Free A Penny for the Hangman by Tom Savage Page A

bothered him, but even that didn’t haunt him like Harper/Anderman. I don’t like him talking about it. I mean, tonight with you was fine, but sometimes he can get excited when the subject comes up, and at his age—”
    “Of course,” Karen said quickly, suppressing a brief pang of guilt. Then she grinned. “But it
was
the way your parents met, after all, so…”
    He surprised her by uttering a deep, hearty laugh. “Oh yes, don’t I just know that! Isn’t it something? They met on the case, and they were married a year later, then I came along. If it weren’t for those two boys, I wouldn’t be here. Still…” His smile disappeared as he trailed off, watching as she got into the car. He shut the door for her. As she started the engine, he leaned down to the window and said, “This witness, or whoever it is—you just be careful, okay?” He produced a card and handed it to her. “Let me know if you need anything.”
    Karen glanced at the card in her hand. It was his official police card, with phone numbers and email addresses. She dropped it into her purse. The lieutenant was clearly conveying an unspoken message, something she’d do well to remember. Despite his momentary lack of a uniform, this man was a cop, a highly placed member of the VIPD. If her unknown host turned out to be Harper or Anderman, she’d be breaking the law simply by meeting with him and not disclosing his presence on the island. But, as a journalist, she’d be compelled to protect her source. She and the lieutenant both knew this, and, all things considered, he was being very polite about it.
    “Thank you, Junior,” she said. “I’ll be careful. And I enjoyed talking with your father. He’s a wonderful man.”
    “That he is,” he said. “Enjoy your stay in the Islands.”
    Karen turned the car around to head back the way she’d come. As she passed the hotel, she waved to Mr. Faison, Senior—Josh—waiting for his son in the other car. He waved back. She drove down the mountain, through Charlotte Amalie, and around the waterfront toward her own hotel. On the way, she passed by the entrance pillars to the most notorious house on the island. The brass plaque with the word
Tamarind
gleamed briefly in the headlights, then vanished in the ensuing darkness.

Chapter Four
    Rodney Harper’s Diary
    M AY 29, 1958
I am different from other people. I’ve always known that, I suppose. I’m not your average human being, not by a wide mile. I’m smarter, faster, better. We took IQ tests in school last year. I wasn’t supposed to know the results, of course, but they sent copies around to the faculty, and Mrs. Gould’s desk drawer is a cinch to open, lock or no lock.
    The entire school, all 73 of us, were listed, top result to bottom, and you can guess who was at the top. Wulf’s name was right under mine, natch. “Genius” is officially listed as 150, and beside my name it read “180++.” Wulf got an actual number: 165. The girl below him, Mindy Thayer, was 136, and the next one after her was 128 (that ugly Darlene Provall). Everyone else came after that. I wasn’t surprised to see that Jake French and Claude Morley, the creeps who always bother us, were at the bottom. Jake thinks he’s so cool, but he’s exactly 22 points above “moron.” I know Mom and Dad were told because they keep staring at me and shaking their heads. They must have had some smart forebears way back in their family trees because they’re both morons.
    The Plan has taken over my every waking moment, and at night I dream of it. One single, perfect act—to start with, anyway…
    —
    “Karen Tyler?”
    “Yes?”
    “Don Price,
Daily News
.”
    “Oh yes. Hello.”
    “Hi.”
    Karen stared up at the man from the couch in the hotel lobby. She could feel a slow blush stealing across her face, and she tried to conceal it with a bright smile. But she was disconcerted; she’d assumed the photographer would be a native, but this man was a tall, lanky,