Hangman

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jack Heath is the bestselling author of more than twenty novels for young adults and children. His books have been shortlisted for many awards, translated into several languages and optioned for film and television. He lives on the land of the Ngunnawal people in Canberra, Australia, but parts of Hangman were written during a research trip to Houston, Texas.

  This book is definitely not suitable for children.

  For Venetia, with love

  First published in 2018

  Copyright © Jack Heath 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: info@allenandunwin.com

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 76029 747 3

  eISBN 978 1 76063 387 5

  Set by Post Pre-press, Australia

  Cover design: Luke Causby/Blue Cork

  Cover images: Tim Robinson/Trevillion Images (main image); Adobe Stock

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  The more of me you take, the more you leave behind. What am I?

  The blood is sticky and sour between my teeth.

  ‘You can’t be here, sir,’ the FBI agent says, blocking the doorway. ‘Move on.’

  I chew on my fingertip, tearing out another chunk of the nail. ‘I work for you,’ I say. ‘I’m a civilian consultant.’

  The agent looks at my sneakers from Walmart, my stained jeans, my tattered sweater.

  ‘You got ID?’ she asks.

  I left my credentials at home, expecting to know the agent on the door. Around here, people get shot just for saying the word ‘cop’.

  The house has green patches where the graffiti couldn’t be scrubbed away. The letterbox is mangled from a baseball bat. A coyote-wolf hybrid—coywolves, they’re called—limps around an overturned trash can up the street. His chewed-off foot would be in a bear trap somewhere.

  Some white teenagers in hoodies sip cheap beer nearby. Grinning like a jack-o’-lantern, one boy crushes his empty can and hurls it at the coywolf, which leaps back. The kids cackle, but keep their distance as the creature hobbles away between two crumbling fence palings.

  Footsteps from within the house. Raised voices. I need to be in there.

  ‘Please,’ I say. ‘The field office—’

  ‘Unless you have ID,’ the agent says, ‘you gotta leave.’

  ‘The field office director called me.’

  A few strands of hair come loose from her cap and fall into her eyes. She determinedly ignores them. She’s black, about five foot eight—same height as me—with no make-up and no wedding ring. Attractive in a tough, unsmiling sort of way. Her lanyard reads Agent R. Thistle, Houston Field Office.

  ‘What’s his name?’ she asks. ‘The field office director.’

  ‘Peter Luzhin,’ I say.

  She looks me up and down again, reassessing.

  ‘You want his Social Security number too?’ I ask.

  ‘You shouldn’t know the director’s Social Security number.’

  I shouldn’t, but I do. I broke into his house and found it on his water bill. The trick to memorising long numbers is to convert each digit into a consonant, and then fill in the vowels with whatever makes a memorable image. The director’s Social Security number—404 62 5283—becomes RZR BN FNHS, which becomes RaZoR BoNe FuNHouSe. I remember it by picturing Peter Luzhin shaving his cheeks with a straight razor until all his flesh is gone and the bone is exposed, and then calmly examining his handiwork in a funhouse mirror.

  ‘I was kidding,’ I tell the FBI agent.

  There’s no more nail or loose skin to chew on this finger. I start on my thumb. This compulsion permanently damages my cuticles and teeth, and puts parasites in my mouth. But I can’t stop.

  Another agent appears at the top of the stairs. He’s a white, skinny smoker with the mashed-up ears people get from wrestling or boxing. His jacket is faded on the left side from hours of driving in the Texan sun. He’s not wearing a lanyard, but I’ve met him before. His name is Gary Ruciani. The other agents call him ‘Pope’, because he’s Italian.

  ‘Hey, Pope,’ I say. ‘Let me in.’

  The woman steps forwards to obscure my view. ‘Sir—’

  ‘Oh,’ Ruciani says as he trots down the stairs. ‘It’s you.’

  Being remembered isn’t usually a relief.

  ‘Collins and Richmond are upstairs in the bedroom,’ he tells me. To Thistle, he says, ‘Let him through. Luzhin must have given up.’

  I get a faint whiff of Thistle’s perfume as I push past. She shrinks away. There’s a Greek myth about a guy who wanted to marry a Spartan princess but was exiled to an island because his wounded foot got infected and started to stink. Eventually the army came back for him because they realised they needed his poisoned arrows. He helped win the war—he was with them inside the wooden horse—but everyone still hated him. The way Ruciani avoids my gaze makes me feel like that guy.

  The floorboards squeak as I enter the kitchen, passing a leaning tower of grimy dishes. Oswald Collins vanished eight days ago. His wife, Billie, apparently hasn’t done any washing-up since then. In the fridge are three half-loaves of supermarket bread and two open cartons of milk. They don’t put photos of missing children on the cartons anymore, but it’s not because kids have stopped disappearing. If they had, I’d be out of a job.

  A crumple of aluminium foil holds five cocktail weenies. I eat one and drop the rest into my pocket for later.

  The bedroom door is open. Billie Collins sits on the bare mattress, her head in her hands. Her hair has gone grey at the roots, and her legs look prickly. Her shorts are unravelling where she has tugged at the seams. Her mother has been missing for as long as her husband.

  Agent Richmond looks up as I walk in. He has a spork in one hand and a cup of noodles in the other, almost empty. Droplets of soup cling to the stubble around his chin. ‘Blake,’ he says. ‘Where have you been?’

  I’m a civilian, so I’m not supposed to visit crime scenes or talk to witnesses without supervision. Richmond is my babysitter. Fortunately he’s lazy, and he doesn’t know me as well as he thinks he does.

  ‘Agent Thistle wouldn’t let me in,’ I say. ‘Where were you?’

  He waves a fat-knuckled
hand towards Billie, who flinches and stares at me uneasily. Richmond wants us both to think that he stayed here to comfort her, but ‘comfort’ isn’t the right word. He suspects Oswald Collins is dead. He’s hoping to catch Billie on the rebound.

  ‘Mrs Collins,’ I say, ‘I’m Timothy Blake. We met last week.’

  She nods. Her red-rimmed eyes focus on my mouth. ‘You’re bleeding.’

  The blood is from my fingernails. I lick my lips. ‘I’ve been looking for your husband and your mom for six days. There’s no sign of them.’

  She doesn’t look surprised. ‘Warner wouldn’t want them found.’

  Oswald Collins is a drinker with a habit of gambling away other people’s money. He borrowed eight thousand dollars from Charlie Warner, who bankrolls most of the crime in Houston. Then he disappeared.

  Billie is talking as though Oswald is dead, but her body language is all wrong. Grief and relief both slacken the shoulders and the neck. Billie is all tensed up, gripping the mattress as though bracing herself for a plane crash. She’s scared.

  ‘Warner would want him found,’ I say. ‘With his head cut off, or his eyes ripped out. To send a message: This is what happens to people who don’t pay me what they owe.’

  Richmond winces. Cops are taught to be gentle with the families of victims. But I’m not a cop.

  ‘So I thought Oswald might have escaped,’ I continue. ‘But then his car would be missing. Or there’d be a record of him buying a ticket out of town. Even if he paid cash, he would’ve showed up on the CCTV at the bus station.’

  There are ways to travel off the grid. But Oswald wouldn’t know them.

  ‘Warner took him,’ Billie says, louder.

  ‘I talked to Warner’s enforcers,’ I say. ‘They’re as keen to find Oswald as you are. Keener, in fact.’

  ‘Whoa.’ Richmond raises his palms, begging me to stop. He turns to Billie. ‘What Mr Blake is saying…’

  ‘They’re lying,’ Billie says to me.

  ‘No, ma’am. I can tell when I’m being lied to.’

  I hold her gaze until she looks away.

  ‘Gangs don’t kidnap the person who owes them,’ I continue. ‘They don’t take the mother-in-law, either. They take a child, or a spouse.’

  ‘You’re saying I’m in danger?’

  ‘Is your husband violent?’

  ‘No.’ Billie shifts on the mattress. ‘No, of course not.’

  Even if I hadn’t seen her shrink back when Richmond raised his hand, I would still know she wasn’t telling the truth. Oswald Collins has priors for aggravated assault and armed robbery.

  ‘But he doesn’t plan very far ahead, right?’ I say.

  She says nothing.

  ‘He’s the kind who will bet his pay cheque, lose, and borrow more to chase the loss. He’ll start a loaf of bread before the last one is finished, and he won’t throw the old one out. He won’t wash his dirty dishes, even when he’s supposed to be hiding.’

  ‘I’d like you to leave,’ Billie says.

  Richmond is staring at me, unsure why I’m antagonising her.

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  ‘Because you’re not gonna find him sitting here talking!’ As she says find him, she points at her bedroom door. It’s a subconscious gesture, not deliberate. Every level of her mind wants me out of here.

  ‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I think I will.’

  She stands up. ‘Get out.’

  ‘No one took your husband,’ I say. ‘He’s hiding until after Charlie Warner’s trial. He told you to report him missing. You said his plan was stupid, so he threatened to kill your mom if you didn’t do it. How many times has he visited you since then? Two? Three? Is he sleeping here?’

  ‘Holy shit,’ Richmond says. He’s dropped his spork.

  ‘I never said that!’ Billie screeches. ‘I never said any of that!’

  ‘If you had, this would be over by now.’ I realise I’m chewing my thumb again. I stuff my hands into my pockets. ‘Listen, he can’t kill your mom. Once he does, he has no leverage. So just tell me where—’

  Billie Collins is looking over my shoulder, terror in her eyes.

  ‘You goddamn bitch,’ says a voice from behind me.

  I turn to see the police mugshot I’ve been looking at for a week. Oswald Collins has a squid’s face—wide-set eyes and a flat nose, with a hairline which has receded since his most recent arrest. He’s pointing a scratched-up Beretta 3032 Tomcat at his wife’s chest.

  An old woman stands in front of him. Oswald is holding her by the collar of her flannel pyjamas. She smells like one of the youth shelters where I grew up. Her eyes are wet but alert. Mary-Sue McGinness. Billie’s mother.

  ‘You told!’ Oswald hisses at Billie.

  ‘I didn’t!’

  ‘Whoa now,’ Richmond says. ‘Take it easy.’

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ Oswald says.

  It’s a small handgun, but with five of us crammed into this tiny room, Oswald is sure to hit someone. The chamber is closed, so the gun is loaded with at least one .32 ACP cartridge.

  ‘You heard!’ Billie says. ‘I didn’t say a thing!’

  I raise my hands and step in between them, blocking Oswald’s shot.

  The old lady glares. Her breaths are fast and quiet.

  ‘Hey, asshole,’ Oswald says to me. ‘You want to mind your own business?’

  ‘You’re outnumbered four to one,’ I tell him. ‘And there are more FBI agents outside. It’s over. You’d be an idiot not to put the gun down.’

  Veins pulse in his neck. He knows there are only two ways out: in handcuffs, or in a body bag. But he’s been in a Texan prison before, so he isn’t sure which is worse.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I tell him. My heart is thudding against my lungs, but I keep my voice calm. I nod gently, hoping he’ll start nodding too. ‘We can cut a deal. Just put the gun down, and we’ll talk it out. Okay?’

  Oswald’s finger relaxes on the trigger. His arm starts to descend.

  Richmond whips out his SIG, takes aim, and yells, ‘Drop the—’

  Oswald shoots him.

  The room fills with noise and Richmond goes down like he’s been kicked in the guts, wheezing on the floor. The SIG thumps against the carpet and Oswald stamps on it, stopping Richmond from making another attempt.

  He needn’t have worried. Richmond’s face is going purple. He’s wearing Kevlar, but the bullet may have broken a rib. He can’t breathe.

  Oswald yells something, but my ears are ringing too loudly to decipher it. Spit explodes outwards from his lips like spider silk.

  McGinness has wriggled out of his grip. She’s poised like a gargoyle in the corner of the room, ready to leap aside should the gun turn her way. But Oswald is trying to line up a shot on his wife. He doesn’t seem to care that I’m still in the way. The hammer rises as he puts more and more pressure on the trigger.

  I look over his shoulder, towards the door. ‘Take the shot!’ I shout.

  Oswald falls for it. He whirls around, looking for the other FBI agents. I lunge at him, hooking one arm across his throat and grabbing the gun with my other hand.

  He staggers backwards, his free hand clawing at his throat, tearing some skin off my elbow. As he tries to point the gun back over his shoulder at me, I force it upwards and press his trigger finger until the gun blows one, two, three holes in the ceiling and clicks empty.

  The noise messes with the fluid in my ears, and the floor tilts. I cling to Oswald, my forearm still crushing his neck. He gurgles in my grip. If the blood is getting to his brain, he could be conscious for three minutes or more. If it’s not, he’ll go down in just a few seconds.

  ‘Let him go.’ The voice is barely audible over my whining eardrums. For a second I think it’s Billie, but then I see Agent Thistle—the pretty black agent from downstairs. She’s poised in the doorway, aiming her service revolver at me.

  I drop Oswald and stagger sideways. He hits the floor. I raise my hands.

  ‘Don’t
shoot,’ I say. ‘I’m one of the good guys.’

  Thistle spins me around and binds my wrists with flexicuffs. Perhaps, like me, she can sense when she’s being lied to.

  It doesn’t matter. I solved the case, so I get my reward. My mouth is already dry with anticipation.

  Ruciani pins Oswald to the floor and tells him that if he cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for him by the state. Oswald doesn’t seem to hear. He’s looking up at McGinness, Billie’s mother. She’s picked up his Beretta and is pointing it at him. Her eyes are rich with hatred.

  ‘Don’t,’ he says.

  McGinness’s lip curls. She lines the gun up on Oswald’s face and tugs on the trigger.

  Click.

  CHAPTER 2

  What is so fragile that you can break it just by saying its name?

  The Ambulance Killer shuffles into the concrete room, chains clinking around his ankles as though he’s wearing boots with spurs. His hair is matted on one side, but he’s clean-shaven. I can see scraps of his final meal between his square teeth. His knuckles are bruised evenly on both hands from push-ups on the concrete floor of his cell. His name is Nigel Boyd.

  I watch him from behind the thick glass. It’s like visiting an aquarium. A rep from the TDCJ—the Texas Department of Criminal Justice—is a few seats away from me, playing with her phone. Boyd’s lawyer sits next to her, trying in vain to catch her eye and start a conversation. There’s only one other person here: a white woman with greying hair, clutching a leather-bound journal. Probably a reporter, although executions don’t get much coverage these days.

  Normally the family of the killer and the families of the victims would sit in adjacent viewing galleries, unable to see each other. As he’s bound to the gurney with thick straps, the condemned man can look at both groups side by side, dressed in their best clothes and kept separate, like the guests at a wedding. But none of Nigel Boyd’s living relatives are here. His sister changed her name and his cousins moved to Kansas. His father put a shotgun in his mouth. So this time the victims’ families took one gallery and I joined the paper-pushers in the other.

  This part of Huntsville prison is creatively nicknamed the Death House. It’s the busiest execution chamber in the USA. They kill so many people here that it’s hard to keep enough lethal chemicals on hand, especially since the European manufacturers now refuse to sell the drugs to the TDCJ. Tennessee has the same problem—they’ve gone back to using the electric chair. There’s talk of doing that here, too.