Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

“Not unless you count a doe and her fawn.”

“You’re a funny man, Gabe.”

“My wife doesn’t think so. By the way, Peter’s en route.”

Jesse stayed close to the tape as he approached the shed. As he walked, he looked at the ground near the shed. He noted the deer tracks but didn’t see fresh shoeprints anywhere. That didn’t necessarily mean there wasn’t something in the shed. The call to Molly might have come in only fifteen minutes ago, but what was left in the shed might’ve been left there before it rained. He stood by the shed, looked it over thoroughly before opening the door. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for, but whatever it was, he didn’t find it. He pulled the door back.

Nothing. Well, nothing but what had been there the day they found Curnutt’s body. Just spiderwebs and the handle to an old rake or shovel that had probably been there, untouched, for years.

“Anything, Jesse?” Gabe called to him.

“Not a thing. Call Peter and tell him not to bother. False alarm.”

Weathers, ducked his head into his cruiser and did as he was told.

“Okay, Jesse. Peter’s gone back on patrol.”

Jesse came away from the shed and stood about dead center of the tape perimeter. He was facing away from Weathers, toward Sawtooth Creek. “Gabe,” he said, not turning around. “Were you a ballplayer as a kid?”

“I was a shooting guard on my high-school basketball team.” His voice was full of pride.

“Any good?”

“I could shoot the lights out, but I wasn’t great at creating shots for myself off the dribble.”

“How did you feel when the other team controlled the tempo?”

“I hated it.”

“Me too, Gabe. I’ve never liked it when other people dictated the pace of things or when a guy on the other team deked me into making a stupid move.”

“What’s this about, Jesse?”

“It’s about me being tired of the other team controlling the tempo and trying to distract me.”

“Whatever you say.”

Jesse turned to face his man. “Okay, Gabe, you can get back to work.”

When Gabe was gone, Jesse spun around. Unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched, he stared into the woods between him and the creek but saw nothing. He made a slow sweep with his eyes, swiveling his head, looking for something, anything to lock onto. Then, to his left, in the thickest part of the woods, he thought he caught sight of something, a shape moving among the trees. Then there was no movement but for the leaves and limbs swaying in the breeze. He kept looking, waiting for the shape to emerge from the backdrop. There it was again, movement in the trees not caused by the wind. Jesse still couldn’t make out the shape, its silhouette broken up by the sway of the leaves and shadows. Things got very still, unnaturally still. That’s when Jesse noticed a glint, the sun reflecting off something near where he had last seen the shape.

His reflexes took over and Jesse dove to his left. Behind him something slammed into the side of the shed, tiny splinters flying off into space. The sound of the rifle shot echoed through the woods. Another shot, this one much lower, cut another hole in the side of the shed, the echo seeming to almost overwhelm the report of the first shot. Jesse combat-crawled away from the shed as quickly as he could manage, his right shoulder barking at him as he went. He found cover behind some trees, stayed flat on his belly, waiting for more shots to follow. They never came.

After a few minutes, his nine-millimeter in hand, Jesse looked around to where he had seen the shape against the trees and reflection in the leaves. There was nothing to see. The only shapes visible were ones that belonged to nature. Still, Jesse kept low as he worked his way to his Explorer. At least I’m not imagining things, he thought as he drove back into town. Someone had been watching.

67

What had just happened in the preserve didn’t make any sense to Jesse. He was about to call an old friend to discuss it when the sound of a ringing phone came over the speakers in his car and Roscoe Niles’s name flashed onto the dashboard screen.

“I’ve been trying to call.”

“Yeah, Jesse, what?” Roscoe’s voice was almost comically thick with drink.

“Rough evening?”

“At my age, with my vices, they’re all rough. Some are just rougher than others.”

“Why didn’t you pick up before?”

Niles was surprised. “You called? I was out of it, man. Johnnie Red and I spent a lot of time together last night. What can I do you for?”

“Two things. Are you on the air today?”

“I’m always on the air. Well... until I get the official word about my last day. Why?”

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Depends. What do you need?”

“I might call you later and ask you to read the sonnet on the air. And if I do, read it as many times as you want. Play wall-to-wall Terry Jester if you feel like it and imply that the missing tape may soon resurface.”

“You sure about this, Jesse. Yesterday you told me—”

“Yesterday was yesterday. Things have changed.”

“Like what?”

“My mood.”