The Headsman

by James Neal Harvey

  Resting on the shelf in a pool of dried blood was the head of Sergeant Joseph Grady.

  Jud stared at the obscene thing, horror and guilt and remorse washing over him in waves.

  Even though this one had been worked over by the rats, it obviously hadn’t been here very long. As Jud looked at it, he saw something fat and white crawling inside the mouth.

  He moved back, resisting the urge to vomit. Then he thought of Karen, realizing suddenly that she’d be horrified as well. He turned to her.

  But Karen wasn’t there.

  4

  The hands were not like hands at all, but more like metal clamps that crushed Karen’s mouth and her ribs and prevented her from crying out, even keeping her from breathing. She tried to struggle, but she couldn’t so much as move. The hands swept her up off the floor, and although she wanted to kick at whoever was holding her and to break free, it was impossible. She was held as securely as if she were a tiny child.

  After a moment the lack of oxygen caused a roaring in her ears and she grew weak and then she was incapable of putting up any resistance at all. She was dimly aware that she was being carried, but she couldn’t see where; it was dark in the passageway.

  A moment later she lost consciousness.

  When she came to, the sight that greeted her was eerily familiar. She was in a chamber with stone walls, lighted by torches set in holders. The floor was of dirt, and positioned against the far wall was a low wooden platform. Resting in the center of the platform was a well-worn chopping block.

  She knew where she was. She had seen this place before, as clearly as she was seeing it now. She was in the dungeon that had appeared in her vision. The dungeon where the dark-haired woman was a prisoner. The dungeon where the headsman carried out his executions.

  The woman was nowhere in sight.

  But the headsman was.

  Karen was half-sitting against a wall, watching the terrible scene come to life. The headsman was exactly as the images had revealed him to her, exactly as he’d looked in the old painting the chief of police had shown her. As she gazed at him, the awful truth of where she was and what was happening to her was driven into her mind with numbing force.

  The headsman stepped closer and then stood over her, seeming immense in his foul black rags, the eyes burning in their slanted holes in the hood as he stared at her. He reached down, and one gloved hand seized her hair. She felt herself being dragged onto the platform, the pain causing her eyes to fill with tears.

  She struggled, raising her hands in a feeble effort to grasp one of his legs, but all that brought her was a kick in the ribs that knocked the wind out of her and left her close to fainting.

  But she wouldn’t let this unspeakable thing happen to her without a fight. Choking, fighting for breath, she twisted and clawed at him, trying to bring her mouth close enough to bite him. This time the response was even more savage. A heavy, black-booted foot drew back, then slammed into the pit of her stomach. And while she lay paralyzed with agony and fear, the boot struck her again, this time in the mouth.

  She felt her teeth splinter, and her mouth was suddenly filled with warm, salty liquid. She gagged, choking on the blood and gasping for air. As desperate as she was, she could no longer make her body respond. She lay still, totally helpless.

  As she looked up, she realized she was lying on her back with her head on the block. Above her, she saw the towering black-clad man raise the ax. The blade flashed in the torchlight as it whipped over his head and descended toward her throat.

  In a last, valiant effort, she managed to move just a little. But one of her last thoughts before the ax struck her throat was that it wasn’t enough.

  Even as dazed as she was, the impact was astonishing. The blade struck with explosive force, just below her larynx. His aim had been spoiled by her last-ditch struggle, but the blow cleaved her neck cleanly, the steel chopping through flesh and sinews and arteries and bone and biting into the wooden block beneath her head with a loud whack.

  Oddly, she felt no pain. She was aware of a hand snatching her head aloft, and as it did she looked down and saw her headless body lying on the platform, a brilliant red torrent gushing from her severed neck.

  In that horrifying instant, realization came to her at last. What she had seen in her vision had been accurate. The headsman had indeed been preparing to execute a dark-haired woman.

  But that woman was not Sally Benson.

  The woman was Karen herself.

  And in that final, all-knowing moment, her mouth opened, and her larynx constricted, pouring out the last sound it would utter on this earth.

  “Jud-d-d …”

  And then it trailed off, and her eyesight failed, and her brain ceased to function as the soul of Karen Wilson was borne away to a place where it would find peace at last.

  Nineteen

  A TIME TO DIE

  1

  THE VOICE THAT called his name didn’t sound human. It was more like the mournful cry of an animal, a dismal howl that a moment later was gone. Could it have been Karen? What in God’s name had happened to her? He stepped back out into the narrow passageway and then moved in the direction the cry had come from.

  Oddly, it had sounded as if it originated in one of the empty rooms he’d explored earlier. When he reached the first of them he went into it, sweeping the area with the flashlight beam.

  Nothing.

  He turned to leave, and another sound reached his ears. It was a dull thump, different from the creaking of the building’s old timbers, but distinct. It might have come from behind one of the walls in here. He stepped over to it.

  At one end of the wall, in a dark corner hidden by shadows, was a narrow opening. Jud went through it and found himself in another passageway even tighter than the one he’d been exploring. He moved around a bend, and the sight that greeted him was staggering.

  Standing directly ahead of him, his hulking form filling the passage, was the headsman.

  A jumble of thoughts raced through Jud’s mind. The creature looked exactly like the man in the old painting Mulgrave had given him. And exactly as he’d been described by Karen Wilson. He wore tight-fitting black clothing, and his eyes seemed to burn as they looked out from inside the slanted devil-holes in the hood that covered his head.

  In his hands was a huge, double-bladed ax.

  Jud stood totally still, so startled he was unable to move. The headsman, too, was motionless, holding him in his piercing gaze. They stood facing each other for a long moment, implacable enemies in a confrontation at last.

  The headsman moved first. He raised the ax chest-high and stepped forward.

  Jud wouldn’t waste his breath issuing a warning. He held the flashlight beam on the advancing monster, and with his right hand leveled his revolver. He thumbed back the hammer for maximum accuracy, and fired.

  The headsman kept coming.

  Jud fired again. And again. The pistol shots were shatteringly loud in the confined space. These were copper-jacketed .357 Magnum slugs, capable of stopping any animal on the North American continent, including a grizzly bear. But they seemed to have no effect on the thing in front of him.

  The sixth shot struck the headsman in the dead center of his chest from a distance of no more than two feet. Every round had gone home; Jud could see the holes in the tunic. He raised the pistol to club his enemy, but the headsman was too quick for him. The black-gloved hands made a lightning-fast snapping motion, and the axhead flashed upward, its flat side catching Jud under his jaw.

  There was a burst of light as the heavy steel weapon crashed into his face.

  2

  He was out for a time. The first thing he became conscious of was torchlight flickering against the ancient stone walls. Then he made out the wooden platform and the chopping block. The platform and the block were drenched with fresh blood.

  Lying to one side of the platform was the headless body of a woman. Her head was nearby, resting on the earthen floor, its eyes b
ulging in the same expression of terror he’d first seen on Marcy Dickens’ face, and later on Buddy Harper’s.

  The head was Karen Wilson’s.

  Jud then realized his hands and feet had been tied with a length of heavy cord. He was propped up with his back against one of the stone walls, and every heartbeat drove pain into his skull. He heard a sound to his left and, with an effort, turned his head.

  To his horror, he saw the headsman drag Sally into the room. She was bound as he was, hand and foot. There were bruises on her cheeks and her jaw, and she appeared to be only semiconscious. The headsman crouched over her, gripping her by the hair. The bastard must have beaten her until she was no longer able to resist. As Jud watched, the executioner looked up and caught sight of Jud.

  A voice came from inside the hood, as cold and flat as a file rasping on metal. “Awake, are you? Good. You’ll be a witness. First for her execution, and then your own.”

  The headsman dragged Sally over to the platform. He pulled her up onto it, positioning her face up on the block.

  As the headsman prepared her for execution, Jud strained against the bindings on his wrists with all the strength he could muster. He twisted his hands back and forth in a desperate effort to loosen the cord, praying he could break free before it was too late.

  Small whimpering sounds were coming from Sally’s mouth. “Please don’t. Oh, God—please don’t.”

  The man in black stood over her, looking down at his victim and gripping the ax. He planted his feet in a wide stance, setting himself.

  Jud gave a mighty heave, and the bonds seemed to give a little. He heaved again, and this time he was sure of it. Once more he strained and tugged.

  The headsman looked across at him. The flat voice sounded again. “Stupid shit.”

  Lowering the ax, the executioner leaned it against the wall and stepped off the platform. He crossed the room to where Jud lay, bending down and tightening the bindings. The eyes seemed alight with rage as they stared into his. “You’re next, damn you. And there’s no way you can break loose.”

  My God, Jud thought. I know that voice.

  As if in a gesture of contempt, the headsman slammed the back of his hand across Jud’s jaw.

  But disdain had made him careless. He’s close enough, Jud thought. Do it now.

  He brought his feet up in a savage kick, driving the toes of his hunting boots into the executioner’s groin.

  The big man gasped in pain, doubling over and holding his crotch. The motion brought his head down, and with his bound hands Jud made a grab for his throat. He missed, clutching the hood instead. He kicked again, this time driving the other back, and the black cloth of the hood ripped free.

  The headsman continued to hold his groin, and then he slowly straightened up.

  Jud found himself looking at the face of Emmett Stark.

  “You!”

  The old chief’s voice was a harsh rasp. “That’s right, me. And now that you know, what good’s it going to do you? You’re dead, you dumb fucker.”

  Stark drew his boot back and then kicked Jud in the face, stunning him.

  Dazed, Jud shook his head to clear it. One side of his face was numb, and his mouth was filling with blood. He spat, railing at his own stupidity for not having seen the truth before this.

  He stared at Stark. “It was all there, if only I’d had brains enough to put it together.”

  Stark sneered. “But you didn’t. You never would have known the truth, right up until your head rolled off that block.”

  “Maybe so. But I knew there was something wrong with what I was getting from you. I just didn’t pay enough attention to the signals, because I couldn’t imagine your being involved. I was too busy trying to run down other people I thought could be the headsman. But it sure as hell falls into place now.”

  “Now that it’s too late.”

  “For one thing, the Donovan case wasn’t before your time, the way you said it was. That was just bullshit, a way for you to throw me off. With the number of years you had on the force, you must have been a rookie when it happened. Joan Donovan told me a cop was one of her mother’s lovers. When I showed her Grady’s picture she said she remembered him. But it was easy for her to make a mistake. She was just a little kid when you were coming around. What she actually remembered was the uniform, not the face. You were the one who killed her mother.”

  Stark flushed with anger. “Janet Donovan was a slut. A rotten, filthy whore.”

  “Why—because she was married and screwing you? Or because she was also screwing a bunch of other guys and you couldn’t stand that idea?”

  A strange look came over Stark’s face, and a light appeared in his eyes. “God told me to drive her from His kingdom.”

  “I’m right, aren’t I? You were so jealous it made you crazy. But you twisted that up in your mind so that it was all her fault. She was to blame, she was the one who had to be punished. And you figured that for you to become the headsman was the perfect answer. You’d be the executioner, coming back to Braddock to wipe out evil. I’ll bet you were proud of yourself, weren’t you? You passed the sentence, and you carried it out.”

  “You’re right about one thing—she got what she deserved.”

  “Uh-huh. And it worked just the way you wanted it to. People not only believed the headsman had come back to execute her, but a lot of them figured she was asking for it. She needed to be punished, and the headsman punished her.”

  Stark’s eyes gleamed. “It was God’s will.”

  As he spoke, Jud continued to exert as much pressure as he could on the cord binding his hands, hoping Stark wouldn’t notice. He had to keep him talking. “But it wasn’t enough for you, was it? There were still all those other guys she’d been seeing. You knew who they were. All of them were young hotshots around Braddock. Ed Dickens, Peter Harper, Sam Melcher, Charley Boggs, Loring Campbell and Bill Swanson. You hated them for it. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  Stark spoke through clenched teeth. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t I? You also hated them because they were all better off than you were. Came from rich families, went on to run the town while you were just a cop. Then you got to be chief of the department, and you thought that made you important.”

  “Shut your ignorant mouth, asshole.”

  “But then what happened? A lot of those same guys became members of the Town Council. And last year they shoved you out of your job. You didn’t retire—they fired you.”

  “They’re scumbags, every one of them.”

  “So all that hatred that was inside you for so many years, all of it came to a boil. You figured the way to get back at them, the way to hurt them the most, was to strike at their kids. And that’s what you did.”

  “Those little shits were no better than their fucking parents. They were dirty, dopesmoking filth. That’s all they thought about—dope and sex.”

  “You decided to start with Marcy, because she was so vulnerable, so easy to get to. An only child living in a big house with a room at the opposite end from her parents’. Getting in would have been easy, especially for a cop. Come to think of it, you didn’t even have to jimmy your way in. Ed Dickens told me about a bolt that was sticking on one of the doors. All you had to do was depress the tongue with a piece of plastic and then walk right in.”

  “It might have been like that.”

  “Might have been? That’s exactly what happened. And instead of taking her head with you, the way you did with all the others, you left it there on the dresser. You wanted it to be found, because you knew it would scare the shit out of everyone in this town. You wanted them to know the headsman was back, and you wanted the message to be as bad as you could make it.”

  “They deserved to suffer.”

  “Buddy, on the other hand, you took out of that barn after you killed him. Because you knew his disappearance would throw the investigation off, give the cops more blind alleys to run down.
You figured he’d be blamed for Marcy’s murder, and you were right. So you cleaned the blood off the floor, and then just to be sure there’d be nothing left to trace, you dumped that five-gallon can of oil onto the floorboards. All Grady could find was old wood soaked in drain oil.”

  “Grady was another dumb shit.”

  “Was he? I don’t think so. And by the way, he was the one you wanted for your job, not me. But he wasn’t so dumb at all. He figured it out, didn’t he?”

  “He was a disloyal prick. Came after me.”

  “And you killed him. What’d you do with his body?”

  The corners of Stark’s mouth curved in a cynical smile. “By now it’s nothing but a pile of dogshit.”

  A picture of the snarling hounds in the pen behind Stark’s house came into Jud’s mind. “That’s what you did with the rest of Buddy’s body too, wasn’t it?”

  “Of course.”

  “But you sent the head to me because you knew it would make more trouble for me, didn’t you? You knew how casual those young cops often were, so you just watched and waited until Ostheimer left the desk for coffee, and then you slipped in and left the package on the desk. For it to come to me would be just one more reason for the council members to distrust me.”

  “They would have fired you too, MacElroy. You would’ve known what it felt like.”

  “And speaking of evidence disappearing, you were the one who took those old police records, of course. I was suspicious a cop might have done it, but I was looking at the wrong cop. I bought that crap about your health problems, too. The bullshit about taking nitro for your heart. What was it—aspirin?”

  Stark grinned.

  “In fact, your police background made everything easy for you. It was you who rammed me earlier tonight. You’d left the Boggs house in your Jeep, and you were monitoring police transmissions on your radio. When you ran that snowplow into me you thought that would take me out of it. And those shots I fired at you just now. They didn’t stop you because you’re wearing a vest, right? Police-issue Kevlar. That’s true, isn’t it?”