into the garbage and stuffed a frozen chicken something or other into the microwave. While it was cooking he got himself another beer. He didn’t turn on the TV, because he didn’t want to see himself being held up in front of the world as Chief Asshole in the little village of Braddock.

  He thought of Sally. She’d been among the crowd of reporters at the press conference earlier, and seeing her had added to his embarrassment. He hoped she’d left her office and gone home by now, but knowing her as he did she was probably still there. He went into his bedroom and called the Express, and the woman who answered said she’d left some time ago. That was a relief. Then he tried her home number and got no answer. Maybe she’d stopped for something on the way. He’d try her later.

  The meal was ready after a few minutes, and he ate it absent-mindedly, hardly tasting what he was putting into his mouth. When he finished he shoved the tray into the garbage pail and went into the living room, carrying his beer. He was still hungry; frozen dinners apparently had been concocted to feed dwarfs. But the hell with it. He wasn’t about to heat up another one, and besides, he had to get back to the stationhouse.

  Outside the storm was in full stride, the wind very strong. It rattled the roof and moaned in the tall pines that stood on the slope just beyond the cottage. This was no night to be anywhere but inside. As a matter of fact, it would be great to be able to stay right here. He’d build a big fire, get out the Gibson and play for hours, drink about a hundred beers. Best way in the world to get his mind off his troubles.

  But forget it. Stormy winter nights were when a cop earned his paycheck and then some. The worst times he could remember during his years on the force had been on nights like this one. There would be at least one more bad wreck, and if the snow kept falling a number of people would be stuck in their cars. One or two might be stupid enough to leave their vehicles and try to make their way on foot, and it was a good bet they’d wind up frozen stiff. The police usually had a couple of those every winter.

  Reluctantly, with one more longing glance at the guitar case leaning against the wall next to the fireplace, he returned to the kitchen and tossed away his empty beer can. From the back hall closet he got out his fur cap and put it on, then hauled on his fleece-lined oilskin. He turned off the lights and clumped out to the garage where the Blazer was parked.

  2

  The door on the side porch remained unlocked. The headsman turned the knob slowly and silently, then stepped inside, his ears alert to catch the slightest noise. But the hallway was dark and quiet, the only sounds distant ones. From the front of the house came the burble of a television set, and from the floor above him drifted the thump and wail of rock music.

  He closed the door and paused, listening. Melting snow dripped from the ax he held in his right hand and trickled down his black clothing. He placed one foot on the first tread of the stairs and began to climb, intent on moving silently. There were two people up in that room, and surprise was essential.

  This was different from when he’d gone to the Dickens house. At that time he’d wanted to make noise, because he wanted the girl to hear his heavy footsteps on the staircase and be terrified. He saw her now in his mind’s eye, recoiling from him, her hands extended as if to ward him off, her mouth working, her eyes popping. And then her features had grown even more contorted as she saw the ax rise higher and higher, until it began its journey downward, the glittering blade plunging toward her throat.

  But tonight he had to move quietly. When he reached the landing he saw that he was in a hallway. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he could make out that there were doors farther on, but only the nearest one had light showing from underneath it. That would be the girl’s room, at the rear corner of the house. It was where she’d led the Swanson boy and where they had been when the headsman saw them through the window.

  Many minutes had passed since the boy had entered the room. They’d be rolling around in her bed by now. The headsman could envision them grunting and straining, their bodies slick with sweat. He placed his ear against the door of the room, but all he heard from inside was the relentless pounding of the music.

  Very gently, he gripped the knob and turned it. The door was locked. That meant he’d have to alter his plan somewhat, but not much. With what they were doing, they’d be unaware of what was happening until he was virtually on top of them. They would look up from the bed and he would be there, and they would be convulsed by fear, just as Marcy Dickens had been. And Buddy Harper.

  And Janet Donovan.

  And the others.

  Even though his gloves were wet, his grip on the haft was tight and secure. He raised the ax, and his nostrils picked up the faint odor of oil from the polished steel. With great care, he placed one of the razor-sharp blades in the crack of the door, where the tongue of the lock met the striker. Then he flexed the heavy muscles of his shoulders and set himself.

  3

  By the time he got his clothes off, throwing his parka and sweater one way, his shirt another, and stumbling out of his jeans, Billy was ready to come. That actually happened to him sometimes, he’d get so excited. But when it did it wasn’t such a big deal—within minutes he’d be ready to go again. The only thing was, he didn’t want to waste any of this.

  But when he stripped Alice’s blouse away he thought he’d get off right then, she looked so great. Her breasts were as good as anything he’d ever imagined, even when he locked himself in the bathroom at home and made love to one of the dream girls he could conjure up in his imagination. Her skin was a creamy pink color, and her jugs had those great nipples standing there, just begging him to nibble on them. And then when he pulled off her skirt and her pants and pushed himself against her he was aware of the crinkly texture of her pubic patch and goddamn, that almost did it all over again.

  They fell onto the bed together and the hell with foreplay; within seconds he was inside her, and within seconds after that he did come, and then he just lay there in her arms, her fingernails gently tracing circles on the flesh of his back.

  Alice spoke in her throaty voice. “That was beautiful, Billy.”

  He had to smile to himself, hearing that. Beautiful? Christ—it was over almost before he got started. But then, maybe she’d come too. She certainly had been excited enough. And he had to hand it to her, this had been a terrific idea. In fact, the trip through the snow and then sneaking up to her room and jumping into bed had made it just that much more of a turn-on.

  He rolled off her and lay on his back as his breathing returned to normal. There was a faint sheen of sweat on his chest, and his arms and legs felt as if they’d turned to rubber. Alice snuggled against him, resting her head on his shoulder. The stereo was playing a record by Tiffany, one of his favorite singers. It was funny, but he hadn’t even noticed it before this. He put an arm around Alice and scratched the back of her neck.

  “Mm-m. I love that.”

  “I loved all of it.”

  “Me too. I just meant I love it when you scratch my neck. I’m like a puppydog when you do that.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Billy, you know what I thin
k sometimes, when we’re together like this?”

  “What?”

  “I think how nice it would be if we were married.”

  Holy Jesus, where did that come from?

  “I mean, I know we can’t and we’re too young and all that, but it’s fun to, like, pretend—you know?”

  “Sure. I think I know what you mean.” In fact, he knew exactly what she meant, and the thought of it was nauseating.

  She pressed herself tight against his side. “We’re so close and all, and I really think you’re great. You like me a lot too, don’t you?”

  “Hm? Oh, yeah. I sure do. Hey, Alice, you’re still on the pill, aren’t you? You take one every day?”

  “Sure. Of course I do. Don’t worry—I don’t want to get pregnant.” She was quiet for a few seconds, then abruptly raised herself on one elbow and looked down at him. “You didn’t think I did want to, did you?”

  “Me? No.”

  “I’m not one of those retards who think it’d be fun to have a baby so you could pet it and play mommy with it. Like it was a doll or something.” She lay back down again. “Doris Persky did that last year. Did you hear about it?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. I mean, I knew she had a kid.”

  “She’s so awful. She got knocked up and she wasn’t sure who did it. She tried to blame it on Donny Lonzik so she could get him to marry her, but Donny’s father got him out of it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Some kids do that, you know.”

  “Do what?”

  “Get pregnant on purpose.”

  “I believe it. Hey, you don’t have any grass, do you?”

  “No. It’s been kind of hard to get lately.”

  “You’re telling me. But I hear there’s a new guy dealing. Hangs around school after it gets out. I’ll have to see if I can score some off him.”

  “Great. Get me some too, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  She was silent again for a time, and he began to wonder if she’d dozed off.

  But then she spoke up. “You know what I can’t stop thinking about?”

  He reached down and gave her buttock a squeeze. “Sure. I got the same problem.”

  “Not that, silly. I mean, I think about that, too. But I can’t get the idea of Buddy out of my mind.”

  “Yeah, it was the worst.”

  “Wasn’t it? I know I’m going to have nightmares tonight. Did you see the way a lot of kids were crying today in school?”

  “Yeah, I did.” He wished she’d get off it. Buddy’s death was terrible—that was true. But blubbering about it wasn’t going to bring him back. And besides, feeling Alice all warm and soft against his side was starting to get him worked up again.

  But she kept on. “The worst thing is the way all that stuff about the headsman came true.”

  He drew a line down the cleft between her buttocks with his forefinger. “That’s not so. I mean, there’s still nothing to prove it.”

  She rose on her elbow once more. “Nothing to prove it? Are you serious? First Marcy gets killed, gets her head chopped off. And it happens the same day we’re all talking about the headsman in Hathaway’s class. Then Buddy disappears, and some people say okay, that’s who did it—Buddy killed her and then he ran away. And then the next thing you know, here’s Buddy dead too. Killed the same way. So that’s two people murdered, both of them with chopped-off heads. And you say there’s nothing to prove it?”

  Jesus, enough. “All I said was, there’s nothing to prove the headsman did it. I still think the whole story’s a lot of shit. People in Braddock’ve been passing it around forever. So yeah, Marcy and Buddy are both dead, and I agree with you, it’s awful. Especially the way they died. But the headsman? That’s the same old stuff I been hearing all my life. I just don’t buy it, that’s all.”

  “Oh yeah? Then what about that woman who got killed years ago—that Mrs. What’s her name that was in the paper. She’s another one. She had her head chopped off too, and you know what everybody said back then? The same thing they’re saying now. The headsman came back to punish her.”

  “Why?”

  “She was married but she was fooling around with a lot of other men.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “From my parents.”

  “Your parents told you?”

  “God, no. I mean I heard them talking about it. They were discussing the whole thing about Marcy and Buddy and the headsman and that came up. My mother was saying it gave her the creeps the way it was happening all over again. She said everybody in town felt the same way about it then, too. They were all talking about how every few years the headsman comes back. And how some people were saying it wasn’t true, just the way some people are saying it now. But the thing is, that murder never got solved either.”

  “Still doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Jeez, but you can be stubborn. Look—if the headsman didn’t do it, who did? And who killed all the others?”

  “All what others?”

  “The ones who died before that. Lots of people, going back over two hundred years.”

  “You’re really hooked on this, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not. I’m just being more sensible than you are. You get this much showing you something’s true, then you ought to believe it.”

  If she kept this up she’d be altogether out of the mood. Christ, if she kept it up he’d be out of it too. “Okay, I guess you’re right.”

  She stared at him in mock amazement. “You mean you’re actually gonna let me win an argument?”

  “It wasn’t an argument—we were just talking.”

  She lay down again. “Sorry I got so riled up.”

  “It’s okay.” He resumed stroking her butt. “I know how you feel.”

  “That’s good. It really had me upset.”

  He turned toward her and put his hand between her legs. “Yeah, I don’t blame you.”

  Her voice was low, slightly hoarse. “Oh, Billy.”

  That was better. She was warm and wet, and he was as ready as ever. He lowered his head and kissed her mouth, then drew his lips slowly down her chin and her throat and on down to her breast. When he got there he teased her nipple with his tongue. He could feel it become erect under his touch. She’d begun to breathe hard once more, and Billy’s pulse picked up. He raised his head and smiled as he stroked her.

  Suddenly she stiffened, her eyes open wide. “What was that?”

  “What was what?”

  “I heard something out there—in the hall.”

  All Billy could hear was the rock pounding out of the stereo speakers. He glanced at the door, then turned back to Alice. “Your mother, maybe? Or your father?”

  “No. They never bother me up here.”

  “Then relax, will you? Probably just the wind.”

  She settled down again.

  There was a violent crash at the door.

  And then another. Wood splintered, and the door sagged on its hinges.

  Alice shrieked and tried to cover her eyes as Buddy sat bolt upright, his mouth hanging open. “Jesus Christ!” he yelled. “What’s that?”

  The upper panel of the door flew apart under the battering. There was another smashing blow, and the door burst open.

  As Billy stared at the figure looming in the doorway, he thought his heart would stop.

  It wasn’t true. It was a joke. He was dreaming. It couldn’t be. This wasn’t happening.

  But it was.

  4

  The man standing in the doorway was huge. He seemed to tower there, as massive and as tall as a great black tree. His head was encased in a hood, the eyeholes slanted, his eyes shining out from within. The width of his shoulders was startling. They flowed into arms bulging with muscle, the hands broad and covered with black gloves. And just as Billy had heard a hundred times, just as in the nightmares he and every other child in Braddock had experienced, the gloved hands held an enormous, double-bladed ax.r />
  The headsman’s black clothing was wet. Tiny wisps of steam rose from his body, and the stink of him spread through the room like gas from a dead, decaying animal. He stood motionless for what seemed a long time, although it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. But in that time Billy was unable to move, and neither was Alice. Both of them lay on the bed frozen in fear, the heat of their passion drained in an instant, their blood turning icy cold.

  The headsman strode toward them, raising the ax as he came.

  Instinctively, galvanized by desperation, Billy rolled off the bed and sprang to his feet. He was suddenly as angry as he was frightened. “You bastard!”

  He was a big boy, over two hundred pounds, and strong. He was also an athlete, and a good one. He lowered his head and threw himself at the headsman.

  The big man moved deftly, dipping the axhead and then bringing the flat side of it up into Billy’s face with a violent snapping motion. The steel smashed into the boy’s nose with numbing force, flipping him over backward and dropping him onto the floor.

  Billy sat there with his head spinning, bells ringing in his ears, trying to get up but not succeeding. His vision was blurred, and he couldn’t force the image of the man in black to stay in focus. It kept splitting into two fuzzy shapes that blurred as he stared at them. Blood was pouring from his nose and down onto his body in crimson splashes.

  The headsman stepped forward, straddling Billy’s outstretched legs. The huge man raised a booted foot and slammed the toe into the boy’s chest, forcing him down onto his back. Billy grabbed the foot and twisted, and the man fell heavily. He was up again in an instant, and as Billy scrambled to his feet the flat side of the axblade again crashed into the boy’s skull, even harder this time.

  The blow knocked him flat, leaving him only dimly conscious. The boot pressed down on his chest and he tried to get hold of it, but the effort was feeble. He couldn’t get a grip, couldn’t make his hands and his arms do what he wanted them to do.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught an impression of Alice slipping off the bed. The headsman didn’t see her; his back was turned as he concentrated on attacking Billy. Alice was no longer screaming. Her eyes were wide with terror, and she was moving toward the door.