Hangman (Jason Trapp: Origin Story Book 1)

by Jack Slater

  Like the good soldier he was, he’d jumped at the order.

  Up to a fashion, at least. He’d found an old electric iron, bundled in an age-stained yellow cord, in a closet in his room. His last remaining clean T-shirt was now free of creases, as were his jeans, but no amount of ironing could cleanse the latter of the effects of several months’ hard riding.

  “The secret, ma’am?” Trapp queried, freeing a hand and using it to brush an imaginary speck of dust from his front.

  “Don’t you ma’am me, boy,” she warned, reaching for the wooden spoon that was sitting next to the steaming pot on her stove.

  She brandished it with a smile on her lips. “The name’s Sarah, and I won’t have it any other way. You understand?”

  “Yes ma–”

  Trapp caught himself just as his lips were uttering the transgression. He smiled sheepishly. “Old habits die hard, I guess. You were saying something about a secret, Sarah?”

  “That’s right, Jason. You mind if I call you that?”

  “It’s my name, isn’t it?” He smiled. “What else would you call me?”

  It was the truth, but only half of it. Mostly he went by an endless series of nicknames, or just his surname, in the way that soldiers did. There was something about that, he thought. Something almost dehumanizing. Perhaps it was a way of rationalizing the faint – but ever-lingering possibility – that you might die alongside a man. Easier if they didn’t know who you really are.

  Yet in this place, with these people, he felt like Jason for the first time in a long while. It just seemed right.

  She beckoned him over to the stove, a fleck of dark-brown cooking liquid flying off it and landing at the floor by his feet. He leaned over and brushed it away as he came toward her.

  “You said you could keep a secret, right?” Sarah asked one last time, eyes twinkling at the pageantry of it all.

  “On my honor,” he replied.

  He didn’t say ma’am, but he wished he had. It sounded better that way. Like something out of the movies. One of those '50s flicks, all in black and white.

  “Oh, I’m counting on it…”

  Sarah indicated for him to bend down over the stove as she removed the lid from her cooking pot. He dodged the wave of steam that rose in a mushroom cloud as she pulled it away before positioning himself over the pot, closing his eyes, and breathing in deeply.

  “What do you think?”

  “Honestly?”

  “You wouldn’t lie to an old woman under her own roof, would you, Jason? You don’t strike me as that kind of man.”

  Jason inclined his head as he stood back up, nostrils full of the aroma of slow-cooked meat and the fragrant, stinging burn of chopped chili. He could see their rough-cut skins bobbing on the surface, blistered by heat from being fried in the oil first. He’d smelled that happening when he was still upstairs.

  “I try not to be,” he replied. “And the truth is, it smells good. Damn good. If you don’t mind my French.”

  “Jason, I’ve been married to a cop for near 30 years. You’d have to go a ways further than that to make me blanch.”

  “Oh, thirty?” Trapp replied, squinting as he did the math in his head. He had Sarah pegged at midway into her 50s, which meant they’d married late.

  “Ron was a soldier before that.” Sarah winked. “And I told him I wouldn’t have a child with a man in uniform. Too dangerous back then. I could never bring up a child alone.”

  “He wears a uniform now too,” Trapp remarked.

  That explains Shea’s age, he thought. She looked about as old as he did, though less worn. Maybe a year younger, probably less.

  “Marriage is all about compromise.” Sarah shrugged, affecting a long-suffering sigh. “And being a cop suits him. Anyway, I was saying –”

  “About the secret.” Jason grinned. “I hadn’t forgotten.”

  “It’s cocoa powder. Dutch, of course.”

  “Why Dutch?” Trapp asked.

  Sarah stirred the pot one last time before killing the heat and smacking her lips a little with satisfaction. It was a little action that she probably carried out subconsciously, but Trapp noticed and found it strangely endearing.

  She replaced the lid and wiped her hands on her apron before turning to Trapp. “Why not?”

  You can’t, Trapp thought, argue with that kind of logic.

  He tucked himself into an empty corner of the room and simply observed for a few minutes as the family settled into their daily routine. The sheriff – his name was Ron, but that wasn’t the way Trapp thought of him – came down with hair that was still damp from the shower, which explained why it had run lukewarm halfway through Trapp’s own.

  The old man greeted Trapp with a smile and walked to the refrigerator, removing a red-capped bottle of beer, which he proffered in Trapp’s direction. It was a brand that he didn’t recognize, maybe something local, but he accepted it with a smile of thanks and wondered how exactly he had found himself in this scene of domestic bliss. The sheriff grabbed a beer of his own and began to set the table, shooing away Trapp’s attempts to help.

  So he returned to his corner, wondered where Shea was, and continued watching, drinking in every detail of a life the likes of which he had never been blessed with the chance to live.

  Sarah Grayson cut a grandmotherly figure in the kitchen that she had no doubt ruled for the better part of her life. Trapp fancied that he could see pathways cut into the floor tiles by her feet, deep as those worn into the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.

  That was a thing, wasn’t it? A place that had become a person, and a person who in turn had become a place.

  “Ready!” she pronounced, folding over her apron and using it as an oven glove as she lifted the pot off the stove and set it on a metal rack at the center of the wooden dining table.

  “Cecelia!” she yelled out next, nearly piercing Trapp’s ear before she shuffled back to the kitchen, muttering, “That girl will be the death of me.”

  Shea appeared a moment later, scowling at her mother. “Mom, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times –”

  “No arguing in front of guests,” Sarah said, cutting her daughter off before she really even had a chance to get going. “Shea, this is –”

  “Jason, I know,” she replied, flashing him a world-weary smile. “We’ve met already.”

  “Well, aren’t you lucky,” Sarah replied, wiping her hands on her apron again as she walked to the table.

  She called out sweetly over her shoulder as she turned away, “Be a dear, won’t you, and get the salad from the fridge?”

  Trapp masked a smile, sensing that this was a game they played every night, and one which both parties enjoyed. Shea rolled her eyes, but with a half-smile on her lips, which confirmed his suspicion.

  “Jason.” Sarah patted the chair beside her as she spoke. “Come sit down before it gets cold.”

  He remembered the cloud of steam that had come off the pot of chili when he’d bent down to smell it and decided that there was little danger of that but did as he was instructed. He had to admit, whether it was a result of the Dutch cocoa powder or not, if the chili tasted half as good as its aroma promised, he was in for a treat.

  The table itself was circular, and his chair was the odd one out. He sat on it anyway and mumbled his thanks as the sheriff passed him a loaded plate. Shea sat down last, taking the empty seat that lay between him and her father.

  Does she know how beautiful she is?

  Quickly, Trapp cleared the thought from his mind, experiencing a moment’s guilt at even considering a thing like that under another family’s roof. Especially one that had been so gracious as to open itself up to unexpected company.

  The sheriff looked at him expectantly.

  “Jason,” he said, his gruff voice booming even when he meant it to be quiet. “Perhaps you can say grace?”

  Trapp blinked.

  It wasn’t that he wasn’t a religious man, he just didn’t know
precisely what he was. He believed in something, but that something was fuzzy and indistinct, and only became more so the harder he tried to find it.

  “Maybe you could show me how?” he stammered in a voice that was most unlike his own. “We didn’t do much of that when I was growing up.”

  We didn’t do much of anything, the voice inside him whispered. And certainly not like this.

  Perhaps Sarah sensed the terror in his mind as he spoke, or maybe she read it on his face. But she was a good person, and she cut in quickly. “Ron, let the poor boy be. I’m sure he’s tired.”

  Trapp let his eyes drop to the table. He wasn’t afraid; he was embarrassed. Ashamed of the image of himself that he was presenting to these people. And to Shea.

  And why her?

  Perhaps it was because she was his age, whereas the other two were most assuredly not. Some part of his consciousness understood that they had seen all this before, whereas Shea was experiencing it for the first time. And so without the benefit of a lifetime’s understanding, what would she think of him?

  A coward?

  A fool?

  “I’ll say it,” Sarah decided, reaching out for Trapp’s hand. He accepted it with a hint of surprise, and looked up to see that Shea’s too, was outstretched. She had a wicked twinkle in her eye.

  She’s having fun, he realized.

  He offered it to her, and again he felt a wave of guilt hit him, because her touch felt good. He’d lived in a barracks for so long, around other men, and then after that alone, he’d forgotten just what that was like.

  Shea bowed her head, and so after a second, so did he. He closed his eyes, and in the darkness he wondered whether a life like this would be so bad after all.

  A life like this, or just this life?

  But that was a question for another day.

  9

  The terror woke him, as it always did, even if he couldn’t always put his finger on the cause. Sometimes it was obvious. Those nights, he woke with a sheen of sweat on his skin, a stifled cry on his lips, the acrid stink of explosive smoke in his nostrils, and his mind filled with the screams and whimpers of dying men. Why was it they always wanted their mothers? When it was his time to go, would he be the same?

  But tonight was not one of those nights.

  Tonight he rose with only the faintest hint of unease, a sensation that rapidly diminished as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and pushed himself upright. He could see the faint red numbers that made up the screen of a digital alarm clock glowing at him from the other side of the small bedroom. It was a little past two in the morning.

  That he was awake surprised Trapp little. He rarely made it through to the morning these days. And when he did, it was because of alcohol or sheer exhaustion, or some combination of both, and not because the demons had stopped chasing him. No, they’d followed him from one desert to another, across an ocean and half a world, and showed no signs of giving up.

  He needed to take a leak, and as the ghost of the memory of his dream faded into the darkness, Trapp almost convinced himself that was the reason for his awakening. It was a lie, of course, a white one conjured by a mind unwilling to tackle what truly ailed it. He knew all that, naturally, or at least he would if he ever truly thought about it, which was why he never did.

  And after all, there was a much more immediate issue to be handled. He still needed to take a leak.

  Trapp stood and pulled on the T-shirt that lay neatly folded on the chair beside his bed. It was a new habit, one he’d acquired only since joining the Grayson household. Didn’t seem all that respectful to parade around the house wearing nothing but his bare torso, even if it was coming up on the witching hour, when ordinary people were fast asleep.

  He left the lights turned off as he exited the bedroom, as he normally did. A customary – if reticent – night owl, Trapp knew better than to torch his night vision if he could avoid it, since that act inevitably summoned the waking brain, and sent any hope of further sleep packing. At home in the darkness, he crept to the bathroom as silently as he could manage, but not before noting a faint glow from downstairs.

  The business in the bathroom didn’t take long, though Trapp winced as he flushed the john. The Grayson house was both well-maintained and comfortable, but it was still old, and the pipes sounded older still. The basin drained with a low growl that wasn’t too dissimilar to the engine noise of his motorcycle, and no sooner had that dissipated than a high-pitched whine started whistling in its place as the system sucked in fresh water to fill the void.

  Trapp waited in the almost complete darkness in the bathroom a full thirty seconds after he’d finished washing and drying his hands, waiting for the hurricane to subside. Only when he was satisfied that the plumbing system had finally regained pressure did he reach for the door handle. He punched it out gently, holding his breath at the click which echoed out into the hallway.

  If they’re not up already, that little snick won’t be the straw that breaks the camel’s back, he thought.

  Now that his bladder was empty, and what had assailed him was just a distant memory, sleep once again came for Trapp’s eyes. They felt heavy, and the comfortable double bed beckoned for him. He paused halfway across the hallway, though, his eyes drawn to the glow from downstairs.

  Somebody must have missed the light switch before they headed up for the night. He decided to be a good houseguest and act the way a boy like him ought to have been raised. Like the rest of the house, the stairs were old, and he crept downstairs like a child on Christmas night, walking on the very edges of the stairs so as not to disturb whatever gremlin lived beneath the floorboards, waiting to catch out an unwary intruder.

  The light was coming from the living room, he saw, from the floor lamp that sat next to the piano and just by the door. He averted his eyes from its glow out of habit and reached around the doorframe for the light switch that lurked just underneath the bulb by feel. He pushed it, and the room fell dark.

  The complaint that emanated from the darkness was gruff but amiable. “I was using that.”

  Trapp nearly jumped out of his skin. “Is that you, Sheriff?”

  “I don’t see anyone else around,” came the reply.

  “Sorry sir, I didn’t mean to disturb you. Thought somebody had left the light on.”

  “Well, how’s this? How ‘bout you turn it back on, and then we can talk?”

  Light flooded the room a second later, and Trapp stood in the doorway, feeling pretty foolish.

  “You couldn’t sleep, son?” the sheriff asked, looking up from the paperback in his broad, callused hands. A crystal glass filled with half a finger of dark brown liquid sat on the arm of his chair.

  The book had a blue jacket, and Trapp thought he’d maybe read it himself. Yeah, it was a Slater book. Not half bad. Main character even shared the same name he did. Maybe that was why it had stuck in his mind.

  “I guess not,” Trapp replied, matching the sheriff’s muted tone of voice instinctively. He felt foolish enough without waking the rest of the house, too.

  “Thought so.”

  “I’ll leave you be then, sir. Have a good night.”

  “Why don’t you sit down, Jason?” the sheriff asked. “You drink?”

  Trapp didn’t want much to sit down. Ron Grayson was a kindly man, if a little stiff in that way some cops are. He was a good match to both his wife and daughter, who each had a vivacity about them that leavened him well.

  But without them by his side he could be a little…

  Well, stiff was the word.

  Still, this was his house, and after all, he’d done Trapp a kindness by inviting him to stay. Why not share a drink with the man?

  “Only if you don’t mind, sir,” Trapp replied.

  “Nonsense,” the sheriff replied, snapping the paperback shut with decisive force and setting it aside. He stood and walked over to a little walnut drinks cabinet that Trapp hadn’t really noticed before. He looked at it now, and even in the room
’s mild gloom, the craftsmanship was obvious.

  As was the pride the man showed as he looked at it.

  “You build that yourself, sir?” Trapp asked as the sheriff poured a slug of whiskey into an identical glass.

  “You like it?” he said as he handed over the drink.

  “I do. Very much,” Trapp agreed.

  “Can I give you a tip, Jason?”

  “Of course.”

  The sheriff grinned as he sat back down. “Don’t get into carpentry. In my experience, once you start, you just can’t stop. The problem is, when you only get to practice it as a hobby it takes twenty years to get any good, and by that point your hands are so shot anyway, it’s just too late.”

  Trapp grinned. “I’ll bear that in mind. Still, that doesn’t look so bad to me.”

  He raised the glass in toast, and the sheriff matched his gesture. He closed his eyes as he took the first sip. The bourbon was good, though he didn’t know his whiskey. It didn’t burn, and it went down clean, and that was more than enough for a man more used to tossing back shots of Jack in a dimly lit bar.

  The sheriff stayed quiet long enough that Trapp wondered if he would say anything at all. He took a long pull of his own tumbler, rested it against his belly, and said, “So you have trouble sleeping, huh?”

  Trapp took another sip before replying. In truth, it was more of a gulp. This was his usual approach when the scab was momentarily ripped from the wounds that scarred his mind. Usually, he would keep going before waking clothed with regret – but at least temporarily numbed, but that wasn’t on offer this time.

  “It ain’t easy to talk about, sir.”

  “War rarely is,” the sheriff replied, maintaining eye contact for an unsettlingly long time. “But a pain shared is a pain halved.”

  Trapp wondered whether that was true. And then his tongue started wondering before his mind got done deciding. “You ever see something, sir? When you were out there, I mean. Something you weren’t supposed to see?”