distinctive clasp over the crown. A Panerai. She knew the brand, as her ex-husband had bought the classic model for Christmas one year, with Abbie’s money.
Carlson’s son was wearing a forest green football uniform, pads, and a helmet that seemed impossibly large for him. Across the forest front of the uniform, “School Saints” was written in white.
“That his son?” she said.
“Yeah, Joe Jr.”
“He goes to Cortland Christian?”
“Yup. Plays football.”
“That poor boy,” Abbie said. She released the man’s wrist and the phone dropped away.
She meant it. She thought about the boy that Hangman had made an orphan. He’s probably been told something bad had happened to his daddy, and that he wasn’t going to school tomorrow. Later they’d tell him his father was never coming home and he needed to go to the mall to buy a new suit. Black.
“He drove a ’Vette?” Abbie asked.
The cop’s face froze. “What the fuck does it matter what he drove? He’s dead.”
“I’m just wondering if Hangman could have the keys.” No she wasn’t.
“Oh,” the deputy said. “Sorry. No, he left the keys in his locker at Auburn.”
Abbie nodded. She was doing figures in her head. Basic addition. And the figures weren’t adding up.
She circled around the vehicle, then walked past it toward the top of the hill twenty yards away. It was a steep crest that gave way, lower down, to pine trees and scrub that formed a dark belt around the middle of the hill. A couple of deputies were deep in conversation, looking out over the flat valley, the wide brims of their hats tilting like ringed planets as they moved their heads.
The grass swished against her boots as she came up to the edge and looked down. Cars swept by on the road that snaked along the base of the hill. An Amoco gas station to the left was busy; she counted all four pumps occupied by cars, two of them official. Cops would be filling up on their way to manning the roadblocks. She followed the road along to the right and there was the black roof of the Warsaw Motel, missing a few shingles.
There was a group of teenage boys, two of them on ten-speed bicycles, gathered in the early evening light out in front of the motel. Theywere crouched over the handlebars, whispering together and glancing occasionally at the place. Maybe they thought the killer was coming back to the scene of his last crime. Right now, this must be the most famous place in Wyoming County.
So why did the Corrections officer bring Hangman to a spot overlooking the motel where he’d been captured?
Abbie felt the breeze steady on her face, running up the slope and cresting over, a clean fall wind that smelled faintly of pine.
Abbie looked down. Hangman knew we’d find the van eventually. But what if there was something he didn’t want us to see?
She sighed and stepped down the steep bluff. A flat rock buckled under her boot heel and went slapping down the hillside, picking up speed.
“Hey,” one of the deputies called. “What the hell you doing?”
“Investigating,” she called back, turning quickly to place her hands on the grassy slope. She began to crawl down the hill, like a backward crab, eyes darting left and right. Loose rocks went spilling down, sending up little trails of airborne dust.
The two men were looking down at her, their hats appearing as dark saucers against the dying sun.
The hill was covered with scrub and shallow-rooted grass that tore away in her hands. Ten feet down, her left foot slipped back dangerously and Abbie dug the toe of the right one in.
The ground leveled out a bit and she was able to stand. She looked back up the hill. No garbage or trash—it didn’t appear the hill was a lookout or a lovers’ hideout. The grass waved back and forth, and a small contrail of dust lingered where she’d come sliding down. Abbie turned and surveyed below her. The gradient got even steeper before it flattened out about thirty yards below.
She spotted
Carlson’s son was wearing a forest green football uniform, pads, and a helmet that seemed impossibly large for him. Across the forest front of the uniform, “School Saints” was written in white.
“That his son?” she said.
“Yeah, Joe Jr.”
“He goes to Cortland Christian?”
“Yup. Plays football.”
“That poor boy,” Abbie said. She released the man’s wrist and the phone dropped away.
She meant it. She thought about the boy that Hangman had made an orphan. He’s probably been told something bad had happened to his daddy, and that he wasn’t going to school tomorrow. Later they’d tell him his father was never coming home and he needed to go to the mall to buy a new suit. Black.
“He drove a ’Vette?” Abbie asked.
The cop’s face froze. “What the fuck does it matter what he drove? He’s dead.”
“I’m just wondering if Hangman could have the keys.” No she wasn’t.
“Oh,” the deputy said. “Sorry. No, he left the keys in his locker at Auburn.”
Abbie nodded. She was doing figures in her head. Basic addition. And the figures weren’t adding up.
She circled around the vehicle, then walked past it toward the top of the hill twenty yards away. It was a steep crest that gave way, lower down, to pine trees and scrub that formed a dark belt around the middle of the hill. A couple of deputies were deep in conversation, looking out over the flat valley, the wide brims of their hats tilting like ringed planets as they moved their heads.
The grass swished against her boots as she came up to the edge and looked down. Cars swept by on the road that snaked along the base of the hill. An Amoco gas station to the left was busy; she counted all four pumps occupied by cars, two of them official. Cops would be filling up on their way to manning the roadblocks. She followed the road along to the right and there was the black roof of the Warsaw Motel, missing a few shingles.
There was a group of teenage boys, two of them on ten-speed bicycles, gathered in the early evening light out in front of the motel. Theywere crouched over the handlebars, whispering together and glancing occasionally at the place. Maybe they thought the killer was coming back to the scene of his last crime. Right now, this must be the most famous place in Wyoming County.
So why did the Corrections officer bring Hangman to a spot overlooking the motel where he’d been captured?
Abbie felt the breeze steady on her face, running up the slope and cresting over, a clean fall wind that smelled faintly of pine.
Abbie looked down. Hangman knew we’d find the van eventually. But what if there was something he didn’t want us to see?
She sighed and stepped down the steep bluff. A flat rock buckled under her boot heel and went slapping down the hillside, picking up speed.
“Hey,” one of the deputies called. “What the hell you doing?”
“Investigating,” she called back, turning quickly to place her hands on the grassy slope. She began to crawl down the hill, like a backward crab, eyes darting left and right. Loose rocks went spilling down, sending up little trails of airborne dust.
The two men were looking down at her, their hats appearing as dark saucers against the dying sun.
The hill was covered with scrub and shallow-rooted grass that tore away in her hands. Ten feet down, her left foot slipped back dangerously and Abbie dug the toe of the right one in.
The ground leveled out a bit and she was able to stand. She looked back up the hill. No garbage or trash—it didn’t appear the hill was a lookout or a lovers’ hideout. The grass waved back and forth, and a small contrail of dust lingered where she’d come sliding down. Abbie turned and surveyed below her. The gradient got even steeper before it flattened out about thirty yards below.
She spotted
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