“Bullshit!” The distorted voice crackled over the cell’s speaker. “You’re stalling. The tape’s going to burn.”
“No! No! Listen, it’s not a stall. Don’t burn it!” White pleaded his case, explaining about the record label’s condition for payment.
There was a tense moment of hesitation. “Only Niles hears it. I sense the tape is being recorded or if the call is being traced, the tape burns. Give me his cell number.”
Jesse gave White the number and White repeated it into the phone.
“Two hours from now, Niles gets into his car and drives straight to the Wrentham Village Outlets and parks in a spot as far away from the stores and other cars as possible. I’ll know if he’s being followed or watched. Remember, any tricks and the tape burns. I want the money, but money won’t do me any good in prison. I’ll call tonight.”
—
AT SEVEN P.M., Roscoe Niles showed up at the Wickham estate. Jesse introduced Roscoe to Bella Lawton. Bella seemed unimpressed by her new acquaintance. Jesse had no trouble understanding because his friend was dressed in ragged jeans, red Chuck Taylors, and a Moody Blues T-shirt that featured the cover of In Search of the Lost Chord. The shirt was as stretched and faded as everything else in Roscoe’s wardrobe.
“Nice outfit,” Stan White said at the sight of his old nemesis.
“Screw you, Stan. Should I have worn a tux?”
White asked, “What happened? Did he call? Did—”
Niles ignored the question, turning to Jesse. “I need a drink, man. Authentication is thirsty work.”
Bella Lawton volunteered. “I’ll get it.”
“What the hell happened?” White asked, his face turning bright red.
“Relax, you old prick. As soon as I get my drink, I’ll tell you.”
Bella Lawton came back into the room, a rocks glass half full of scotch in her right hand. Conversation stopped the moment she reentered. She was dressed in a tight white dress and cream-colored heels. She really seemed to be turning it on, much like she had the morning she showed up at Jesse’s door. But it was difficult to discern whether Roscoe Niles’s eyes were bulging out at the sight of the scotch or at the woman delivering it. Both, Jesse decided. Niles gulped down the scotch.
“Well, what happened?” White asked again.
Niles smiled and shook the empty glass at Bella. She took the glass and said, “I’ll be right back, Mr. Niles.”
“What happened? You want to know what happened, man? I’ll tell you what happened. Thirty years ago you ruined my marriage, you son of a bitch.”
White wasn’t having it. “I wasn’t the one screwing some twenty-two-year-old chippie. That was you, you fat drunk. I did your wife a favor, freeing her from the likes of you.”
Niles charged White, landing a glancing punch to White’s jaw before Jesse could tackle him. Jesse was surprised at how powerful the old DJ was, but emotion and adrenaline counted for a lot.
“Calm down, Roscoe,” Jesse said, putting his friend in an arm lock. “Are you all right, Stan?”
“Fine,” White said, rubbing his jaw. “Fine. But the faster this schmuck tells me what happened, the sooner he can get out of here and we can get on with things.”
“You going to behave if I let you up, Roscoe?”
“Yeah, yeah, man. I’m sorry. I’ve just been waiting thirty years to do that.”
“Well, you did it. Now tell the man what he needs to know.” Jesse released Niles.
The DJ got up in pieces, shaking the pain out of his arm as he stood.
Bella tried to deliver his second drink, but Jesse grabbed the glass. “Talk first, drink later.”
“It’s the real thing,” Niles said. “And I’ll be damned, it’s fucking brilliant. He played me the whole tape, first song to last. Man, no wonder Terry Jester never rerecorded it. He would never have been able to recapture what’s on that tape.”
Jesse handed the scotch to Niles, who polished the drink off in a single gulp, some of the amber fluid dribbling down his chin.
“Will you tell that to the record execs?” White asked.
“I promised Jesse I would, so, yeah, I will. Have them call me.”
Before Niles could finish his sentence, White was punching a number into his cell phone and handing the phone to Niles. When the DJ was done swearing the tape was the real deal, he said his good-byes and headed back to Boston.
82
It wasn’t lost on Jesse that the last time he had done something like this, Suit wound up getting shot. Nor had he forgotten that the end result of what he’d done that fateful day eventually resulted in Diana’s murder. But as he drove along a stretch of two-lane highway north and west of Paradise, the sun getting low in the sky, Jesse tried hard to push those thoughts out of his head and to keep all other demons at bay. He couldn’t afford a lack of focus, not if he wanted a chance to recover the tape and to get Curnutt’s killer.
It had all seemed to happen so quickly after Roscoe Niles had authenticated the tape. After that, the other hurdles were more easily cleared. In spite of the DA’s objections, he gave his go-ahead to handle things Jesse’s way. It helped that Lundquist had given his support and that Mayor Walker had kept her word, backing Jesse as well. There was little chance she wouldn’t. There was no downside for her. If he succeeded in capturing Curnutt’s killer and recovering the tape, she would take partial credit for his success. If he failed, she had distanced herself enough that the fallout would all blow in Jesse’s direction. Of course, what he hadn’t shared with the mayor or anybody else involved was that he had hedged his bet. He was sticking his neck out a long way, just not quite as far as everyone assumed he was.
After the meeting at the DA’s office, Nita Thompson pulled Jesse aside. “I hope you know what you’re doing. This could blow up in your face.”
“The day I start worrying more about covering my ass than doing the right thing, I’ll quit.”
“If you fail, Jesse, you won’t have to quit. The mayor will do that for you.”
“Uh-huh.”
An entire day had passed since then. The record label had wired the money to a Boston bank and an armored car had carried it up to Paradise. It had taken a while to assemble six million dollars in varied denominations of used, nonconsecutive bills. Funny thing was that none of them, not Jesse or White or Lundquist, had anticipated just how big a pile six million dollars made.
“Good thing you’ve got an SUV, Jesse,” Lundquist said. “That’s not going to fit in anyone’s carry-on bag.”
Jesse had laughed at that but wondered if the blackmailer had bothered to calculate how he’d manage all that money. If not, Jesse thought, it might give him the opportunity he needed to grab the Hangman.
Lundquist and the DA had argued for Jesse to chemically mark the bills in spite of the Hangman’s warnings and demands, but Jesse had rejected the idea.
“We’re going to play this as much his way as we can. We’re not going to mark the bills. We’re not going to put a tracking device with the money. No one is going to follow me in a car.”
These days, everyone walked around with a tracking device on his or her person. The Hangman would know that, and it was pretty much a given that Jesse would have to toss his cell phone somewhere along the route.
The Hangman’s instructions had been simple. After emphasizing that he would burn the tape if any of his instructions weren’t followed or if he sensed a trap was being set, he told Jesse to leave Paradise and travel back roads in a northwesterly direction toward the confluence of the Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Vermont borders. Just south of Lowell he got the call he’d been expecting.
The Hangman directed him to a roadside gas station.
“Go into the men’s room,” the distorted voice said. “Drop your cell phone in the toilet. You’ll find a new phone in a plastic bag in the toilet tank. And, C
hief, if you have any tracking devices on you, planted in the money or your vehicle, this would be your chance to ditch them.”
“There aren’t any.”
“Okay, then head back the way you came and keep the new phone close. I’ll be calling you shortly.”
The bathroom was like almost every other gas-station bathroom he’d been in. It stank of human waste and pine disinfectant. The mirror was cracked and duct-taped to the wall. He was glad he had brought gloves with him when he lifted up the top of the toilet and fished out the bagged phone floating inside. As Jesse left the bathroom, new phone in hand, he noticed the surveillance camera mounted on the edge of the building. It was aimed at the pumps, so he doubted it would have captured images of the person who had planted the phone in the toilet tank. But even as he got in his car and headed back toward Paradise, there was something about the camera that stuck in Jesse’s head. It nagged at him until the ringing phone diverted his attention.
“Sorry to do this to you, Chief, but you’re going to have to about-face and follow my directions. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“Good. When you get to where you’re going, call the number taped to the back of the phone.”
Jesse did as he was instructed, making a U-turn as soon as passing traffic allowed. And as he passed the gas station he’d pulled out of only a few minutes before, that nagging feeling about the surveillance camera came back to him.
83
It was full-blown night by the time Jesse got to where he was going, a hilly, densely wooded area just over the Vermont border. It wasn’t lost on Jesse that Evan Updike, everyone’s favorite suspect, was from Vermont. He pulled to the side of the road and called the number taped to the back of the cell phone.
“We’re almost there, Chief,” said the Hangman. “Don’t screw it up now. Off to your right you should see an unpaved path that off-roaders use to access the trails up here. It’s steep, but your vehicle should be able to handle it, no problem. Drive up along the path for about three hundred yards and stop where the road divides. When you get there, call me again.” The phone went dead.
Bets hedged or not, Jesse was liking this less and less. It was dark, he was out of state, and the terrain was rugged. He took it slow up the unpaved road, the tires of his Explorer spitting out rocks as it climbed the hill. And just as the Hangman had said, there was a split in the woods where the road veered sharply to the left or continued climbing up the hill.
“Good,” the Hangman said when Jesse called. “Listen carefully, Chief, because once I give you these instructions, you’re going to toss the cell. Understood?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Turn left. There’s a big flat clearing there about a hundred yards ahead of you. Drive to the edge of the clearing. Shut off your headlights. Get out of your vehicle and walk about twenty paces to the lit flashlight on the ground. There’ll be a package there with what you’ve come for. Use the flashlight to inspect it. When you’re satisfied, put the flashlight and the package down, bring the money out of your vehicle, and place it next to the package. When you’re done unloading the money, take the tape, toss the flashlight, turn around, and leave the way you came.”
“How are you going to get the money out of here? You have any idea of how clumsy three duffel bags of money is?”
“You let me worry about that. Concern yourself with this: Vary your behavior in any way from these instructions and there will be consequences. Roll down your window and listen.”
Almost before Jesse’s window was down, there was a burst of automatic weapon fire.
“Do we understand each other, Chief? Let’s both get what we want and get out of here.”
“Understood.”
“Good. Now toss the phone.”
It was incredibly dark when he got out of his Explorer. The flashlight was on the ground where the Hangman said it would be. But for the swath of light the flashlight cut into the blackness, Jesse didn’t think he would be able to make out the palm of his own hand held a foot in front of his face. He picked up the flashlight and the clear plastic package at his feet. Inside the package was a reel of professional recording tape with a shriveled strip of masking tape along one of its wide spokes. On the tape, written in now very faded black marker, were the words THE HANGMAN’S SONNET MASTER. It looked like pictures of the reel he had seen, but he had no idea whether he was holding a piece of history or a piece of fiction in his hand. Five minutes later, he had unloaded the money as instructed and had the tape next to him on the front passenger seat.
Jesse pressed the ignition button and turned the Explorer around. As he did, he caught sight of a van about fifty yards ahead of him and of a masked, shadowy figure of a man next to the van. There was something familiar about the man—his posture, his height, his build—that set alarm bells off in Jesse’s head, but he remembered the burst of automatic weapon fire and didn’t want to risk getting shot out here in the middle of nowhere.
Windows down, listening, Jesse proceeded slowly along the road back to the fork. He heard the sound of the van’s engine coming to life. He stopped the Explorer at the fork in the trees, the sound of the van’s engine now fading away. And then all he heard was the incessant chorus of crickets filling the void in the night. But when he turned back to head down to the paved road below, the night exploded.
The Explorer’s two front tires blew, one after the other, then the back tires at once. Jesse was thrown into the door and the SUV almost slammed into a tree. With some slick handling, Jesse managed to avoid the tree. When he got out of the vehicle, he saw that someone had laid spike strips across the road. He’d used spike strips during his time in uniform in L.A. It was a non-lethal way of stopping a suspect’s car during a chase. He was kneeling down to check out the damage to his tires when he realized he was screwed. As part of the ransom deal, he’d agreed to be unarmed. And even if he had been carrying, his nine-millimeter would have stood little chance against an M-4 or MP-5.
That was when the quiet of the night was shattered once again. Only this time it wasn’t the sound of exploding tires or a burst of automatic weapon fire. It was one thunderous rifle shot. Then, a few seconds later, a second shot. This time the bullet slammed into a tree above Jesse’s head. He had to get away from his Explorer in case the Hangman was doubling back his way. So he grabbed the old-style Maglite he kept in his Explorer. He ran as hard as he could away from the direction of the shot, darting in and out of the trees to make himself a difficult target.
Twenty minutes later, not having heard a shot, footsteps, or anything else but the crickets, Jesse wandered out from behind the fallen logs he’d hidden behind. He turned on the big flashlight and noticed what looked like a campfire burning near where he had left his Explorer. As he approached, Jesse realized the fuel for the campfire was the master tape of The Hangman’s Sonnet. He used a stick to yank the metal reel out of the flames, but it was no good. What was left was charred metal and goo. It didn’t make any sense, he thought, having the tape and the money only to destroy the tape. And then, suddenly, it made perfect sense.
Jesse left his SUV and headed up the hill to where he had unloaded the money. He found some spent shell casings and spotted the van’s tire tracks in the dirt and grass. He followed them. They led west, in the opposite direction Jesse had used to get to the clearing. It was a long walk to the other side of the clearing. When he got there, Jesse found another unpaved trail. He pointed his flashlight down the trail. The body of the masked man was no more than a hundred feet down the hill.
Even as he slid down the slope, bracing himself with his left hand, Jesse got that same vibe he’d gotten earlier when his headlights caught the silhouette of the man in black. There was something familiar about him. When he reached the body—facedown in the dirt, arms and legs thrown out at unnatural angles—there was little doubt the man was dead. His body was still in that way only the dead can be: v
acant and unbreathing. There was a large bloody hole through the man’s right scapula. Jesse felt for the pulse he knew he wouldn’t find and got the results he expected.
Now he had decisions to make. Procedure would have had him leave the body as he found it and go for the police. On his way here, Jesse had passed a small town several miles down the road and, if he was lucky, he might be able to flag a ride back there or get someone to call the police on their cell phone. Short of that, he could go back to where he had tossed the burner phone and try to find it in the woods. But if things worked as he hoped, as he had tried to ensure they would, cops would be showing up soon enough. As he heard the sound of distant sirens, Jesse broke the rules and lifted the mask off the dead man’s face.
Roger Bascom didn’t seem any more pleasant in death than he had in life.
84
“You Stone?” the first cop asked him.
Jesse held up his shield and said, “Jesse Stone, Paradise, Mass, chief of police.”
“Yeah, we got a call from a retired captain from the Massachusetts State Police.”
“Captain Healy.”
“That’s him.”
“Healy said there was some shooting going on out here and that you might need some help.”
Jesse pointed at Bascom’s body.
“You do it?”
Jesse understood what the cop was asking. He shook his head. “No. I’m unarmed except for this.” Jesse waved his Maglite. “Did you find a van on your way up here?”
The cop nodded, pointing over his back with his thumb. “Black cargo van on the road. Driver’s-side window shattered.”
“Find anything in it?”
“First I thought I better get up here to see about you. Don’t worry. There are units down there now checking it out.” The cop was curious. “You know the vic?”
“Name is Roger Bascom. Listen, Officer . . . Miles,” Jesse said, reading the cop’s name off his chest tag. “Can I use your cell phone? I know it’s not SOP, but it’s urgent. I’ll put it on speaker, so you can hear both sides of the conversation.”
Robert B. Parker's the Hangman's Sonnet Page 26