A Penny for the Hangman (24 page)

She read the words scrawled in Mrs. Graves’s unsteady hand. Then she read them again.

And everything stopped.

The paper fluttered to the floor, coming to rest on the carpet at her feet. Karen sat there, stunned, remembering. Putting it together. Making sense of it. What had Josh Faison said over dinner two nights ago?
“If it is one of those two, don’t believe a word he says.”
She raced through all the events of the last two days, from the moment of her arrival on Hangman Cay yesterday afternoon. She saw a fast-forward montage of images and heard a symphony of voices, punctuated by the crash of a silver breakfast tray falling from Molly Graves’s hands.

“Wulfgar Anderman, at your service.”

“Where do you want to start, Wulf?”

Crash!

“He painted this years later, in prison.”

“So, how did you get the painting?”

“That’s rather a long story. Later, perhaps.”

“Lawsuit? Oh yes, the lawsuit.”

“I didn’t kill him. Roddy did.”

“I’m still getting used to it myself, miss. It’s not like Charlotte, either.”

“Even Carl Graves, my old cellmate
…
”

“Roddy went to Boston when he got out of Raleigh.”

“Where do you want to start, Wulf?”

Crash!

“Where did you learn that recipe for Dover sole?”

“In Charlotte
…
”

“The Harper/And
erman murders were simply the Harper murders. You and I are the only people on earth who know that.”

“Where do you want to start, Wulf?”

Crash!

Carl Graves, her host’s old cellmate, was from Charlotte. Charlotte was the capital of North Carolina. Raleigh…

The cups, the plates, the napkins: H for…Hjordis?

The face of the boy in the painting.

The face of the man beneath it.

Crash!

Karen Tyler jumped up from the bed, kicking off the shoes, yanking the pretty blue dress up over her head and dropping it. Her upswept hair fell down around her shoulders as she fumbled for her jeans, blouse, socks, and sneakers, pulling them on as quickly as she could. She picked up her shoulder bag and ran to the window, the words of Molly Graves’s note screaming in her brain, over and over:

You called him Wulf but he’s not. He’s the other one. Him and my husband are planning something bad for you. There’s a boat in the beach house. Go NOW!

Letter from Harper to Anderman, March 13, 1981

Mr. Wulfgar Anderman

c/o Union Correctional Institution

7819 NW 228th Street

Raiford, FL 32026

Dear Wulf,

I hope this letter finds you well. It’s been a long time, twenty-two years. I learned of your release last month, and ever since then I’ve been forming these words in my mind. I have chosen this date to write to you. I’m sure you’ll know why….

The rain lashed the glass as Karen threw open the curtains, and it pelted her hot skin the moment she pushed the window up. She had to keep moving; if she stopped for an instant, she would lose her momentum.
Move,
she commanded herself. Just move. Think later.

She leaned out of the window and lowered the shoulder bag as far as she could before dropping it into the clump of bushes directly below. Then she sat on the ledge, swung her legs out into the rain, and rolled over onto her stomach, half in and half out of the opening. She grasped the windowsill firmly and slowly lowered her body down the side of the building, feeling the sharp ache in her arm muscles. When she was hanging by her hands, she let go, praying silently to herself that the drop was indeed as short as it had looked this morning.

She landed in the wet bushes and fell clumsily on her side, but the ground was so soaked that the impact was minimal. She was on her feet immediately, snatching up her bag and quickly moving away from the building, keeping to the edge of the front patio. Cold needles of rain lashed her face as she ran, and she was soon drenched, the thin blouse clinging to her skin. Her hair was plastered to her face and neck, and the sneakers squeaked wetly with every step.

Her original idea had been to make it to the staircase beyond the patio, to race down to the beach, but with sudden inspiration, she changed course. The outbuilding near the kitchen was now a toolshed, and her first order of business would be a weapon. She stumbled around the perimeter of the wet patio until she reached the tiny structure. The door was unlocked.

She stood in the pitch-black room, leaning back against the door, gasping for breath. At least it was dry in here, but the rain pelted the tin roof above her, and the scents of insecticide and turpentine stung her nostrils. She grimaced as she breathed in the stale, foul-smelling air, straining her eyes, willing them to adjust to the darkness. Then she remembered. She reached down into her shoulder bag and groped around until she found her keys. On the key ring was—bless you, Jim!—a tiny flashlight. She pressed the button, and the weak blue glow dispelled the darkness. She could make out shapes in the room: a couch, a lawn chair, three enormous packing crates crowded into one corner, an ancient brick oven built into the wall. She felt her way across the old kitchen, colliding with various objects, and knelt down in front of the oven. The top was piled with rakes and shovels, and its iron door stood open. She could see the glints of metal objects inside.

Holding her breath, imagining scorpions and tarantulas and a thousand other tropical horrors, she thrust her hand inside the oven and felt around. A paint can, a stirrer, an old pair of rubber gloves, stiffly dried brushes and rollers, another paint can. Bracing herself for an onslaught of wasps or lizards or worse, she forced her hand deeper into the space. There were larger objects here, objects with sharp edges. A pair of secateurs, a garden spade, and, farther back, a long strip of metal. She ran her fingers along the surface of the metal until she came to one end of it, a wooden handle…

Karen smiled grimly in the darkness as she carefully maneuvered the big object out, past the other shapes crammed into the crowded space. A machete. Just holding it, feeling its long blade in her hands, was comforting to her. And appropriate; after all, it was her adversary’s weapon of choice.

She thought of summer camp on Long Island years ago, archery and riflery and one close encounter with a starter pistol. She’d also learned a little judo and some other moves on volunteer males in a women’s self-defense class in college, but Karen had never committed a real act of violence. She’d always wondered if she could actually hurt someone. Now she knew. If either of the two men on this island came near her, she’d kill him or die trying.

Rage. She realized with a sense of surprise that she’d worked her way past the initial wrenching shock and subsequent fear, assimilated them, and now there was merely the rage—or, more precisely,
outrage
. The crude weapon shook in her trembling hand.

She had to get out of here, as far away from this house of horrors as possible. She couldn’t imagine why that madman had invited her here, but she wasn’t going to stick around to find out. She had to get off this island right now and make her way to—where? Tortola—the glow of its lights would give her the general direction. How far could it possibly be? All she needed was a boat, and she knew where to find one.

But first, she needed one more thing. She cast the weak beam of the key-ring light around the room. The table next to the three big crates in the corner, behind the filthy old couch, was piled with objects, so she went over for a closer look. When she found what she was looking for, she nearly cried out in triumph. A big, solid, black plastic flashlight. She picked it up, checking its heft. Yes—batteries. Carefully aiming it into a dark corner, away from the door and the lone window, she switched it on, and a powerful white beam shot out, filling the room with light. She turned it off and felt her way over to the door.

The rain assaulted her as she crept outside and edged toward the corner nearest to the main house, hugging the rough stone wall, studying the lighted downstairs windows for any sign of activity. The kitchen windows were just a few yards away from her, across a stretch of patio, and she could see a figure in there. Molly Graves stood just beyond one window, occupied by some activity, and Karen pictured the kitchen in her mind. The sink—she was washing dishes. Karen could see the woman’s face clearly through the gauzy curtain. Mrs. Graves scrubbed and rinsed, but every few seconds she glanced over her shoulder, toward the door that led to the main hall, a worried look on her face. She was listening for something, waiting for something unpleasant to happen.

Karen didn’t want to risk breaking from the side of the outbuilding and dashing across the open patio to the staircase above the beach, not with Mrs. Graves standing right there—Mrs. Graves and possibly others. Keeping her body flat against the toolshed wall, clutching the flashlight in one hand and the machete in the other, she stared at the lighted square of the kitchen window and waited.

Letter from Harper to Anderman, March 13, 1981 (continued)

I suspect you don’t want to hear from me. I sent several letters to you in the past, and they were all returned. Now you’re out, and I’m hoping your attitude toward me has changed a bit, because I have two things to tell you, and one is very important to both of us—to you, perhaps, more than me.

Sergeant Faison—now Lieutenant Faison—has written a book about his career in the VIPD, and I understand there’s a lot in it about us. This book, if it is published, will have us back in the public eye. Now that you’re out in the world again, the damage to you could be considerable….

Molly strained her ears to listen, but she could hear nothing. It was entirely too quiet out there.

The coffee tray was still in the living room. Peeling off her rubber gloves, she went across the front hall to collect it. The living room was empty. She picked up the tray and took it to the archway. Out in the hall, she paused near the bottom of the stairs, listening. She looked up at the gallery, noting with alarm that the door to the guest bedroom stood open. As she watched, her husband appeared in that doorway and came out onto the gallery, followed by their employer. The two men looked down at her, then at each other. Molly continued into the kitchen, her heart pounding.

She was back at the sink, washing cups and saucers, when Carl came into the room. Her husband was standing very still in the doorway, staring at her. She dropped the cup she was washing into the water and turned around.

“What is it?” she said as a thrill of fear rose up in her. “What’s going on?”

Then she spotted the piece of paper in his hand. Right away, she knew what it was. They’d somehow found the note, taken it from Ms. Tyler. Carl held it up for Molly’s inspection, studying her face with impassive eyes. A crack of thunder shook the room and she flinched, taking a step back, away from him.

“Where is she, Carl?” Molly finally managed to say. “What have you done?”

Without a word, her husband moved forward. As he came toward her, she screamed. The first blow sent her flying back against the refrigerator, her head striking it with ferocious impact. The second punch knocked her to the floor. She lay sprawled on the tiles she had so carefully cleaned this morning, the paralyzing pain spreading out to every nerve in her body, waiting for the end. She saw the heavy boot rearing back. Just before it smashed into her face and the darkness came, she thought of Athens Place, of all things, a little house with a white picket fence, with roses and geraniums…

Letter from Harper to Anderman, March 13, 1981 (continued)

You should go to New York. I’ve enclosed the address of a private investigator there, a friend of someone here whom I trust. This detective, Franklin Macy, can get you a copy of Faison’s manuscript, so you can read it and decide what to do. My friend says Macy knows some good lawyers, if you feel that you need one. And I think you will…

The crack of thunder caused Karen to press even harder against the wet stone wall, the ancient mortar digging into her skin. She was trying to be cautious, but now the sight of the enormous Carl Graves entering the kitchen propelled her out of her hiding place and away from the house, crouching down like a linebacker and rushing forward toward the top of the stairs on the far side of the patio. She had to put as much distance between herself and these people as possible. As she ran, her drenched sneakers made squishing sounds that seemed louder to her ears than they probably were.

She skidded to a halt on the top stair, transferred the machete from her right hand to her left, clutching it and the flashlight together in one sodden grip, and grasped the railing with her free hand. The deluge made her progress a slow one, and she placed her feet carefully on each step, aware of the waterfalls that washed over her sneakers and tumbled down the steps before her, all the way down to the bottom, which waited in the soaking darkness far below. One step, then another. The words from the long-ago self-defense class came to her:
“If you’re running from trouble, move forward. Do not waste precious time looking over your shoulder. Just run, and run like hell
.
”

She couldn’t exactly run like hell down the precarious stairway, and, try as she might, she couldn’t resist the overwhelming urge to look back toward the top of the stairs behind her. The constant onslaught of rain was soaking her hair, spilling down her face, and blurring her vision. She had to halt every few steps to swipe the back of her arm across her eyes. Then she grabbed the slippery rail again and continued her descent.

The hard stone beneath her shoes abruptly became wet sand, and she realized with relief that she had finally reached the bottom. She stepped out onto the beach, grasping the wood post of the warning sign to steady her as she turned once more and peered up the curving stairs. She could make out the lights of the house far above her but nothing else. To orient herself, she would need the light for a moment. She aimed the flashlight directly down toward the base of the sign and switched it on.

Something was glinting there in the sand, just beside the signpost. Karen leaned down to pick it up. Don Price’s Zippo lighter, with the big red
S
for Superman. He must have dropped it when he left the island last night. She slipped it into her pocket and cast the beam around her until she saw the boathouse.

She turned off the light, let go of the sign, and raced down the sand to the dark shape beside the stone pier. The water in the bay was raging in the gale, and now the wind and the crash of the breakers attacking the sand were the principal sounds she could hear. The wood double doors facing the dock constituted the entire side of the building, and there was a metal track leading down from them into the sand. Sliding the speedboat out to the water would be considerably easier than she’d thought, except that—

Except that the doors were locked. She chanced the glow of the flashlight again for a few seconds, studying this new impediment. A padlock kept the drop latch in place, but the metal hasp was loosely attached to the weather-beaten wood doors by four rusty screws. Memorizing the exact location of the latch, she switched off the light, dropped it and her bag onto the sand, and slipped the machete’s blade between the backing and the wood. Grasping the handle, she yanked downward with all her strength, prying the metal plate away. With a wrenching screech, the latch and padlock broke free and fell at her feet. She yanked on one heavy door, picked up the shoulder bag and flashlight, and went inside, pulling the door shut behind her.

The air in here was worse than the toolshed, much worse: oil and dry rot and an unpleasant metallic scent. There was also a rich, ripe odor she couldn’t quite place. Mildew? No, stronger than mildew. Something had died in here—a rat or an iguana. She could hear the buzzing of flies all around her, even above the thrum of the generator behind the building, which supplied the main house with electricity. She had to act quickly. She didn’t know if her absence from the house had been noted yet, but the boathouse would be the first place they’d look for her. She turned on the flashlight and swept the beam around the room. The old wood-hulled motorboat was on the metal track by the doors, covered with a gray canvas tarp. She shone the light on the track, noting the steep downward slope. One good push and the boat would slide forward through the doors and down the few yards to the water’s edge.