Black Cat Weekly #64

Chapter 7

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by“He’s due to get another one tonight,” Button said.

Ray Woodson turned to look at her as he zipped his coat. His eyes were dark, his jaw set. “I know.”

Button nodded. Everybody in town knew about the killings by now, one on every major holiday for the past five months. Whoever it was, he was stealthy and quick and left no clues. The press was calling him the Hangman, even though only the first murder, not long after dark on July 4th, involved a rope and a noose. The other three incidents—on the nights of Labor Day, Columbus Day, and Veterans Day—were also deaths by strangulation, which was bad enough. But that image in everyone’s mind of the first victim dangling at the end of a rope behind the checkout counter of his mini-mart—along with the catchy alliteration of the term Holiday Hangman—had guaranteed his nickname. And although the state and local police had gone crazy trying to find the guy, they had nothing to show for their efforts, mainly because they had so few leads. The four murders, all of them local and all of them apparently random, had only one other thing in common, besides the holiday dates and the causes of death: all the victims so far—two men and two women—had been convenience-store clerks.

Like Button McKenna.

Ray’s face softened a bit. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll be okay.”

And she believed him. Never mind that this was Thanksgiving Day, and that she would open the shop and go on duty at eight p.m., and that all the murders had been between eight and nine, and that she always worked alone. None of that mattered. Button believed him. She thought she would be okay.

wouldBecause Ray was the killer.

She wasn’t positive; there was no hard evidence. But she was pretty sure. On the last few of those holidays—almost as long as she and Ray had been dating—he had told her he needed to go someplace shortly after they’d finished supper, just like he’d told her tonight. On the one hand, that seemed reasonable: Button was on night duty every weekend and every holiday, mainly because she owned the place and had vowed long ago to take the worst shifts herself so her employees could stay home with their families. Also, she’d made it clear to Ray that she didn’t need him babysitting her at the store during work hours. Also, all of Ray’s friends were single and carefree and not tied down by wives or kids. So again—on the one hand at least—it made sense that he might want to get together with them instead of sitting alone in Button’s empty house, even though he usually was a homebody.

AlsooneBut on the night of the most recent murder—Veterans Day—she had phoned Eddie’s Bar and Grill, where Ray had told her he was going to meet some old buddies from when he worked at the newspaper. But when she called, Ray wasn’t there.

There were other reasons as well. Like the pistol Ray had kept hidden in his waistband lately, and the tiny rips she’d seen on the shoulder of his old leather jacket. A row of scratches—spaced out like the kind fingernails might make. Button supposed they could’ve been there earlier, but she was pretty observant, and the first time she’d noticed them was almost two weeks ago, on the morning after Veterans Day.

Was that enough evidence to call the police? She didn’t know. After all, it was a g*n, not a rope, and a few rips in a leather jacket.

But would she call the police, even if she did know? She wasn’t sure about that either.

woulddidWhat she was sure about was that she loved Ray Woodson. She loved him completely and desperately, in a way that she could never have imagined she could love anyone before she met him. And she knew he loved her too.

wasThey’d both had hard lives, she and Ray—he was a small-time writer, she a struggling divorcée—but their unlikely meeting and growing relationship seemed, to Button, a beacon of hope. A promising future in an otherwise cruel world.

And then, this summer, the killings had started. And after all his “convenient” absences and her finding the g*n and the scratches…her suspicions had begun.

Again, maybe she was wrong. Maybe he was innocent, and the only fault was her overactive imagination. She hoped so. With all her heart she hoped so.

At that instant, as she stood there in the hallway of her apartment thinking about all this and watching him leave, Button had an idea. She knew how she could find out, once and for all.

“I need a favor, Ray,” she blurted.

He stopped and turned, his hand on the doorknob.

“My dad called a few minutes ago,” she said, “while you were in the bathroom.” The call had actually been one of those telemarketing surveys, but Ray wouldn’t know that—he would only remember hearing the phone ring. “He’s sick and needs me to drive over there. Could you fill in for me tonight, at the store?”

Ray hesitated. Button held her breath.

Her reasoning, she thought, was sound. If Ray was tending the store, he couldn’t very well go wherever it was that he’d planned to be going. And if nine o’clock came and went, and no one was murdered…

Button swallowed. At least she would know.

knowBut Ray was no fool. He’d never met her father, but she knew Ray was aware of their problems. Her dad, even though he lived near here, had never really known her ex-husband, Bo, either, and didn’t even know, or care, where she worked. Button hadn’t spoken to him in months. A week ago, when she’d delivered a package of clothes to him for his birthday—mostly things Bo had left behind when he’d moved out of her house and out of her life—her dad hadn’t even answered the door. She’d left the box on his porch.

The fact was, Button’s father was a lost cause. Alcoholic, abusive, violent—none of the adjectives were pretty. He had always told her and her late mother, often in a drunken rage, that he would become rich and famous someday. But all he ever became was a failure, at just about everything he tried.

Button knew she would be the last person her father would call if he were sick. Ray probably knew that too.

Even so, after a long pause, Ray smiled. “Sure. The poker game can make it without me.” He pushed the door shut, held out his arms, and Button (barely five feet tall, which was the reason for her nickname) stepped into them, pressing the side of her head against his broad chest as he hugged her.

But she could feel, through his coat, the handle of the g*n in his belt.

An hour later Button was kneeling at the edge of the woods, fifty yards from the parking lot of the convenience store she and her husband had bought, not long after their wedding. Mosquitoes buzzed around her face, and needle-sharp blackberry thorns pricked her hands when she pushed aside the undergrowth so she could see.

The Button’s and Bo’s Mini-Mart, a cinderblock building containing everything from pocketknives to Hostess CupCakes, was the last in a sad little row of small businesses lining the frontage road of I-55, on the south edge of the city. She had received the store as her part of the settlement when Bo divorced her last year, and, despite its seedy location, she’d decided to keep it, along with its name. Now, from her vantage point here on the hill, Button could see only one side of the building and some of the front, but the parking lot was brightly lit. She would have a clear view of anyone coming or going.

At the moment, Ray Woodson was inside—his car was the only one in the lot—and Button wanted to make sure he stayed there.

The almost-empty parking lot wasn’t unusual, especially on a night like this. After all, it was Thanksgiving. Most people were home with their families, not shopping at mini-marts.

Button glanced down at her luminous wristwatch: 8:07. She decided to wait until nine, then trudge back through the woods to her car and drive over to relieve him. And if tonight’s local news reported no further victims, she would know.

She’d also know if they did report another victim.

didGod forgive me, Button thought, that would be even better.

She sat down cross-legged in the damp leaves of the hillside, snuggled deeper into her coat, and watched.

At 8:45 she jerked awake. She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles, furious with herself, then focused on the scene below. Nothing seemed to have changed, except for the cars outside Button’s and Bo’s. There were two of them there now, a shiny Lexus and Ray’s white Toyota.

Then, so suddenly it made her yelp, she heard a gunshot.

She sat up, wide-eyed, and saw a long-haired young man burst through the front door into the parking lot. He stood there a moment as if dazed, then broke into a run, heading north up the now-deserted frontage road.

Oh my God, Button thought. What have I done?

For a full ten seconds she watched the building, hands over her mouth and tears stinging her eyes. No one else came out.

Finally she snapped out of it. Maybe he’s not dead…

Maybe he’s not deadButton rose, trembling, from the bushes and tried to run—but one of her legs was asleep. She fell heavily, slid sideways, and tumbled down a muddy embankment onto a pile of rocks. Her left leg and hip took the brunt of the fall, sending a blinding jolt of pain through her body.

For a long time she lay stunned at the bottom of the ravine, out of sight from the rest of the world. She was vaguely aware of the sound of approaching sirens. At some point she spotted a broken tree limb several yards away and crawled toward it.

Ten minutes later, using the branch as a crutch, little Button McKenna limped into the parking lot of the mini-mart. Police cars were everywhere, lights blinking and flashing. Off to one side, an attractive middle-aged blonde was shouting at a policeman about something.

For a moment Button just stood there, tears drying on her dirty face. She had already glimpsed the body being loaded into an ambulance—at least the bottom fourth of a body, wearing jeans and hiking boots.

Ray’s hiking boots.

Ray’s hiking boots.She tensed and drew a rasping breath.

The man on the stretcher was Ray Woodson. She knew it was. She knew the odd color of those boots. It was Ray, it must be, and he was dead, and she was the reason he was dead.

And then she heard someone behind her. She flinched, turned, stared—and threw herself into his arms.

“You’re alive,” she whispered, her voice muffled by his soft leather jacket. “I can’t believe it. I thought—”

Ray hugged her, then held her away long enough to see that she was hurt. But before he could speak, she saw again the scratches on his jacket, and this time she knew what had made them.

“Blackberry thorns,” she murmured. Their eyes locked. “That’s where you were, those nights. You were up there in the woods, watching out for me.”

He shrugged. “Good thing I wasn’t up there tonight, and you down here. I’d’ve probably got us both killed.”

“What do you mean?” Through a haze of fresh tears she looked at the ambulance. “Didn’t you shoot the guy?”

“I was too slow. He pulled his g*n and made me hand mine over. My cell phone too.”

“Then how—”

“A customer was standing there, about to check out. He pushed her away from the counter, and while he was doing that I hit him in the head with an orange juice bottle. He’s not dead, just unconscious.”

Button gaped at him. “But—I heard a shot.”

“He did that, when he fell. Your Coke machine was mortally wounded.”

She felt her head whirling. This was too much to take in, all at once. “Is he…is he the one, Ray? The Hangman?”

“Yeah. Positive ID, according to the cops. The victim’s store two weeks ago had a security camera. They didn’t release that information to the public.” He paused. “But I have some bad news too—”

“Mr. Woodson?” a voice said. Button turned to see a blond woman standing there, with a teenaged girl in tow. The woman was the one Button had noticed earlier, arguing with the cop. The girl’s face was somewhere between tired and terrified.

“Button, this is Ms. Farrell,” Ray said. “She and her kids were here when it happened.”

And suddenly Button understood. The Lexus parked beside Ray’s car belonged to this woman; the killer must’ve come on foot, planning to escape into the woods afterward. And the young man Button had seen dash out of the store—

“Her son ran to a pay phone down the street to call nine one one,” Ray said. “Our line had been cut.”

“For once I’d left my cell phone at home,” Ms. Farrell said. “And we haven’t let our son and daughter have one yet.”

“My God,” Button murmured. “You must be the lady he pushed, just before Ray hit him.”

Ms. Farrell grinned. “It was my orange juice bottle.”

“No charge,” Ray said.

Then Button remembered his earlier comment. “What did you mean, about bad news?”

Ray sighed. “My g*n. It’s not licensed. It’s not even mine—I borrowed it from a friend when all this started, back in July.”

“And?”

“And the cops and I go way back.”

Button’s eyes widened. “You have a record?”

“Not that kind. But back when I was a reporter, the police brutality cases got a lot of coverage. No love lost between me and the PD.”

“Don’t worry,” Ms. Farrell said. “That’s been taken care of.”

Ray looked at her. “It’s what?”

“I had a little talk with our boys in blue.” To Button, Ms. Farrell said, “This man”—she nodded to Ray—“saved our lives. That’s what I explained to the police. Later tonight, I’ll explain it to the rest of the city. By tomorrow, he can run for mayor if he wants.”

Button’s mouth dropped open. “Of course. Melissa Farrell… You’re Channel Five News.”

“I’m the anchor,” Farrell agreed, “but believe me, your husband is the news.” She gave Ray a wide smile and pulled up the collar of her coat. “Happy Thanksgiving to you both.”

She left with one arm around her daughter. On the other side of the lot, past the milling crowd and the policemen and the flashing lights, the TV crews were beginning to arrive.

“Come on,” Ray said. “I’ve already locked up. Let’s get you to the hospital. You look pretty sore. You didn’t break anything when you…fell down the hill?”

“No.” Button stared at her feet for a moment. “I’m sorry I doubted you. But when—”

“But when I went out each night of all the prior murders, you were rightly concerned.”

Only then did some of the Farrell woman’s last words register. Your husband? “My God, Ray,” Button said. “She thinks I’m your wife! What if she says that on TV?”

Your husband?With his fingertip he brushed a muddy lock of hair from her forehead. “Then I guess I’d have to correct the situation.”

“Tell her the truth, you mean?”

“No,” he said, and grinned. “That’s not what I mean.”

And for the first time in days, Button smiled too. Only hours ago, she’d been convinced that Ray was a killer. Now he was a hero. And, apparently, her fiancé.

Then she thought of something else. “Ray,” she said, solemn again, “I lied to you. I didn’t go to my father’s tonight.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“A few minutes before you hobbled into the parking lot, I got my phone back from the police and called his house,” Ray said. “His number was on your bulletin board in there, beside the counter. No one was home.”

She nodded. “He’s probably dead drunk. Or in jail.” She drew a shaky breath and let it out. “I can’t believe I didn’t trust you. A few minutes ago, when I saw part of that guy who was being loaded into the ambulance, saw his legs and his hiking boots at least—I thought it was you, Ray. I thought you’d been shot.”

you“His boots?”

“The Hangman’s. They looked just like the ones you bought a few weeks ago. That same offbeat color—”

“But I didn’t keep ’em, Button. Remember?” he said. “They didn’t fit.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I put the boots in the box with the other stuff you took to your dad’s. I thought maybe he could use ’em.”

Button never heard the final sentence. She had already turned away, thinking again about the ambulance that was now long gone and headed to the hospital. And just as the truth hit her, as she gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth, she had another thought. A crazy but somehow logical thought:

Her father had become famous after all.

John M. Floyd’s work has appeared in more than 350 different publications, including Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Strand Magazine, The Saturday Evening Post, and four editions of Otto Penzler’s best-mysteries-of-the-year anthologies. A former Air Force captain and IBM systems engineer, John is an Edgar finalist, a Shamus Award winner, a five-time Derringer Award winner, a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, and the author of nine books. He is also the 2018 recipient of the Short Mystery Fiction Society’s lifetime achievement award. Learn more at johnmfloyd.com.

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