Hangman

by Jack Heath

  ‘No thanks,’ I tell the receptionist. ‘Just the visitors’ log.’

  She slaps it down on the desk. ‘Sign here.’

  Once I’m in, I immediately start peering among the cubicles. It’s Luzhin I’m here to see, and I don’t believe for one minute that he isn’t here, but I can’t help looking for Thistle.

  Last night, for the first time in many years, I fell asleep smiling. And this morning when I looked in the mirror like I always do—to check what other people will see when they look at me—I was thinking of one person in particular.

  But she’s not here, as far as I can see. I wonder where she is, and if she’s thinking of me.

  Luzhin’s door is open. I step inside. ‘I have a lead.’

  Luzhin doesn’t look up. He’s writing something on a notepad. When I’m about to sit down, he says, ‘Close the door, please.’

  I go back and ease it shut.

  ‘I’ve just spoken to Agent Thistle,’ Luzhin says. ‘She says you took her out to dinner last night.’

  ‘Well, that’s a lie. She took me out to dinner.’

  His eyes are icy. ‘This isn’t funny. What do you want with my agent?’

  ‘Nothing. She invited me. I accepted. How is this your business?’

  ‘Why did she invite you? Why did you accept?’

  ‘She invited me because she likes me,’ I say. ‘And I accepted because I like her.’

  Luzhin’s face stretches into a horrified mask as he realises I’m telling the truth. ‘She likes you? Why?’

  I echo Thistle’s words from last night. ‘Because I’m smart. I have skills.’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘It’s because she doesn’t know you’re a monster.’

  A vision of the future flashes through my mind. The look on Thistle’s face as Luzhin explains the terms of our arrangement. She’d probably laugh, at first. Then, when she realised he believed what he was saying, she’d assume he was crazy. Then she would start thinking about the way I eat rare steak and weird coffee, and what I said about not being able to control myself. Then she’d wonder if she was the one going crazy.

  ‘You’re not going to tell her,’ I say. Half statement, half plea.

  He clenches his fists. ‘How can I? She’ll rat us both out. But let me tell you something, Blake.’ His eyes are pink around the edges. ‘If anything—anything—happens to her, you’re in deep shit. To hell with my career: I will go to the national director in Washington and tell him everything. I’ll go to prison, but you’ll get a goddamn lethal injection. You got that?’

  I nod. It’s sweet, in a way. Like a father lecturing his daughter’s boyfriend before prom.

  ‘I mean it,’ he says. ‘You don’t touch her. Understood?’

  ‘Understood.’

  We stare at each other for a minute, breathing heavy. Then he smooths down his tie and says, ‘What’s your lead?’

  ‘I need to see some phone records,’ I say.

  He sighs. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I have a suspect in the kidnappings of Cameron Hall and Robert Shea.’

  That gets his attention. ‘Who?’

  ‘Their father.’

  ‘Which one’s father?’

  ‘Both. They’re identical twins.’ I take out the photos, pass them over. ‘This is Robert Shea. Once we get in contact with Annette Hall, she’ll admit that Cameron had a twin brother who she gave up for adoption. And I’m hoping she’ll give us some way to find the father.’

  Luzhin leans back in his chair. ‘Do you have any reason to suspect him, besides the fact he’s related to both victims? Does he have priors or anything?’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t have his rap sheet, but there’ll be something. People don’t start out with abduction and organ theft—they do some petty stuff and work their way up to it.’

  Luzhin nods thoughtfully. ‘Sounds like a strong lead—but I can’t let you follow it.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Because we have no evidence against him except these.’ He gestures at the photos. ‘Which I don’t want to know how you got.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Relax. I said I can’t let you do it, not that it wouldn’t get done. No judge in Texas will release those kind of documents to a civilian with so little evidence. I’ll get an agent to track down the dad and see if he has a record, okay?’

  ‘So what do I do?’

  ‘Something else. Which phone records were you looking for?’

  ‘Annette Hall’s. I’m guessing you tapped her phone?’

  ‘Yeah. But the tech guys would’ve told someone if they heard anything significant.’

  My idea of ‘significant’ might be different from theirs. ‘I want to check it out anyway.’

  He shrugs. ‘Vasquez was the one who planted the bug. He should be able to get you the recordings—I’ll tell him you’re coming.’

  •

  ‘Waste of time,’ Maurice Vasquez says. ‘Period.’

  Vasquez is one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen. His caramel skin is marble-smooth, his nose straight, his eyes thick-lashed and dark. His muscular arms hang from broad shoulders, which are about my eye height. He hasn’t told anyone that he’s gay, but I’m pretty sure. It’s something about the way he carries himself, and the way he talks to women—with both compassion and disinterest.

  He’s also whip smart. Sometimes I think going through life looking like a big, dumb jock is what made him that way. Like he had to study harder than anyone else to get himself listened to when he talked.

  ‘Why is it a waste of time?’ I ask.

  ‘Because that bug didn’t record a damn thing,’ he says.

  I look around at the forest of desks, each with an old CRT monitor and several circular stains from coffee cups. Headphoned agents are reading computer-generated transcripts at the same time as they listen to the audio, and correcting any errors they hear.

  ‘You remember it specifically?’ I ask quietly. I always keep my voice down in here. I can’t shake the fear that there’s a listening device in Luzhin’s office, and that even as I stand here, one of the agents is listening to a recording of us, recognising my voice, and reaching for a gun in a desk drawer.

  Ridiculous, I know. Luzhin commands so much respect here that no one would ever suspect him of a speeding ticket, let alone selling criminals as food in exchange for information. And no one could conceal a bug so well that he couldn’t find it. His office is probably the safest place on earth to speak your mind, assuming your voice isn’t as loud as that of his boss.

  ‘I remember them all,’ Vasquez is saying, and even though he must hear a thousand recordings a day, I believe him. ‘And there’s nothing on the one you’re talking about.’ ‘Can I listen to it anyway?’

  ‘You’re not hearing me. There’s nothing on it. I don’t mean no one said anything interesting—I mean the recording is just hour after hour of digital silence. The file size is less than ten kilobytes.’

  Oh. I probably don’t need to listen to that.

  If this were any other agent, I’d ask if he was sure he’d hooked the bug up to the phone right. But Vasquez doesn’t make that sort of mistake.

  Instead, I ask, ‘Is that rare?’

  He shrugs. ‘Yeah, but it happens. Usually means no one’s home. Other times, it just means no one ever called.’

  The Halls aren’t home, but they were when the bug was installed. So no one called.

  ‘How long do you leave the bugs active after a case is solved?’

  ‘Depends if you’re talking about a physical bug or not. In some cases, we think the house or office or whatever is being watched too closely for us to send in a technician, so we get the phone company to record the calls remotely and send us the data. They keep doing it right up until there’s a verdict at the end of the trial—although any conversations with a suspect’s lawyer or doctor get deleted before we can listen to them.

  ‘But other times, we’re less concerned about being spotted and more c
oncerned about leaks at the phone company’s end, which do happen from time to time. So we listen in directly by installing a telecoil and a voltage probe within the phone itself or on the telephone pole outside. It works fine, but there’s no budget for making new bugs, so we need to take the existing ones away to put in other phones. We do it as soon as the case is closed.’

  ‘This case isn’t exactly closed.’

  ‘I know,’ Vasquez says. ‘They got the kid but not the perp, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So the bug will probably get left another week or so. When the trail’s colder.’

  ‘If it picks anything up before then,’ I say, ‘will you call me?’

  ‘No, but I’ll call Luzhin and ask him to call you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem,’ Vasquez says. ‘Someone told me the perp beat your ass and locked you in his trunk.’

  ‘Nope. He drugged me and locked me in his trunk. My ass remains unbeat.’

  ‘And they’re still letting you work the case?’

  ‘I don’t work cases,’ I say. ‘I just help out, that’s all.’

  ‘Uh-huh. You know what’s the most common thing people say right before they die?’

  ‘“Ouch”?’

  ‘They say, “I’m making a citizen’s arrest.”’

  I don’t laugh. ‘Well, I wasn’t trying to arrest anybody. The guy broke into my house.’

  ‘Because you were working the case. My point is, maybe you should leave the policing to the police.’ The computer monitors reflected in his black eyes glint like starlight. ‘Someday you’re going to wind up dead.’

  ‘I’m thinking that’s true of all of us,’ I say.

  •

  The spray-paint was probably supposed to be red, but it’s been applied so hastily that it looks pink. It reads Fuck You peace off shit. The letters get smaller and smaller as the vandal realised he was running out of room on my door, and then bigger again as he decided to put the last couple of words on my window.

  I park my car in the driveway—this place has no garage—and turn off the headlights. It doesn’t take long to figure out that the graffiti has nothing to do with me. It must be the work of one of my roommate’s clients, looking for a fix and furious at his absence. I should have seen that coming.

  I unlock my door and step inside. Fortunately, the addict wasn’t desperate enough to break in—or maybe he didn’t have the skills to pull it off.

  Either way, this is something I’ll have to deal with. I can’t have users coming around searching for drugs. They might look in my freezer.

  Speaking of which, I’m starving. I go to the kitchen and open the freezer.

  John Johnson’s body is gone.

  I stare at the boxes of frozen hash browns for a few seconds, heart pounding. There should still be an arm and a chest fillet left. I shift a bag of peas aside and find a human foot, but that’s it. Not much meat on a foot. Where’s the rest?

  Someone has been here. But they didn’t go for Johnson’s stash. They went for mine.

  If it was the kidnapper, this changes the game. Now that he knows I’m a cannibal, I can’t let the cops capture him alive. But where did he take the meat? And why?

  And what if he’s still in the house?

  The thought is terrifying, but encouraging at the same time. If he hasn’t left yet, then my secret hasn’t left with him.

  I close the freezer as quietly as I can and tiptoe out of the kitchen. There’s no sign that anything else has been moved. No room for anyone to hide behind the couch. There are no shadows between the vertical blinds.

  Creeping down the corridor towards the bedrooms, I listen. Just distant dogs barking and sirens carrying on the breeze.

  The trunk of a car slams shut outside. The noise makes me jump. I edge over to the window and peer between the blinds. No cars visible except mine. No pedestrians around. Whoever it was, they’re gone.

  Johnson’s bedroom is unoccupied, his bookshelf untouched. I crouch to look under his bed. Nothing.

  My room. I swing the door open quickly so the hinges don’t squeak. Jigsaws, bits of paper, the mattress on the floor, nothing out of the ordina—

  There’s a red spot on my mattress, just visible under the corner of the blanket. More spray-paint? Did the vandal get in after all?

  I lift the blanket.

  My mattress is covered in bloody smears and handprints. It looks like someone used my sheets to scrub an abattoir. In the midst of it all is a chain of bones: the innards of Johnson’s arm. His skeletal hand, surprisingly small without the flesh, is curled up like a dead crab.

  It looks like someone took the meat out of the freezer and ate it in my bed. I put my palm against one of the handprints, and realise the someone was me.

  I don’t remember doing this. Am I losing my mind?

  Sleep-snacking. I’ve heard it’s common in compulsive eaters, which is a pretty mild description of what I am. It’s never happened to me before, but it’s the only explanation I can think of.

  Thistle caused this, indirectly. When I come home, I usually have a bite of whatever meat I can find. But last night I didn’t—I was too distracted. Too happy.

  So my body just got up and did it anyway, after I was asleep. And this morning, I didn’t notice the bloody sheets.

  My bones feel like tubes of ice. I’ve known that I’m crazy since that first bite of the mugger. But now I know how little control I have.

  I take my roommate’s bones into the bathroom and toss them into the tub. Then I go out to the kitchen to get my rubber gloves and my sulphuric acid. It’s going to be a long night.

  •

  I’m woken by the phone. I roll out of bed and stumble out into the kitchen, naked. Snatch the phone off the hook. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Where the fuck are you, man?’

  ‘Who is this?’ I say.

  ‘It’s Patrick. Who’s this?’

  ‘You got the wrong number.’

  ‘Like hell I have the wrong number!’ the man yells.

  Ah. Another junkie.

  ‘Well, this is Timothy. I don’t know any Patrick.’

  ‘Oh, wait. You—oh. Is your roommate around?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I haven’t seen him in a couple days. I can take a message if you want.’

  ‘Where’s he gone?’

  ‘Not sure. Some friends picked him up from the house.’

  ‘Which friends?’ Patrick asks.

  ‘No one I knew, but he didn’t take a suitcase or anything. I’m sure he’ll be back soon.’

  There’s a pause. Drug dealers who get picked up by ‘friends’ often don’t return.

  ‘What’s your number, Patrick?’ I say. ‘I’ll get him to call you when he’s back.’

  ‘Nah, that’s okay. I’ll, uh…I’ll call back later.’

  ‘You sure? It’s no trouble. What’s your last name?’

  The junkie hangs up.

  Too easy. I go back to my bedroom, check the sheets for blood and bone, and fall back in.

  The phone rings again.

  Shit. Some people are so desperate for a fix that their survival instinct completely disappears. I climb out of bed, go back to the kitchen and pick up the phone. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Blake.’ It’s Luzhin. ‘You are a goddamn genius.’

  I press the phone a little harder against my ear. ‘You know something about Cameron’s dad,’ I guess.

  ‘Yep. Philip Hall did go to Pennsylvania, but he just moved back to Houston last month.’

  ‘He got a criminal record?’

  ‘Grand theft auto, armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon, all in the one night. Seems like he’d lost a shitload of someone else’s money at a roulette table in Atlantic City and was trying to pay them back.’

  Compulsive gambler, violent criminal. Seems like a good fit for our kidnapper. ‘He do any time?’

  ‘Therapy and a suspended sentence. Want to hear the best part?’

  �
��What?’

  ‘He’s a nurse.’

  Access to drugs. Medical experience. But you wouldn’t get enough anatomy training to remove a kidney in a nursing diploma. ‘He go to college?’

  ‘Three years of med school,’ Luzhin says. ‘Then he dropped out.’

  ‘This is our guy.’

  ‘Yes it is. I sent a patrol car to his house with a warrant.’

  ‘I want to meet him.’

  ‘If I get my way, you will. He’ll be in the Death House in no time.’

  ‘No—I want to be in the car that picks him up.’

  There’s a pause.

  ‘Blake, you don’t have to be there. This is the guy. If we catch him, you’ll get your reward.’

  ‘Not if we don’t find Robert Shea,’ I say. ‘Those are the rules.’

  ‘And you don’t think we can find the kid once we have the perp?’

  ‘He’ll lie to you. And I’ll be able to tell.’

  ‘Why are you arguing against yourself here?’

  That’s a good question. Why am I working harder than I have to for my meal?

  Thistle, I realise. She was impressed when I rescued Cameron. She’ll be even more impressed when I find Robert too.

  ‘I’m a lot of things, but I’m not lazy,’ I say. ‘I want to be in the car.’

  He sighs. ‘You can meet him in the cell at the field office. Okay?’

  Good enough. ‘Okay.’

  I hang up and go back to the bedroom. I didn’t have time to wash my clothes last night, since the bathtub was otherwise occupied. But yesterday’s clothes still smell okay, so I pull them on.

  The phone rings again.

  I storm back out into the kitchen. What now?

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘No need to come in,’ Luzhin says. ‘Philip wasn’t at his house.’

  They need me after all. ‘Give me the address.’

  CHAPTER 17

  I weigh almost nothing and I’m not hot, but you can’t hold me for long. What am I?