As the headsman raised the ax, one of Billy Swanson’s last conscious thoughts was that the fight he’d put up wasn’t much, but at least it had enabled Alice to escape. He saw the axblade raised high over the head of the man in black, saw it begin its downward rush. He wanted so much to get out of the way, to roll aside, to dodge the blow.
He wanted to live.
But he was unable to move.
Seventeen
GRISLY VISIONS
1
THE LIGHTS FLICKERED and Karen Wilson looked up from her desk, thinking to herself that she really should get out of here and go home. The storm was growing worse by the minute, and with nothing going for it but snowtires, her Escort wasn’t worth a damn in weather like this. Everyone else had had sense enough to clear out long ago. Even the cleaning people had quit early, and now she was alone.
But there was still a stack of work in her in-box, and there would be more tomorrow. There were invoices to type, customer letters, factory requisitions; the pile seemed endless. So if she didn’t get it done tonight, she’d only be loading more onto herself when she came in tomorrow morning.
What Boggs Ford really needed was more help, of course. One secretary couldn’t handle all this work in a normal day, it was impossible. But if she complained to Charley Boggs, there was no telling what might happen. He just might decide he’d had enough of her failure to cooperate and fire her.
Lately he hadn’t made a pass at her, which was a good sign in one sense and a bad one in another. She was relieved not to have him pestering her to go to lunch or to join him for a drink, and not to have his hand brushing against her bottom or stroking the back of her leg whenever she got too close to him. And he hadn’t brought up all the opportunities for advancement he wanted to offer her, either. But that could also be an indication that he’d lost interest and was going to unload her. Men were funny that way. Once they decided you weren’t receptive to the moves they put on you they often resented it. And then they turned against you.
Recently she’d become aware of an upsurge of women protesting against sexual harassment in the workplace. She’d read articles about how so many of them just wouldn’t take any more of it, how they made their accusations right out in the open, sometimes even bringing charges against the offenders. But that was a laugh. For every female who could make it stick or who even had the guts to raise the issue, there had to be countless others who just went on putting up with the problem, because if they didn’t they’d lose their jobs and no one would give a damn.
So the way for Karen to play it was to keep her mouth shut and hope Boggs would leave her alone. Even though she didn’t trust him any more than most other men she’d had experience with.
Including the chief of police. He claimed he hadn’t tipped his girlfriend off on the Mariski story, but she didn’t believe that for a minute. Of course he had, no matter what excuses he’d made. But at least he’d been right about one thing: all of it had blown over, just as he’d said it would. And afterwards no one had tried to pin her down on getting involved in the case of the headsman.
Which had been a relief. She was surprised the press hadn’t picked up on that angle—it would have been a natural for one of their cheap plays on people’s emotions. More sensationalism at the expense of the families who’d lost those kids, and at the expense of Karen herself.
Another thing that troubled her was the news that the killer had sent the Harper boy’s head to MacElroy. Why? Was it just to show contempt for the police, or was there more to it than that? Was there some entanglement, some aspect of the chief’s life that he was trying to keep secret? Was there something he wanted to hide?
Most of all, she wished all of this would go away and leave her in peace. Having to contend with the curse of her vision since childhood had been burden enough, but now in this situation it was far worse than it had ever been. Seeing the headsman, knowing about the horrible crimes that were being committed, was like being invaded. And all of it seemed to be coming to some kind of ghastly climax. As if she’d been pointing toward this all along without knowing it. And now here she was in the middle of it somehow, swept along like a leaf in a river, unable to stop herself or to change course.
She looked at her computer screen and tried to concentrate on an invoice that had to be made out. She’d do just this one more, and then she’d print what she’d been working on and quit. If she didn’t get out of here soon she’d really be stuck. As it was she was in for a tough time getting home.
The pain struck without warning—violent, intense, as if a shaft had been driven into her forehead.
She winced and twisted in her chair, recoiling from the sudden assault on her nervous system. She knew from experience what the pain meant and what would be coming next. Fear rose in her, apprehension that something was about to happen—that she’d see some terrible image she didn’t want to see, something repellent and horrible that made her privy to a dark secret she didn’t want to know.
“Oh, God,” she said aloud, “Please don’t do this to me.”
And then it was gone, and she almost sobbed with relief. With trembling fingers she shut off the computer and then sat still for a moment, struggling to control her emotions. She opened the bottom drawer of her desk and got out her purse. What she had to do now was put on her coat and leave. Snow or no snow, she’d get into her car and drive home, and when she got there she’d take a slug of brandy.
It was something, the way the brandy had become such a help to her. She wished she’d discovered it years ago—the fiery liquid that burned her mouth and her throat as she gulped it down and then magically turned to soothing warmth an instant later. It calmed her and dulled the sensations of fear and revulsion and prevented her from thinking. Maybe it would even dampen her ability to receive, would keep the visions from her. Tonight she’d drink a lot of brandy; she needed it.
She began to rise from her desk, and as she did the pain returned. It lanced her forehead savagely this time, a white-hot needle probing her skull. She fell back into her chair, feeling nauseous and faint.
And then she saw him.
The light exploded in her brain and he was there, tall and massive and forbidding, clad entirely in black and clutching the huge ax. She saw a door burst apart in a shower of splinters, saw two people cowering in a bed.
The couple was nude. The young man was muscular and blond and Karen had never seen him before. But to her horror, she recognized the girl at once. She was Alice Boggs, Charley Boggs’ daughter. The flashes continued, and there was a struggle between the youth and the headsman. Karen saw violent blows and glittering steel and blood pouring down the young man’s face, covering his chest with torrents of red. The Boggs girl had vanished.
As Karen watched, her fists pressed against her mouth, her body rigid, the headsman slowly raised the ax, lifting it high over his head, twisting his body so that the heavy double-edged weapon was poised for an instant over his right shoulder. The boy’s mouth opened in a silent protest, and then the ax hurtled downward. When it struck the naked throat the great steel wedge sliced through flesh and bone and buried itself in the floor.
The headsman leaned down and grasped the boy’s shock of blond hair, then straightened up and held the dripping head high, shaking it triumphantly.
The flashes diminished, growing smaller and smaller until they were mere pinpoints of light in her consciousness.
Karen fainted, her body slumping forward, her face falling onto the computer keyboard.
2
Charley Boggs was dozing in his favorite chair. It was close to the fireplace, and the heat from the blazing logs was like a warm blanket. He’d had his usual two scotches before dinner, and also as usual he’d eaten too much. Ethel had served one of the meals he liked best, pork chops with applesauce and mashed potatoes, and he’d come back for seconds, and then there’d been blueberry pie with vanilla ice cream for dessert.
He was aware that he was overweight. Doc Reinholtz had wa
rned him to cut down on his intake of saturated fats, telling him after his last physical that his cholesterol count was over three hundred. But if there was one thing in the world Boggs loved to do, it was eat. He preferred bacon and fried eggs and hashbrowns and muffins dripping with butter for breakfast, and at lunch he was partial to a steak or roast beef, either at the Century Club or in the dining room of the Hotel Braddock. Dinner was his favorite meal, however, because that was when he could really indulge himself. Ethel would fix meat and potatoes with plenty of gravy, and there would be rolls and butter and of course the inevitable pie or cake for dessert.
He also subjected himself to as little exercise as possible. Once in a while he took a short walk during the day, but that was usually to get to a restaurant when it was simpler than driving a car from the dealership. He also belonged to the country club, and from May through September played golf at least once a week. But he always went around the course in an electric cart.
As a result, he was at least fifty pounds heavier than he should have been. In addition to harping on his cholesterol level, Reinholtz warned him that his blood pressure had been rising steadily over the past few years. Charley should take action, the doctor said. So he did. The action he took was to stop seeing Reinholtz.
After all, what good was it to be a successful businessman if you couldn’t enjoy yourself? He’d worked hard to get where he was, to carve out a good life for himself and his family. He considered himself an exceptional citizen, one of Braddock’s leaders. He had no bad habits, or hardly any. His drinking was confined to a single vodka martini at lunch and the pair of scotches at dinner, and maybe a beer along with his late-night snack before going to bed. The only times he exceeded that intake were at the dinner parties he and Ethel attended and the ones they frequently gave, or when he was on vacation, or when he’d finished a round at the club and was sitting around on the terrace with his friends, playing gin and hashing over the day’s scores.
And the only screwing around he did was very discreet.
He’d always had something going on the side. It wasn’t easy in a town the size of Braddock, but it could be done if you were careful. The trouble was, you didn’t have much to choose from. He’d had affairs with the wives of several of his friends, but the women who’d been responsive to him were impossibly boring. Their idea of conversation was to talk incessantly about their children, or to repeat the latest gossip going around the club, which like as not Boggs had already heard in the locker room. After a short time he’d found each of them no more stimulating than Ethel, who at least had the saving grace of being a great cook. And then, they too were all getting older. Sagging tits and cellulite were not his idea of a turn-on.
This Karen Wilson, on the other hand, was something else again. Ever since he’d hired her, he’d been thinking about making her his mistress. From what he’d been able to observe, she had every qualification he could ask for. She wasn’t beautiful exactly, but she certainly was attractive. With her chestnut hair and her green eyes she was striking, the kind of woman who’d turn heads anywhere.
And what a body. Just watching her move around the office was enough to get him fired up. He sometimes fantasized about what it would be like when he finally wore down her resistance, when he could maneuver her into becoming sufficiently dependent on him to be unable to say no.
He liked to imagine the little dates they’d have, slipping over to one of the nearby towns for dinner once in a while, stopping in at a motel afterward. Or maybe he’d even set her up in her own apartment. She was single, apparently with few friends here in Braddock, virtually a stranger. And she lived with her grandmother, which must be suffocating.
Sooner or later she’d say okay to a drink with him, and then he’d give her a raise as a subtle indication of the good things that would be coming her way. Inch by inch he’d get her there, easing her into it.
Lately he’d backed off somewhat, just to see how she’d react. She’d be wondering now if maybe she was no longer attractive to him, or if he’d simply lost interest in her. She’d be worried about her job, and her self-confidence would be shaken.
And then the next time he made a move, right out of the blue, she’d be relieved and even pleased. One thing Charley Boggs knew about was people and how to deal with them. He smiled to himself as he thought about her and about his plans. His eyes closed and he settled deeper into his chair, enjoying the warm glow from the fire.
A scream jolted him awake, piercing his consciousness like a hot knife.
He stumbled to his feet, sputtering. “What is it? What—”
His daughter ran into the living room. She was stark naked and shrieking as if the devil were chasing her.
Ethel Boggs had been watching television. She leaped up from her chair and grabbed the girl’s arm. “Alice, what’s wrong? What happened?”
Alice was screaming and shouting something unintelligible and crying all at the same time. She pointed behind her. “He’s there. He’s, he’s—”
Her brother came running into the room. “What the hell’s going on?”
The three family members surrounded the girl, all yelling at once.
Charley Boggs shouted loudest. “Goddamn it, Alice—will you tell me what it is? Who’s there?”
She was shuddering, tears streaking her face, the words coming from her throat in choking gasps. “The headsman. He’s there. In my room. He’s going to kill Billy.”
Charley was staggered. “The headsman?”
“Yes, yes. He’s up there—he’s going to kill him.”
Boggs had never confronted physical danger in his life. Or even the threat of it. He hadn’t spent time in the service, had never even so much as participated in a contact sport. But he’d always thought of himself as a pretty tough customer if it came to a showdown—a guy who could take care of himself.
“Holy Christ,” Boggs said. “Holy Christ.”
There was a pistol in the desk. He owned a number of firearms, mostly hunting rifles he’d collected and never used, but also several handguns. He kept one in the drawer of the table beside his bed and another down here.
He ran to the desk and pulled open the top drawer, rummaging around until he found the pistol. It was a .38-calibre Colt Police Special. He’d owned it for ten years and had never fired it. His hands were shaking as he took it out of the drawer. He was suddenly short of breath and his chest hurt.
The headsman? Here—in this house?
Boggs looked at the pistol. Suppose the thing didn’t fire, or he missed? Suppose it wasn’t loaded? His wife and his son and his daughter were standing there staring at him, their faces expressing shock and fear. More thoughts raced through his mind. Why was Alice naked? What was Billy Swanson doing in her room?
But most of all he thought of the headsman, and his knees turned to jelly.
It was all he could do to check the cylinder of the revolver. He fumbled with it, remembering at last that it had a latch on the left side you had to push before you could swing out the cylinder. He got it open and saw that each of the six chambers held a brass cartridge. He snapped the cylinder back into place.
“Hurry, Daddy,” Alice shrieked. “Hurry—he’s going to kill Billy!”
Clutching the pistol in his right fist, Boggs made his way out of the living room and down the center hall to the rear of the house. There was a jog and then the corridor led to the back hall, where the stairs were on one side and the door leading to the side porch was on the other.
He was moving slowly, telling himself it was because he was being cautious, but knowing the truth was that he was scared to death. At least it was reassuring to have the pistol in his hand. As he made the turn into the back hall he stepped very carefully and drew back the hammer of the revolver. The click when he cocked the weapon sounded startlingly loud.
The hallway was empty, and Boggs felt a surge of relief. But Christ, wait a minute. That meant he had to go up the goddamn stairs to Alice’s room. He gripped the pistol
in both hands, the way he’d seen them do it on television, and went into a spraddle-legged crouch. A combat stance, he’d heard it called. Then he slowly approached the stairway.
From above him came the rumble of heavy feet descending the stairs fast. He froze, gulping for air, trying desperately to keep the revolver pointed straight ahead. It was nearly dark in the hallway and he wished he could flip on the overhead light. He groped for the switch, afraid to take his eyes off the stairs.
His hand found the switch and he turned on the light at the instant a dark, massive shape bounded into the hall from the staircase.
Boggs recoiled in horror.
The headsman was immense, his hulking form seeming to fill the hallway, and he was dressed all in black. The eyes that burned from within the slanted holes in the hood were fixed on Boggs. He stopped, and one of his gloved hands raised Billy Swanson’s head high, the face frozen in an expression of terror, blood dripping from the severed neck.
Boggs fired the pistol. The report was like an explosion clapping his eardrums, and his eyes closed involuntarily in reaction to the muzzle blast.
He fired again and again, pulling the trigger double-action, cringing from the roar of the shots, not aiming or even seeing his target in front of him, but shooting blindly, impelled by revulsion and overwhelming fear. Only the click of the hammer on an empty shell told him he’d expended all six cartridges. He blinked, acrid gunsmoke biting his nostrils, and then opened his eyes wide, staring in disbelief.
There was no one in the hallway; the headsman was gone.
Boggs shuddered. He drew air into his lungs, and as he did he became aware once more of the pain in his chest. It was a searing sensation, sharp and very intense, in the direct center of his upper body. From there it spread its tentacles into his left arm and shoulder.
The Headsman Page 38