Hangman

by Jack Heath

  CHAPTER 25

  What anniversary present did the hangman buy his wife?

  The pain that put me to sleep is the same pain that wakes me up. When I open my eyes, the brightness is agony, so I shut them again. I tilt my head on what feels like a pillow and the movement sticks tiny knives into my chest.

  But I can hear a little better. The beeping of the machines is clear enough. I’m in a hospital. The smell reminds me of two-star motel carpet, recently scrubbed with cheap cleaner.

  ‘You’re in a lot of trouble,’ someone says.

  I open my eyes again and squint at the woman who’s spoken. Caucasian. Dark clothes. Red hair. Choker necklace. The rest is too fuzzy to make out.

  ‘I’m not dead,’ I croak. ‘So not as much trouble as I expected.’

  She doesn’t laugh. ‘Kidnapping, false imprisonment, assault and murder. You know what the penalty for all that is in Texas?’

  ‘How long have I been unconscious?’

  ‘That’s not important.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘What matters is who you are. An ugly, poor drug dealer. There’s not a jury in the state that won’t find you guilty.’

  I can see her a bit better now. Freckles, rimless glasses. A young woman with an old woman’s voice. No anger in her expression, but no sympathy either.

  Looking down, I see that my chest is all taped up. My thumbless hand is wrapped in so much gauze that it looks like cotton candy on a stick.

  Thistle must have kept me alive somehow. What about Luzhin’s four hostages? Did they all make it to safety?

  ‘Are you my lawyer?’ I ask.

  ‘Your lawyer? No.’

  ‘Well, I’m no drug dealer.’

  ‘Addict, then. We found all kinds of narcotics in your house.’

  ‘Not mine.’

  ‘Good luck proving that.’

  My back is killing me. ‘Shouldn’t you tell a nurse that I’m awake?’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘You can’t talk to anyone until you’ve heard what I have to say.’

  ‘So say it.’

  ‘If you don’t go down for the drugs, you’ll go down for the kidnappings. If not for them, then for the murder of Philip Hall and Peter Luzhin.’

  ‘Luzhin’s dead?’

  ‘Whichever way you look at it, you’re spending the rest of your life behind bars. And depending on how many counts you’re found guilty of, the rest of your life might not be very long.’

  ‘It was Luzhin who kidnapped all those people,’ I say. ‘Not me.’

  She registers no surprise. And finally I realise why she’s here—to sweep this whole mess under the rug.

  ‘No one will believe that,’ she says. ‘The man spent fifteen years serving and protecting, whereas you’re just another broke junkie who needs to be put down.’

  ‘If a jury got a look at his basement, that might show them the kind of man he was.’

  ‘Nothing illegal down there. And I’ve got a military psychologist who’ll testify as to the kind of man you are.’

  I thought I’d heard the last of Fallun, the doctor who kept me out of the army. Apparently not.

  ‘The Sheas will back me up,’ I say. ‘I saved them.’

  ‘They won’t be saying anything to anybody, not after the non-disclosure agreements they signed, or they’ll find themselves in prison right alongside you.’

  ‘I want to see them,’ I say.

  ‘They’ve moved to Connecticut, where they can get the best medical care for Robert. They wanted to put all this behind them.’

  All except the government hush money—Connecticut has the highest cost of living of any state in the USA.

  ‘And Cameron Hall?’ I ask.

  ‘With his grandparents. A long, long way from here.’

  I know their phone number. But even if I contact Cameron, the government will use every trick they know to stop him from helping me.

  ‘I’d like to spare the taxpayer the cost of a trial,’ the woman continues, ‘along with the expense of incarcerating you and possibly the even higher price of your execution. Perhaps we can come to some agreement.’

  She puts a two-page document on the bedside table. ‘This grants you immunity from prosecution, provided that you maintain absolute silence on the facts of this case until such time as the federal government declassifies it.’ She places a pen beside it. ‘Sign it when you’re ready.’

  I exhale. ‘So Luzhin gets to die a hero, the Sheas get paid a fortune, and I get to not be executed for something you know I didn’t do. Is that about it?’

  ‘Don’t waste my time, Mr Blake,’ the woman says. ‘Just sign the NDA.’

  Part of me wants to tear up the piece of paper and throw it at her. But I’m not sure I have the strength. And she’s right—what good would it do? Luzhin’s already dead. No one is out there hankering for justice. And I don’t doubt that she can get me thrown in prison if she wants to. I’m lucky she didn’t just put a pillow over my face while I was unconscious.

  I pick up the pen and sign the piece of paper. The drugs makes it hard—it’s like trying to write in cursive with a paintbrush. Trying not to look relieved, she takes it and points to a spot on the second page. ‘And here, please.’

  I scrawl my name on that page too. ‘Are you going to cover my hospital bill?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ she says, taking the second page. ‘Do you know what health care costs in this country? Fortunately for you, someone else already paid on your behalf.’

  She points at my bedside table, which holds a floral greeting card. The front says: Thanks a bunch!

  Angling my head, I can see a handwritten message on the inside: You solved a problem I didn’t know I had. We’re even. Charlie

  With Luzhin out of the way, Warner gets to bribe, threaten or kill all those witnesses and jurors. Soon she’ll be free.

  The redhead has already walked out the door. Her heels are clicking away down the corridor as she heads for wherever it is these people hide in between crises.

  ‘Hello?’ I call out. ‘Nurse?’

  No answer.

  There should be a call button somewhere. I run my hands along the sides of the bed until I find a cable on my right, and then I follow it to a plastic bulb. I squeeze it. Nothing happens.

  I start tugging at the sheets, trying to loosen them enough to climb out and go looking for someone. It’s slow work. Before I can make any real progress, a nurse walks in. He’s short, black, square-chinned and chewing gum that smells like nicotine.

  ‘You’re awake,’ he says. ‘Good morning.’ He starts tucking the sheets back in where I loosened them.

  ‘How bad am I hurt?’ I say.

  ‘You’d better discuss that with the doctor,’ he says.

  ‘So where’s the doctor?’

  ‘She’ll be here soon.’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Soon.’

  He glances at the oversized sauce sachets hanging from a mobility pole next to the bed.

  ‘What am I on?’ I ask.

  He seems uncertain whether or not to answer. Finally he says, ‘Painkillers.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Morphine.’

  ‘Not enough. I feel like shit.’

  ‘You’ll feel worse if you get hooked on morphine.’

  ‘Only when I can’t get it.’

  He gives me a sharp look, like he’s not sure if I’m joking. Then he smiles.

  ‘You could switch me to something less addictive,’ I say.

  ‘Ask the doctor.’

  ‘When’s the doctor coming?’

  ‘Soon.’

  I laugh, and there’s a tightness in my chest. I feel a hundred years old.

  ‘Try not to move,’ the nurse says. ‘You’ll tear your stitches.’

  ‘How many have I got?’

  ‘If the bullet had been an inch lower, you wouldn’t have any at all.’

  That’s twice that I’ve been saved by a high bullet. The nurse le
aves. I resume trying to unfasten the sheets.

  I don’t realise I’ve fallen asleep until I hear the doctor come in. She’s a meaty Native American with greying hair who barely looks at me before picking up the clipboard attached to the end of the bed.

  ‘You’re a real lucky guy, Mr Blake,’ she says, as if to herself. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Like I’ve been bitten and shot.’

  ‘The bullet hit your right lung, but in the big scheme of things that isn’t bad—it missed your heart and your spine. It looks like someone got to you pretty quick.’

  ‘It didn’t feel quick,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll bet. But a few minutes longer and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You’ll be good as new in three weeks or so.’

  ‘Good as new?’ I ask doubtfully.

  ‘I mean you’ll have some scars and a missing thumb, but you shouldn’t have any trouble moving.’

  ‘How long do I have to stay here?’

  ‘Assuming nothing drastic happens, I’ll discharge you tomorrow.’

  ‘How long have I been here already?’

  She glances back down at the chart. ‘Three days.’

  ‘Anyone come to ask about me in that time?’

  ‘I wasn’t here yesterday,’ she says, ‘so maybe, but I haven’t seen anyone except your wife.’

  The redhead must have told them I was her husband to get access to me. Classy.

  ‘She’s been asleep in the waiting room since I got here,’ the doctor says. ‘Want me to send her in?’

  Not the redhead. ‘Sure,’ I say, just to see what happens.

  What happens is the doctor walks out and soon comes back with a rumpled-looking Reese Thistle.

  ‘Hi, honey,’ I say, because the doctor is looking at her suspiciously.

  ‘Sweetie,’ Thistle says, and takes my hand.

  Apparently satisfied, the doctor leaves.

  ‘Did you take me to Vegas while I was unconscious?’ I say. ‘Make an honest man out of me?’

  She looks embarrassed. ‘Sorry. They wouldn’t let me see you otherwise.’

  We’re silent for a while.

  ‘You can’t tell me what happened, can you?’ she asks.

  I shake my head.

  ‘They made you sign something?’

  I nod.

  ‘Sons of bitches.’

  She’s staring at my EKG, but she’s not really seeing it. She’s seeing all the things she should have seen before. Things we both should have.

  ‘You already know what happened,’ I say.

  ‘After you ran, Luzhin presented me with DNA and fingerprint evidence that proved you were the kidnapper,’ she says. ‘But I trusted you. I knew you wouldn’t do something like that. So I figured there was only one person the real culprit could be. I was already on my way to Luzhin’s house to arrest him when Cameron Hall made the 911 call. That’s how come I got to you so quick.’

  ‘I’m sorry I ran.’

  ‘I would have too.’

  Would she, though? If it had been her, framed for murder, would she have turned herself in and trusted the cops to prove her innocence? If it had been me in the back of a car as it went over a bridge, and her suckling at her dead mother’s breast, would she be the cannibal and me the FBI agent? Who am I? Who is she?

  ‘You can stay at my place.’ She takes my hand. ‘Until you’re back on your feet.’

  I want so badly to say yes. To wake up in Thistle’s bed and make her a cup of coffee each day. To sit side by side on a park bench in the sun and eat normal food together for lunch. To kiss, and have sex, and share secrets, and do all the things that regular people do.

  But without Luzhin, I have no one to eat. Over the next few months, the hunger is going to drive me crazy. Eventually I’ll lose control. And then Thistle, the only person I’ve ever cared about, will get hurt.

  The Greek soldier from the book of myths, the one exiled because of his wounded foot—he won the war, but he never got to marry the Spartan princess.

  ‘I’m not religious,’ I say.

  She looks puzzled.

  ‘I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, so I told a stupid lie,’ I say. ‘You’re just not my type.’

  She looks at me for a long moment. Her eyes go flat as she realises I’m not kidding. She lets go of my hand.

  ‘That’s okay,’ she says finally. ‘I understand. You can stay with me anyway, if you want.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  She nods stiffly. Then she walks out without looking back.

  CHAPTER 26

  Some people fear me. Others long for me. No one has ever seen me—in fact, I never existed—but you speak my name every day. What am I?

  The coywolves howl outside my window. Long and low. Lonely, or hungry, or both.

  The toy in my hands is a complicated wooden thing. I’ve been at it for hours, and I’m starting to think it might be my favourite kind of puzzle—unsolvable. The sort that keeps my thoughts on a tight loop. The sort that doesn’t release me to my memories, and wishes.

  The phone rings. I ignore it, as I’ve ignored every call for three weeks. I don’t want to hear from Thistle or to discover that it’s not her calling. I don’t want to talk to anyone else at the FBI. I don’t want to chat with John Johnson’s desperate ex-clients. I just want to be alone with my hunger.

  A knock at the door.

  I ignore it, twisting the components of the puzzle, looking for the path that will break them apart.

  Another knock, and a voice. Female. ‘Blake, I know you’re in there.’

  Not Thistle. Not a junkie.

  I shuffle through the fingerprint dust—I never bothered to clean it up after I was exonerated—and open the door a crack.

  Charlie Warner is on the doorstep, shielded from the rain by an expensive umbrella. Two bodyguards—new ones—stand on either side of her. She wears a subtle and probably expensive shade of lipstick, and a woollen coat that reaches her knees.

  ‘I don’t like being kept waiting,’ she says.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I say. ‘I hear you’re a free woman.’

  She bows slightly. ‘The trial went well. Can I come in?’

  The worst she can do is kill me. I stand aside.

  She walks in cautiously. It’s like she worries that the floor will leave marks on her shoes. One of the bodyguards stays outside, the other follows her in. I shut my eyes. Too much meat in this room.

  ‘I owe you an apology,’ Warner says. ‘You were telling the truth. You didn’t kill Philip Hall.’

  ‘The flowers were sufficient,’ I say. ‘Are we done?’

  ‘The man you did kill,’ she says. ‘With the sawdust and the cigarette. He wasn’t just my driver. He performed a valuable service for me, and now he needs to be replaced.’

  I open my eyes and gesture at my crappy living room. ‘If you’re after money…’

  ‘I’m not.’ She looks at a folding chair and decides not to sit. ‘When my boys were here picking you up, they found something in your freezer. A human foot. Chewed.’

  I should be scared of her, but at this point it’s hard to care. I make a half-assed excuse: ‘I think you mean John Johnson’s freezer.’

  ‘What impresses me most is that’s all they found,’ Warner says. ‘They took another look around while you were in hospital. The rest of the body was gone. No trace at all. The cops didn’t find anything either.’

  ‘There’s nothing in the freezer now,’ I say. ‘You can check.’

  ‘I’m not here to blackmail you, Blake. I came to offer you a job.’

  ‘What kind of job?’

  ‘Body disposal. One per week, guaranteed.’ She smiles, showing whitened teeth. ‘Interested?’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks to the wise and hardworking team at Allen & Unwin who took a chance on this book and made it much more palatable. I’m especially grateful to Jane Palfreyman, Genevieve Buzo, Hilary Reynolds, Deb Stevens, Andy Palmer and the terrific freelance
r Ali Lavau for their tasty suggestions. Thanks also to cover designer Luke Causby.

  Thanks to my determined and loyal friends at Curtis Brown, especially Luke Speed, Benjamin Stevenson, Kate Cooper, Stephanie Thwaites—and most of all, Clare Forster, who believed in this book from day one and spent years trying to find the right home for it. Thanks also to Daniel Kirschen at ICM for bringing Hangman to the American market.

  Thanks to Adam Giagni, Michael Offer and all the others using their formidable talents to bring Hangman to the screen.

  Thanks to the generous crime writers who shared morsels of wisdom with me over the years, especially those who knew how to dish up a repulsive character in an appealing way: Paolo Bacigalupi, Bret Easton Ellis, Andrew Hutchinson, Jeff Lindsay, Tara Moss, L.J.M. Owen, Michael Robotham and Emma Viskic. Thank you also to Joyce Carol Oates and Paul Cleave, whose novels—Zombie and The Cleaner respectively—inspired this one.

  Thanks to all the people who shared infuriating riddles with me.

  Thank you to Ken and Trish Spoor, who let me stay at their home in Texas and shared some gruesome stories from their time in law enforcement. Thanks also to the staff, guards and inmates of the Belconnen Remand Centre, the Alexander Maconochie Centre and the Texas Prison Museum. Mistakes are my own. Thanks also to my scary but medically knowledgeable friends Anne Douglas, Nick Earls, Katherine Howell, Tom Rowell and Jessi Thomson, who unflinchingly answered questions like, ‘What could I use to poison somebody if I wanted to eat the body after?’

  Thanks to my strong-stomached Mum and Dad, who provided valuable feedback on tasteless drafts and who picked up a lot of the slack while I was writing and editing this book.

  Thanks to the following people who digested versions of the manuscript and provided useful feedback: Ashley Arthur, Lisa Berryman, Claire Craig, Andrew Croome, Adam Keighley, Paul Kopetko and Sam McGregor.

  Thanks to all my friends and family, who’ve tolerated the unusual demands of my unusual job for a long time now.

  Biggest thanks of all to Venetia Major, who put up with me while I was working on the book, who read it many, many times, and who always had a new insight to share. She also gave Reese Thistle her name, to which I’ve become very attached. Venetia, I love you—I’m so glad your patience is finally paying off.