The Headsman (44 page)

LYING IN WAIT

1

A
S
S
ALLY WALKED
back to the
Express
offices, she planned how she’d set up the story. The problem was not merely to report this latest development; that would be relatively easy. The news wouldn’t even be all that fresh, because TV would cover it this evening, hours before the first edition of the
Express
appeared. What she needed was an angle—something that would make her piece unique.

She knew instinctively that the slant she was looking for had to focus on the headsman. That was a given. But first came the job of straight reporting—pumping out the news of the discovery of Buddy Harper’s severed head.

When she reached the offices of the newspaper she stamped snow off her boots and hung her coat and hat in the closet. Her lead was already framed in her mind, the words itching to jump off her fingers into the word processor. One bizarre murder was news. A second one would be an earthshaker. Especially with the elements this situation had.

ANOTHER YOUNG LOVER DECAPITATED

YOUTH’S HEAD SENT TO POLICE CHIEF

A
X
M
URDERER
P
ROWLS
S
MALL
T
OWN

L
EGENDARY
H
EADSMAN
R
ETURNS
W
ITH A
V
ENGEANCE

It was enough to take your breath away.

And yet she was troubled. It was big news, all right, but a short time from now her article in the
Express
would be nothing more than the local coverage. A fart in a windstorm. By the time her version appeared, television and the big city newspapers and the wire services would have run away with the story. They’d get the attention because they had the audience. They were the big time, while she was nothing but a hayseed writer on a farm sheet.

It would be
their
story—not hers. Damn it, it wasn’t fair.

Nevertheless she had to get this out, and fast.

As she passed Maxwell’s office on her way to her desk she noticed the editor wasn’t there. She didn’t have time to ask where he’d wandered off to; she could catch him up on this newest break later. Blowing on her hands to warm them, she sat down and started typing.

The speed at which she knocked out the piece was surprising, even to her. In less than an hour she had over a thousand words. Her story announced the news of Harper’s death in her best Oh my God style, with plenty of allusions to the headsman that would have readers believing the ax-wielding monster was lurking behind every bush in Braddock.

It was a first-rate job, if she did say so herself. Maxwell would want color stuff as well, but that would be mostly pickup from earlier stories on the backgrounds of the victims, a recap of the Dickens homicide, other bits of headsman lore, pictures of both kids, and so on. What she had just written was the important part, and she was confident she’d turned out a powerful piece. As soon as her draft was printed, she went back to the editor’s office with pages in hand.

But he was still out.

“He’s at a meeting,” a voice said. Sally turned to see that the speaker had been Marge Diehl, Maxwell’s secretary. Diehl had been on the staff forever, a gum-chewing doyenne in harlequin glasses. She was sitting at her typewriter, a cigarette hanging from one corner of her mouth.

“When’s he coming back, do you know?”

The secretary shrugged. “Beats me. It’s the Town Council at city hall.”

“The meeting’s about the Harper boy?”

“I guess so. The mayor called him, and as soon as he got the word he ran out of here.” Diehl stubbed out her cigarette and got up from her desk. Mug in hand, she headed for the coffee urn.

Sally stepped into Maxwell’s office and dropped her story onto the pile of papers on the editor’s desk. She turned to leave, and as she did her eye caught sight of something in the midst of the clutter. Bending over the desk, she pushed the heap aside and looked at the thing that had caught her attention.

It was an old book, lying open, its pages yellow and crumbling with age. On them she saw spidery illustrations made from steel engravings. They depicted a tall man dressed all in black, carrying out an execution with an ax.

Sally felt a chill run through her body that was colder than anything the snowy weather outside had produced.

Where had this thing come from? Why hadn’t Maxwell shown it to her?

She looked at the book’s cover. It was of black leather, dull and worn, the title stamped in gold letters so faded with age she was barely able to make out what they said. Holding the cover up to the light she read,

BRADDOCK

A HISTORIE OF THE TOWNE

by

Jonathan Wells

Flipping through the motheaten pages she saw that the book was profusely illustrated with the same type of drawings. They showed views of the village in colonial times, men and women quaintly dressed, revolutionary war soldiers marching through the narrow streets. There were scenes of farmers tilling their fields, of draft animals drawing plows and stone sleds, of hunters tracking deer and turkey, of men raising a barn, and of people gathered in front of the old Methodist church on North Street that had burned down only a few years ago.

But the pictures that stunned her were those of the headsman. She turned back to them, the captions informing her that they showed the execution of a highwayman who had been apprehended in the village after he had robbed and killed a traveler.

The execution took place in the old Braddock house, the captions said. The house had been named for General Edward Braddock, as had the town itself. Braddock had been commander of the British forces for a time during the French and Indian wars in the mid-eighteenth century. Before mounting the campaign against Fort Duquesne in which he was killed, the general had spent a winter in his headquarters here. Later the house was used as the town’s meeting hall. There were dungeons in its basement, and that was where the village executioner had carried out his assignments.

Sally looked at the pictures of the house, and again a chill passed through her. The house the drawing showed was the building that was now Braddock’s museum.

Dungeons? In the museum? And executions had taken place there?

She put the book down, feeling that she’d discovered a hidden door into the past, opened it and peered inside.

So that was where Braddock’s dreaded headsman had done his work. In the moldy old wreck of a structure that was the oldest building in the village. And she was looking for a new angle for her story—one that would be exclusively hers? She had one now. You could bet your sweet ass she did.

Maybe the snow wasn’t so bad, after all. A good blizzard would tie up the roads and the airport at least through tomorrow. Which meant that the town would be isolated. All those hotshot reporters from New York or wherever wouldn’t be able to get here for a day or so. Which would give her a head start.

Excitement coursed through her as she thought about it. She wouldn’t let anyone else in on this opportunity. Not even Maxwell. And as she thought about it,
especially
not Maxwell. Why hadn’t he shared this with her?

Whatever the reason, the hell with him. What she had to do now was get to the museum.

2

Jud was exhausted, physically drained. His head ached and his back was stiff, as if he’d strained it by carrying a great weight. He didn’t look too good, either. After going back downstairs to police headquarters he stopped in the men’s room to take a leak and caught sight of himself in the mirror. There were fatigue shadows under his eyes and the eyes were bloodshot. His usually neat shirt had sweat crescents under the armpits and was full of wrinkles. He went back down to his office and shut the door behind him, then slumped down heavily in his desk chair.

This was it, he realized. The inevitable crossroads he’d been approaching ever since that fateful Saturday morning that had started out to be dull and boring and then had irrevocably changed his life. The day that now seemed to have taken place a hundred years ago.

What now, he asked himself. What do you do? Stay here and wait for that collection of turds to make up their minds about you? That was ridiculous; they’d obviously made them up before the meeting of the Town Council had been held. They’d even voted
before
he’d been called in. The meeting had been simply a formality, a step the members had to take so that everything would appear to be reasonable and proper and in accordance with the town’s procedures.

When in fact they’d been salivating like wolves trailing a crippled moose, moving in for the kill. What would they do next? Accept the resignation he’d offered them, of course. They’d meet again and argue among themselves, might not even reach a decision right away. But they’d come to it. The murders were bad enough, but to have an upstart cop rooting around where he didn’t belong would be seen by many of them as even worse.

So they’d hem and haw, and then they’d announce that they had reluctantly accepted Chief MacElroy’s resignation. It would be in Braddock’s best interests, they’d say. Because the town had to use every resource to solve this terrible series of crimes, and if that meant bringing in a more seasoned officer to head the force, then members of the council would do what was right.

What a load of crap.

But how could Dickens and Harper be part of it? For both of them to have lost kids and still be in on this witchhunt was baffling. Where the hell was their sense of values?

Or was Jud wrong? Maybe
he
was the one who was out of step with the world. Maybe the wiser course would have been to just play the game, after all. Let Chester Pearson and Williger and the rest of the state police task force carry out their investigation while he went on being the loyal, helpful young chief who minded his manners and chased traffic offenders.

But it was too late for that.

Even if he could have lived with himself afterward. Which he couldn’t. Not as long as he had to look at himself in the mirror every morning.

So what was the answer? There wasn’t any. At least, none that offered satisfaction or suggested a course that could bring about a resolution. That was the trouble, he realized. For once in his life, he was in a situation that seemed hopeless. He’d done his digging, had even made progress. But he had to admit he was a long way from having anything nailed down. The fact was that all he had to show for his work didn’t amount to a hill of henshit.

He swung his chair around and unlocked the closet behind him. Taking out the box of photographs, he opened it and spread the contents onto his desk.

The faces in the old black-and-white pictures stared back at him solemnly. Some of them he’d seen only a short time ago, in the council meeting. If one of these men was the one he was looking for, that one would have had the best reason of all for wanting him out.

The thought sent a sudden rush of anger through him, anger fueled by frustration and self-doubt and humiliation and resentment. Goddamn it, what he wouldn’t give to get his hands on the bastard who was responsible for all this.

Whoever it was, the man was his enemy. Not merely because Jud was a cop and this guy was his quarry. The killer had now singled him out on a personal basis.

The killer had sent him Buddy Harper’s head
.

Jud stared at the pictures for a long time. Finally he put them back into the box and returned the box to the closet, locking the door.

After that he spent another hour going over the routine stuff that had piled up on his desk during the day. There was a thick stack of reports there, and although Jud went through the papers his mind wasn’t really on them. They were just something to occupy him, a way to divert his attention for a while.

Finally he pushed the pile aside and stood up. What he really needed was some fresh air and a beer and something to eat. He put on his jacket and cap and left his office, walking through the station to the front desk.

Ostheimer had the duty. He looked up as Jud approached. “There was a bad one on Route Five, Chief. Trailer truck jack-knifed. It hit a Toyota and crushed it. One dead, three injured. We got two cars out there now.”

Jud nodded. “What about the injured people?”

“Ambulance already took ’em to Memorial.”

“They local?”

“No. From Cortland.”

“All right. Soon as you get a report on their condition we’ll contact relatives. Get Brusson to help you.”

“Sure, Chief.”

“With this storm, we’re gonna have a long night. Where’s Grady? I want him to call everybody in.”

“I don’t know where he is.”

“So find him. And in the meantime, put out the call yourself. I want all hands.”

“Yes sir.”

Jud went out to the parking lot, noting that the storm was getting worse by the minute.

3

One of Sally’s pet peeves was her car. A three-year-old Subaru sedan whose paint was weathered to a dull gray, it was noisy, tinny and underpowered. It looked exactly like what it was: a Japanese econobox. Tojo’s revenge. She’d promised herself to trade it in as soon as the loan was paid off, which was only a couple of months from now.

But there was one feature of the crappy little auto she was grateful for, and that was its four-wheel drive. “You go in snow,” the salesman had said. It turned out to be the only truth he’d told her, but it was an important one. Under almost any road conditions, the Subaru went. If it hadn’t been for the car’s ability to take on whatever weather Braddock could throw at it and get her where she wanted to go, she would have got rid of it long ago, loan or no loan.

Tonight the small sedan was being tested as it had never been. The storm had steadily increased in intensity, until now it was even worse than had been predicted. If this kept up, Braddock would indeed be isolated. Snow was drifting across the roads, and visibility was severely limited by the wind-whipped flakes. Her headlights were almost totally ineffective; their beams bounced back into her face from the wall of white. What should have been a ten-minute trip from her office to the museum took more than a half hour.