Hangman Page 12

  Every day, they said they’d let me know.

  After the sixth bus ride, I ran out of money. The following night I slept on the dead grass under an overpass as cars rumbled past overhead. After those six nights on the bus, the engine noise didn’t keep me awake.

  And now I sleepwalk. I climb from my bed, unlock my bedroom door and trudge through my house to the couch. Hours later, I wake up to find myself sitting there with my hands in my lap, as though I’m on a bus.

  I check that the front door is still locked and the curtains are closed. My bedroom is a mess, but there’s no sign that the kidnapper has been back, or that Johnson has been snooping around.

  The blood stuck to my teeth brings back memories of last night. The terror on the Witch Doctor’s face. The sound of his skull cracking.

  I used to feel guilty. After eating my first inmate I punished myself with a brick, which didn’t leave me with a clear conscience—just a crooked toe.

  Guilt fades. Unfortunately, so does satisfaction. I ate last night until I was fit to burst, and already I’m hungry again.

  You’re losing control. The thought flits across my mind like a small bird before I push it away.

  •

  Five days later the sun is grilling me from the top down, the sidewalk hot under my feet, when I see it. A letter-size sheet of paper stapled to a telephone pole with HAVE U SEEN THIS BOY??? scrawled on it, and a phone number. There are posters like this all over Houston, probably all over the world, but something about this one stops me mid-step.

  The photo is a cheap black-and-white Xerox of a teenage boy, white, with dark eyes and blond hair. It’s a goofy photo—he’s at a party with a handful of popcorn halfway to his mouth, surprised to see the camera.

  He looks just like Cameron Hall.

  I’d assume they were brothers, or even the same person, except that Cameron is an only child and nobody put up posters like that when he went missing. So who is this?

  It’s not an unbelievable coincidence. If every person in Houston was a half-inch jigsaw piece, the resulting puzzle would be more than sixty feet wide and sixty feet deep. Almost eight thousand pieces would represent blond, dark-eyed teenage boys.

  But the photograph looks so much like him. Maybe his kidnapping wasn’t about the money at all. Perhaps the ransom demand was just a smokescreen, and the real motive was more sinister. Now that Cameron has escaped, the kidnapper has found a new plaything—one who fits his type.

  Only half the Witch Doctor is left in the freezer. I’m ready for a new case.

  I tear the poster off the pole, turn around, and jog towards the FBI office.

  •

  I’m on the couch outside the director’s office, my civilian consultant lanyard around my neck, holding the torn piece of paper and listening to Luzhin’s boss from Washington yell at him.

  ‘Who the fuck said you could go on TV and ask for donations?’ the boss roars.

  ‘It worked,’ Luzhin says. ‘We got more than fifty grand in one night. Heaps of cash donated to field offices, plenty of credit card donations over the phone—’

  ‘I don’t care if Bono showed up and did a concert. The FBI isn’t a goddamn charity.’

  The boss has flown down here just to have this shouting match. I think he enjoys it. Maybe once you’ve done enough press conferences, you get a thrill out of saying what you actually think.

  ‘I had no choice! We didn’t have the resources to—’

  ‘That’s the point, shithead. When the FBI’s Houston Field Office director tells the media that the Bureau doesn’t have the money to find missing kids, CNN asks why the FBI isn’t better funded. Someone suggests increasing the budget, someone else says that’ll lead to a tax hike, and suddenly the public says, Hold your horses—I want kidnapped kids found, but not if it means paying more taxes! And God help us if someone asks Trump what he thinks. I have no clue what he’ll say, but whatever it is, it’ll become my problem.’

  ‘Are you suggesting I should have let that kid die, just to help out you and your friends in Washington?’

  ‘The kid’s not dead, and it has nothing to do with your little stunt. You found him without spending a dime!’

  ‘Blake!’ Agent Thistle says.

  I look up, wondering how obvious my eavesdropping was. But Thistle is smiling. She hasn’t caught me.

  ‘Howdy,’ I say.

  ‘How are you holding up?’ She sits down next to me. ‘You sleeping?’

  For a second I worry that I called her while sleepwalking. ‘Not well.’

  ‘It’s hard, after some asshole’s been in your house.’

  Actually I’ve been kind of hoping the kidnapper might come back. Next time I’ll be ready. It’ll be like a guilt-free delivery of takeout.

  I don’t like being this close to Thistle. Not just because she’s attractive, but because she seems to trust me now. I prefer it when people keep their distance. If the other person’s guard is up, I don’t have to worry so much about my own.

  ‘What about you?’ I ask. ‘How you doing?’

  Thistle raises a stack of papers with one hand and a cup of instant coffee with the other. ‘Living the dream,’ she says. ‘My neck’s better. I’m cleared for active duty.’

  ‘Great.’

  There’s a pause.

  ‘How’s Cameron?’ I ask. ‘Heard anything?’

  ‘With his mama. They both seem pretty shook up, but they’ll be all right. It’s all over for them, unless we catch the guy and Cameron has to ID him. So what brings you in?’ She sees the bit of paper in my hand. ‘Huh. That looks a bit like—’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So Luzhin called you in?’

  ‘No. I came to ask why he hadn’t.’

  Thistle stares at me. ‘Probably because a week ago you got drugged and locked in a car trunk, and then had to carry a hostage five miles.’

  ‘Six. So what?’

  What I mean is, Luzhin won’t care what I’ve been through. He withholds or gives me cases based on how much he needs my help, nothing else. But I can tell by the look on Thistle’s face that she’s misunderstood.

  ‘That’s incredible,’ she says. ‘You’re not going to let a single child down. Not on your watch, huh?’

  I shrug. She looks even more impressed by my modesty.

  ‘Well, you just give me a call if you need anything. I’ll do whatever I can.’

  That could be very useful. Luzhin does things for me, but being aware of what I am, he’s suspicious when I ask. Having someone to call on who thinks I’m selfless could have all kinds of benefits. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem. Don’t hesitate to ask, either. My ex-husband, he—’

  She winces. I’ve seen that expression on other people’s faces. It’s the I promised myself I wouldn’t mention my ex look.

  ‘You ever been married, Blake?’ she asks abruptly.

  I stifle a laugh. ‘Uh, no. Your ex—he didn’t like asking for help?’

  ‘Not him, me. He had money, and I didn’t. After the divorce, he offered me alimony, but I was too proud—and I’ve had plenty of opportunities to regret that.’

  Standing up, she says, ‘Anyway, the point is, don’t be proud.’ She points at the picture. ‘You get stuck on this one, you call me.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ I say.

  ‘I should get back to work. See you, Blake.’

  ‘See you.’

  She disappears, with only a quick glance back.

  Luzhin’s boss is still shouting. ‘As of right now, you no longer take donations. This office is going to solve every case assigned to it without spending a penny more than it gets from Washington, or your head is on the chopping block.’

  ‘If I had a dollar for every time you said that,’ Luzhin says, ‘I’d have more than the FBI’s annual budget.’

  ‘I fucking mean it. If you want to keep your job—and if you want to be able to find another one when you leave—you’d better do as you’re told.’

&nb
sp; ‘When I leave? I built this department!’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you own it, asshole,’ the boss says. ‘It belongs to Uncle Sam.’

  With that, Luzhin’s boss storms out, adjusting his tie. I can hardly see the knot under his flabby neck. He doesn’t notice me staring as I imagine ripping out his hamstrings and chewing off the fatty tissue.

  I catch the office door before it closes and slip inside. Luzhin raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Blake!’ he says. ‘How good to see you again so soon.’

  His tone is convincing, but his expression lets him down. He looks terrible. Bags under his eyes, his hair hastily combed. With Washington on his back and Charlie Warner’s trial looming, he probably isn’t getting much rest.

  I shut the door.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he says.

  I don’t waste time. ‘You got a problem. There’s a serial rapist in town.’

  He scratches his sideburns. ‘Hundreds, probably. Not my jurisdiction.’

  I hold up the poster, and he stares at it for a long time.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ he asks finally.

  ‘Telephone pole on Main Street. Look familiar?’

  He doesn’t reply, just keeps staring.

  ‘We were wrong about Hall’s kidnapping,’ I say. ‘The motive was sexual; the money was only incidental. And now that Cameron’s free, the perp has found a replacement.’

  Luzhin doesn’t look convinced. ‘Cameron was fully examined at the hospital. No signs of sexual trauma. What’s this theory based on?’

  Not all kinds of trauma show up in an examination. ‘The timing,’ I say. ‘The condition I found Cameron in. Oh yeah, and the fact that the two kids look exactly the same.’

  ‘The condition you found Cameron in?’

  ‘Naked.’

  ‘I think it’s a fair bet that the perp had to take his clothes off to take out his kidney.’

  ‘But he didn’t put them back on afterwards?’

  ‘The doctors found Rohypnol in Cameron’s bloodstream. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Blake?’

  He’s caught me by surprise. We never discussed it, but I think he knows what my roommate does for a living. He must have put two and two together.

  ‘The date-rape drug?’ I say. ‘Well, that sure suits my serial rapist theory, doesn’t it?’

  He looks at me. I look at him.

  I say, ‘What?’ He can’t prove anything.

  ‘You got any idea who this kid is?’ he asks, pointing at the picture. ‘Or who put up the poster?’

  ‘I haven’t called the number yet. I wanted to make sure I’d be properly compensated.’

  Luzhin glowers at me. ‘No deal. I choose the cases, not you.’

  ‘You going to risk this kid’s life over your pride?’

  ‘Since nobody brought this case to my attention, I can assume the FBI’s already dismissed him as a runaway. It’s not worth your price.’

  ‘Would they have reached that conclusion if they knew how much he looked like Cameron Hall?’

  There’s a pause. Luzhin is in a jam. He won’t be able to live with himself if he doesn’t investigate this, but his boss will fire him if he does, because it’ll stretch the budget until it snaps. I’m his only way out.

  Eventually he says, ‘Fine. But no FBI help. Not until you have good reason to believe he’s in danger and not just on a bus to San Antonio. Got it?’

  I nod. Too easy.

  ‘And no reward unless you find him and his life is being threatened. By someone other than you, obviously. Are we clear?’

  I nod again.

  ‘Call me when you know something. Me, no one else. Understood?’

  Once, Luzhin gave me a body to eat and I found a bullet in it. I’d assumed he was a death row inmate, but later I saw the guy’s face on the news—he’d just been found not guilty of sex trafficking. Everyone thought he’d moved to London after the verdict.

  With this kidnapper, it sounds like Luzhin may wish to use one of his ‘unofficial solutions’. Arresting people is expensive, and the conviction doesn’t always stick. Killing them is cheap and permanent. Thanks to his skill with paperwork, Luzhin can make it look like they never existed.

  ‘Understood,’ I say, and walk out.

  When I get back to the front desk, I ask the receptionist—a muscular woman with enough make-up to look like a porcelain doll—if I can use her phone, and she hands it over. I don’t need to take the poster back out of my pocket. Phone numbers are even easier to memorise than credit card numbers.

  Someone answers on the third ring. ‘Hello?’ A quiet, uncertain voice. Female.

  ‘Saw your poster,’ I say. ‘I might have seen the kid you’re looking for.’

  ‘Really? Where? When?’ She sounds too young to be the boy’s mother. Sister, or girlfriend.

  ‘Cloverleaf,’ I say. If it really is the same kidnapper, then it makes sense that the new victim would live near Cameron. ‘About a week ago, I think.’

  ‘Can we meet?’ she says. ‘Today?’

  Exactly what I was hoping she’d say. ‘Sure. Where?’

  ‘What about Jenny’s Diner on Beechnut Street? Near the freeway?’

  I run some quick calculations. An hour to walk home, then another thirty to drive to the diner. But I want to get there before she does.

  ‘I can be there in two hours,’ I say.

  ‘Okay. Did…did he look okay?’

  ‘As far as I could tell,’ I say.

  ‘Okay,’ she says again. She sounds hurt. Maybe I just accidentally gave her the impression that her brother did run away. ‘See you soon.’

  She hangs up.

  I ask the receptionist, ‘Mind if I make another call?’

  She shrugs.

  I dial Annette Hall. If I’m right about the kidnapper having a thing for blond teens, it’s likely Cameron was abused while he was being held captive. Nothing turned up in his debriefing or his examination at the hospital, but maybe he wasn’t asked the right questions. People don’t like admitting they’ve been sexually assaulted, especially boys.

  No answer. Cameron and his mom could well be home but just not picking up—if I was Annette Hall I’d be scared to ever answer the phone again.

  Or maybe they can’t hear it ringing over the sound of squeaking bedsprings.

  I shiver, and hand the phone back to the receptionist.

  ‘You all right, Mr Blake?’ she says.

  ‘Thanks, I’m fine. You take care now.’

  ‘You too.’

  I walk back out into the sunshine, trying to ignore the hunger already growing in my stomach. I have been living off the frozen dregs of the Witch Doctor. I want something fresh.

  Soon, I tell myself. Solve the case, find the kid, get the reward. Do your job, and keep the food on the table.

  A van marked Miami Personal Security pulls into the parking lot. Eight guys in sunglasses and pressed grey uniforms climb out and walk past me, smelling of Axe body spray and laundry powder.

  Personal security means bodyguards. Now that the kidnapper knows where I live, maybe I should hire one to hang out at my place. But these guys are from out of town, and they look premium—I probably can’t afford them. Plus, they might object to me eating the kidnapper.

  I wonder what they want.

  Uneasy but unsure why, I get into my stolen Chevy and start the engine.

  •

  Just like every other diner in Houston, the sign out the front of Jenny’s advertises ‘world famous chicken-fried steak’. Inside there are sticky vinyl seats, a tired-looking clientele, and food that comes in big portions and tastes only slightly better than it looks. Just about every other customer has one of those Bluetooth earpieces.

  I sit in a booth, order a coffee, fill it with sugar, cream and salt, and drink it through a straw. Sip-sip, sip-sip. Like a vein pumping directly into my mouth. Someone has left a newspaper on the table. Charlie Warner is descending the courthouse steps in a
blurry photo, staring straight ahead. The headline is ALLEGED CRIME BOSS SWAPS LAWYERS BEFORE TRIAL. The article below doesn’t say this, but Warner is stalling. Buying more time to find and kill the state’s witnesses.

  A guy on a stool is staring at me. When I look up from the newspaper, he turns away. It takes me a moment to place him, since it’s the first time I’ve seen him out of uniform. It’s Woodstock, Luzhin’s man inside Huntsville.

  I can see a word forming on his lips: Hangman. He doesn’t know my real name.

  He glances back at me, sees that I’m still looking, and turns away again. Then he comes over to the booth.

  ‘Did you follow me here?’ I say.

  He shakes his head. ‘My house is just around the corner.’ He raises his hand to point, and then changes his mind. Doesn’t want me knowing where he lives.

  ‘Can I sit down?’ he says. Hash browns and bacon on his breath. He’s been having breakfast before the night shift.

  Bacon is the meat which tastes most like human flesh. This is a piece of trivia I have accidentally almost shared on several occasions.

  ‘We shouldn’t be seen together,’ I say.

  He doesn’t go away. Instead, he sits at the booth behind mine, so we’re back to back.

  His voice reaches my ears. ‘When’s your next visit?’

  ‘That’s not up to me. Why?’

  ‘I’m rostered on. Next week.’

  Guards at Huntsville take turns at executing the prisoners. They receive training beforehand, learning to manage the straps and buckles and needles and machines. When the night arrives, they bring the inmate his last meal. Sometimes it’s lobster or caviar, but more often it’s a chicken-fried steak from whichever diner was closest to the inmate’s childhood home. After they’re done eating, the inmates usually cry. We have that in common.

  Execution duty is well-paid, but it’s not uncommon for the guard to donate the pay cheque to their church. Buying their souls back.

  ‘I can’t do it again,’ Woodstock says. ‘Not after last time.’

  I say nothing.

  ‘How would you like a live one?’ he asks.

  My mouth goes dry.

  ‘I can put one in solitary and sneak you in. Afterwards, we can say there was a fight with one of the others.’

  I wonder if Luzhin suspects his man on the inside is losing his nerve. Woodstock is happy to lead the inmates into a room where I will kill them. But he doesn’t want to be the one who looks him in the eyes and pushes the button.