The Hangman's Soliloquy

by Jeb Bohn

  “Does that mean you’re in?”

  “It means ‘I’ll see what I can do.’”

  “Outstanding, we can have you on a plane tomorrow morning.”

  The Tall Man held up a hand as he released a long plume of smoke. “I don’t fly. Call me crazy, but I have more faith in solid asphalt and four rolling Michelins than a hollow, flying tube. Have your man drop me at my hotel. I have a rental there. I’ll leave early tomorrow, should get to Herman in a day and a half.”

  “That’s a 1700 mile trip.”

  “Yep. Gotta stop for gas and caffeine; maybe catch a nap somewhere along the way. Give me two days and I’ll have an answer for you.”

  Dreams in a Smoke-filled Car

  Herman had spent two days getting things in order, triple checking everything to ensure that no detail had been overlooked. After he had gotten off of the phone with Karl Peterson, he had gone out shopping. His first stop had been the hardware store, grabbing heat-resistant tape, foam insulation, and a length of rubber hose. From there, he had visited the local grocer and picked up a couple of thick-cut steaks and charcoal. His last stop had been the ABC store for a fifth of very expensive bourbon. His mind had slowed considerably from its regular barrage of thoughts, allowing him to relax and enjoy a beautiful North Carolina day.

  It was three o’clock in the afternoon. The steaks were on the grill and Herman was working his way through the whiskey. Preparing dinner at this early hour felt comedic to him, the type of thing he’d give Ray shit for, yet here he was. He intended to enjoy his New York strip and it would be getting dark in a couple of hours, which meant he had to stay moving if he was going to finish what he intended to. With the sun traveling further into the western sky, he took the steaks up and headed into the kitchen. He carefully placed one of the medium-rare strips in Otis’ dish.

  The old dog came trotting in just as Herman was sitting down to eat. He looked at the steak, then at his owner as if to confirm that it hadn’t found its way to his plate by some wonderful accident.

  “Go ahead old boy, she’s all yours.”

  Not willing to risk the man’s senses returning to him, Otis began chewing on the meat, his tail wagging wildly. The sight made Herman remember when he had first brought the dog home, an excitable and energetic pup who had run from room to room to get the lay of the land. Herman felt a sting in his chest as a tear spilled down his cheek. He sat there, musing on the tragically humorous nature of life, the ups and downs, and how fleeting time really was. By the time he had snapped out of his daydream, Otis had finished his dinner and set off to find a comfy spot for a nap.

  “Here’s to solitude,” Herman said as he hoisted the bottle of bourbon, tipping it back. The smoky liquid coursed down his throat, warming his bones as it surged through his system.

  Better slow down, you’ve still got work to do asshole.

  He enjoyed the most delicious steak of his life while managing to abstain from consuming any more alcohol. He washed up his dinnerware before making his way through the house, turning lights off as he went. Upon reaching the back door, he grabbed a bag that he had packed for Otis and grabbed his keys from a hook on the wall. He called out for the dog, who came trotting happily down the hallway. Herman wondered with some amusement if the old pooch thought he was getting more steak. His mirth quickly faded into a bittersweet pang deep inside his chest.

  They walked to the car, Herman opening the door for his companion and placing the bag in the floor behind the passenger seat. They made the short drive to the Peterson house in silence as dusk greedily stole the sunlight from the sky. The realization that he hadn’t called ahead struck Herman just as he was pulling into their driveway, a concern he quickly shifted to the back of his mind. He park alongside Karl’s old Ford pickup and got out, the brisk evening air caressing his unshaven face as he walked around to let Otis out.

  The old dog began to whine and cry when the door opened, refusing to budge from his perch on the seat. Herman squatted down, his knees popping as he met the hound’s eye line.

  “You know exactly what’s going on, don’t you old man?”

  Otis placed a paw on Herman’s shoulder and licked his face, still whimpering.

  “C’mon now, no need to drag this out. You’ll be well taken care of and you’ll have other dogs to play with. Hell, you might even find yourself a girlfriend.”

  Herman rubbed the dog’s head and the crying stopped.

  “Plus, you won’t have to depend on a broken-down, drunk asshole anymore. I’d call that a silver lining.”

  Otis hopped past Herman and trotted off towards Karl Peterson, who had stepped out onto the front porch.

  “Everything okay, Herman?”

  “Just tired,” Herman said with a grunt as he stood up. “And sore.”

  “It only gets worse, believe me.” Karl turned his attention to Otis. “And how are you doing young fella?”

  Otis hopped around happily, bringing a smile to Herman’s face.

  I hope the old boy can keep it up he thought as he retrieved the bag of Otis’ belongings.

  “Packed up a few things just in case,” he said, passing it over to Karl.

  The older man gave Herman a doubtful look.

  “That’s a first. You sure everything’s all right?”

  Herman sighed. “Yeah, just juggling too many things at once.”

  Not wanting to upset the dog again, Herman bid Karl a quick goodbye and returned to his car. The old man watched with concern as Herman pulled out of the driveway and down the road, not going into the house until the taillights had been swallowed up by the growing darkness.

  Herman drove for twenty minutes, not stopping until he reached a small and secluded wooded area on the northeastern side of Lake Gaston. He crept down a narrow, unpaved path that ran all the way to the edge of the lake, killed the engine, walked to the fringe of the water and sat down. He sat there for an hour, staring up at the moon and purging his mind. He made every effort to block what he was about to do from his head; there was no sadness, there was no joy, there was only existence. While he had made his peace with everything before leaving the house, it comforted him that no doubts had wormed into his brain.

  Once crepuscule gave way to full darkness, he left his waterside roost and returned to the car, kneeling down to check the temperature of the exhaust pipe. Satisfied by its coolness to the touch, he retrieved the bag of supplies that he had bought earlier and set to work. He began by inserting one end of the rubber hose into the exhaust, securing it in place with the heat resistant tape. After applying more of the adhesive to provide a proper seal, he ran the remaining hose down the passenger side of the car. Opening the door, he rolled the window down a few inches before returning to the bag and grabbing the foam insulation.

  He made a crude sandwich with the free end of the hose encased in the insulator, placed it in the opening, and rolled the crank until the window held his creation in place. With that done, Herman closed the door and, using more of the tape, made the entryway as airtight as possible. Once the initial setup was complete, he walked around to the driver’s side and started the car, stepping back to check the rig for any visible leaks. The night had grown cool enough that any exhaust would be visible to the naked eye. After spending a few minutes inspecting, Herman decided that everything was ready.

  Jesus, he marveled to himself. That was easier than I had anticipated.

  He also realized that he had only completed the first step.

  Now it was time for the second.

  He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out four sleeping pills. He had intended to use more, but these were all he had at the house and he had forgotten to get more during his excursion. He was here now and didn’t want to waste time running into town for more, never mind the fact that he would have to undo the work that he had just completed. These’ll be enough to get me to sleep and keep me there. Then it’s up to good old carbon monoxide to do its job.

  He swallowed the pil
ls dry, wishing like hell he’d brought along something to drink. He thought briefly about cupping his hands and drinking from the lake. After all, what did it matter now if it made him sick? He wouldn’t be around long enough to suffer, so who cared? Despite this line of reasoning, Herman decided against it, opting instead to slide into the driver’s seat.

  The exhaust smelled rich inside the cabin, though Herman didn’t find it to be unpleasant. He pulled out his trusty iPod, selected a playlist that he had created specifically for the occasion, and pressed play. Laying the seat back gave him an unobstructed view of the moon and the stars and he remarked to himself what a beautiful evening it was. By the midway point of the third song, Herman was out like a light. If not for his artless modification, he would appear to be nothing more than a weary motorist who had found a quiet spot for a nap.

  ◆◆◆

  Ray Whitestone was puttering around his house, moving between his kitchen and his den. His body was surging with an endless stream of anxious electricity. It didn’t stem from an overabundance of caffeine, nor did it take root from the Capitals game that he was barely aware of on the TV. Something was wrong. The fact that he couldn’t place the source of this distress only served to add aggravation on top of aggravation.

  He finally plopped down in his recliner and started running over scenarios in his mind. He thought back to his last conversation with Herman, the unbridled rage that had exploded at a moment’s notice. While it had been uncharacteristic, Ray realized that his friend had been feeling burned out in the wake of the clusterfuck that had occurred in Bermuda. He hadn’t tried to call back, electing to give Herman the time and space needed to decompress and sort his thoughts out. Ray had told himself that he’d give Herman the weekend to gather himself, though a sense of dread seemed to cut through the constant anxiety when he thought of his friend.

  “Fuck it.”

  He reached for his phone, examining it like some alien artifact, and placing it back down on the coffee table. He decided that a drink was in order before anything else. The hope was that it would calm whatever bugaboo was plaguing him though deep inside he doubted it. Then again, anything was worth a shot, so he set about the ritual: ice, bourbon, and sour mix went into a stainless steel shaker; a cool and refreshing whiskey sour came out. Studying his concoction through the side of a Waterford crystal glass, he smiled.

  Content, he raised his glass in a toast to no one in particular and took a sip. The drink had only just touched his lips when his phone rang. “Oh for fuck’s sake.” The annoyance faded as he picked the phone up and saw that the call was coming from Herman’s landline. “You in a better frame of mind now, you grumpy prick?”

  “Ray Whitestone?”

  Ray couldn’t place the voice but he knew that it wasn’t Herman. “Who the fuck is this?”

  “I guess you could say I’m a friend of a friend. How soon can you get to Herman’s?”

  Ray identified a slight southern drawl in the voice and, just like that, he realized who was on the other end of the line. “What’s happened?” Ray was already heading towards the door with his keys in hand.

  “How soon can you get here?”

  ◆◆◆

  Ray made the two and a half hour drive in less than two, pulling into Herman’s driveway at a quarter past eight. The first thing that he noticed was that the house was almost entirely dark. Herman’s Aston Martin was gone. In its place sat a generic black sedan with a rental sticker in the corner of the windshield. He went up the back steps and into the house where he was promptly greeted by the same voice he had heard over the phone. “Up here, Ray.”

  He followed the voice upstairs, moving down the hallway towards Herman’s office, the lone source of light. Ray was nearly at the doorway when a shadow arose, stretching all the way down to where he was standing. Then, materializing like a wraith in the doorway was the Tall Man. “Evenin’, Ray.”

  “Yeah,” Ray said hoarsely, his throat as dry as desert sand.

  “Come on in,” the Tall Man said as he stepped aside. “We need to talk about Herman.”

  His heart palpitating wildly, Ray walked the remainder of the hall and into the office where his friend was lying on the couch. “Herman,” he said in a raised voice.

  “He’s just sleeping,” the Tall Man said, placing a hand on Ray’s shoulder.

  “You wanna get your fucking hand off of me, asshole?”

  There was a rapidly ascending anger in Ray’s voice. He knelt down next to his friend and checked for a pulse. It was there, slow and steady. Up close, Ray could see the rising and falling of Herman’s chest. He stood up and turned to face the Tall Man with the speed and agility of a man forty years younger. “What the fuck happened to him? Did you do this?”

  “No, sir, he did it himself and if you’ll have a seat I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  Reluctantly, Ray sat down in the desk chair, casting a weary eye at the stranger. “Okay chief, let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Over the next hour, the Tall Man told Ray about being contacted by Greg Schultz shortly after the explosions in Bermuda. He went on to explain that Schultz had asked him to come out to Colorado and the offer that had been extended to both himself and to Herman. He made it a point to mention that he had not yet agreed and that he had told Schultz that the best he could do was present the offer to Herman and let him decide for himself. Finally, he told Ray how he had driven in to town only to find Herman gone.

  “So how the hell did you find him?”

  “I was tracking Herman before I confronted him back in Pittsburgh. I sat in a parked car down the street wondering when he would lose his nerve and run. By that point, I already knew what I was going to do, and it wasn’t what I was hired to do. What I didn’t know was if the people that hired me would get antsy and send someone else to take him out, so I waited and watched. I stuck a GPS tracker on his car, well hidden. So well hidden that it’s still there."

  He told Ray what he had seen when he found Herman. “I could tell from the color in his face that he hadn’t been in there very long. I smacked him around a bit to make sure that he was, well, still all there I suppose. He muttered something and went back to sleep. Son of a bitch talks a lot in his sleep.”

  When he finished, Ray could only sit and shake his head. “Suicide?” There was doubt in his voice, though it wasn’t accusatory. He felt guilty for not picking up more from Herman’s mood changes and he felt guilty for not driving down after his terse conversation with Herman two days earlier. Not wanting to allow himself to sink into negative thoughts, Ray focused on another topic. “So what do you think about Schultz? Can he be trusted?”

  The Tall Man shrugged. “I thought so initially.”

  “Not now, though?”

  “Well, it’s hard to say. He was involved with some bad juju with QNI.”

  “But,” Ray said, sensing what was coming.

  “But then they burned down his house, with his wife and kids inside.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  The Tall Man nodded. “That alone shows me that he’s motivated. Add to that the fact that he’s the one behind the explosion in Colorado, and I have little doubt that he’s sincere.”

  Ray couldn’t help wondering if another but was coming. He decided to speed things along. “So, what’s the red flag?”

  “Well, Ray, it’s like my grandpa used to say when someone who was known to fail did just that: ‘it’s just the man.’”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “I’ve developed a comprehensive understanding of the human psyche thanks to my line of work. I’ve seen people act crazy as an intimidation tactic and I’ve seen people who genuinely are crazy. Greg Schultz is dancing a goddamned jig on the border of the two, and he’s slipping ever closer into the sole territory of the latter.”

  Ray laughed. It was a bitter, joyless sound. “Great, we’ve got a man who has organized a small militia running around blowing up buildings. He now wants to bring Herm
an into the fold and, by the way, he’s borderline psychotic.”

  The Tall Man chuckled.

  Ray’s face grew hot and red. “What the hell is so amusing about all this?”

  “I’m just trying to figure out if it was your personality that rubbed off on Herman or vice-versa.”

  “I’m the original fuckin’ artifact, and you’ll be well served to remember that. Shit, I’m amazed that comatose bastard hasn’t put me in the ground yet.”

  The Tall Man continued to laugh, rubbing his jaw with his thumb and forefinger. “I can see why Herman thinks so highly of you Ray.”

  “I don’t take that as a compliment.” Ray leaned to the side, looking in the direction of the windowsill. “That bottle of bourbon by the window, hand it over will ya?”

  The Tall Man obliged, picking the bottle up by its neck and holding it out to Ray, who unscrewed the cap.

  “You want some?” he asked as he gave the bottle a little shake.

  “Thanks, but no thanks Ray.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Ray turned the bottle up, pulling down three deep draughts. He smacked his lips before setting the bottle down and returning the cap. There was a solid minute of silence, neither man making so much as a peep.

  It was Ray who finally broke the peace. “You can’t tell Herman about this, not now at least.”

  The Tall Man produced a pack of Marlboros, holding it out to Ray who declined. Nodding, the Tall Man placed one in his mouth and lit it. “How long has ole Herman been, uh, well, morose? I knew him to be a bit high-strung but this, this is a horse of a different color altogether.”

  Ray sighed, looking ten years older and grimacing when he spoke. “Hell, Herman’s always been a hardheaded asshole; he’s always been moody. I talked to him a few days ago; he’d just done a TV interview. He was drinking and I told him to slow down.” Ray paused, taking another swig of bourbon.

  “And then?” the Tall Man prodded.