Hangman

by Jack Heath

  ‘So which church do you go to?’ Thistle asks.

  ‘The priest moved north six months back,’ I say. ‘Seemed like a good excuse to find one closer to home. So you could say I’m between churches right now.’

  ‘I could help you pick.’

  ‘That’s kind,’ I say. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  We stand in silence for a while.

  ‘I’m sorry about the other night,’ she says.

  ‘Don’t be,’ I say. ‘Getting jumped by you was the best surprise I’ve had in a long time.’

  She grins. ‘In that case, how about a movie next weekend?’

  I haven’t been to the movies since group trips at the home. ‘Is there anything good out?’

  ‘Probably not. We could rent one, watch it at my place.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘You could show me some of that “other stuff” you’ve done.’

  I didn’t expect this problem to surface quite so soon. How close can I get to Thistle without my killer instincts kicking in? Nudity is out of the question. Even kissing might be too much. But it will be hard to convince her that my religion forbids all physical contact. Maybe I can pretend to be into S & M. Like I need to wear a muzzle to get off.

  ‘Isn’t that supposed to wait until the third date?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, we’ve already had one.’ She nudges me. ‘We could rent two movies.’

  I’m about to reply when I see something on the TV. It’s footage of cops disassembling my Malibu.

  ‘…found in the trunk of the vehicle,’ the newsreader is saying. ‘When asked if the body had been identified, the police offered no comment.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Thistle says, turning to the TV.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say.

  ‘But,’ the newsreader continues, ‘they did release this sketch of the driver.’

  I lunge forwards and kiss Thistle.

  ‘Mmmph!’ she says.

  I’m watching the TV with one eye. The sketch makes me look like I’m made of plasticine, but otherwise it’s pretty good. Cops make better witnesses than civilians.

  Thistle pushes me away. ‘Someone will see,’ she says, suppressing a smile.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m just looking forward to that date. Those dates.’

  She shakes her head. ‘You’re full of surprises, Scary Tim.’

  I am. But some of them she won’t like. I’m now the subject of a statewide manhunt; Thistle is bound to see the sketch eventually. Will she recognise me?

  Palenna is coming back. ‘Just what the hell is this?’ she demands.

  Whoops. She must have seen the kiss. ‘What’s what?’ I ask.

  ‘No more bullshit.’ Her face is white. ‘The recording. How did you know about it, and why the fuck didn’t you tell us sooner?’

  ‘I don’t know what you think we’re hiding from you,’ Thistle says, ‘but you’re wrong. We don’t know anything about the recording. That’s why we need to hear it.’

  ‘If that’s true,’ Palenna says, ‘then we’re all in deep shit.’ She turns, walks away, realises we’re not following and says, ‘Come on!’

  We follow her to an AV room. The two TVs seem excessive, given that the room is barely bigger than a closet. The PC between them has a monitor as deep as it is wide.

  Palenna picks up a cable and plugs it into the headphone jack on her phone. Taps the touchscreen.

  ‘You want to tell us what we should be listening for?’ Thistle asks.

  ‘It’ll be pretty goddamn obvious.’ Palenna cranks the volume on a dusty pair of speakers.

  ‘Hello?’ It’s Annette Hall’s voice. Shaky.

  ‘You called the fucking cops.’

  It’s the same voice we heard before. A distorted growl, made crackly by the speakers. This time he sounds angry.

  ‘No!’ Annette says. ‘No, I did just what you told me to!’

  ‘I saw you do it.’

  Is that possible? Could Philip Hall have been watching through the window as his ex-wife dialled 911?

  ‘Lie to me again and your son dies,’ he continues. ‘You called the cops, and now you’re going to pay for it.’

  ‘Please. Please don’t do this.’

  ‘Here’s what we’re going to do. Are you listening?’

  Annette is hyperventilating.

  ‘Answer me or he dies.’

  ‘I’m…I’m listening.’

  It’s not a recorded message this time. Philip is interacting with Annette, which probably means Cameron was elsewhere at the time.

  ‘This afternoon you’re going to proceed with the drop. You’re only going to bring twenty thousand dollars, not four million. And your kid won’t be there. But tonight, the cops are going to tell you they found your son.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Shut up. You’re going to go to the hospital. They’ll show you a young blond boy. You’re going to act like he’s your son. You can act, can’t you?’

  Thistle and I look at each other.

  ‘Holy shit,’ she says.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Annette is whimpering.

  ‘He’ll pretend you’re his mother, or his real mother dies. You’ll pretend he’s Cameron, or the real Cameron dies.’

  The break-in at my house. The ride in the trunk of the kidnapper’s car. The warehouse. He wanted me to find and rescue Cameron—because it wasn’t Cameron.

  ‘Then who was it you saved?’ Thistle demands.

  ‘It was Robert Shea.’ I’m realising the truth as I’m saying the words. ‘That’s why they looked the same. They were the same.’

  ‘When they release him from the hospital,’ Philip says, ‘the two of you are going to go home and wait for my instructions. This time, you’d better fucking do what I tell you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Annette cries. ‘I’ll do everything you say. Just, please, don’t—’

  Philip hangs up.

  CHAPTER 20

  My life can be measured in hours. I serve by being devoured. Thin, I am quick. Fat, I am slow. The older I get, the shorter I grow. The dark is my friend, the wind is my foe. What am I?

  ‘I have a proposition.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘I’m the guy who saw you two years ago.’

  ‘You got the wrong number, pal.’

  ‘I saw you eating raw meat. Self-defence—so you said.’

  Even through the phone, Luzhin’s voice was sharper than before. He was off the coke, and no longer afraid.

  I peeked out the window, expecting the house to be surrounded by cops. But the alley was empty except for puddles and rain-shredded missing person posters.

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘It was easy. These days I’m in a position of responsibility. I have access to things. So I wondered if you wanted more.’

  ‘More what?’

  ‘More meat.’

  If this was a trap, he wouldn’t be speaking so ambiguously.

  ‘How?’ I sounded more desperate than I intended.

  ‘It’s like playing hangman, but in reverse. When you solve the puzzle, you get the guy on the gallows.’

  There was a whining in my ears, like a hand grenade had gone off near my head. It was as though I could actually hear my mind spinning. My heart beat faster and faster. My lungs were tight.

  I’d been using stolen credit cards to buy steak at the supermarket and eat it raw. When that didn’t quiet my hunger, I’d been catching rats in homemade traps and taking bites out of them while they were still breathing. But it wasn’t enough. I was desperate for exactly what the man on the phone was offering: a fresh human.

  ‘Blake,’ Thistle is saying, ‘Luzhin wants to talk to you.’

  I snap back to the present. Thistle is holding out her phone. Palenna is yelling something. I’m barely aware of her.

  Three years of working for Luzhin and I’ve never had a case like this. I’ve never been so wrong.

  Philip Hall’s plan is
like a crossword puzzle in my brain. Every time I fill in a blank, the answer to another becomes obvious.

  He went to Cameron’s house after school. Picked him up in his van. Took his schoolbag, left his cell phone, and parked the van near the payphone to make the ransom call when Annette got home. He distorted his voice so as she wouldn’t recognise it.

  And then what? Did he drive back to the house in time to watch her call the police? Was there enough time for that?

  ‘People are going to lose their jobs over this,’ Palenna is saying, ‘and none of them will be me.’ She says this as though sheer determination will make it true.

  When Philip found out that Annette had contacted the cops, he called her again, threatened her, and then went looking for a kid who looked a bit like his son. He found one: Robert Shea. That’s why he took the photos from Cameron’s house. He didn’t want the police seeing what the real Cameron looked like, in case we realised what he’d done. When he discovered that Robert Shea had undergone a nephrectomy, Philip was forced to set up the stunt with the mannequin and the kidney. If only I’d looked at the photos from Cameron’s social media. Then I would have realised the kid in the warehouse wasn’t him.

  Now four people are missing. Annette, Cameron, Robert and Robert’s mother, Celine. That’s a lot of people to keep in one van. The chances that they’re still alive are close to zero.

  ‘Luzhin wants to speak to you,’ Thistle says, and hands me the cell phone.

  I hold it to my ear. ‘Yeah?’

  Luzhin’s voice is thick with rage. ‘How long did you think you could keep this going?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You bring me the wrong kid and you think I won’t find out?’

  A sick feeling is growing in my gut. ‘If you’re suggesting that I could have known Shea was lying—’

  ‘Known? You told him to lie! You drugged him, broke his hand, threatened him, convinced everyone he was Cameron Hall just so you’d get your goddamn reward!’

  ‘That makes no sense,’ I say.

  He doesn’t seem to hear me. ‘You’re finished, Blake,’ he shouts. ‘I’ll lock you up until Judgment Day!’

  ‘Okay, sure,’ I say. ‘I’ll tell her.’

  ‘Tell her what? I’m talking to you, asshole!’

  ‘No problem. See you soon.’ I hang up and casually put the phone on flight mode before I toss it back to Thistle. She drops it into her pocket without noticing.

  ‘Director wants us back at the office,’ I say.

  ‘Got it,’ Thistle says. ‘Let’s go.’

  Luzhin knows I’m a killer. I have no hope of convincing him that I didn’t threaten Robert Shea and his family. Right now he will be calling a judge to arrange an arrest warrant, and listing my offences as kidnapping, assault, extortion and drug possession. Perhaps, in a crisis of conscience, he will add the names of the inmates I’ve eaten.

  Or maybe there will be no warrant, because I know too much. Maybe it will be a quiet word to a dirty cop who owes him a favour, followed by a bullet to the back of my head.

  Will Thistle believe I’m innocent? Not once she sees the sketch of me. Not once she shows a photo of me to the cop I fled from yesterday.

  ‘I need the bathroom first,’ I say, and look at Palenna. ‘Where is it?’

  Palenna leads us out of the AV room and up the corridor to a men’s room door.

  ‘Give us a minute,’ I say.

  Palenna nods. ‘All right. Tell your boss I’ll help with the investigation in any way I can.’ She’s making it clear that this is the FBI’s problem, not the CPS’s.

  As she walks away, I lean in close to whisper in Thistle’s ear. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I really screwed this up.’

  She doesn’t notice as I dip my hand into her jacket pocket.

  ‘We’ll deal with it,’ Thistle says. ‘Don’t worry.’

  I walk into the men’s room without looking back, her keys clenched in my fist.

  Inside, I open a stall and kick up the lid of the toilet so Thistle will hear the clack as it hits the porcelain.

  In most offices, the bathroom is the best-ventilated room in the building. The cheapest ventilation method is a great big hole in the wall, and that’s exactly what I find—about six square feet of frosted glass with a square foot of wire mesh above it, through which I can feel a cool breeze. The window is locked.

  Years ago I had a nightmare. I was a dog galloping through a Vietnamese jungle with flames singeing my fur as army choppers whined above, splashing more and more napalm onto the tree branches. I woke to discover that my house was on fire.

  Jesse, my roommate before Johnson, later claimed that he had left a candle burning on the kitchen bench and that the flame on the gas stove had gone out when he wasn’t looking. A gas cloud had expanded in the kitchen until the candle ignited it, setting the curtains and cupboards alight. I believed him, all except for the part about it being an accident. I think he just wanted to see what would happen. If the candle hadn’t been in the same room as the stove, the whole house could have exploded.

  Fortunately, back then I had a hammer to break a window and a heavy blanket to protect me from the broken glass as I climbed out. I don’t have either of those now.

  I bunch the sleeves of my jacket into my fists so my knuckles are covered. I flush the toilet to cover the sound, and then slam my fist into the glass.

  Windows are fragile, but not as fragile as Hollywood makes them look. It takes three tries to smash the glass. It jingles down onto the sidewalk below.

  I kick out some stray shards, scramble through the frame and drop to the ground. One of my feet twists as I hit the concrete, and I stagger to the right as I stifle a groan. Running from the law isn’t easy with a broken ankle—but it’s not broken. A sprain, maybe. I can put some weight on it.

  No time to lose. Thistle and Palenna may have heard my exit over the flushing toilet. I have to get as far away from here as possible. I jump in Thistle’s Crown Vic, start the engine and pull out onto the road, driving into the setting sun.

  Getting across the border into Louisiana or Arkansas won’t be enough to put me out of Luzhin’s reach. I have to get to Monterrey or Chihuahua—somewhere in Mexico, where he has no power and where the local cops won’t care enough to go looking for me.

  The hundred and fifty dollars in my pockets won’t get me far. I should have taken all the cash hidden in John Johnson’s room, but I didn’t want to be carrying thousands of dollars around in case I got mugged. Stupid. I eat muggers for breakfast. Maybe I could go back and get the money?

  If I do, getting out of the USA will take twice as long. If I don’t, it’ll be twice as hard.

  Five minutes later I hear sirens on the wind. No time to get off the road. A patrol car sweeps past without pausing, headed for CPS. Thistle must know that I’m missing, but hasn’t yet realised her car is gone.

  The fading sirens make me think of the ambulance killer, which makes me think of the Death House, which makes me regret that I’ll never get to meet Philip Hall. Not only will he never end up on my dinner plate, but I’m getting chased out of Houston for a crime he committed. Of all the reasons I imagined I’d have to leave Texas, I never thought it would be because of something I didn’t do.

  More to the point, I never expected to be outwitted by a divorced problem gambler. How did he get the better of me? And what will he do once I’m gone?

  If the cops catch Philip Hall, I would be exonerated. They’re pretty lenient on resisting arrest when it turns out you were innocent. But Philip Hall is smarter than Thistle or Luzhin have given him credit for. Without my help, he might get away with all of it. Forever.

  Even if I escape to Mexico, the only woman who ever respected me will live out the rest of her life thinking I betrayed her.

  It’s getting dark by the time I reach what used to be my house. I have no friends and no family, so as far as the cops are concerned, this house is the only place worth staking out. Once I’ve l
eft it, I’m practically safe—but what if they are already here?

  I park Thistle’s car about six houses up from mine. No cars on the street, patrol or otherwise. No twitching curtains in any of the nearby houses. No dog walkers with earpieces—no pedestrians at all. But if the police aren’t here, they’re on their way. I have to move.

  I hop over the fence into the backyard instead of opening the squeaky gate, and slide my key into the back door. The wood isn’t cracked, and the hinges are dirty as ever. No sign that it’s been forced. This is good. If the cops had been here, they wouldn’t have picked the lock. They would have knocked and then, when no one answered, broken the door off its hinges.

  Just the same, I’m silent as a ghost as I slip inside.

  I go into my room first. It’s not where the cash is, but Thistle will know what I’m wearing, so I grab my bloodied shirt and stuff it into a plastic bag. I wish I had time to wipe down this room, erasing the prints and DNA. But once I’m in Mexico, it won’t matter.

  I go into Johnson’s bedroom, pick up one of his hollow books, and take out two bricks of cash. A couple of thousand dollars. Enough to get me to safety, I hope.

  I stuff the first bundle into my pocket, turn around to leave—

  And someone punches me in the face.

  I’m on the floor before I know what’s happened, my nose sizzling like it’s been electrified. A blizzard of hundred-dollar bills fills the air like in an old rap video. The thought that my roommate has caught me stealing his stuff whips through my head before I have time to remember that he’s dead.

  Suddenly my ribs are crushed. A pair of hands close around my throat. I claw at them, but they just get tighter. My eyes feel like they’re swelling up in their sockets as the blood flow to my brain stops and the cartilage of my Adam’s apple cracks.

  For the first time, I see my assailant’s face. It’s not my roommate’s ghost, and it’s not a cop. It’s one of Charlie Warner’s bodyguards.

  I let go of his hands and brace myself against the floor, pushing up against his weight, unbalancing him. He could stop me from getting my arms out from under him, but he’d have to let go of my throat, so he doesn’t.

  Mistake. I pull my hands loose and punch him in both ears simultaneously. He yelps, and his palms spring off my neck. I use this opportunity to headbutt him, my forehead crushing his nose like a crabapple under a motorcycle boot.