The Hangman's Soliloquy

by Jeb Bohn

  He looked up at the Tall Man. “You mind giving me a smoke?”

  He nodded, tossing his cigarettes and lighter to Herman, who promptly lit one up before tossing them back across and resuming his tangent.

  “Only they didn’t lose, not really. Sure, most of those assholes are facing hard time but what are the chances that they all go down? Or, and this is the most important question, really: what if they still have goons out looking for those of us who set their downfall in motion?”

  Ray and the Tall Man shared an uneasy look, the fate of Schultz’s two scouts fresh in their minds.

  This did not go unnoticed by Herman. “What the hell was that?”

  “What?” Ray asked, cursing himself for sounding so defensive.

  "Hey." Herman snapped his fingers and pointed at his head. “Suicidal, not stupid. This about Schultz?”

  “You figured that out, didja?” the Tall Man asked.

  “You do remember what I do for a living, don’t you?” Herman asked, becoming more animated.

  “Yessir, I do.”

  “That note you left after the shit went down, a former QNI stooge reaching out to you, well it sparked my curiosity. Greg Schultz worked at the very facility that you blew up. His family died under mysterious circumstances. He’s the one who did up the place in Colorado, right?”

  The Tall Man acknowledged Herman’s question with a silent nod.

  “Good, maybe he’ll draw some of the heat off of us.”

  The Tall Man pursed his lips and blew out a quick exhale. “Well—” He arched his back to stretch it, not immediately saying anything else.

  “Well, what?” Herman asked, snuffing out his cigarette.

  The Tall Man opened his mouth when Ray cut him off. “I just want to talk for a moment before this goes any further. I’ll say my piece and then I’ll shut up.”

  Grinning, Herman started to say something but was quickly stopped.

  “Shut up Herman, just let me say what I have to say.”

  Herman held his hands up in acquiescence.

  “I cannot for the life of me grasp why you did what you did. Know that isn’t judgment, I’m just being honest. I don’t know what you’ve been dealing with, and that falls on my shoulders as much as anyone’s. I’m going to try not to make this about me, because it isn’t, but you’ve been like a son to me for a long goddamned time. I’ve seen you grow from a snot nosed wannabe reporter into an honest to God journalist. You’ve done a hell of lot of good, more than that prick jackoff that interviewed you could ever hope to achieve.”

  He paused, squeezing his eyes shut as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. Re-centered, he continued.

  “People need you, Herman. Things are going to shit, the extremes are becoming more extreme by the minute and everyday more people are getting sick of it. That’s not you; you don’t play the same game that they do. You represent the center, and if the center doesn’t hold then the whole thing is fucked. This though, right here and right now, is about what you need. I’m not a touchy-feely kinda guy; I don’t know how to run my own fucking life let alone anyone else’s. But, what I will say is that you need to address whatever it is that led you to do what you did. Sadness, fear, anger, whatever, you have to address it and sort it out. In every choice that you make, you have to decide if it will compromise you in such a way that you do it again.”

  Ray leaned back and rubbed his jaw.

  “You have to know that it’s right for you and that you’re not choosing to do something out of some fucked up sense of responsibility. That’s all I’ve got.” He got off of the swing with a grunt and shuffled his way across the porch towards the door. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be asleep in the recliner.” Realizing that he’d set himself up, he called back out as he walked through the door. “Not a fuckin’ word, Herman.”

  The door closed, leaving just the Tall Man and Herman, who eased back in his chair, took a sip of coffee, and let out a loud ahh.

  “So, man with no name, what the hell is going on?”

  “Surprised to see me, Herman?”

  Herman shrugged, tilting his head slightly to one side. “No, but I am surprised that I woke up and didn’t find myself face to face with the devil.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  Herman feigned a smile before repeating his question. “What’s going on?”

  He watched as the man strode over to the porch swing and took Ray’s vacated seat.

  “I met with Schultz, just after the Colorado job. He wants me to join up with his crew, help them finish their mission.”

  “Good call on his part, very smart.”

  The Tall Man gave an aw, shucks shrug.

  “Are you going to?”

  “I dunno, not yet at least. Shit moved so fast in Florida that I didn’t really think ahead, ya know? I stand by the sentiment that every one of those bastards needs to be held accountable and that each of those facilities stand as monuments to avarice and exploitation.”

  “So, what’s the holdup?”

  “There are, in fact, two. The first is that he wants you there, to document everything, conduct interviews and whatnot. Give his perspective, really. I guess he thinks people will be more sympathetic if you do that.”

  “So that’s why you showed up, he wanted you to recruit me.”

  “You got it.”

  “And here I thought that we had developed some sort of psychic connection. What’s number two?”

  “A stark reminder of who we’re dealing with.”

  “How arcane.”

  “Schultz had two men scouting their next target. They checked in with him and left the site to rendezvous at a predetermined location.”

  “I’m assuming they didn’t make it,” Herman quipped, taking another swig of coffee.

  “They did not. They, along with their vehicle, were found shot to bits and set ablaze.”

  Herman whistled as he scratched his chin. “The ghosts of QNI?”

  The Tall Man pointed at Herman. “You weren’t wrong when you said they were drawing the heat.” He paused, sitting forward on his swing. “Herman, I don’t expect you to come up with an answer now. Ray’s right, you need to get yourself sorted out before you make any major commitments and this one is huge. I wanted you to know the lay of the land because you are needed, if not for this than for all the other work that you do.”

  Herman waved a hand in the air. “Don’t condescend to me, okay. Don’t do that. I’m not afraid of their black-suited goons, the worst that they can do is kill me.”

  “That’s the point,” the Tall Man said, his voice raised enough to make Herman jump. “You wanna play with your life? Say the word and I’ll knock you out and put you right back in that damned car. It’s easy not to be afraid of them when they’re not here, but make no mistake they will come for you. They’ll come for Ray and they’ll come for me unless we get them first.”

  Herman stood up and threw his mug down, smashing it on the walkway that led up to the porch. “You think I don’t know that?” He matched the volume of his friend, exceeding it as he continued.

  “Have you seen the fucking vault door on my office? The bullet holes in every tree in my yard? I have sat up night after night after night after night just waiting, waiting for them to show up. You don’t think that just maybe I thought that they’d move on if I was already dead?”

  “Hey!” The voice called out from behind. It was Ray. He was walking back out onto the porch, his face twisted into an expression of scarcely restrained exasperation. “You two knock that shit off.”

  Herman cocked his head around, looking at Ray over his shoulder. “I thought you were taking a nap.”

  “Who can sleep with you two assholes out here screaming like a couple of coked up fuckwits? Sit down, Herman.”

  Herman remained in place, paying no mind to what his friend had said.

  “Sit down!”

  This time he listened, moving back to the chair and thumping down into it.


  “Don’t pout Herman,” Ray continued. “Now, do you have enough of your mental faculties about to have an adult conversation?”

  Herman put up his hands in a ‘go on’ gesture. Ray complied.

  “Okay then. My two cents are that you shouldn’t go. I don’t think that you’re mentally able to handle it and I think that last night proves it. I’m worried about you and what this might do to you. Of course, you’re an obstinate bastard and you’ll do what you want regardless of what I or anyone else says.”

  Ray flicked his eyes to the Tall Man.

  “At least you’ll have someone there watching your back, should things go sideways. You’ll do what you think you need to but, for the record, I am against it. Were it up to me, I’d drive you to the nearest psychiatric hospital. Shit, I honestly don’t know why I’m not doing that.”

  “Tell me, Ray, what’s swayed your opinion? Are you afraid that you have to rely on a suicidal man to be your savior?”

  “Christ, Herman, you don’t always have to be such an impenitent jackass. Yes, I am afraid because, unlike you, I am testifying against these arrogant prigs.”

  The smug look that had cloaked Herman’s face melted into a demeanor of deep concern. “Why in the hell would you do that? It’s not enough to be on their hit list without painting a giant, neon target on your back?”

  Ray sighed and Herman noticed that the man had been aged by everything that had gone down since George Wilman and QNI had come into the picture.

  “In the past I have shrunk when it counted and that is a mistake that I do not intend on repeating.” As Ray went on, his voice hardened, more in line with the man that Herman knew. “They need to brought to heel. I’ll do what I can do in the courtroom and he’ll do what it is that he does,” hooking a thumb towards the Tall man. “And Herman, well, you’ll do what you do.”

  “Ray’s right, this has to end. What happened in Bermuda didn't stop them, losing two facilities isn't gonna stop them, and having a handful of executives behind bars ain’t gonna stop ‘em either. We have to do it, and you’d best believe that if we don’t, well, the shit they had brewing in Florida will just be the tip of the iceberg.”

  “Okay,” Herman began. “I’m going to need two things.”

  The Tall Man humored him. “Such as?”

  “Another cigarette and a plan.”

  The Tall Man placed his pack of smokes on the table, pulled out a cell phone, and dialed. Herman could hear it ring twice before a voice came on the line.

  “We have stipulations.”

  A response came from the other end, unintelligible to both Ray and Herman. The Tall Man went on to lay out the key to his course of action; splitting the group into three teams of five operators with each team responsible for one facility. Herman would go with Schultz and the Tall Man, serving only to document and not to be an active participant.

  The rationale was that the research laboratories would be destroyed at a greater rate. This would also allow each group more time to ensure there was no outside interference. It would also draw the demolitions to a close ahead of schedule.

  No further jobs would be carried out until enough explosives were ready for each team to carry out their simultaneous attacks. All of the down time during the bomb assembly period would be used to iron out the fine details. Every member of Schultz’s team was motivated by a burning anger, a ravenous thirst for vengeance. To the Tall Man, that presented a very tricky double-edged sword; with the proper focus, that rage could be an invaluable asset; uncontrolled, it could lead to the team literally blowing itself apart before they could end their mission.

  The odds all rested on the soundness of Greg Schultz’s mental health and how long it remained intact.

  Sour Visions

  A few rays of sunlight pierced the thick haze of clouds that had nestled in the sky above Laplace, Louisiana. On the outer edge of the town, just off the southwestern edge of Lake Pontchartrain, sat an aging two-story house. The dearth of exterior paint paired with the crooked shutters indicated that the structure had seen its best days around the time that JFK was sworn in, though the decline may well have been in effect by then. There wasn’t another house for over a mile in any direction, so no one was around to take notice of the three SUVs that pulled around to the rear of the abode.

  Sitting on the rear steps was Ambroise Toutant, a six foot ten Creole whose harsh glare belied his kindhearted disposition. The house and the nine acres it sat on belonged, once upon a time, to Ambroise’s grandfather before being passed on to his father, a swamp tour guide who had run his own boat. Ambroise and his brother, Andre, had helped their father with the business before they even started school. Now, with his parents ten years dead and his brother three, the estate fell to Ambroise. It hurt his soul to see the old homestead in such disrepair, but it would always be home and he vowed to fix it up once things had settled down.

  If they ever did.

  As a fine mist of precipitation cooled his face, he reflected on the life that had brought him back home under such extreme circumstances. A high school football phenom, he had secured a full athletic scholarship only to see that dream shatter along with his right knee. Disheartened and short on options, he had returned home to work at the family business. For while things were good, though Ambroise often caught himself daydreaming about the life that he had oh so briefly tasted.

  Then, just as he was settling into a routine of comfort and convenience, a massive coronary took his father. His mother followed exactly one week later, felled by congestive heart failure. The loss of his parents had a sobering effect on Ambroise, giving him a bitter taste of how cruel the world could be. He threw himself into running the business, working seven days a week, usually for fourteen hours each day. Through his anguish he eventually found peace and a sense of purpose. From that point on, Ambroise didn’t daydream.

  For the first few years, everything ran like a well-oiled machine. Business was strong and everything was going along perfectly.

  Until it wasn’t.

  As the economy turned downward, his client base dwindled to a fraction of what it had been just a few months prior. They sold four acres of land to get an influx of cash, though the debts that the brothers had inherited proved insurmountable. Then came another event that would reshape Ambroise’s life.

  On a Friday afternoon during what had typically been a busy time of year, he found himself doing routine maintenance to stave off boredom. He was changing bulbs in some of the outdoor lighting when Andre walked up, sporting a wide and contagious smile.

  He had just landed a job at some sort of factory over in Metairie. Eighteen bucks an hour and full benefits, he had said, still beaming. Ambroise asked what exactly his new employers did but Andre could only shrug. He started the following Monday and immediately began making a strong impression on his bosses. Six months later he was invited to transfer to a new area of the plant, a change in position that bumped his pay up by a few dollars.

  Andre accepted, though by this time he had started to question his decision.

  He told Ambroise how insane the security was; every worker had to pass through a device that Andre could best describe as “an x-ray machine on steroids.” The extreme measures taken were best summed up when Andre relayed a story about an electrical technician who was forced to empty out a thermos full of homemade chicken soup due to a false reading.

  They also prohibited employees from bringing in outside beverages of any type. To help soothe the ire of the workers, the break room always had a suitable amount of fresh tea and coffee. Water fountains were installed in abundance throughout, including larger units with the specific purpose of filling water bottles. It would later be (correctly) theorized that the operators of the plant wanted their employees to unwittingly take something out with them, something in their blood.

  Minor hassles aside, Andre persevered and found success in his new role.

  Soon enough, things changed.

  His old pickup had develop
ed a small coolant leak. To offset this, he often topped off the radiator with water from his thermos, water that he had obtained from a filling station in the plant. After a few weeks of this, the truck’s coolant system was shot. Andre pulled the radiator, thermostat, and hoses only to find that they all were choked with a strange series of deposits. Closer inspection revealed that they were metallic.

  Worried that there was a more serious issue at hand with the old truck, he checked the oil as well as the fluids for the transmission, power steering, and brakes. All looked exactly as they should, no trace of metal flakes or other contaminants. Flummoxed, Andre replaced the bad parts with new ones and moved on with life without ever making a connection between the strange alluvium in his radiator and the water from the factory.

  The third month of Andre’s new job marked the point where everything went off the rails. A large antenna had been installed on top of the building, though nobody knew why and any information relating to it was nonexistent. The cryptic nature of the installation was quickly overshadowed.

  Wilbur Hirschfeld, a fifty-something who did maintenance work at the plant, suffered an incredibly violent episode at lunch immediately following the appearance of the antenna. He had been talking to a group of people around a microwave in the break room when his eye began to twitch. He fell silent as the spasms spread to his mouth, leading many folks to believe that he was having a stroke.

  Andre had been eating his lunch at a nearby table, giving him an up close view. The image had stuck with him, just as his description of the incident had stuck with Ambroise after he heard it.

  We thought it was an embolism, a stroke, something along those lines. Then his nose started to bleed and they tried to get him to sit down but he fought them off. I tell you, Ambroise, he shoved one man ten feet across the cafeteria without a thought. I stood up to try to help and he just stood there, staring at me with those eyes. I knew Wilbur, and what I saw in those eyes won’t Wilbur.