The Headsman Read online

  “I know,” Betty Melcher blurted. “Polo!”

  The teacher appeared surprised as well as gratified. “Very good, Betty. Tell us about it.”

  She sat up straight in her seat. “The tribesmen in Afghanistan played it. They’d take the head of one of their enemies and put it in a field and then they’d ride on their horses and try to knock the head over the goal line.”

  “Excellent.”

  Marcy felt like gagging. Little Miss Kiss-ass was scoring one of her own goals, as usual.

  Melcher pressed her advantage. “The Afghans played it for hundreds of years, and when the British were there they picked it up. Only they used a ball instead of a head.”

  Hathaway was smiling at her. “How did you know that, Betty?”

  “I saw it in a movie on TV.”

  He frowned. “Urn.”

  “With Sean Connery and Michael Caine.”

  “Called The Man Who Would Be King. From a Kipling story. I was hoping you’d read it.”

  Melcher looked crestfallen. Marcy was elated.

  Hathaway’s dark eyes swept the class. “Then there was the French revolution, of course. The guillotine was used to behead the nobles and the bourgeoisie, and eventually the revolutionaries as well. But in most places the work was done with the ax.”

  His bony hands gripped the arms of the wheelchair. “In England, every community had its own headsman. The executions took place among the rich and the poor, the weak and the powerful. King Henry the Eighth had two of his six wives beheaded. And it wasn’t uncommon for children as young as twelve to be put on the block for stealing a loaf of bread.”

  God, Marcy thought. How terrible.

  “The English system of justice is different from ours,” Hathaway said. “It decrees that the accused is guilty until proven innocent. A trial back then would take only a few minutes, and the offender would be condemned to death by the ax.”

  He’s enjoying this, Marcy realized. Rolling around in it like a dog in a cowflop. What a sicko.

  Hathaway shifted his heavy shoulders. “When the village of Braddock was founded, early in the eighteenth century, the settlers not only brought the custom with them, but they brought a headsman as well. When someone committed a crime here, he was decapitated. His head was chopped off.”

  The teacher paused, apparently gauging the effect his words were having.

  Melcher tried again. “And the legend is that every so often, the headsman comes back.”

  Hathaway nodded somberly. “That’s correct, Betty. Every few years, they say, the headsman returns to Braddock.”

  The room was quiet, and Hathaway’s gaze moved back to Swanson. “So you see, we not only have the legend, but we know it was based on historical fact. It’s quite possible that Washington Irving was familiar with the story, and perhaps was inspired by it. When you look at ‘The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow’ in that context, it’s also easier to understand Ichabod Crane’s fear, wouldn’t you say?”

  The tone of the boy’s voice was arrogant. “I still think the whole thing’s a lot of crap.”

  Marcy drew in her breath sharply. Whether he realized it or not, Billy was pushing it to the limit. If he went too far he’d be thrown out of the class. Hathaway was one of the few teachers in Braddock High nobody dared mess with.

  But Hathaway surprised her by remaining unruffled. “You’re entitled to your opinion, of course,” he said to Swanson. “But in fairness to Ichabod, let’s set up a hypothetical situation, closer to home. Okay?”

  Billy shrugged, letting the audience know he’d won this little skirmish, but if Hathaway wanted to keep on looking like a horse’s ass, then what the hell—he’d go along.

  “Let’s suppose,” the teacher said, “you’re out late at night, walking along a road right here in Braddock. It’s a lonely road out in the country. You’re out there all by yourself. Suddenly you hear footsteps behind you.”

  He leaned forward. “The footsteps come closer. You turn around, and there—standing directly behind you—is the headsman. Now be truthful. If that happened to you, wouldn’t you be just a little fearful?”

  Swanson grinned at having been given a perfect opening. It was obvious he was in his glory now, in a position to show everyone what he was made of and what he thought of Hathaway and Washington Irving and the entire subject. “Nah. I’d know it was all phony.”

  “Are you so sure? Think about it. What you see is a very big man, obviously very powerful. He’s dressed entirely in black. He’s wearing a hood and carrying a huge, double-bladed ax.”

  In spite of herself, a chill passed over Marcy. As long as she could remember, and probably for as long as the town had been here, Braddock’s children had been frightened by the legend. Parents used it to discipline their kids, telling them that if they were bad, or if they didn’t shape up and do as they were told, or whatever, the headsman would come looking for them. He’d be carrying that big ax, and the ones who were really naughty would get their heads chopped off. Braddock’s very own bogeyman, lurking behind some tree or waiting to jump out of your closet at night, swinging that awful weapon.

  But hey, that was just so much nonsense. And you realized it about the same time you stopped believing in Santa Claus.

  “Well,” Hathaway prodded, “what would you do?”

  The grin on Billy’s face widened. “I’d take the ax and stick it up his dingus.”

  Hoots of laughter filled the classroom.

  Still there was no change in Hathaway’s expression. His eyes glittered like onyx as his gaze once again ranged over the kids in the room, but he said nothing until the giggling and chortling died down. Then a tight, ironic smile passed briefly over his lips. He turned the wheelchair around, its motor whirring, and directed it toward the blackboard on the other side of the room.

  Picking a piece of chalk out of the tray, he looked back at them. “Since all of you seem to think this is some sort of joke, I have a homework assignment for you.”

  A collective groan rose from the class.

  The reaction seemed to please him. That’s what he wanted, Marcy thought. An excuse to jam it to us. He knows there’s the game tonight and the dance, and he wants to do what he can to screw it up. Only a shit would give homework on weekends.

  Hathaway held up the piece of chalk. “I want each of you to write an essay on the subject we’ve been discussing. Apparently many of you believe Ichabod Crane would have been a fool to react as he did when he was pursued by the headless horseman. So you’re to write about how you would react if you found yourself in a similar situation. Describe how you would feel and what you would do if you were being stalked by the headsman right here in Braddock.”

  There was an undercurrent of protest, but Hathaway ignored it, writing out the assignment on the blackboard. As if we couldn’t understand what he’d told us, Marcy thought.

  A few minutes later the bell rang, and the class was over.

  3

  The evening didn’t work out the way Marcy had hoped. Brad-dock lost the basketball game by one point, 72 to 71, even though Jeff Peterson played as well as he ever had in his life, bringing the crowd to its feet again and again, sinking impossible baskets with his hook shot and setting up his teammates with dazzling ball-handling.

  Pat had a big night as well. She looked sensational as usual in the white sweater, keeping the Braddock fans in a near frenzy as she paced the cheerleaders. But in the end it was all for nothing. Warren Falls was the winner, and what Braddock would have to concentrate on now was making the regional playoffs.

  For Marcy the dance also fell a little short. She was smashing, all right, in her silver pants, but Jeff didn’t ask her to dance, even though he and Pat sat at the same table with Marcy and Buddy.

  The subject of Hathaway and the headsman came up when Jeff said he thought it would be a good idea to get dressed up in black and carry a big ax and go over to Billy Swanson’s house in the middle of the night.

  “You do that,�
� Pat said, “and Billy’s father’d be after you with a shotgun.”

  Jeff laughed. “The hell he would. If old man Swanson ever saw the headsman he’d have a heart attack.”

  “Well, who wouldn’t?” Marcy said. “A lot of people around here really do believe that story.”

  “Oh, come on,” Pat said. “Hathaway was just trying to get everybody stirred up. He was pissed off because we laughed at him and because Billy made him look silly. I think he’s a little nuts anyway.”

  “It’s from oxygen starvation,” Buddy said.

  They looked at him.

  “From driving too fast,” he explained. “He gets that two-wheeler out on the interstate and gets it going so fast he can’t breathe. Cuts off oxygen from his brain.”

  The others laughed at the mental picture of Hathaway flying down the highway in his motorized wheelchair, and that inspired Buddy to tell them about Mr. Baxter catching Joe Boggs smoking a joint in the men’s room that afternoon. Buddy did an imitation of Joe sitting on the toilet and arguing that he was only answering nature’s call and it was getting to a pretty pass at Braddock High when you couldn’t even shit in peace. The incident had taken place that afternoon and Joe would probably be suspended.

  And speaking of joints, Buddy said softly in Marcy’s ear, let’s go out to the car. They slipped out to where his Chevy was parked in the lot behind the school, and after about the second drag he began working on getting her silver pants off. But even though she was charged up from the excitement of the game and the dance, and the maryjane was making her head buzz, she held him off. That she’d save for later.

  And she did. They went back in and danced a couple of times as the amplified foursome shook the walls. Marcy noted that the kids had become a little rowdier, which was to be expected as the night wore on. Some of the more daring girls were dressed in the latest far-out styles, ragged clothes with reflectors stuck on them, wearing their hair in exaggerated brush cuts standing straight up a couple of inches off their heads and with white makeup on their faces, their eyes outlined with mascara. One of them had even dyed the left side of her head bright blue, but as far as Marcy was concerned that was going too far. The girl looked like one of those weirdos from London you saw on MTV.

  After one especially strenuous workout on the dance floor Marcy and Buddy sat down at the table to catch their breath and Marcy saw that Pat and Jeff had taken off. It was getting late. She finished her Coke and took Buddy by the hand and they left the dance.

  There was a gravel road up alongside Powell’s farm that was about as good a place to park as any, partly because nobody ever used it at night except kids like themselves and partly because you could get a good view of the moon, if there was one. Tonight there was, and a full moon, at that. They smoked another joint and then they got into the back seat and this time Marcy didn’t resist Buddy when he tried to get her pants off; she helped him.

  It wasn’t the best place in the world to make love, with the narrow seat and with the armrest pressing against her head, and the night air cold on her naked skin, but it was better than nothing. She and Buddy had been able to use a real bed only a couple of times since they’d started going together—both occasions when her mother and father had gone out for the evening, which they didn’t do often enough to suit Marcy.

  Tonight she felt chilled and tired afterward, and even worse than that, she was suddenly uptight about being out here. Sitting in the dark in the back seat of a car on a lonely country road was making her think about Hathaway and his damned spook story. Buddy lit another joint, and when he opened the window to throw out the spent match she thought she heard a noise somewhere. She jumped and then peered out into the darkness. The moonlight was casting odd shadows, and one of them looked as if it could be the figure of a man, crouched over.

  Buddy pulled smoke deep into his lungs and blew out a stream. “Hey, what’s with you tonight—you nervous or something?”

  She took the joint from him and dragged on it. “Yeah, a little.”

  “Well, relax, will you? The night’s young.” His hand dropped to the inside of her thigh and squeezed.

  She knew what that meant; in a few more minutes he’d be looking for another one. Most times that would be just fine with her, but tonight she was nervous. And uncomfortable about being out here. Again she looked out the window. The wind was blowing the trees around, and the shadows cast by their leafless limbs created strange patterns on the dark road. She pushed his hand away.

  Buddy shook his head in disgust. “Aw, come on, Marcy. What is it, anyhow? That shit about the headsman got you shook up?”

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s all it is, you know. Just a dumb story people use to scare other people. Swanson was right about that.”

  “Was he? Then what made you think of it just now?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Nothing, really.”

  “Maybe it’s been on your mind, too?”

  “Naw. I just thought that could be what’s got you uptight.”

  “Uh-huh.” It seemed colder now, and her back was stiff from lying on the narrow seat. She shivered, and asked Buddy to take her home. He grumbled, but finally pulled up his pants, and taking the joint from her in a small show of petulance climbed back into the driver’s seat and started the engine. She got herself together and joined him in the front seat. They sat in silence as he drove.

  4

  Marcy’s house was the only one she’d ever lived in. It was a large white Victorian on the south side of the village, in an area called Ridgecrest. The place was set back from the road and nestled under two towering oak trees that were probably the same age as the house. When she got home the wind had become stronger, and the moon was partially obscured by scudding clouds. Patches of rotting snow lay on the front lawn.

  Buddy kissed her goodnight and said he’d call her tomorrow, and she shivered as she got out of the car and made her way to the house, hoping her parents were both in bed. They almost always were at this time of night, which was a small blessing. Her father was an early riser, one of the first to arrive each morning at the Braddock National Bank. How he managed, considering what he drank each evening, was more than she could understand. But that was his problem.

  The interior of the house was in semidarkness, illuminated only by the light in the center hall. Her parents slept in the back bedroom on this floor, and her room was upstairs at the front of the house. Marcy was the only child in the family. Her mother had nearly died when she was born, and the doctor had been forced to deliver her by caesarean. Afterward the doctor had tied her mother’s tubes. Marcy had often wished she had a sister when she was little, but now that she was older she realized if she had it probably would only have added to the stress. God knew there was enough of it around here as it was. She stepped quietly through the house and made her way up the stairs.

  Once in her bedroom she shut the door and undressed, and then went into her bathroom, where she washed her face and brushed her teeth. Her pink cotton shorty nightgown was hanging from a hook on the back of the door. She put it on and got into bed and turned on the radio, tuning in WBDK, the local station. She listened to Phil Collins and then Paula Abdul without really hearing them. After a few minutes she switched out the light and a little while after that turned off the radio as well.

  Outside the wind was really kicking up now, sharp gusts bending the limbs of the oak trees until the tips scraped against the roof like giant fingernails. On some part of the house a shutter was banging, and in the distance a dog howled. She pushed herself farther down under the covers. Maybe a storm was coming and they’d get more snow. She hoped not.

  She had trouble dozing off, which was unusual for her. As hard as she tried to send her mind in other directions, her thoughts kept returning to Hathaway and the assignment he’d given them. What would she do if—

  But it wasn’t the assignment, was it? No, it was the mental picture his words had inspired. It was like a vicious little anim
al, struggling to get inside her head and her emotions and stay there. She kept pushing it back, shoving it away from her, refusing to acknowledge it, until she fell into a troubled sleep.

  An hour later she found herself awake again. What had she dreamed? It was something terrible; despite the cold air in the room she was covered in sweat. She brushed her fingers against the skin between her breasts and felt the moisture there. Her head was hot and she couldn’t think clearly.

  A noise sounded somewhere below, like the heavy thump made by a man’s footstep. She was instantly alert, her ears straining to catch the slightest sound.

  And then she heard it again.

  There was no mistaking it now—the sound was that of a footstep, and it was on the stairs below her bedroom. Even though she had closed her door, there was no doubt in her mind as to what she had heard. Her hand shot out to the lamp on her bedside table and she turned it on. Instead of reassuring her, the light that bathed the room seemed strange and distorting, as if she were looking though a faintly yellow lens that bent objects out of shape.

  The noise sounded again. It was louder now, and she thought she also caught the rasp of air being sucked into a man’s lungs and then exhaled. Jesus Christ. Was she still asleep? Was this all part of the same weird dream?

  But she was awake, as much as she wished she weren’t. What she was hearing was real. There were footsteps on those stairs, heavy footsteps made by a heavy man. He was coming up the stairs very slowly, one step at a time.

  Could it be her father? No—he never came up here, especially at night; he was too loaded.

  Buddy, maybe, playing some dumbass practical joke? He wouldn’t dare. She’d kill him. Or Jeff? He was the one who’d suggested dressing up and—no, that was ridiculous.

  So who—or what—was on those goddamn stairs?

  She called out: “Daddy—that you?”

  No answer.

  It made no sense, but she tried anyway: “Buddy? Buddy Harper?”