The Hangman's Soliloquy

by Jeb Bohn

  I suppose I shouldn’t tell you what I did in Louisiana just yet then.

  “Yes, sir. I do have a request, if I may.”

  “What is it?”

  “Two more teams, one to Pennsylvania to help keep watch and one in Texas to meet up with me.”

  “You don’t have the first clue where they’re going, do you? I do not, at this time, have unlimited resources and every facility that we lose puts me under greater scrutiny.”

  “Just get the teams out.”

  “You’re hardly in a position to be making demands, Mister Conacher. You had them in Louisiana, you could have followed them and ended this, yet it seems to me that you’re treating this all as a game. Why the Pennsylvania site?”

  “Call it a hunch if you like, but I like to follow my gut.”

  “You’re willing to stake your life on a hunch? For your sake, I hope you’re right.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that sounded an awful lot like a threat.”

  “Well, you don’t know better because if I threaten you, you’ll damn well know it. You just need to remember that you’re not irreplaceable.”

  “That asshole that your guys hired to take out Wilman and Ingram, the one that blew up your headquarters, was spotted in North Carolina. Should he decide to pick up where he left off, Pennsylvania is his closest move. That a good enough answer for you?”

  “Yes, it seems that our vetting process for mercenaries is in need of an overhaul.”

  “Noted. So, you’ll send those teams out?”

  The call disconnected.

  “Fuck you too.”

  Michael, to the best of his knowledge, was right. While he was inside their house in Louisiana, he found out a few things, including documents that indicated Texas as their next target. They would know that he knew, however he hoped their dead friend would cloud their judgment and compel them to stick with the plan.

  The other interesting detail that he learned was the identity of the group’s leader: Gregory Schultz. After a little research, he found out that Schultz used to be an executive with QNI, based out of their now deleted Bermuda headquarters. He also discovered that Schultz’s wife and children died in a house fire that had been orchestrated by his employers. He hoped that the scene he left behind in Louisiana triggered some bad memories for old Greg.

  Despite his cocky demeanor, Michael was experiencing a smattering of concern. He had every reason to believe that Pennsylvania was only a secondary target, though that insight had nothing to do with instinct. Instead, documentation that he had pored over at the group’s safe house intimated that a rift was growing amongst their ranks, with a sect advocating they move away from the midwestern region, at least temporarily.

  The majority of data suggested that Texas would be the site of their next incursion. Well, they would be in for a very rude awakening, he would see to that personally. There was also the hope that the rift would grow, leading to infighting and mutiny. That would make it much easier for him to eradicate them completely. Not only would he get his financial windfall but he would have the satisfaction of knowing that he had been the better man, outwitting his opponent and wiping them off the map.

  His concern reached much deeper than his current station; he had been having incredibly vivid nightmares. In them he was ten-years-old, on a weekend outing with his parents. He tried to tell himself that it had been a good day, filled with love, fun, and chili dogs. Maybe it had been. Sometime in the early evening there had been an accident and the car had come to rest at the bottom of an embankment, fifty feet below the road it left. Young Michael had been thrown from the vehicle, suffering what the doctors called a traumatic brain injury. His mother perished in the accident; his father had clung to life for three days before succumbing to his injuries.

  All of this had been told to him when he woke up in the hospital. He had become an orphan, alone in a world that he had no memory of. Not only had the accident itself been purged from his mind, so had everything leading up to it. All the basics were there: walking, talking, but otherwise he was a clean slate. Whatever programming he’d had before was corrupted by years spent bouncing from foster home to foster home. There were good people, but their influence was overshadowed by a few abusive assholes.

  By the time he was eighteen, he held the belief that violence was a means to every end. Where once he had fought to hold onto his innocence, he grew to embrace the hatred growing inside. Taking the clichéd path, he fell in with a bad crowd and left them for a worse crowd. The only difference, he had learned, was that the less savory his acquaintances became, the better the pay was. He had made a name for himself, though he could never shake his past.

  The nightmares started around the time that he hit puberty. He’d fall asleep and find himself in his father’s car; warm summer air blowing in through the windows, his mother laughing at a bad joke. Her mirth transformed into screeching tires, a sound so loud that it obliterated everything else. Then everything went black, apart from fine pieces of glass that drifted around like snow. Despite not remembering any of it directly, it was all so vivid. He supposed he had heard it so much that his brain had constructed the memory.

  The low fuel warning chimed as he entered the town of Wentworth. Spotting a loose collection of gas stations, he decided to top off his tank and grab some coffee. Opting for a large chain known for the high quality of their brew, he guided his sedan into up to a pump and headed inside. Returning to fuel up, he noticed the feed on the TV screen that was mounted on the pump. It was a news brief, the caption bringing a smile to his face:

  Body found at home of Herman Ingram; Journalist was key figure in ongoing criminal investigation of research firm.

  “What a shame.”

  With renewed vigor, he finished up and resumed course for Levelland.

  ◆◆◆

  Just past noon, a small fleet entered the parking lot of a dingy motel five miles outside of Greencastle, Pennsylvania. Waiting to greet them was the Tall Man; Herman was still out cold, dead to the world. As the passengers exited their vehicles he pushed the bedroom door open and threw a pack of Twinkies, striking Herman in the face and waking him with a start. “Lunchtime.”

  “I’d ask what’s wrong with you, but I don’t want to spend the next two hours listening to you talk.” Despite his irritated state, Herman tore into the sponge cakes, shoving the first one into his mouth.

  The Tall man rumpled his brow. “Jesus, that’s disgusting. Get dressed, we’ve got company.” He pulled the door closed before Herman could respond, turned, and extended a hand to Schultz. “Glad y’all made it okay. How’re you guys holding up?”

  “Reinvigorated.” Schultz shook his hand, lacking the psychosis that had taken control of him the previous night.

  The Tall Man made a mental note that the other men didn’t share their boss’ enthusiasm, though he supposed after what had happened it was understandable. Just as he was about to invite them in, the door opened and Herman emerged.

  “Holy shit.” Herman eyed the group standing outside. “You’ve got a fucking militia.”

  “Gregory Schultz, meet Herman Ingram. Don’t let his crass vocabulary taint your impression of him.”

  “Don’t listen to him, my crass vocabulary usually raises people’s opinions.” Herman lit a cigarette and dabbed crumbs from his lip. “It’s my overriding cynicism that drives people away.”

  “Good to meet you, Herman. I look forward to working with you.”

  Herman regarded Shultz as they shook hands, unsure of what to make of him. He’d heard all the details and, while that was enough to give Herman pause, he realized that the human mind possessed the capability to change and adapt. People could indeed evolve if given the proper impetus.

  What concerned him was the man’s eyes and what resided in them. Schultz had the same look that Herman had seen when he looked into the mirror before trying to end his life. There was a deep unease, stronger than sadness and more desolate than emptiness.
Complacence wasn’t an option as the mind pushed you to destroy, to spread the limitless despair that consumed you, no matter the cost. As his thoughts drifted to his recently deceased friend, Herman wondered if he might not be walking that line again himself.

  The Tall Man spoke, bringing Herman out of his standing meditation. “You can all follow me.” He opened the door, gesturing for the group to step inside. “Believe it or not, this is what passes as a suite around here.”

  One by one the men filtered past Herman, who nodded absentmindedly. "I’m gonna go grab a drink, you want anything?”

  The Tall Man answered without skipping a beat. “Wild Cherry Pepsi.”

  “Ya know, I never woulda pictured you as a wild cherry kinda guy. Not sure how I feel about that.”

  “I’ll walk with you.” The statement came from a large man who Herman didn’t recognize. “I could use a drink and a stretch.”

  “Okay Hercules, let’s go.” Herman stopped and offered a handshake. “Herman Ingram; sorry, my manners are shoddy on my best days.”

  “Ambroise Toutant. So, what kind of day is today?”

  “Well, I’m 300 miles from home, a home, by the way, that was shot up by assassins. Obviously they failed to kill me but they did manage to kill my best friend.”

  “Jesus.” Ambroise dropped his head and Herman swore he saw a tear. He didn’t know this man, but his sympathy seemed genuine.

  “Yeah, we’ve all in one big shit show. Considering how many people QNI has fucked over, I’m a little surprised your group isn’t bigger.”

  Ambroise stole a look over his shoulder, Herman taking notice of the man’s edginess.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Keep walking.” There was an anxiety in Ambroise’s voice that was reflected in his eyes.

  “What’s going on?”

  They walked turned down a breezeway, stopping once they reached the alcove that housed the vending machines.

  “It’s Greg.” Ambroise spoke quickly, trying to say what was on his mind before they were interrupted.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s dangerous.”

  “Yeah, if you own stock in QNI.”

  Ambroise reached out and placed a hand on each of Herman’s shoulders, a gesture begot from concern instead of confrontation.

  “What I mean is that he’s not all there, at least not all the time. Last night, when he saw the house burning, he tried to run into it as it was collapsing. He was screaming out the names of his wife and kids for God’s sake.”

  “The man’s been through a lot; coming to grips with what he was a part of, losing his family like that. Seeing the house in flames probably triggered something in him, I mean, can you blame him?”

  The apprehension on Ambroise’s face turned to exasperation. “There’s something else. I tried to stop in from running in there and he wheeled around on me." He paused, rubbing the bottom of his nose with his thumb. “I thought for sure he was about to belt me one. Tensions were high, I would have understood and shrugged it off.”

  “But?”

  When Ambroise looked back to Herman, his eyes couldn’t hide the fact that he was struggling to make sense of everything.

  "He looked me dead in my eyes and he didn’t know who I was. There was nothing of the man I know in those eyes. They were dark and deep and empty.”

  Herman slid a quarter into the drink machine. “Why, exactly, are you telling me this?”

  "Because I’ve read up on you, I know what you’re all about. You’ve got integrity. The other guys with us, they’ve seen cracks showing but they won’t say anything. Then there’s the guy with you; I don’t know anything about him, but I tell you I’ve heard stories.”

  “And they’re probably true, every one of them, but he also saved my life. I trust him more than I trust anyone else and, if my ass is on the line, that goes double.”

  “I didn’t mean disrespect, I’m just worried. I don’t know what to do and I don’t like that feeling.”

  “Why have you stuck with him? This undertaking is dangerous enough, why compound it by running with a man that may not be all there?”

  "Same as you and your friend I suppose. He saved my life before I even realized it was in danger. It was like being on a hike and not noticing that you’re in quicksand until you’re up to your neck.”

  “That’s a hell of a way to put it. Sadly, I know exactly what you mean. I’ll tell you what, I’ll keep my eyes open. I’ve become something of an expert on mental illness.”

  The two got their drinks, Herman having to turn back after forgetting to grab a Wild Cherry Pepsi, and headed back towards the room.

  “What’s his name, your friend?”

  “Beats the shit out of me.”

  They entered the room as Schultz was discussing the plan of attack that they had used in both Colorado and Louisiana. Herman stood and listened, speaking only when he was asked for feedback; it wasn’t until the topic of his involvement came up that he became more vocal.

  “Why ask me, I mean why not just put out a press release or a manifesto or something like that?” He watched carefully as Schultz replied, looking for any sign of cracks in his veneer.

  “Because having you do it lends a certain degree of gravitas. You’ve been there, you’ve seen firsthand what they’re capable of and you’ve already been instrumental in weakening them.”

  “So, brand recognition?”

  Schultz smiled and Herman took a mental note: looks sincere.

  “I have to say, blowing up buildings isn’t the best way to make yourself a sympathetic figure.”

  Herman walked over to the dresser, sitting down on top of it. “Even when those buildings belong to a company that’s killed scientists, journalists, and tried to poison millions of people? I don’t know, we did it and it didn’t hurt my reputation.”

  The Tall Man tipped his hat back. “We?”

  Herman held up his hands. “Okay, he did it, but I was there, and that was before people knew what a cesspool of corruption QNI is.”

  Schultz leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. “Herman, let me ask you something.”

  “Go for it.”

  "Just how much coverage of the Colorado job have you seen? How about Louisiana? How much time have you seen the big news corporations discussing either of those situations? I seem to recall you recently calling one of them out for that. Why do you think that is, Herman?”

  “Well, considering that at least three major news outlets receive partial funding from shell companies that can be traced to QNI, I have a good god damned idea.”

  Schultz raised his eyebrows.

  Herman flashed a cheshire grin. “Oh, you didn’t know about that?”

  “I did not, at least I couldn’t prove it. See, that’s why we need you. Bravo, Herman.”

  "You don’t have to sell me okay, I’m here. I want to see them fall just as badly as all of you.” Herman stood up and pointed to the Tall Man. “My friend here tells me that you go to great lengths to avoid physically harming anyone.”

  “We’re not killers. That’s what separates us from them.”

  “Good, that’s smart. It’s a hell of a lot easier to win the public over when you’re not murdering people.”

  Schultz smiled, a colder expression than the one he’d shown before. “Indeed it is.”

  They spent another half-hour discussing the ins and outs of the upcoming job. A scout team would be sent out to sit and watch. If they gave the go-ahead, everything would proceed as planned; if not, the group would reconvene and decide what to do next.

  As it turned out, there were no hiccups. The all-clear was issued; Herman and the Tall Man set off to meet the rest of the crew on a service road a mile from the facility. Herman, who had been napping when the call came in, was again dozing in the passenger seat as a set of headlights appeared two hundred yards in front of them. The Tall Man leaned over and smacked Herman on the side of the face, rousing him from his slumber.


  “There are ways of waking someone up without being a complete asshole.”

  “You don't mess with what works.” The Tall Man pointed through the windshield towards the oncoming vehicle.

  “That one of our guys?”

  “Dunno yet.” The Tall Man followed this up by keying the engine and pulling out a handgun.

  “Well, that’s reassuring. Is now a bad time to mention that I need to take a leak?”

  “Might wanna put a clothespin on it until we know whether we’re going to get shot.”

  “Good call.”

  The vehicle began to slow as it pulled to within fifty yards before pulling onto the shoulder. The driver flashed their high-beams twice; the Tall Man did the same.

  “Well,” Herman sighed, “thank God for that.”

  The Tall Man waited for the other vehicle to execute a 3-point turn before falling in line behind it. They rounded a long and winding curve, the massive floodlights of the facility illuminating the sky. Fortunately this installation, like many others, was located in a relatively secluded area. As they approached the gate, Herman noticed a guard sprawled out inside of a small shack.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Just unconscious.”

  Herman looked at him doubtfully.

  Their headlights illuminated Greg Schultz standing dead center in the courtyard adjacent to the site’s office building. He was smiling broadly, his arms outstretched and raised.

  “Look at this fucking guy,” Herman scoffed. "He’s like the bastard child of P.T. Barnum and Timothy McVeigh.”

  They exited the car and were promptly greeted by the somewhat muted commotion of the team at work. Large receiving doors were being cut into, explosives-laden trucks were being precisely arranged, and it was all being done with the utmost efficiency. Schultz greeted them with the enthusiasm of a 7 year-old proudly showing off a new toy, beckoning them to join him.

  “Sorry to get started without you but you haven’t missed any of the fun stuff.”