The Headsman (30 page)

Mrs. Boggs opened the door and made a little fuss over Billy the way she always did, and then led him into the living room. Mr. Boggs was sitting reading the newspaper. He looked up and said hello, and then asked how the Bronco was running, which was his way of showing his ceaseless concern for his customers. When Billy said it was fine he went back to his newspaper.

Mrs. Boggs sat down on a sofa and patted the cushion next to her, asking Billy to talk to her until Alice came down. He joined her on the sofa, hoping Alice would hurry it up.

Mrs. Boggs was one of those women who have a tough time coping with the fact that they’re no longer young, so they try to make up for it by dressing as much like their daughters as possible. It wasn’t unusual; Billy had seen it with the mothers of several other girls he knew. Mrs. Boggs even dyed her hair the same shade of dirty blond Alice had naturally. He knew that was true because Alice had told him so. She thought her mother’s antics were ridiculous.

Billy agreed. Mrs. Boggs’ face was pudgy and it sagged, so that you wouldn’t mistake it for a kid’s face even in the dark. She also had a sag in her ass, and there was that dimpled fat on her thighs. Billy remembered that from the times he’d seen her around the pool at the Braddock Country Club last summer, wearing a bikini even skimpier than Alice’s. Nevertheless Mrs. Boggs went around in tight sweaters and skirts that came to just above her knees, or else jeans that looked as if they were going to pop at the seams any minute. Tonight she had on a sweater and a gray skirt.

When he sat beside her the first thing she asked was about Buddy Harper. “Has anybody heard from him? Has he been in touch with any of his friends?”

“I don’t know,” Billy said. Jesus. It was in the newspapers and on TV how cops all over the country were looking for Buddy, and here this assbrain wanted to know if he was sending postcards, or calling up to chat, or whatever dumb fucking thing she thought.

“It’s all so terrible, isn’t it?” Mrs. Boggs went on. “I feel so sorry for both those poor families. Marcy was such a lovely girl, and I just can’t imagine Buddy doing such a thing. It’s just too ghastly to think about. But of course I don’t believe he did it, do you?”

Billy mumbled that he didn’t, wishing she’d get off the subject, or better still that Alice would get down here and rescue him. What was keeping her?

“You’re too young to remember the last time anything like this happened in Braddock,” Mrs. Boggs said. “In fact, you weren’t even born. I wasn’t much more than a child myself at the time.”

The hell you weren’t, Billy thought.

“There was this young woman who died the same way. Her name was Janet Donovan. You probably read the stories about it that were in the papers after Marcy was killed.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“She was a beautiful girl. And very social. I remember she had this red Buick convertible, and I used to see her driving it with the top down. My husband knew her too—didn’t you, dear?”

Mr. Boggs’ nose was still buried in the newspaper. He made a grunting noise and went on reading.

“But you know what everybody believed, don’t you, at that time? They believed the headsman had come back to Braddock and cut Janet’s head off. They really believed that’s what happened. Can you imagine? Of course, the case was never solved, and so that might have had a lot to do with people feeling that way, but isn’t that something? And now here we are years later with the same thing all over again. Doesn’t it just give you the creeps?”

“Yeah,” Billy said. “It’s pretty spooky.” And you’re another one, he thought. You’re getting your jollies just talking about it. You probably buy that headsman bullshit too. You’re just like all the other dingbats Hathaway was talking about.

“Hi.”

He turned to see Alice come bouncing into the room. Christ, it was about time.

Billy stood up. “Hi.”

She was wearing a yellow cardigan over a beige dress and she looked pretty cute. He felt a surge of pride.

Alice waved to her parents. “See you guys later.”

“Have fun,” Mr. Boggs said from behind his paper.

Mrs. Boggs got up and walked to the front door with them. “Home early,” she said to Alice. “Not a minute later than twelve. You know how I worry.”

“Okay, ma. Don’t get worked up about it.”

“You can’t blame me. Marcy’s murder, and now Buddy running off, who wouldn’t be concerned? Billy, you see she’s home by then, won’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am. Good night.” It was a relief to get out the door. He went down the walk to the turnaround in front of the garage and climbed into the Bronco. He had the engine running before Alice got in, but he was still careful to back out of the driveway slowly. If he knew Mrs. Boggs she’d be watching them from the window. No sense getting her glands in an uproar if he didn’t have to. As far as she was concerned, he was that nice young Billy Swanson, with good manners and even better morals.

It never occurred to him that Ethel Boggs might have memories of her own teenage years that would enable her to guess what was in Billy’s mind or know what went on between him and her daughter.

As soon as they were around the bend he jammed his foot down and the Bronco lurched forward. As usual he wished the damned thing wasn’t so stodgy. Maybe he could talk his mother into trading it in on one of the new Mustang convertibles with a 5-liter engine. Now there was a car that could haul ass.

4

The house was a contemporary, more daring in its architecture than any other in town, and Billy felt it went with Mr. Campbell’s personality. Pat’s father was head of the Empex Corporation, a company that produced engine gauges. It was one of the town’s largest employers, with a bunch of government contracts, and Campbell’s lifestyle was one Billy admired. He was an excellent tennis player, and his red Porsche cabriolet was by far the neatest car in Braddock.

When Billy and Alice arrived, the others were already down in the playroom. It was a large space with bleached oak paneling on the walls and a terrazzo floor that was great to dance on. There was a bar that was always stocked with soft drinks and a fridge full of junk food. At one end was a fireplace, with a pingpong table nearby. The opposite wall contained glass sliders that led out onto the terrace and the pool.

Pat was dancing with Jeff Peterson when they walked in. They had on a Gloria Estefan record, a new one Billy hadn’t heard, and before he even took his sweater off he and Alice began dancing to it. Pat looked over, smiling and waving hello. John and Betty were sitting on a sofa in front of the fire, smoking a joint. Billy maneuvered his way over there, staying with the beat, and when he got close enough he reached out and deftly plucked the cigarette out of Lombardi’s fingers. He took a deep drag and passed the joint to Alice, then took another drag before giving it back to Johnny.

He liked dancing with Alice—watching her move her body in time to the rhythm, her shoulders and breasts heaving and her hips jerking suggestively. She had her eyes locked on his and he sensed she was thinking the same kind of thoughts he was, relaxed and happy and a little excited too, knowing they’d all have a good time together and then later she and Billy would slip off to some place in the house where they could be alone and get it on. Pat had said her parents had gone to a party and wouldn’t get home until late, which would work out just fine.

When the record ended Billy went to the fridge and got Cokes for Alice and himself, and then all of them took pillows from the sofas and chairs and laid them on the floor near the fireplace. Pat put on more music, Whitney Houston this time, and they sat on the pillows and John passed out fresh joints.

“Hey,” Jeff said, “anybody heard from Buddy?”

“You’re as bad as my mother,” Alice said. “She asks me that all the time.”

Billy lit his cigarette and pulled smoke into his lungs. “She asked me, too. When I got to your house that’s all she wanted to talk about. That and the crap about the headsman.”

Betty Melcher was holding a joint between her thumb and forefinger. “Listen, don’t be so sure it’s crap. The more I think about it the stranger it gets. My mother was talking to a friend of hers about it on the phone last night and I heard what they were saying. That woman whose head was chopped off years ago?”

“Donovan,” Jeff said.

Betty nodded. “Yeah, that’s the one. My mother said a lot of things in that murder were exactly like what happened to Marcy. She said there was stuff in that one that never came out, and that a lot of people in Braddock would be plenty nervous if it ever did. Is that creepy? Jesus, the whole thing gives me goosebumps.”

Lombardi slid his hand up under Betty’s sweater. “Yeah, it sure does. Man, what a set of bumps.”

She giggled and pushed his hand away.

“I think it’s awful,” Pat said. “The police aren’t doing anything. I don’t believe Buddy had anything to do with Marcy’s murder. He never would’ve hurt anybody, let alone Marcy.”

“I’m with you,” Billy said. “You heard him after the police talked to him. He was shit-scared.”

“How many others were there?” Jeff asked. “If the headsman’s been chopping people for all that time, he must’ve whacked off a lot of heads. So how many others—anybody know?”

“Fifty-seven,” John said.

“What?”

John doubled over laughing and Betty gave his arm a playful poke.

“Hey, really,” Jeff persisted. “Anybody know anything about that?”

“No, but I know something else that’s terrible,” Betty said.

John leaned forward. “Great—what is it?”

“You’re going to think this is so disgusting,” she went on. “I don’t know if I should even tell you.”

That brought a roar from all of them, as they urged her to divulge whatever she knew.

Betty tossed her hair and took a hit from the joint Jeff was smoking. She held it in, then exhaled a gray-blue cloud. “Dr. Reinholtz is our family doctor, you know? And he’s also the coroner? My mother said they checked Marcy’s body after the murder to see if the headsman had done it with her before he cut her head off—or maybe after.”

“
After
?” Alice shrieked. “Oh, God—how gross.”

“Ugh,” John said. “I think I just might puke.”

Betty laughed. “I told you it was disgusting.”

It’s weird, Billy thought. These girls were Marcy’s friends, and at the funeral they were all falling down crying and carrying on like they were about to die from grief. Now here they were, playing it for laughs. And all because of some dogshit rumor. Lombardi had the right idea; it was enough to make you barf.

“You know what I think?” Alice said. “I think the headsman really did do it.”

That triggered another round of jeers.

Billy waved his hand. “Come on, Alice. You can’t really buy that crap.”

“I’m just telling you what I believe, that’s all. And it’s what a lot of other people think, too.”

“Then what happened to Buddy?”

“I don’t know that, either. Maybe he knew the truth and it scared him, so he ran away. Or maybe he was afraid he might be next.”

“Jesus,” Billy said. “That’s too much.”

She looked at him. “You remember that morning in class, when Hathaway was talking about the story of the headsman and you were sneering at it?”

“Yeah, and I still think it’s a crock of shit.”

“That was the same day Marcy died,” Pat said. “Tell the truth, Billy. Didn’t that shake you up, when you said all that stuff about how you weren’t afraid of the headsman and then that night Marcy’s head was cut off?”

Before Billy could answer Jeff said, “Yeah, how about it, William—I bet you had brown drawers after that.”

Billy was damned if he’d get pissed. They were riding him just the way Hathaway had, but the hell with it. He was feeling too mellow, and besides, there was another subject he’d rather explore with Alice, in private. He took the roach from her and almost singed his lip getting one more pull out of it. He tossed it into the fire.

“Hey, the man needs a new smoke,” John said. He pulled a fresh joint out of his shirt pocket and held it out, but Billy waved it away.

“No? How about you, Jeff?”

“No, man. I have to take it easy. I’m still in training.”

Billy guffawed. “Training? You train on pot, beer and pussy.”

“The breakfast of champions,” John said.

Betty reached for the fresh cigarette and took it from him. She leaned over as he lit it for her.

“Say, Billy,” Jeff said. “Remember what Hathaway asked you? So now what would you do, if the headsman snuck up on you, out on some country road in the middle of the night?”

“Same thing I said then. I’d take that ax and stick it up his ass. Only now I’d stick it up crossways.”

Alice stood up. “Come on, Tarzan—let’s go for a walk.”

That was more like it. Billy got to his feet, taking her hand. Together they walked to the door that led from the playroom to the stairs.

Watching them go, Pat said, “Just don’t use my mother’s room. She’d have a fit.”

5

The headsman stood in the shadows, watching. The wind was strong, whipping around the corners of the house and sending clouds of snow crystals swirling across the terrace. It clutched at the ancient black cloth of his tunic and pressed the hood against the back of his head, but he ignored it. The temperature was already below freezing and dropping, but he was oblivious of that as well.

Looking in through the large glass panels he saw the young men and women dancing, holding their bodies near each other and moving in a barely disguised simulation of the sex act. They jerked and twisted and bucked to the repetitive, monotonous rhythm of the music, facing each other and leering, pelvises thrusting.

After a time they sat down near the fireplace on pillows they had laid out on the floor. He couldn’t hear their words, but he could see that they were laughing and joking. They got out more marijuana cigarettes and lit them, blowing clouds of smoke into the air as they giggled and stroked each other. Hands were cupping breasts, caressing buttocks, teasing nipples.

He saw the tall, blond-haired boy and the plumpish girl get up and say something to the others. There was an exchange of words among them and then more laughter. After that the boy and girl left the room.