by W L Knightly
“I tried to do right.” He broke down in tears. “I admit I’ve made some mistakes, but I came here from New York to make things better, to do better.” His voice was weary, and his cut was still seeping blood pretty steadily.
“No. You may have thought that you were going to do better, but you were only fooling yourself. You fell right back into it when you ignored me.”
“So, you went home and tried to kill yourself,” said Clay. He looked over at the chief. “It’s amazing how your actions have consequences.”
“It’s time you play your game.”
“I don’t want to play games. Why all the fucking games?”
“Consider it your fucking trial. That’s all a trial is in this godforsaken city. One big fucking game. So, you see, I made my own trial. I give you a chance to fight. Hell, I might even give you a little hope, but you know how it ends. Just like it did for my family.”
He turned and walked over to the drawing on the floor. “It’s easy. Ten letters to admit your guilt. It’s a word you know well. And in case you can’t tell, you are on a very carefully planned out platform. It’s connected to the pulley over your head. The pulley has a weight that will trigger whenever one of you steps down or falls. Whichever comes first.”
“I’m not playing,” said the chief. “Not until you let Clay go. He’s not a part of this.”
“He is, though. You see, I’ve done my homework. He’s the hired man for Kyle Young’s father. I’d say that makes him guilty by default.”
“He wasn’t around then. You should let him go.”
“I don’t think you need to tell me how to play the game. Besides, these puzzles have been too hard on the rest of my victims, and I think you need his help.”
Clay turned his eyes toward the floor. “S,” he said.
“Looks like Clay wants to play.” He pushed his hand into the wound on the chief’s chest, causing the old man to scream in pain. Once his fingers were soaked, he walked over and bent down to draw the letter on the board twice.
“Not bad,” said Clay, earning a dirty look from O’Connor, who hadn’t quite recovered from the pain.
The Hangman hated Clay’s smug tone, but he knew a bit about their past and could tell that he had satisfaction with what was happening too.
“R,” said Clay, feeling lucky. He gave the Hangman a sneering chuckle.
The Hangman shook his head. “No, I’m afraid there is no R.” He stepped over to O’Connor, and the old man stood straighter, looking down his nose at him like he was not going to give him the satisfaction of fearing what would come next.
With a quick movement, the Hangman buried his blade in Clay’s shoulder.
“Motherfucker!” cried Clay as he pulled his blade free.
“There are consequences for wrong answers. Isn’t that right, Chief? You’re learning that the hard way. I asked something of you two years ago, and you gave me the wrong fucking answer.”
“You want to play? I’ll play. T.” He wobbled on his feet, and his words chattered off his teeth.
“What do you know? Another proper guess.” He looked at them both. “Who should I get the blood from?” He wondered if either would stab the other in the back at this point. Neither did. “No suggestions? I guess I’ll just have to dip into a fresh well.” He reached over and dug into Clay’s wound.
“You fucking fucker! Fuck!” Clay ground his teeth together after the obscenities and growled out instead of screaming. “You’re so going to pay for that, you bastard. I hope Michael rips you apart.”
“Too late. He already had his chance, and he succeeded. I’m nothing I used to be.” He drew the letter on the floor. “Any guesses now?” He backed away from the board.
Both men turned their eyes down to the floor, but neither made a guess. Both were probably too afraid of saying the wrong thing, and the Hangman couldn’t blame them for that. He laughed, the wicked chuckle of a madman bubbling up from deep in his gut. “Look at you two. It’s going to take you leaning on each other and working together. Just like you all did when you dismantled my case. You all plotted and schemed together like a well-oiled machine.”
“I didn’t come along… until after. The wheels were already… in motion.” The chief was having trouble speaking.
“But you knew they were in motion.”
“What do you think you’ll gain?” he asked. “From all… of this?”
Clay turned and looked at the man with concern in his eyes. “He’s fading. If he falls, I’m dead, right?”
“Yeah, that’s the way this works.”
“I’m not going to fall,” said the chief. He looked down at the board. “The word. It’s ‘dishonesty’, isn’t it?”
“Very good. A word you know well.”
“I’m sorry,” said O’Connor, struggling to get the words out. “I’m sorry I didn’t do right by you. And I’m sorry to you too, Clay. I was never honest with you. I helped frame your father. He was a bad man, but he didn’t do the crime we sent him up for. That was designed to take him off the streets. I didn’t even consider taking him out of your life.”
“That’s touching. Really it is. And congratulations. You solved the puzzle.” The Hangman drew his hand back and stuck the knife in O’Connor’s gut. He felt the wind of his breath as it was knocked from his chest. The chief gasped and struggled.
“No!” Clay shouted.
“Jump,” said the chief. “Jump down.”
“I forgive you, Paddy. You saved me a lot of grief putting that old bastard away. I didn’t know it at the time, but I know it now.” With that said, Clay stepped off the chair, falling to his ass as the balance of the weight was tipped against the chief, jerking him upward, his feet leaving the chair as he spat and sputtered.
“I guess he really was a good guy after all,” said the Hangman as the chief twitched, his head turning as red as a tomato. He struggled for a minute, but then, after a moment, he finally stilled. “That was a big move you made. A mercy killing.” The Hangman looked down at Clay.
Clay’s eyes were trained on O’Connor like he regretted taking the step, but it was something he had to do. “He knew he was going to die, and he wanted me to end his suffering. That’s the only reason I did it.”
“And why all the talk of forgiveness? To show me that you’re not as bad as I think you are?” The Hangman knew better. He’d looked into every one of his victims and the people surrounding them. Clay White was a big part of Michael Young’s life. He was not only his hired gun, but he cleaned up well enough to be by the man’s side in the public eye on fitting occasions.
“No,” said Clay. “I said that because I meant it. Paddy was good people, and I’d known him my whole life. And besides, if you really did your homework on me like you say you did, then you know I’m just a fucking, no good bastard.”
The Hangman looked down at the floor. Then he reached up and raked his fingers through the blood of Clay’s open wound. He turned around and filled in the last half of the word. H.O.N.E.S.T.Y.
Clay closed his eyes. “What are you going to do with me now?”
“You, I had no plan for. Truth is, I need you to do me a favor.”
“A favor? Are you fucking with me?”
The Hangman reached down and grabbed Clay by his hair. Once on his feet, he looked him in the eye. “No, I’m going to let you go. I need you to go to your boss and give him a message from me.” He took the noose from around his neck.
“Okay,” said Clay, looking at him like he’d lost his mind. “What’s the message?”
“Tell him that this doesn’t end until he’s paid for what he’s done to me with his life. And that his son is going to die a slow and very painful death right along with him.”
“Sure.” He shrugged, giving the Hangman a smug look. “I’ll make sure and tell him that.”
The Hangman reached into his pocket and pulled out another hypodermic needle. Before Clay knew what was coming, he struck out, stabbing him in the neck and deli
vering the dose. “Don’t take me for a fool. There’s a method to my madness, and you can’t know where you’ve been.”
He caught Clay as he sagged to the floor and then dragged him out the back of the building and into his truck. He was going to let Clay go, but only where he knew he’d find his boss and do what was asked of him.
By the time he got to the Rockford, the drugs were wearing off, and Clay stirred. He hadn’t given him too large a dose. Just enough to get him where he was going. As he pulled up to the side of the Rockford where the staff parked and used the side entrance, he reached across Clay and opened the door. Then he kicked him out onto the pavement.
He punched the gas, and the door closed on its own as the truck took off. He headed across town, knowing things were about to take a big turn.
Chapter 27
Clay
Clay felt every bounce as he hit the pavement, and as the Hangman sped away, one of the cooks ran out to offer a hand. “Are you okay?” the man asked in a thick southern accent.
“I’m fine.” He rolled over and held his shoulder. “Get me into the back. I need to get to a bathroom.” He had to clean his wound and do his best to dress it. There wasn’t any going to the ER with this one, at least not until he came up with a good story and talked to Michael.
The man helped him up and then waved him into the back door. “You can’t come into the kitchen that way, but there is a bathroom in the back near the manager’s office. Go down the hall to the left.”
“How can I get to the top floor?”
The man hesitated a bit.
Clay huffed. “I’ve got a room here. How do I get to the fucking top floor? I don’t want anyone to see me this way.” He was shirtless, bloody, wounded, and dirty.
“There is an access door to the stairway. You’ll see it next to the lobby entrance.” He looked him up and down. “That’s a deep cut, man. You’re going to need stitches.”
“Forget you saw me. Forget you know dick about my injuries.” He turned and went in the direction he was told, and when he ducked into the bathroom, he held his breath that there was no one there.
Thankfully, there were only two stalls, and no one else was there. He went to the sink and turned on the water. Then he splashed cold water on his face and cleaned himself up. Seeing there weren’t any paper towels, he rolled his eyes and hit the button on the air dryer. “Fucking piece of shit,” he muttered. The warm air was a bitch on his wound, and he ground his teeth together, thinking about Paddy dangling from that rope like a puppet on a string.
He didn’t feel guilty about it at all, but then, he rarely felt shit anyway, but he had meant what he said. He did forgive the bastard. That was the best he could do for him.
He walked over to take a piss and let out a deep breath. He needed a shower and stitches, and after he put his cock away, there wasn’t any use washing his hands. He went to the door and listened for anyone in the hallway. When he thought the coast was clear, he opened the door, made his way down the hall, and found the entrance to the stairs. He took them up to the second floor and then decided he was in too much fucking pain to make the entire fucking journey to the top. So, he ducked into the elevator and took it the rest of the way up, praying that no one would enter the elevator with him. The Rockford had its many secrets, and he hoped that all of its patrons and staff really knew when to keep their mouths shut.
The elevator door opened, and he was thankful that the hour was such that the hotel hallways were empty. At the late hour, most were at dinner.
He went to his door and reached into his back pocket for the key. He had to call Michael. He was certain the asshole was back home by now, but he was shocked when he opened the door to find the man entertaining the same dumb bitch he’d picked up from the housekeeping staff days ago. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Michael’s eyes widened. “Me kid you? What the fuck happened to you?” Michael pushed the girl from between his legs and put his cock back in his pants. “You’re fucking bleeding!”
Clay gave him a look that said the no shit for him. “Yeah, I see you’ve been worried.”
“I was just passing the time with Carmina.” He followed Clay as he made a beeline to the bathroom.
“Well, I’ve got a message for you, and you might want to send Carmina back where you found her before I deliver it. I’ll give you the time I’m in the fucking shower to lose her.”
“Since when do you tell me what the fuck is going to happen?”
Clay took a deep breath. “Since I’m the one in fucking pain, standing here bleeding because of your fucking bullshit. That’s why. Lose the cunt before I get out.” He wasn’t going to play around, and if she was still in the room when he got out of the shower, he would have to put her out himself. They had serious shit happening, and all Michael had on his mind, and dick, was that fucking piece of ass.
He turned on the water and didn’t bother waiting for a good temperature. He was so eager to get under the spray that he undressed beneath it, letting the water warm up as it washed him off. He peeled out of the fucking pants and tossed his wallet across to the counter. Then he took a deep breath and wondered how he was going to stitch up his wound. He wondered if Carmina knew how to sew, but he wasn’t about to ask her.
He finally rinsed off, and when he stepped out and put a towel around his waist, Michael walked back to the door. “She’s gone. And I’ve called my friend to meet us here. He’s going to take care of your arm and stitch you up, give you some pain pills.”
“Good.”
“I tried to call, but you didn’t answer. I just thought you were caught up catching the asshole and having a little fun with him.”
That might have been his usual MO, but not this time. Instead, he was the one being played with. “No. I was too busy playing hangman with Patrick O’Connor. He’s dead. The Hangman let me go. He said that the game won’t be over until you’re dead for what you did. You and Kyle.”
Michael’s jaw tightened. “Son of a bitch. He’s going to make this difficult. I can’t let him get to us. You’re going to have to go after him again. This time, you’re going to have to kill him like we planned. How did you get caught anyway?”
“He’s ex-military. He’s not a fool. He knew I was on his property the minute I stepped foot on it, and he was waiting for me. He was one step ahead, and that’s how he’ll stay. Trust me. He’s heartless.”
“He’s no one. I remember him as a blubbering fool on the courthouse steps, talking to the media after the trial. He’s bound to have a weakness. I thought that this was your specialty. I guess I hired the wrong man.”
“If that’s the way you feel, then you can find a new man. I’m not sure I’m willing to put myself up on another noose for you and that spoiled fucking psychopath you’ve raised. And as for weak, blubbering Madden? The man is a lean, mean, killing machine now. He found a reason to live and a good reason for revenge. Don’t forget that he’s on a mission too.”
“I just need you to do your fucking job, but if you can’t, then so be it. Find another one.”
Clay took a deep breath and walked out of the bathroom, pushing past Michael on the way. “I’m not sure you get how hard it is to work for you. Look at me. I’m bleeding, I’m in so much fucking pain, and you act like it’s not good enough? Fuck you, Michael. Whatever death you and that fucking kid of yours have coming, I won’t be around to be a part of it. I have to get the fuck out of here.”
“I agree,” said Michael. “I think that’s best.”
Clay opened the black box on the coffee table, took a cigarette from it, and put it between his lips. He was going to miss working for the man, but he couldn’t take the bullshit anymore. He took the lighter from his pocket, and when he turned around, Michael had a gun trained on him.
He looked him in the eyes, and with a flick of his thumb, he lit the cigarette, staring down the muzzle. With a huge inhale and the satisfying drag, he closed his eyes as Michael pulled the trigger.
Chapter 28
Jake
As Jake drove in to work, he thought about how crazy the past twenty-four hours had been. He had tossed and turned all night, partly because he had too much on his mind and mostly because he had blown it with Jo. After he’d fished her out of the lake, dried her off, and then drove her home, he went back to the office to look through the computer for the name Madden.
After not having any luck, he took his search home. It was there, wondering if Jo would ever speak to him again, that his mind began to unlock little by little, and now it was all over the place.
The little girl had been small next to her mother. Her still, dead eyes were looking toward her mother as if she was the last thing the little angel had seen. Emma. Her name had been Emma. Her mother, Alyssa, had been stabbed repeatedly, the sick actions of a spoiled rich kid who had been given everything but his father’s love and approval.
As he pulled into the parking lot, his arrival at work made him take a deep breath and prepare himself for Jo’s wrath. She hadn’t been too impressed by the way the day had turned out, and even though he’d apologized profusely, she was still bothered when he took her home.
She was sitting behind the desk when he went inside. “Hey,” she said, looking up from her paperwork.
He stood next to her and shut the door behind him. “Let me start by apologizing again. I’m so sorry about what happened yesterday. And I know you’re mad at me.”
“I am?” She turned her nose up and then looked away.
“Yeah, I could tell when I brought you home yesterday.” She had been quiet.
She shook her head and laughed. “There you go assuming again. Just like yesterday, when you assumed that I wanted to go home. We had just found the biggest lead in the case, which you were so excited over that you threw me into the lake, and then you drag me out, dry me off, and drive me home like I was some child with no choice in the matter.”