The Hangman's Soliloquy

by Jeb Bohn

  The Tall man shrugged.

  Herman raised the phone. “Hello?”

  The voice on the other end was thin and shaky. “Herman? It’s Ambroise.”

  “Ambroise, how’s it going?”

  Ambroise ignored the question. “Have you checked the news?”

  “Hang on a second.” Herman opened a news app and was hit in the face with a headline:

  VP of Disgraced Company Killed in Pennsylvania Explosion

  Herman felt his face getting hot. “Jesus Christ, someone was in the facility last night? How the fuck did that happen?”

  Ambroise’s voice wavered. “There’s only one way: Greg put him there.”

  He went on to explain that Schultz had gone out to the facility in advance, telling no one except the scout team. The other men on the team had seen the news, but they weren’t talking nor did they seem particularly upset by the revelation. He did say that he had one ally, a guy named Beddoes, and that they were going to scout the Iowa plant while the rest of the team went to South Dakota. Herman questioned the safety of this plan, offering to tag along.

  “No, if anything deviates from Schultz’s plan, who knows how he’ll react.” Ambroise said that he would be in touch later, urging Herman to keep a low profile. “There’s something else, something I didn’t tell you before because I can’t prove it.”

  “Okay, what is it?”

  “That burnt body wasn’t Mel, don’t ask me how I know but I’m sure of it. God let me be wrong but I just don’t think I am. You and your boy keep your heads on a swivel.” Herman agreed and they ended the call.

  The Tall Man cocked his head towards Herman. “So, what kinda trouble are we lookin’ at?”

  Herman read the news story to him, relaying Ambroise’s assessment of what had occurred, minus the part about Melanie Stroud.

  “What do you think, Hermano?”

  The question had just touched Herman’s ears when the news feed refreshed. “Fuck me running.” He tilted his head back staring at the headliner as though it would offer some sage advice. “I think we’re knee-deep into something that reaches beyond anything we were told.”

  The Tall Man raised an eyebrow and Herman read a story stating that QNI’s Chief Technical Officer had been killed during what looked like an assassination.

  “Where was that?”

  “Fifty fucking yards from their facility in Texas.”

  The Tall Man removed his hat, tossing onto the top of the dash, and rubbing his temples. “Okay, Herman, you’re out.”

  Herman turned his head sharply. “Come again?”

  The Tall Man nodded. “The euphemisms are done, this now falls solely into the realm of terrorist activity. Even if Schultz didn’t put that man there, he’s dead all the same.”

  “You think that you get to make that decision?”

  “Oh, it’s done. Feel free to speak your protestations but you’re benched.”

  Herman shook his head. “I’m sorry, but when did you become the arbiter of my fate?”

  The vehicle swerved, coming to rest on the shoulder of the highway. The Tall Man turned in his seat to look Herman in the eye. “You still can make a difference. Your name isn’t attached to this shit show and it needs to stay that way.”

  “Oh, my name’s not attached?”

  “Shut up and listen. You’re dealing with a lot, I get that, but if what happened to Ray hadn’t gone down, I wouldn’t have brought you. I thought it would be safer, but that looks to have been a misguided idea. Go home, talk to the cops about what happened at your house. It’s only been a couple of days, you can play that off, say you were meeting with sources for a story. Make peace and move on, for your own sake.”

  Herman bit his tongue, the taste of copper filling his mouth. “Fine.”

  The Tall Man removed a kerchief from his pocket and handed it over. Herman snatched it and dabbed at the blood dripping from his mouth.

  An hour later Herman was aboard an Amtrak, destined for North Carolina. He had made his way to the lounge car and ordered a bourbon when his phone rang. He answered, the caller identifying herself as Detective Rosewood with the Northampton County Sheriff’s Department. She asked if he knew Ray Whitestone and informed him of what he already knew, including the suspected killer being found dead. They were working under the belief that someone associated with QNI was trying to silence him, another fact that he was well aware of.

  Herman told the detective that he was heading home and would arrive that evening. She told him that there would be officers waiting to escort him, for his own safety. He thanked her and bid her goodbye just as his drink arrived. As he sat there numbing his thoughts, he was struck by how surreal the past few days had been. The feeling was awkward, though not as uncomfortable as the thought that nothing would ever be the same again. He didn’t like change.

  The day ended for Herman the same way it began, with him watching the world go by through a pane of glass, only now he had a police escort waiting and a friend to bury. His mind made for bitter company, doing little more than parading negative thoughts until their wheels came off. How much of his life had he wasted chasing things of little consequence? How much had his innate stubbornness cost him? So many things that were impossible to quantify yet they ran roughshod over his spirit.

  He disembarked with sagging shoulders and was quickly met by his protective detail. Once home, he was met with police tape, a reminder of an event he would never forget, and the promise that a unit would be stationed outside his home twenty-four/seven. This was cold comfort to Herman as he wondered if they would wind up sitting ducks for an unhinged psychopath. He took out his phone to call Karl Peterson but decided against it once he saw the time. It could wait until morning.

  The empty bourbon bottle in his office brought on a fit of rage that culminated in it being hurled against the wall. Flecks of glass fell in slow-motion as Herman caught a glimpse of the bloodstain on the carpet and collapsed onto the floor. His body convulsed, trying to fight its way out of this sad reality, before falling still, his breathing settling into a smooth rhythm.

  ◆◆◆

  Ambroise and his partner, Chris Beddoes, crossed the Iowa State line just after 9 P.M., stopping in Davenport for gas, refreshments, and a stretch. If they maintained pace, they would arrive in Mason City around half past midnight and begin their surveillance. That, at least, was the plan. Both men had openly discussed going to the authorities and distancing themselves from the death in Pennsylvania. Ambroise eventually dismissed the idea with the reasoning that, while Schultz had likely violated the no-kill policy, they had voluntarily signed on to the project and were still liable for what had transpired. The best bet was to keep a tight leash on him to prevent further deviations. Should things spiral further, they made a pact to cut ties.

  Ambroise filled the tank while Chris went inside for provisions. Two gallons in and the hairs on his arm stood up as a whisper in his head told him to watch out. His eyes darted, scanning the lot and adjacent street, but nothing appeared to be out of place. The only other vehicle around belonged to a group of kids blasting music, the lyrics of which made no sense to him. Annoying, yes, but hardly a threat to bodily harm.

  He jumped as the gas pump clicked off before laughing at how silly he probably looked. Chris emerged from the store, bag in hand, and they prepared for the last leg of their trip.

  Chris handed over a Red Bull as the SUV merged into light traffic on I-280. The two men talked sparingly through wads of beef jerky as 280 gave way to 80 west. Rolling past the exit for a town called Durantt, Ambroise looked into the rearview mirror before narrowing his eyes and moving them between the two side mirrors. His passenger noticed the concern on his face.

  “Everything okay?”

  “There’s a car behind us that’s been acting squirrelly for a few miles now.”

  Chris turned to look through the rear window. “What do you mean by squirrelly?” As the question hung in the air, the car changed lanes and began t
o creep up on their left before dropping back in behind them.

  “That.” A bead of sweat fell from Ambroise’s forehead as a sign caught his eye. “Hang on.”

  He swung the SUV into the exit lane for a rest area, tires screeching as he sped through the parking lot and followed the road to the interstate entrance at the opposite end. He knew the car had followed them in but he had lost sight of it. “Where’s he at?”

  Chris was up on his knees looking back. “Right on our ass.”

  Ambroise gritted his teeth and floored the accelerator as they rejoined the interstate. “This fucking thing’s not built for speed. Grab the gun in the glovebox.”

  The car sped past them as Chris opened the compartment and produced a handgun.

  “Shit.” Ambroise’s eyes were much wider now, scanning his surroundings to assess every possibility. “What do you want?”

  The car braked abruptly causing Ambroise to follow suit while preventing the SUV from fishtailing. Chris rolled his window down and began to lean out.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m gonna shoot his tire out.”

  “Man, do you have any idea how hard it is to shoot the tire of a moving vehicle? You’d be better off throwing a paper airplane at him with a note written on it.”

  As they bickered, the car opened up a significant lead on them.

  “Even better.” Chris smiled, believing he had accomplished something. “I scared him off.”

  Ambroise cut his eyes. “You’re full of shit, but I’ll tell you one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If he stays straight, we’re taking that next exit and rerouting.”

  “Good idea.” Chris returned the pistol to the glovebox and took the GPS from its mount.

  With the exit approaching, Ambroise kept his eyes fixed on the car’s taillights. The driver was giving no indication of what his intentions were. Just as the deceleration lane opened up the car slowed slightly. Without thinking, Ambroise bumped its rear end before turning hard onto the exit. He had caught the driver off guard and left him to swerve violently, nearly losing control. Laughter filled the cabin of the SUV, only to be cut short when they reached the top of the exit.

  The car had come to a stop fifty feet from the exit’s overpass, sitting dead center in the road. Ambroise cursed the lack of traffic. “He’s waiting to see where we go.”

  “Nah, he’s just shaken up. Hell, probably pissed himself.”

  The car sat there for half a minute before peeling out and speeding down the interstate and away from them.

  Ambroise’s heart was revving high. “Jesus. You got that alternate route?”

  “Yeah.” Chris returned the GPS to its perch and they drove off, following a path that kept them clear of major highways. It would slow their progress, but neither man was willing to write off the encounter as incidental, nor did they want to press their luck. Heart rates had resumed a normal tempo soon after, only to be provoked again when a warning light appeared on the dashboard, drawing Ambroise’s ire. “Shit.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Engine’s runnin’ hot. Hope we didn’t crack the damned radiator back there.”

  “God damnit, what are we gonna do?”

  Unfazed, Ambroise answered. “As long as the leak’s not too bad, I have a fix, a temporary one, at least.”

  They found a 24-hour convenience store in the town of Tipton. Confident that he could mend the damage, Ambroise exited the truck and opened the hood, the smell of hot antifreeze rushing his nostrils. Using the flashlight on his phone he located the source of the leak, a small hole caused by a broken piece of the grill piercing the radiator.

  He entered the store, returning shortly with two containers of ground black pepper, two jugs of coolant, and a funnel. Despite his doubt, Chris watched closely, fascinated. Ambroise emptied the pepper into the radiator through the funnel before topping off the coolant. “Now, the moment of truth.”

  He leaned in and keyed the engine, saying a silent prayer. More coolant began leaking from the blighted area.

  Chris hung his head. “It’s not working, man.”

  “Give it time, brother. Give it time.”

  They let the engine continue to idle for a few minutes. Chris watched with a measure of awe as the leak slowed and then stopped. “Fuck me.”

  Ambroise slapped him on the back. “Not a chance in hell. Let’s get moving.”

  They drove for twenty minutes, cautiously optimistic that the radiator would hold. The temperature remained stable and Ambroise took great care not to push it too hard. He was beginning to settle in to a groove when two red orbs caught his eye. “No fucking way.” His eyes told him that he was looking at the same car with the same damage. “How?”

  Chris had retrieved the pistol and was hanging out of the window again. “Fuck you, you shithead!” He fired a shot, missing the car entirely. The driver respond with a hard brake check. Ambroise tried to follow suit but was unable to prevent contact, the hit spilling the gun from Chris’ hand onto the road.

  The temperature gauge didn’t move but Ambroise wasn’t soothed. They were back to dealing with this asshole and they had a damaged vehicle that he couldn’t push. “Climb in the back, there’s another gun in my bag.”

  Chris nodded, snaking through the SUV towards the back and digging through the large duffel. He felt the cool handle of the gun and smiled, crawling back to the front. “Got it.”

  Just as he returned to his seat, the car braked again, the SUV chewing into its rear. Chris’ head slammed against the windshield and the pistol clattering onto the floor. Ambroise stepped on the gas, determined to force the car off the road. “Come on, motherfucker. Come on.” With the weight of the larger vehicle pushing it off center, the car’s rear end came loose, swinging from left to right. “I’ve got you now, motherfucker, I’ve got your ass.”

  He pressed the gas, going for round two, when the car pulled away, gaining a full car length. The SUV cut the gap in half when the car’s trunk flew open, exposing two men, each with guns drawn.

  “God damn this.” Ambroise tried to slow down and turn away, looking for any side road to take. There were none. The men began firing and he felt bullets tear into his shoulder and chest. Two rounds truck the unconscious Chris in his head, leaving behind a red-gray pile of mush. The SUV came to a stop as two more shots pierced the windshield, one striking Ambroise in the throat. As he sat there bleeding out, his foot slipped from the brake pedal and the vehicle began lurching across the road, coming to rest against a tree at the bottom of a small embankment.

  The car made a careful three-point turn before coming to a stop at the location that the SUV left the road, the driver exiting and moved to the trunk. “Okay, back in your hole,” he said, closing the lid. Easing down the hill, he approached the stricken vehicle with his pistol drawn and ready, a smile etching into his face as he caught sight of the ruined head on the dash. Things didn’t look much better for the man behind the wheel, a foam of bloody bubbles oozing from his mouth.

  Ambroise was laboring to breathe. “Don’t get too cocky, Jack.”

  “Name’s not Jack, friend, and from where I’m standing I’ve earned the right to strut. Hell, ask your buddy. His head looks like a horse gnawed on a watermelon.”

  “Yeah, you got us, but the guy you’re after, he’s crazy, Jack.”

  “So am I.”

  “Naw, see, you’re reckless crazy. This guy, well, he is flat out insane. Certifiable, Jack.”

  Conacher shrugged and pulled his phone from his pocket. “Well, I’ll take my chances if it’s all the same to you.” He returned his pistol to its holster and reached through the window, squeezing Ambroise’s throat. “Now, smile for the camera, big fella.” The big man struggled but loss of blood had taken its toll. “Shh, shh, shh, just drift away. It’s all right, it’s okay.”

  Ambroise fell silent, his head lolling to the side. Conacher returned to the car, forwarding along the
video before driving into the night.

  ◆◆◆

  Herman awoke to his cell phone vibrating, opting to ignore it. By the third call his head was throbbing so he decided to take it out on the caller. “What in the fuck do you want?”

  “Top of the mornin’ to you too, Hermano.”

  Herman held the phone in the air and flipped it the bird. “Again, what the fuck do you want?”

  The Tall Man told him what happened to Ambroise. Schultz, as was expected, had not taken it well. Herman’s still-waking mind could barely comprehend it. The conversation continued, the topic moving to Schultz’s increasingly unstable behavior.

  “He was about to drive a bomb straight to the facility in broad daylight, Herman. It took four guys to hold him back and an hour to bring him to his senses.”

  Herman told the Tall man about the concerns that Ambroise had, how he had pulled him to the side and pleaded with him.

  “Yeah, I saw something the first time I met him, talked to Ray about it after your little automotive misadventure.”

  Herman was starting to realize what the Tall Man meant when he said that he would have left Herman behind if not for the attack. Blowing up buildings with a mentally unstable man at the helm and a mentally ill man in tow was not a good operating model. He was wondering what would happen next when he got a question that he wasn’t expecting.

  “Are you okay?”

  It hit him hard, mainly because he wasn’t sure how to answer. He hadn’t spent much time thinking about himself or how he felt but now things were cascading through his mind. He had been struggling to come to grips with Ray’s death and he realized that he had never accepted the fact that he had tried to end his own life.

  “You there?”

  Herman closed his eyes, finding himself in his car, the cabin rapidly filling with exhaust. His heartbeat quickened as each breath brought in less oxygen than the one before, his limbs refusing to cooperate. His lungs burned as the poison filled them; tears clouded his vision as everything went black. As Herman witnessed his death he said the magic words that broke his trance: “This isn’t real, god damnit.”