Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

83

It was full-blown night by the time Jesse got to where he was going, a hilly, densely wooded area just over the Vermont border. It wasn’t lost on Jesse that Evan Updike, everyone’s favorite suspect, was from Vermont. He pulled to the side of the road and called the number taped to the back of the cell phone.

“We’re almost there, Chief,” said the Hangman. “Don’t screw it up now. Off to your right you should see an unpaved path that off-roaders use to access the trails up here. It’s steep, but your vehicle should be able to handle it, no problem. Drive up along the path for about three hundred yards and stop where the road divides. When you get there, call me again.” The phone went dead.

Bets hedged or not, Jesse was liking this less and less. It was dark, he was out of state, and the terrain was rugged. He took it slow up the unpaved road, the tires of his Explorer spitting out rocks as it climbed the hill. And just as the Hangman had said, there was a split in the woods where the road veered sharply to the left or continued climbing up the hill.

“Good,” the Hangman said when Jesse called. “Listen carefully, Chief, because once I give you these instructions, you’re going to toss the cell. Understood?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Turn left. There’s a big flat clearing there about a hundred yards ahead of you. Drive to the edge of the clearing. Shut off your headlights. Get out of your vehicle and walk about twenty paces to the lit flashlight on the ground. There’ll be a package there with what you’ve come for. Use the flashlight to inspect it. When you’re satisfied, put the flashlight and the package down, bring the money out of your vehicle, and place it next to the package. When you’re done unloading the money, take the tape, toss the flashlight, turn around, and leave the way you came.”

“How are you going to get the money out of here? You have any idea of how clumsy three duffel bags of money is?”

“You let me worry about that. Concern yourself with this: Vary your behavior in any way from these instructions and there will be consequences. Roll down your window and listen.”

Almost before Jesse’s window was down, there was a burst of automatic weapon fire.

“Do we understand each other, Chief? Let’s both get what we want and get out of here.”

“Understood.”

“Good. Now toss the phone.”

It was incredibly dark when he got out of his Explorer. The flashlight was on the ground where the Hangman said it would be. But for the swath of light the flashlight cut into the blackness, Jesse didn’t think he would be able to make out the palm of his own hand held a foot in front of his face. He picked up the flashlight and the clear plastic package at his feet. Inside the package was a reel of professional recording tape with a shriveled strip of masking tape along one of its wide spokes. On the tape, written in now very faded black marker, were the words THE HANGMAN’S SONNET MASTER. It looked like pictures of the reel he had seen, but he had no idea whether he was holding a piece of history or a piece of fiction in his hand. Five minutes later, he had unloaded the money as instructed and had the tape next to him on the front passenger seat.

Jesse pressed the ignition button and turned the Explorer around. As he did, he caught sight of a van about fifty yards ahead of him and of a masked, shadowy figure of a man next to the van. There was something familiar about the man — his posture, his height, his build — that set alarm bells off in Jesse’s head, but he remembered the burst of automatic weapon fire and didn’t want to risk getting shot out here in the middle of nowhere.

Windows down, listening, Jesse proceeded slowly along the road back to the fork. He heard the sound of the van’s engine coming to life. He stopped the Explorer at the fork in the trees, the sound of the van’s engine now fading away. And then all he heard was the incessant chorus of crickets filling the void in the night. But when he turned back to head down to the paved road below, the night exploded.

The Explorer’s two front tires blew, one after the other, then the back tires at once. Jesse was thrown into the door and the SUV almost slammed into a tree. With some slick handling, Jesse managed to avoid the tree. When he got out of the vehicle, he saw that someone had laid spike strips across the road. He’d used spike strips during his time in uniform in L.A. It was a non-lethal way of stopping a suspect’s car during a chase. He was kneeling down to check out the damage to his tires when he realized he was screwed. As part of the ransom deal, he’d agreed to be unarmed. And even if he had been carrying, his nine-millimeter would have stood little chance against an M-4 or MP-5.

That was when the quiet of the night was shattered once again. Only this time it wasn’t the sound of exploding tires or a burst of automatic weapon fire. It was one thunderous rifle shot. Then, a few seconds later, a second shot. This time the bullet slammed into a tree above Jesse’s head. He had to get away from his Explorer in case the Hangman was doubling back his way. So he grabbed the old-style Maglite he kept in his Explorer. He ran as hard as he could away from the direction of the shot, darting in and out of the trees to make himself a difficult target.

Twenty minutes later, not having heard a shot, footsteps, or anything else but the crickets, Jesse wandered out from behind the fallen logs he’d hidden behind. He turned on the big flashlight and noticed what looked like a campfire burning near where he had left his Explorer. As he approached, Jesse realized the fuel for the campfire was the master tape of The Hangman’s Sonnet. He used a stick to yank the metal reel out of the flames, but it was no good. What was left was charred metal and goo. It didn’t make any sense, he thought, having the tape and the money only to destroy the tape. And then, suddenly, it made perfect sense.

Jesse left his SUV and headed up the hill to where he had unloaded the money. He found some spent shell casings and spotted the van’s tire tracks in the dirt and grass. He followed them. They led west, in the opposite direction Jesse had used to get to the clearing. It was a long walk to the other side of the clearing. When he got there, Jesse found another unpaved trail. He pointed his flashlight down the trail. The body of the masked man was no more than a hundred feet down the hill.

Even as he slid down the slope, bracing himself with his left hand, Jesse got that same vibe he’d gotten earlier when his headlights caught the silhouette of the man in black. There was something familiar about him. When he reached the body — facedown in the dirt, arms and legs thrown out at unnatural angles — there was little doubt the man was dead. His body was still in that way only the dead can be: vacant and unbreathing. There was a large bloody hole through the man’s right scapula. Jesse felt for the pulse he knew he wouldn’t find and got the results he expected.

Now he had decisions to make. Procedure would have had him leave the body as he found it and go for the police. On his way here, Jesse had passed a small town several miles down the road and, if he was lucky, he might be able to flag a ride back there or get someone to call the police on their cell phone. Short of that, he could go back to where he had tossed the burner phone and try to find it in the woods. But if things worked as he hoped, as he had tried to ensure they would, cops would be showing up soon enough. As he heard the sound of distant sirens, Jesse broke the rules and lifted the mask off the dead man’s face.

Roger Bascom didn’t seem any more pleasant in death than he had in life.