Hangman: A Novel by Stephan Talty

“What’d you hear?”
    Hector rubbed his nose with his finger. “Spooky shit.”
    “Like what?”
    His eyes on hers. Not unfriendly.
    “Was it a voice, Hector?” Abbie asked. “Late at night, sometimes?”
    He backed off, his face tight with shock. “How’d you know that?”
    Abbie felt a thrill of excitement go through her. “What did the voice say?”
    “What do you think it was saying?”
    “I need to hear it from you.”
    Hector paused. He dropped his gaze to the floor. “ 
‘Where’s … the … girl?’
That’s what I heard. Usually after lights-out, around this time, come to think of it.”
    Abbie felt a surge of adrenaline that seemed to lift her heels off the floor.
I knew it I knew it I knew it
. “Very good, Hector. And when you heard these things, did you ever try and see who was saying them? Was it Hangman or someone else?”
    Hector shook his head. “Nope. Stayed on my cot.”
    Abbie smiled. “Come on now. You weren’t afraid of some voice talking in the dark, were you?”
    Hector stared at her, and the eyes were deadly serious. For a minute, Abbie wondered what he was in Auburn for.
    “Who else is gonna know about this?” he asked.
    “Nobody.”
    “You swear, Carney?”
    “It’s Kearney. And yes, I swear. Now who was it?”
    Hector dropped his gaze. He leaned toward the window and lowered his voice. “It was Carlson, man. The dude Hangman just killed? He killed him, right? Carlson was whispering in the man’s cell in the dark like some crazy person.
Where’s the girl?
What’s up with that shit?”

11
    Hangman sat on the green bench, dressed in khakis and a bulky blue down coat that was too long in the sleeves, watching the cars pass. He had a Buffalo Bills winter hat on now, the kind with the festive red-white-and-blue ball sewn to the top. The cap was pulled low over his eyes, and a black scarf was pulled tight around his mouth. Steam appeared through the holes in the yarn, and he tasted the wet wool when he stuck his tongue out. His eyes watched the cars, relaxed, waiting. He felt no urgency. He could see in the rhythms of the people walking by and stopping to wave or chat that the news hadn’t yet gotten out to the wider public.
    He stared at the house across the street, a stately old Colonial whose owners had faced the lower half of the facade with local river stone. He decided he liked the effect. To keep himself from turning his head, he tried to imagine what color he would paint the top half of the house instead of the pale cream the owners had chosen. How the different colors would look in the light of the early dusk, like now.
    Hangman heard the bus rather than saw it, and judged the distance at three blocks. His hearing was exceptional, despite having his right eardrum blown out during a fight with a red-haired bully in grammar school, and he didn’t need to turn to watch the bus approach. Thevehicle had a balky transmission and Hangman heard it shifting up with agonized jerks as it came down the broad avenue toward him.
    The bus shuddered to a stop a block away, the stop previous to the one he sat across from. The kids getting off the bus would come toward him. It was a late bus, full of the kids who did theater and sports and other things after school.
    It was cold. He cinched the scarf tighter, looked at the house. To keep his pulse from racing, he imagined the house painted a dark olive green. That might work, would give the house a more rustic feel. And then change the shrubbery in front to roses and hyacinths.
    The bus started toward him.
    The engine, roaring like a tank’s, coming down the avenue to his left. His eyes didn’t move. It was odd to be hunting again. A feeling of exaltation rose in him, honey filling the marrow of his bones.
    The orange of the bus swam into his field of vision, black smoke pouring from the exhaust as it ratcheted to a stop, the brakes shrieking. The feet of the students appeared under the frame of the bus as they exited. Six