Hire a Hangman (23 page)

But perversely, he’d decided to test her. Speaking quietly, self-consciously casual, he’d said that he’d decided to go to Cancun for the skin diving. He’d be gone for a week or ten days. Could she come down for a weekend, at least?

Still turned away from him, she hadn’t responded for a long, distancing moment. Then, her voice low and impersonal, she’d said, “What good would that do?”

He’d said that he didn’t understand. What good did anything do?

Her response had been a low, vicious grunt, hardly a ladylike response.

Ladylike?

It was the last word he’d ever think of to describe her. Beautiful, yes. Irresistible, certainly. Fascinating, always.

But ladylike, never.

“That isn’t in the rules,” she’d finally said. “Going away isn’t in the rules.”

Then she should change the rules, he’d said. Immediately adding,
“We
should change the rules.”

“How?” she’d retorted bitterly. “Kill him?”

One word—two words—and reality shifted. The past and the present and the future had tilted, fused, then separated, finally re-formed. All in seconds. Milliseconds, really.

If he’d chosen not to reply, it would have ended there. In the silence between them, the seconds would have elapsed: longer, more fateful seconds. Followed by minutes. Then hours. Finally days. Eventually—sooner, not later—she would have found someone to take his place. The same scenario would begin: the seduction, the exploration.

Kill him …

The words had lingered in the darkness, a palpable third presence. He’d never been able to remember the response he’d made. It could have been mere mumbling, inarticulate assent—wishful thinking.

But it had been enough.

Once the words were spoken, once the sounds of approval had been uttered, illusion changed shape and substance. Wishful thinking became commitment.

From the first, those first few seconds and minutes, the pattern remained unchanged. Always she took the initiative. Driven by a hatred that had consumed her and a greed that never let her go, she began to make plans. Once more, a pattern emerged. Always, it began with the “what if” game, shades of earliest memory: children, fantasizing. The word
murder
was never spoken. Instead, it came as a “what if” question, at first so deliciously tantalizing: what if they could “arrange for him to die”?

Expertly, she’d begun by sketching in the images: the sunny beaches, villas in Spain or southern France. Exotic nights of love, love in the afternoon. Freedom. Complete, utter freedom. And, yes, money. Kill the king, snatch the key to the counting house.

And, yes, justice.

For what Hanchett had done, death was the due.

And all without risk.

Find Teresa Bell. Tip the fragile balance. Make the madwoman their executioner. The perfect plan, flawlessly executed.

Die, Brice Hanchett. Pay. Finally, pay.

And then the lieutenant had called.

Was it the title of a play—a movie?
The Inspector Calls.
Yes, certainly, the title of a movie.

From the first, he’d known that Hastings suspected them. Just as, from the first, he’d suspected that Teresa Bell might confess. It had always been a calculated risk, that she would confess: the madwoman in search of absolution.

Die, Teresa Bell, the lost soul, the madwoman wandering wild-eyed through the empty, echoing corridors of her mind.

Leaving the two of them, now. Once more, the two of them, planning, scheming. But now the visions of villas and sun-soaked beaches had faded, along with the imagined nights of magical love. So suddenly, gone.

Fear had done that: obliterated the fantasies, leaving only reality.

Followed, he knew, by the first nibbling of terror. Already he could feel it beginning, deep down in the center of himself.

With an effort, he extended his left arm, lifted the telephone, used his right hand to touch-tone her number.

“Hello?” She’d answered on the second ring.

“Hi.”

“Ah—” He could hear her catch her breath. She’d been expecting him to call.

“Let’s get together tonight.”

“Yes—I guess we should.”

“Nine o’clock?”

“Yes …” It was an uncharacteristically wan, indecisive monosyllable. She was feeling it too, then. The first nibbling of terror, like a rat chewing the border of a shroud.

“Okay—nine o’clock, then. I’ll—”

“Are you all right?” Her voice was hushed.

“No, I don’t think I’m all right. Not really all right.”

“Are you—?” She broke off, cleared her throat. “Do you want to—to get out? Is that it?”

“We have to talk. See you at nine.” He broke the connection, heard the dial tone begin.

2:40
PM

She replaced the telephone in its cradle, rose, went to the kitchen, selected a stem glass from the rack over the counter, took last night’s half-finished bottle of Chardonnay from the refrigerator, and filled the glass. Appreciatively, she sipped the wine, just a little too cold.

Nine o’clock …

More than six hours …

Why had he said nine o’clock?

Like all conspirators, they’d fixed a secret meeting place: the yacht harbor, the slip that led to one row of berths. The slip was perhaps two hundred feet from the yacht club’s main parking lot. He’d selected the place, a good choice, not too isolated, not too public. This would be their fourth meeting here. Twice, dressed in windbreakers and jeans and deck shoes, as if they were going sailing, they’d met during the day. Once—the first time—they’d met at night, a cold, foggy night. They’d planned that first meeting down to the minutest detail. It had been a Friday night, which meant there would be a crowd at the yacht club. So they’d dressed as if they were going to dinner, ostensibly part of the crowd.

Two days after they’d met at the yacht club that foggy Friday night, he’d given Teresa Bell the gun.

And the following Monday night, Brice Hanchett had died.

That’s how she thought of it: died. Not murdered. Died.

She took the glass of Chardonnay from the table, raised the glass, sipped. Yes, the flavor was rising as the wine warmed.

How often in the past five days had she tried to recall the precise moment she first realized he must die? Sometimes it seemed that the decision had come in a dream. She’d been an executioner in the dream—a hangman’s apprentice, the one charged with tying the black hood over the victim’s head to spare the onlookers the sight of his dead face, contorted by death’s final agony. But then she’d been instructed to kiss him good-bye before she pulled the hood down over his face. And then, violently protesting, she’d awakened, horrified. Because somehow he was already dead, before the hangman’s trap had been sprung. His skin was cold and clammy, his eyes empty, his purple lips slack, his mouth idiotically gaping.

She’d gone back to sleep after the nightmare had released her. But the next morning, awakening, the horror had returned. The vision of his dead face, so cold and clammy to the touch, had persisted.

And then the phrase “hire a hangman” had begun to stir deep in her amorphous, awakening consciousness. If she could hire a hangman—an executioner, a killer—she would be rid of him. Finally rid of him. Finally free.

In the moments that followed, still lying in bed, still with her eyes closed, as if she were a child, afraid the vision would vanish if she opened her eyes, she lay motionless as, yes, the possibility congealed into certainty: an incredibly matter-of-fact necessity, a simple puzzle that required a solution no more complex than finding a mechanic or a gardener or someone to plan a party.

Yes, hire a hangman …

For days—weeks—she’d nurtured the vision, let it germinate, allowed the desire to solidify into the plan.

And then, deliberately, she’d waited patiently for her chance.

She’d only had to wait until the following Friday night, when they’d gone to the movie, then gone for pizza, then gone to her place. He’d told her he was going to Cancun. It was, she knew, a test, one of his little games, to test her. Instantly, she’d seen her chance.

She’d realized instinctively that it would first be necessary to pronounce the words. A few days before, over espresso, they’d signaled with a look, only a look, that murder might be the answer. But, the next step, words must be spoken. And, almost immediately, the opportunity had come. When he’d said that she should do something about Brice, anything, to ease her burden, she’d said, “How? Kill him?”

And, like the self-blinded fool he was, he’d swallowed the bait whole. So that the next time they saw each other, she had only to wait for him to create his own opening. She’d expected him to begin by repeating his wish that she come to Cancun with him. But, instead, he’d simply said he’d been thinking about what she’d said the other night—thinking about Brice Hanchett, dead.

The rest of it had followed the same script, line for line. There was a woman named Teresa Bell, whose son had died for want of a liver transplant, she’d told him. If he were to approach Teresa Bell, befriend her, sympathize with her, then Teresa Bell would do their work for them. Teresa Bell would be their instrument of vengeance—and, yes, of gain. Enormous gain, his hangman’s bounty.

Magically, the scenario had once more played out according to the script. As if she were a robot, a marionette, Teresa Bell had taken the pistol and gone to the address on Green Street.

But then the waiting had begun, the agony of uncertainty. When would they know? Would the policeman’s knock on the door be their first word?

Only later—only during their second meeting at the yacht harbor—had she learned that, incredibly, he’d been unable to stand the uncertainty. Late Monday night, he’d gotten in his car and gone to Russian Hill. He’d played the part of a spectator, gawking at the blood that still stained the pavement. It was a mad, senseless risk—a risk induced by fear.

But at least he’d known. His agony of waiting was over. Hers had only begun.

But finally the police had come. She’d prepared herself, so that it was only necessary to continue reading from the script.

But she couldn’t prepare him. She couldn’t know that already he was weakening.

Minutes after Hastings questioned him, he’d called her. They had to meet. It was on Tuesday, the day after the murder. Her first close look at his face confirmed her fears. Under questioning, he might tell the police everything. If his actual words didn’t betray him, his actions would.

Betray himself …

Betray her.

Then he’d told her that the police had already questioned Teresa Bell. How did he know? she’d asked. Because, he’d answered, he’d seen Hastings leaving Teresa Bell’s house. His voice had been ragged, his eyes furtive with fear, his face pale and waxen. His telltale hands were in constant motion, twitching, plucking, fretting.

First he’d gone to Green Street.

Then he’d gone to the Bell house, come close enough to see Hastings—and be seen in turn.

Then he’d told her he had another gun. With that gun, he’d said, he would kill Teresa Bell, to protect them. There was no other way.

She’d planned the killing of one monster—and created a second monster. The first monster was crazed by greed and arrogance and ruthlessness. The second monster was crazed by fear.

The first monster, Brice Hanchett, had threatened to take her sanity. The second monster threatened her freedom, even her life.

After the second murder he’d called again. He’d told her they were safe, now they were safe. But they must meet again, he’d said. More than ever, he needed her. She’d refused. Yesterday, she’d refused.

Today, she knew she must accept. Even though it was dangerous to accept, it was more dangerous to refuse.

Nine o’clock, he’d said.

Less than six hours, now.

A lifetime less.

4:30
PM

Frowning, Canelli patted his pockets again. Finally he shook his head. “Sorry, no pen.”

Without comment, the woman behind the counter took a pen from a drawer beneath the counter and placed it on the clipboard. As Canelli signed, the attendant said, “Don’t forget your badge number.”

“Oh. Right.” He printed the number, added “Homicide,” and returned the clipboard and pen. The attendant nodded, yawned, and pressed a buzzer beneath the counter. Stepping back, Canelli moved to the door, looked through the small, wire-reinforced glass pane. In the waiting room, Dolores was pacing. In her establishment dress and high heels, hair carefully done, makeup meticulous, she was drawing the appreciative stares of a dozen males, some of them in handcuffs. But if she was aware of the attention, she gave no sign.

Behind him, another buzzer sounded; another door opened. Turning, Canelli saw him: a slim Chicano boy wearing jeans, sneakers, and a Giants T-shirt. He carried a small backpack by its shoulder straps. Fixed on Canelli, his eyes were large and dark and very still.

“Oscar?”

Standing just inside the inner door that led back to the detention section, the boy stood motionless, still staring.

“Come on, Oscar.” Canelli opened the outer door, gesturing toward the visitor’s section. “Your mother’s here.”

The boy remained motionless, his face revealing nothing.

“Come on.” Canelli opened the door wider. “Your mother’s waiting. She’ll take you home.”

Warily, keeping as far from Canelli as possible, the boy moved forward, began edging through the door. Now he held the backpack with both hands, waist-high, as if for protection. Like his mother, the boy was instinctively ready for trouble. Had he been mistreated while he was in custody? Slapped around? Even sodomized? It could have happened, Canelli knew. Even in the daylight hours, one of the older inmates, a teenager already gone bad, could have—

“Oscar.” Suddenly Dolores was there, her arms wide, scooping the boy up, hugging him so hard that his feet left the floor. For a moment, still holding the backpack, the boy remained rigid in her arms. Then he dropped the pack, threw his arms around his mother’s neck, and began to cry.

4:50
PM

“So—” Friedman tilted back in his swivel chair, propped his feet on the bottom drawer of his desk, and eyed Alan Bernhardt, seated in one of Friedman’s two visitors’ chairs. Bernhardt was a tall, lean man in his early forties. “Lived-in” was the phrase Friedman had privately ascribed to Bernhardt’s appearance: thick, unruly salt-and-pepper hair that always needed trimming, slacks that needed pressing, loafers that needed shining. Plainly, the well-worn Harris tweed jacket was Bernhardt’s very own, along with the open-collared button-down oxford-cloth shirt that Friedman suspected might have come from Brooks Brothers. Bernhardt’s face matched his lived-in persona: a thoughtful, reflective, distinctly Semitic face. The nose was a little too long, the mouth a little too small, the cheeks a little too hollow. But the soft brown eyes were both watchful and knowing, and the deeply etched pattern of the face’s lines and creases unified the whole. It was, Friedman had always thought, a rabbi’s face. For better or worse.