Hangman: A Novel (14 page)

“The man made her read it,” Chopin said.

“How does your son know that? He was thirty—”

“He opened the window. He wanted to hear what Dr. Frankenstein said to the girl. He thought … he compared it to his school play. They’re doing a Halloween one this year. They’re calling it
Spooks and
 …”

Abbie touched her arm, calling her back. “Ms. Chopin, what did he hear?”

Mrs. Chopin took a deep breath.

“He heard the girl scream and say
No, no, no
. And he began to pull the rope higher. So then Martha looked at the page and she started to read. He let her down long enough to finish.”

“What did Martha say? Did he remember anything?”

“Yes.”

“Did he hear the part about ‘I live’?”

The woman looked at Abbie sharply. “That was the last thing she said. How did you know that?”

“It doesn’t matter. But that’s the part I’m most interested in. Did he hear it?”

“Yes.”

Chopin looked down at the paper that was molded to the inside of her palm. “Martha said, ‘I live where
the kings abide
.’ ”

What kings, Abbie thought.

“He’s sure about that?” Abbie asked.

She nodded, a snap of the chin down.

“And he knows the word
abide
?”

“We sounded it out. He’s sure that’s what she said. He’s very smart, Detective.” The woman sucked in a breath, her arms still crossed over her chest. “And that’s when he pulled the rope up and she dropped the paper. She started jerking on the end of that rope. My son knew it wasn’t pretend anymore.”

There was a bump from upstairs, something being moved. Maybe a suitcase being brought down hurriedly.

The woman looked up at the ceiling, her skin as pale as a ghost’s. “John started to scream,” Chopin said. Her eyes dropped and met Abbie’s.

“And that’s when Hangman spotted him.”

I’d be leaving, too, thought Abbie.

Abbie stood on the Stoltzes’ porch, waiting for Raymond to report back on the final canvass.
I live where the kings abide
, she thought. What the hell does it mean? Has Buffalo ever had kings living here? She pulled out her phone, clicked over to the web and Googled the phrase.

There was a link to the Santa Rosa Cycling Club in somewhere called King’s Ridge. A review of a movie called
Riding the Bullet
, based on a Stephen King story. “When a man finds out his mother is dying and tries to hitchhike a ride to the hospital,” the plot summary read, “he’s picked up by a stranger with a deadly secret.” Abbie moved on to a long essay on Jesus, King of Kings, riding a donkey into Jerusalem. Did “the kings” in the note have something to do with Christianity? Perhaps it referred to a church or convent in the area?

Abbie frowned. The boy who’d watched Hangman said “where the
kings
abide.” Kings plural.

She clicked on the next page of Google results. Blog posts on what kind of transport kings used throughout history. Then cycling sites and fantasy book reviews. It’s possible there was a clue buried here, but if Hangman was obsessed with a Tolkien novel, it did her no good anyway. She needed an actual physical location where Hangman might be hiding.

She tried adding “Buffalo” to the search terms and came up with a Wikipedia page on the Buffalo Soldiers and some articles on the L.A. Kings hockey team. Dead ends, all of them, as far as she could tell, after clicking through for a few minutes.

Abbie looked up. Damn it. I’ve eavesdropped on the ritual that Hangman uses with the girls he kills and we still can’t get a fix on him.

Where do kings abide?

Something’s missing. Abbie thought back to the NPR show she’d been half-listening to in her garden when the alert came in on Hangman’s escape. The one on the Higgs boson and dark matter. One of the guests had said that dark matter could change the appearance of things
in the visible world. It slowed certain molecules as they zipped through the universe, brought their speed down enough so that humans could see them. But other molecules, it let them go past, undetectable. There were entire dimensions of the universe that we couldn’t perceive because the nature of dark matter cloaked them.

Some dark
thing
is warping the facts of the case, Abbie thought, distorting the shape of the crimes, tearing things apart and reordering them in false shapes. I’m only seeing what it allows me to see.

She quickly tabulated a list in her mind. One or more of these things is not what they seem:

The A on Maggie Myeong’s hand.

The way Flynn escaped.

Carlson’s Corvette.

Carlson whispering to Flynn in his cell.

The Madeleines, whatever that was.

The phrase,
where the kings abide
.

If Abbie could remove the dark matter, or accurately account for it, the clues would line up and she would see Hangman clearly.
I would know his mind and see where he’s going
.

It was 1:16 a.m. No other sightings were coming in. Her eyes were drooping. She checked in with Raymond a final time, telling him what Mrs. Chopin had said, then headed home to sleep.

“Tomorrow morning,” she said to Raymond. “Meet me at the top of City Hall, 7:30.”

“You jumping,” he said, “or throwing someone off?”

The next morning, after a chocolate croissant and a cup
of Earl Grey from the boutique bakery two blocks down, Abbie headed to Police HQ. She took the stairs to the second floor and grabbed a pair of old Zeiss binoculars from the Property Desk, strung the case’s leather strap over her shoulder, then hustled back down, the battered case banging against her thigh. Exiting onto Franklin Street, Abbie rounded the corner and Niagara Square, resplendent and near empty in the morning light, across from her. On the other side of the square was City Hall, thirty-two stories high. In three minutes she was across the square and into the lobby, with its Art Deco murals. She got on the elevator and hit the button for 25.

The old, tiny elevator, which smelled of wood polish, climbed steadily, shaking slightly. A woman got on at 14 pushing a cart filled with folders, got off at 20. The elevator resumed its climb. At 25, it eased to a stop and she pushed the door open.

A sign said “Windows on Buffalo” and pointed to a stairway. Abbie pushed through the door, ran up the three flights of stairs, and found herself on the open-air observation deck, facing downtown. She made her way around the narrow parapet to the left, her hand on the stone half-wall that kept people from falling down into Niagara Square. She
took out the binoculars, set the case down on the cement floor, then began scanning the streets below, block by block.

A few minutes later, Raymond appeared behind her. He was wearing a black blazer and tan slacks, his buckle shoes polished to a high gloss.

“What’s the idea?” he said.

“Looking for castles,” she said.

Raymond hummed.

“Where the kings abide
. Ain’t no castles out there, Kearney. You know that. Shit, this is Buffalo.”

Nevertheless. She just wanted to see Hangman’s territory, the groves and lanes and woods he hunted in. To survey it.

Abbie brought the glasses up again. North Buffalo came swinging into view, the lone line of Elmwood Avenue straight ahead. Delaware running parallel to the right.

“He’s here somewhere,” she said. “But he’s getting help.”

“I’m starting to believe you,” Raymond said.

Abbie glanced over. Raymond sighed and looked away.

“You were right about the guard,” said Raymond. “He paid cash on the Corvette.”

“Cash?”
Abbie said.

“Got the Goodyear Eagle performance tires, too. Eighty-two grand plus.”

Abbie whistled softly, turning her gaze back to the binoculars. She swept the little side streets, the stone houses looking like another world from up here. “That’s serious money.”

“True, but prisons are dirty places, Kearney. He could have been bringing in meth for prisoners, turning the other way for conjugal visits that weren’t on the schedule. You know what I mean.”

“I
know
that. I asked about that when I was up there. No one had heard a thing.”

“But he’s a martyr at this point!” Raymond protested. “Nobody’s gonna step up and say, ‘You know what, I remember the guy bringing in a load of meth for the Aryans.’ ”

“Were there any tickets issued up near Auburn, before the escape?” Abbie asked.

“Two,” Raymond said, leaning on the parapet and looking down.
“One for blocking a driveway, the other for a broken taillight. Both hunters after snipe. The deputies up there talked to both guys and looked through the cars and their houses. They were both locals, and they’d both bagged legal birds; the evidence is in their meat lockers, and I made sure the deputies checked. Doesn’t look like they had anything to do with the escape.”

It’s too perfect, Abbie thought. She flicked the binoculars toward Delaware Park. The dark matter is bending the beams of light around something big. An optical illusion.

“What did you think about the North, growing up?” she asked Raymond.

“The North?” Raymond said softly. “That’s where the
real
white people lived.”

Abbie laughed. “I’m not really white, Raymond?”

“No, cuz you ain’t rich. That’s the magic ingredient.”

Abbie brought down the binoculars and turned to him. The wind was whipping through the gaps in the parapet, shrieking a little. “I ran cross-country against them in high school,” she said. “The Nardin girls would talk about going to Switzerland for vacation. I’d barely been out of the state.”

Raymond smiled.

“Yep. My Aunt Erdy was a nanny in one of the mansions on Delaware. Millionaire’s row, baby. One of the kids she watched asked her if they used her head to clean the pots.”

“No.”

Raymond grimaced. “She changed families. From the next one, she used to bring us back food after they had parties up there—slices of cake, tasted like heaven. She even brought back clothes for me to wear, too. I said, No, ma’am, I’m not wearing some white boy’s hand-me-downs.” Raymond stared northward. “Got a beating for that.”

Abbie scanned the park again. She saw tufts of burgeoning green, leaves beginning to turn ocher and flame-red. Lots of groves, dark archways underneath the small brick bridges. A million places to hide. “That’s what I’m thinking about,” she said.

Raymond shook his head. “About Aunt Erdy?”

“In a way. What would you do if you saw a white guy walking around your neighborhood?”

“Watch him,” Raymond said quickly.

“Exactly. Strangers out of their element get noticed. Yet Hangman is moving around the North and no one sees a thing. He’s the most famous stranger in Buffalo history, and yet he’s there like he belongs.”

Raymond turned and looked north.

“Who’s hiding him, Raymond?” Abbie said.

“You fucking got me.”

“He must
have
something on someone who lives out there,” Abbie said. “Before they caught him the first time, was Hangman really this good?”

“If he hadn’t taken himself out, we’d probably still be looking for him.”

Abbie grimaced. They
were
still looking for him. “Has anyone talked to his ex-wife?” she asked.

Raymond huffed. “Ginnie Payne? We have a detail out front of her house, just in case. Believe me, that asshole isn’t shacking up with
her
. She’d slice him up, then call 911. There’s been no contact for years and right now she’s got the TV on, following the news like everyone else. We went through the house top to bottom. There’s no sign he’s been in touch.”

“Who do you have there?”

“You know Markowitz and Shaney?” Raymond said, a mischievous look in his eyes.

“No.”

“They’re ding-dongs. Fat and slow, the kind of cops you wonder how they made the force. They’re usually giving out parking tickets, but we put them in a squad car out in front of Payne’s house on Sycamore Drive with a box of donuts and a couple of extra-large coffees.”

“Now why would you do that?” Abbie said. “Hangman might want to take a shot …”

“I hope he does. We got two detectives in the house across the street. A couple of uniforms—real cops—are camped in Ginnie Payne’s second bedroom. A few of our SWAT guys placed discreetly around
the neighborhood. Hangman will get in if we want him to, but he sure as hell won’t get out.”

Abbie was impressed. “I want to talk with her.”

“Like I said, she hasn’t had any contact. And Perelli wants everyone to think the clowns in the black-and-white are the only attention we’re paying.”

Abbie gave him a frosty smile. “I think you’re forgetting who’s lead on this, Raymond.”

“You pulling rank?” Raymond said with a wounded look.

“Looks like it.”

He gave it a few beats.

“Pull up out front and go through the front door. Wear your badge around your neck and leave your jacket open so people can see it. You’ll have to be very visible entering and leaving the place. We want it to look like we’re doing a shitty job of protecting Ginnie Payne.”

Abbie bent down and grabbed the binocular case, slotting the Zeisses in. She handed them to Raymond. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

Raymond looked down at the leather case. “One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Do me a favor. Bring some Danishes or something in your purse for the guys inside.”

Abbie’s eyes narrowed. “Sure thing, Raymond. Can I vacuum while I’m there, too, maybe dust a little?”

“It’s just so we don’t have to send a delivery guy later. The less attention we draw to the place, the better.”

Abbie blew out a breath. “Agreed.”

Dead streets. Empty playgrounds. Basketball courts with
the metal chain nets swinging in the wind. The only time she’d seen the city this empty was during Bills play-off games or when big lake-effect storms were approaching.

A thick-bodied redhead pushed a stroller down Chapin Parkway, one of those thousand-dollar contraptions that looked like they’d been engineered by NASA. They walked slowly. Abbie watched them go. Something tingled along her spine, a feeling not a thought. She shivered.