58

Jesse pulled his Explorer into the faceless office park that was home to the studios of WBMB-FM. As confident as he was about what was going on in Paradise, he realized he had climbed out onto a ledge based on supposition and very few facts. There was little doubt that Mayor Walker and Nita Thompson, in spite of her recent friendly overtures, would happily watch him slip off that ledge. Although Roscoe had said the value of the master tape would be in the millions even before Stan White had an inkling The Hangman’s Sonnet might reappear, Jesse needed to double-check the little he did have to go on. There was something about White he just didn’t trust and the man was a little too self-interested for Jesse’s taste. After all, he was Terry Jester’s manager and had a vested interest in making this bash on Stiles Island into much more than a birthday party. The plan had been for Roscoe to be waiting outside the studio and for Jesse to take him out for a few drinks. Problem was, Niles was nowhere in sight. That wasn’t like Niles, especially when free drinks were on the line.

“Roscoe Niles,” Jesse said, enunciating carefully so that his phone dialed the right number.

“Stone?”

“Where are you? I’m downstairs.”

“I think you better park your car and come in. Bring an evidence bag and gloves with you?”

“What the—”

“Just do it, Jesse.”

Ten minutes later, Jesse was standing at the reception desk at WBMB-FM.

“I’ll call back and tell him you’re here,” said the girl at the desk.

She looked about fifteen years old but was probably a college kid. Then Jesse remembered the last conversation he’d had with Niles and how Roscoe claimed the owners of WBMB-FM were in the process of selling the station.

Niles appeared out of the shadows of the hallway, his big belly straining the worn fabric of his ancient Emerson, Lake, and Palmer T-shirt. Still, Jesse was impressed by how gracefully the fat man moved. He wasn’t exactly catlike, but he was athletic for a man his age and size.

“Come on back to my office.”

Jesse followed Niles down the hallway, a pair of latex gloves and an evidence bag in hand. They passed the studios and went into Roscoe’s cubbyhole of an office. Jesse was surprised at the sight of it. The last time he’d been in this office, its walls were covered in framed vintage posters, a guitar signed by Stevie Ray Vaughan, photos of a thinner, younger Roscoe Niles in his Marine uniform. The shelves of his bookcases full of records, CDs, knickknacks from a hundred concerts and appearances. But now the walls were bare, the shelves empty. Niles laughed, seeing the expression on Jesse’s face.

“I’m outta here next month,” he said.

“You were right? They sold?”

“I’m the Teacher, Jesse, man. The Teacher always knows best.”

“I have an acquaintance in town who’s going to be pretty upset you won’t be on the air anymore.”

Niles laughed again, joylessly. “Yeah, your friend and about fifteen other people.”

Jesse got lost in his own head for a second. What was Vinnie Morris to him?

“Yo, Jesse!” Roscoe Niles snapped his fingers.

“Yeah, sorry. So what’s all this about? Why do I need gloves and an evidence bag?”

“For this.”

Niles pulled an eight-by-twelve-inch brown envelope out of his top drawer and slid it across the desktop to Jesse. By then Jesse was already slipping into the gloves. As he was putting the gloves on, he noticed there was a computer-generated white label on the envelope. Printed on the label in black ink were Roscoe Niles’s name and the station’s address.

“What’s in it?”

Roscoe Niles smiled a crooked smile, one Jesse had trouble reading. There was something feral about it, something angry in it, too. Jesse guessed he understood the anger. Roscoe Niles had been a fixture on FM radio for decades and was now being shown the door. No one was going to give someone Roscoe’s age a job, not in this environment. Roscoe was a fellow alcoholic, and alcoholics didn’t deal very well with big changes in their lives, though big changes, negative ones in particular, opened the self-pity spigot and nothing gave an alcoholic carte blanche like a healthy dose of self-pity. Jesse was well familiar with the mechanics of how that worked.

“Hey, man, you mind if I have one while you do that?” Niles asked, pulling two glasses and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label out of his bottom drawer. “Want one?”

“No, you go ahead.” Jesse repeated his question. “What’s in the envelope?”

“A myth realized,” Niles said, pouring himself his usual half-glass of scotch.

“Uh-huh. C’mon, Roscoe.”

“I’m not yanking your chain, Jesse. I swear. You’ll see.”

Jesse flipped the envelope over, undid the two-pronged clasp, lifted up the edge of the flap with his pinkie, and reached his right thumb and index finger inside.

“Careful, man. It’s pretty old and fragile, though it’s in plastic.”

Jesse felt the corner of the plastic and carefully pulled it out of the envelope. What it was was a very yellowed, almost brown sheet of unlined paper in a thick, clear plastic folder. There were fifteen handwritten lines on the paper. The handwriting was a beautiful, flowing cursive. The line at the top of the page read: The Hangman’s Sonnet.

THE HANGMAN’S SONNET

By my own hand I have murdered love

And by so doing have thus murdered me.

Neither Devil below nor God above

Led me into my somber destiny.

My fair viper Jane May played well her part

For what she gave as love was a fiction.

Ice made nest where should have beaten her heart.

In lieu of her soul, a cold affliction.

So the rope and gallows are sturdy built

Sandbags dangling to counter my dead weight.

But I am troubled not by bloody guilt

Nor relive I Jane’s agony or fate.

In death’s black-lined womb I seek her grace.

The mirror has revealed my hangman’s face.

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