Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

“Don’t even think about it,” Jesse said, placing his hand around the grip of his nine-millimeter. “You don’t have a rifle in your hand now. It was you who shot at me in the woods the other day, but that wasn’t part of the plan, was it? You followed Bella to my house that morning. You thought she was sleeping with me, too.”

“Stop pushing me about Bella. You say another word about her and I’ll ask for a lawyer.”

“You’re in no position to make threats, but okay, we’ll leave her out of it for now.”

Niles relaxed, the angry red bleaching out of his cheeks.

“It’s all bullshit, isn’t it, Roscoe? The poem, the tape, it’s all smoke and mirrors. There never was a Hangman’s Sonnet album. There was nothing on the tape. It was just a prop.”

“The poem’s real, man, but no, there was nothing on the tape. It wasn’t a scam to begin with all those years ago. They meant to make the album, but Jester went over the edge before the project got started. Terry hasn’t been functional since. The cost of his hospitalization has bankrupted them.”

“What about royalties?” Jesse asked. “They play Jester’s stuff on the radio all the time. He still sells.”

“Stan has Jester’s power of attorney. He sold the publishing rights about seven years ago when Jester’s condition worsened and White needed the cash infusion to keep up Terry’s level of care.”

“Did you know there was no album before White approached you?”

Niles looked insulted, hurt. “Are you kidding me, man? No, I believed like the rest of the world. Everyone believed because we all want to believe in the Holy Grail or El Dorado or that the Walrus was Paul. Where would we be without myths, man? That’s why it worked.”

“Almost worked, Roscoe. Almost. So White came to you and...”

“And what choice did I have? I needed bread any way I could get it. But I wasn’t in on this early. White came to me a few months ago because, as Mr. Integrity, I had credibility in the industry. He knew people who might be putting up big bucks would want more than his word alone that the tape was real.”

“But it was you who suggested using me to vouch for you.”

Niles couldn’t look Jesse in the eye. “It was me. After Diana was killed I knew you’d... Anyway, I’m sorry.”

“What if I didn’t come to you to ask about Jester and The Hangman’s Sonnet?”

“Who else would you go to?” Niles smirked. “If you didn’t come on your own, White or Bella would’ve nudged you in my direction or I might’ve called to say hi and taken the conversation that way.”

“So it was White, Bascom, you, and Bella. Is Evan Updike part of it?”

Niles was still determined to protect Bella. “It was White and Bascom. Bella wasn’t part of it.”

“If you only had as much respect for Diana’s memory as for Bella, we wouldn’t be here.”

“I was desperate, man.”

“So you say. What about Updike?”

“He was the straw man, the guy White wanted you to chase while we got out of Dodge.”

“So he had no part in this?”

Niles shrugged. “At first, yeah, I guess, when it went down in the seventies. I mean, he was the only other person who knew there was no real Hangman’s Sonnet album, but I’ve never seen him and he was never mentioned as anything except as the fall guy. I can tell you this, though, Stan hates Updike’s guts.”

“You’re going away for the rest of your life.”

Niles dispensed with the coffee cup and took a slug straight from the bottle. “What life?”

87

Lundquist looked into the rearview and through the protective Plexiglass at Roscoe Niles slumped against the backseat. He was passed out and snoring. Jesse had let him get dressed in something other than the ratty white bathrobe he’d been wearing, though the too-tight T-shirt, ripped jeans, and sneakers weren’t much of an upgrade. He had also let Niles put his hair back into its usual ponytail.

“I don’t get it,” Lundquist said.

“What?”

“The thing old bikers and old rockers have with ponytails. Do they think it will distract people from noticing their receding hairlines and fat guts hanging over their beltlines?”

“It’s about not letting go.”

“Of what?”

“Their pasts.”

“How did you get him to waive his right to counsel and cooperate?”

“I explained that depending on the way we presented things to the DA, he could do hard time or very hard time.”

“Yeah,” Lundquist said, turning his gaze back to the road. “When you look at it that way, I guess it was an easy choice. But, Jesse, how did you know it was all bullshit?”

“I didn’t know, not for sure, not until Roscoe admitted it to me. I knew something wasn’t right, and then when I noticed the security cameras at the gas station they had me stop at, I realized how I was being played. Last night, after the Vermont cops dropped me back in Paradise, I got hold of the CCTV footage from where the WBMB studios are. The day the poem was allegedly delivered to Roscoe by messenger—”

“There was no messenger.”

“Roscoe knew I would just take his word for it like I took his word for everything else.”

“Good plan.”