A Penny for the Hangman (20 page)

Molly was having trouble breathing. That had been a nasty shock! Even so, dropping that tray was inexcusable; she knew she always had to be careful. And little shocks were nothing new with a husband like Carl and an employer like—
him
.

Now there was the girl to worry about. What on earth were they planning, those two? Molly could tell that the girl had no idea she was being set up for something. The old man had clearly lied to her.

But why? When Molly thought about it, it was such a silly lie. So ridiculous. But it was obviously not ridiculous to
him
. Whatever he was up to, Carl was in on it. Oh dear, what could she do? What
should
she do?

Well, she should calm down, for one thing. They were eating breakfast now—she’d taken such care with the omelets; just the way he liked them—and then they were going into the living room to watch something on TV. He’d want another pot of coffee for that, Molly guessed, and she reached for the paper filters. It wasn’t enough to follow his orders;
predicting
his orders was the best way to go with him. And with her husband, too. She only wished she could figure out what they were doing, what they had in mind for this perfectly nice young woman.

Calm down and make the coffee, she instructed herself. Wait and watch and listen. And if it comes down to it, find some way to warn the girl…

“The Night Is Forever” (continued)

The first book about the crime,
Death in Paradise
by S. J. Harding, was published in 1961, and it became a bestseller. Four other books on the case have been published since then, and it is routinely mentioned in scholarly works providing overviews of child criminals.

In 1965, Hollie Knutson’s play,
Tropical Storm,
opened on Broadway. The courtroom drama ran for 936 performances and garnered several prizes, including two Tony Awards. It was filmed in 1968 by director Larry Jaffee, and the movie was a hit. The play is constantly revived in summer stock and community theater.

Jamie Huber’s 1978 novel,
Blood Brothers,
was a sensational fictional version of the crime with all the names changed, and in 1982 it was made into a top-rated ABC TV miniseries. More recently,
60 Minutes, 48 Hours,
and PBS’s
Frontline
have covered the incident.

David Chan’s new movie,
Bad Boys,
is being touted as the biggest film event of the season. Early reviews are comparing it—perhaps inevitably—to Alfred Hitchcock’s
Rope
and Richard Fleischer’s
Compulsion,
two fictional interpreta
tions of the Leopold/Loeb case, as well as Peter Jackson’s 1994 masterpiece,
Heavenly Creatures,
which tells the Parker/Hulme story. Critics are predicting that
Bad Boys
will be a favorite in this year’s awards races, and the film’s haunting theme song, “We Are the Night,” is a number-one hit.

The end credits were rolling on the widescreen TV beneath Rodney Harper’s painting, and a popular male vocalist was growling the lyric:
“We wait in the shadows / Feeling the power / That’s growing inside us / This is the hour! / The night is forever / And we are the night.”

“I could live quite happily without that song,” Wulf Anderman observed.

Karen laughed, glad for the feeling of release it provided. Watching this film with one of its principal subjects sitting beside her had been disconcerting. She hadn’t been prepared for it. She’d spent much of the time glancing surreptiti
ously over at the original of the boy onscreen, trying to gauge his reactions to what he was seeing and hearing.

He was an enigma. Throughout the movie, she couldn’t really see much response at all. He sat erect on the couch, hands in lap, occasionally sipping his coffee. Once, during the mayhem on the night of the murders, he tensed and leaned forward, staring at the action onscreen, drinking in every detail. When the bloodbath was over, his body relaxed again. Other than that, he maintained a detached demeanor. True, he’d seen the film before, but he might as well have been watching
The Sound of Music,
for all his emotional response to it.

“That song is all we’ve been hearing in New York for weeks now,” she said, “and the movie hasn’t even opened yet. I heard it playing in the hotel yesterday. If you go anywhere away from this island, brace yourself.”

He shrugged and reached for the TV’s remote on the coffee table. “Another good reason to stay home.”

Karen laughed again. He was being a good sport about it, all things considered. This was the man who had tried to stop Josh Faison’s book, and Faison had stuck to the facts. This film was speculation, with stylized dream sequences and imagined conversations. The boys were portrayed as dark angels, enjoying every minute of the horror. The song at the end echoed this impression. And there was an implied intimacy between them—smold
ering glances and caressing hands and one tense moment, just before the murders, when they very nearly kissed.

Wulf clicked the remote and stopped the film, cutting the singer off in mid note. “I suppose you’ll be wanting my official opinion for the interview.”

“Well, yes,” Karen said.

He sighed and sank back on the couch. “It’s very good. Of course, there’s not a word of truth in it, but it’s excellent.”

Karen checked that her recorder was on. “Not a word of truth? They got everything right, as far as I can tell—”

“Well, okay,” he conceded. “A lot of those things happened, but not the way the film presents them. Not exactly. All those scenes of the two of us plotting and planning, that’s sheer invention. And that business at the end, the night itself, is pure melodrama, clearly intended to shock. I only wish it weren’t so well made. As it stands, everyone is going to think it’s gospel.”

Karen shrugged. “It’s only a movie, Wulf, and not even the first one on the subject.
Tropical Storm
was a play and a movie, and there was that miniseries based on that novel,
Blood Brothers
. You lived through them. This too shall pass.”

He nodded. “Yes, I suppose. But it feels different now, being out in the world and knowing everyone is seeing this.” He waved toward the dark TV.

“What are you going to do about it?” Karen asked.

“Nothing. Not a thing. I learned long ago not to fight city hall. The courts sided with Faison, and all these other things, these books and plays and movies—even this one—are freedom of expression. Artistic license. Constitutional rights. They can impose and invade to their hearts’ content.”

“What do you suppose Rodney will think of the movie?” Karen asked.

Wulf rolled his eyes and sighed. “My dear, he’ll revel in it. He’ll simply love it. Anything that immortalizes us is fine with him. That’s one thing the movie got right—he was the mastermind. It was all his idea, and he talked me into it. I wanted to get rid of my father. Roddy wanted to be famous.”

“Well, he is,” Karen said.

“Yes,” Wulf agreed. “He is. We
both
are.”

Karen watched him as he divided his attention between the dark television set and the painting on the wall above it. She followed his gaze, taking in the portrait once more. So young and energetic he’d been, in those days before that terrible night. She noted again the sharp difference between the powerful child and the old man with the cane, a difference that was more than merely the passage of time. Rodney Harper’s brush had captured him, frozen him in a moment of carefree happiness, before—

She stared at the picture, wondering.
Before?

“When you first came here to Hangman Cay,” she said, “did you already know what you were going to do at Tamarind?”

“No,” he said. “At least I don’t think so….”

He leaned forward, picking up the coffee pitcher and replenishing their cups. Karen studied him, his Big Game Hunter garb—his khaki bush jacket and trousers and brown boots—struck by the fact that there was something vaguely military about the fashion choice. She was reminded of the scene in
Bad Boys
when Rodney Harper wore similar attire for his Halloween impersonation of Hitler. She couldn’t help wondering if this man was consciously emulating his long-ago confederate.

“It’s odd, what we remember and what we manage to forget,” he said at last, settling back on the couch once more. “I just watched that film, that so-called reenactment, and I couldn’t remember a single moment of it. I remember being small, and Christmases, and a bit of school, and then…then I was in prison. I remember the fort, the cells where they kept us, and all those native men asking questions over and over. And Miss Vernon, the social worker.” He shook his head. “But I don’t remember what I knew or didn’t know at any given time.”

Karen rose and went to stand before the painting, gazing up at it, her back to him, so he couldn’t see the expression on her face. She carefully phrased her next words, keeping an even tone to mask her anger. “When you called me a few weeks ago, you said you wanted to tell your story. The truth behind the lies—those were your exact words. You’ve been generous with your time and your hospitality, but you haven’t really told me anything, and I’m wondering why I’m here.”

There was silence in the room behind her. She didn’t hear him rise from the couch or move across the room, but she suddenly felt the warm solidity of a hand grasping her right shoulder and his breath on her neck.

“Please don’t turn around,” he murmured. “I don’t think I can say this if you’re looking at me. I asked you here because I wanted to see you, to meet you. I wanted you to see that I am not the monster the world thinks I am. You see, your mother lied to you. I told her to lie to you. I didn’t die in a car accident.”

Karen stood very still, gazing up at the portrait of the beautiful boy on the beach. He was standing too close, much too close. His voice came out of the void behind her, riveting her to the spot. She felt the hand on her shoulder and the soft exhalations of his breath, smelled the faint scent of expensive aftershave, aware of the tingling numbness creeping slowly up her spine. She couldn’t move; she couldn’t think. Spellbound, she could only listen.

“The Night Is Forever” (continued)

In 2006, according to the U.S. Department of Justice, juvenile offenders were involved in at least 1,043 murders in America, approximately ten percent of all murders that year. If Rodney Harper and Wulfgar Anderman were proud of their dubious achievement, they would be disheartened to learn that today’s world would view it as a commonplace.

Ann Montague smiled across the airline ticket counter at the tall, rangy, older guy with white hair, a mustache, and amazing blue eyes. A definite cowboy, if his clothes were any indication. He was in jeans, boots, a gray work shirt, and a faded denim jacket that had seen a lot of action. Sexy as hell, no matter his age. Kind of like Clint Eastwood, now that she thought of it. She opened his ticket folder: a first class fare to St. Thomas, so he was probably rich.

“Welcome to Miami, Mr. Brown,” she said in her warmest come-hither tone. “I see you’ve just arrived from Dallas, and Santa Fe before that. Is Santa Fe—um—home?”