Behind them knelt the Detective, and farther back was Willie Brew. He had said little since the killing at the ruined barn, and his eyes appeared to be looking inward, at something that only he could see, instead of out at the world through which he was moving. The Detective knew that Willie was in shock. Unlike Louis, he understood what Willie was going through. Deaths stayed with the Detective, and he knew that, in taking a life, you took on the burden of the victim’s grief and pain. That was the price you paid, but nobody had explained that to Willie Brew. Now he would keep paying it until the day he died.
Louis looked to the sky. It was darkening again. More rain was coming after the brief hiatus. The Detective followed his gaze, and nodded.
‘We wait,’ he said.
He turned to Willie Brew, offering him a final chance to absent himself from what was to come. ‘You want to stay here while we go in?’
Willie shook his head. ‘I’ll go,’ he said. Willie felt as though the life were slowly seeping from his body, as though it was he who had been shot, not the man whom he had left dead on the ground. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He didn’t think he’d be able to hold the Browning steady, even if his life depended on it. The gun was back in the pocket of his overalls, and it could stay there. He wouldn’t be using it again, not ever.
And so they remained as they were, unspeaking, until the rain began to fall.
They moved fast, running in pairs. The rain had returned suddenly, falling hard, slanting slightly in the westerly breeze, aiding them in their task by hammering on the windows of Leehagen’s house, masking their approach from those within. They reached the fence at the edge of the property, and then used the shrubs and trees in the yard for cover as they advanced on the main building itself. The house was surrounded by a porch on all four sides. The drapes were drawn on the first floor windows, and the windows themselves were locked. A disabled access ramp ran parallel to the main steps below the front door, which was glassless and closed. They passed the nurse’s little apartment, a single room with a bed and a small living area. There was nobody inside. She would have been sent away, Angel guessed. Leehagen would not have wanted her as a witness to what was planned.
They made their way to the back door, which was inset with eight glass panes behind which were lace drapes. Through the drapes they could see a large modern kitchen, and beyond it a dining area. An opening to the right of the dining area led into the hallway. It did not have a door, probably to make access easier for Leehagen and his wheelchair.
The back door was locked. Using the butt of Bliss’s gun, Angel shattered a pane and reached in to turn the latch, his fingers moving quickly and nimbly, Angel conscious that he was briefly the most exposed among them. The latch shifted, and he yanked his hand from the gap and twisted the handle, pushing the door open at the same time as he drew himself flat against the wall of the house, anticipating gunfire. None came.
Louis entered first, staying low and moving left, cutting himself off from the sightline of anyone who might be tempted to open fire on them from the hallway. The Detective followed, and then there was the boom of a shotgun from inside the house and the glass above his head shattered. The Detective threw himself to the right and crawled along the floor as a shell was jacked and a second shot came, this one blasting a cupboard to pieces just inches from where his foot had been a moment before. Angel returned fire, allowing the Detective to move into the dining room while the shooter was pinned down, making for the door at the far end of the room. As soon as Angel paused to reload, he made his move. They heard shouts, and a scuffle. Angel and Willie rushed into the kitchen while Louis advanced down the hallway, Bliss’s gun in his hand.
A young man lay on the timber floor, his scalp bleeding and his eyes rolled back in his head so that only the whites were visible. The Detective had struck him several times with the butt of his gun during the struggle instead of shooting him. It was clear why. He was no more than seventeen or eighteen, with blond hair and a tanned skin: another farmboy following orders.
‘He’s just a kid,’ said Willie.
‘A kid with a shotgun,’ said Angel.
‘Yeah, but still.’
‘They never thought that you’d get this far,’ said the Detective.
Louis looked into the dining room, where a chair faced the window, set apart from the table behind it. The Chandler rifle still stood upon the table, and the Hardigg case rested on the carpeted floor. He walked over and ran his fingers along the barrel of the gun, then rested his hand on the back of the chair. The Detective joined him.
‘This was where he waited,’ said Louis.
‘It was personal, wasn’t it?’ said the Detective.
‘Yeah, real personal.’
When they went back into the hall, they found that Willie had gently placed a cushion under the wounded boy’s head.
‘Why don’t you stay with him?’ said the Detective. ‘We need someone down here anyway, just in case.’
Willie knew that he was being sidelined, but he didn’t care. He was grateful for the chance to look after the boy. He’d get some water from the kitchen and clean out the wound in his scalp, make sure it didn’t get infected or that he didn’t go into convulsions. He didn’t want to follow these men up the stairs, not unless he had to. Even if one of Leehagen’s men popped up with a gun and pointed it in his face, Willie didn’t think he’d be able to do much about it. He’d just close his eyes and let it come.
The Detective led the way up the stairs, Louis and Angel lagging behind until he gave them the all clear. There were five doors on the second floor, all closed but none, as it turned out, locked. They took them one at a time, Louis opening and covering to the right, Angel to the left, the Detective keeping his back to them and the other doors in view. Three were bedrooms, one of them filled with women’s clothes, the other clearly a young man’s, although their clothing was mixed in the man’s room, and there was a box of Trojans on the nightstand. The fourth room was a large family bathroom that had been converted for Leehagen’s use. There was an open wet room instead of a shower, with a plastic chair beneath the shower head, and a rubber cushion in the tub that could be inflated or deflated as needed. The shelves were packed with medication: liquids and pills and disposable plastic syringes. Underlying everything was a sickly, unpleasant smell: the scent of dying, of someone rotting from within.
A closed door connected the bathroom to what was, presumably, Leehagen’s bedroom. Louis and Angel assumed positions at either side of it, while the Detective went into the hallway and prepared to enter through the bedroom door.
Louis looked at Angel and nodded. He took a step back, and kicked hard at the door just below the lock. The lock held, but at that moment the Detective entered the main bedroom. There was the sound of a shot, and then Louis kicked again. The lock splintered and the door flew open, revealing an overweight man in his forties holding a semiautomatic in his hand: Leehagen’s son, Michael. Loretta Hoyle crouched at his feet, her head hidden in her arms. Between them and where Louis and Angel stood was a large hospital bed, upon which lay a withered old man with an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose.
For a moment, Michael Leehagen was distracted. He could not cover both doors at once, so he froze.
And Louis killed him. The bullet struck him in the chest, and he slid down the wall. Blood spread across the front of his white shirt, and he blinked at it in puzzlement as he sat heavily on the floor. Loretta Hoyle peered out of her cocoon, then wailed and reached for him, calling his name as she held his head between her hands. He tried to focus on her, but he could not. His body jerked once. His eyes closed, and he died. Loretta screamed, then buried her face in the nape of the dead man’s neck and began to cry as Angel kicked away the fallen gun.
Arthur Leehagen’s head moved on his pillow, and he regarded his dead son with rheumy eyes. A pale, thin hand reached for the mask, removing it from his mouth. He drew a rattling breath, then spoke.
‘My boy,’ he s
aid. His eyes filled with tears. They spilled over and flowed from the corners of his eyes, dropping soundlessly on the pillows.
Louis walked to the bed and stood over the old man.
‘You brought this on yourself,’ he said.
Leehagen stared at him. He was nearly bald, only a few strands of thin white hair clinging to his skull like cobwebs. His skin was pale and bloodless, and looked cold to the touch, but his eyes shone all the brighter for being set in such an emaciated, desiccated frame. His body might have betrayed him, but his mind was still alert, burning with frustration as it found itself trapped in a physical form that would soon no longer be able to sustain it.
‘You’re the one,’ said Leehagen. ‘You killed my boy, my Jon.’ He had to force each word out, taking a breath after every one.
‘I did.’
‘Did you even ask why?’
Louis shook his head. ‘It didn’t matter. And now you’ve lost your other son. Like I said, you brought it on yourself.’
Leehagen’s hand reached for the mask. He pressed it to his face, gasping in the precious oxygen. He stayed like that for a time until his breathing was under control once again, then moved the mask aside.
‘You’ve left me with nothing,’ he said.
‘You have your life.’
Leehagen tried to laugh, but it came out as a kind of strangled cough.
‘Life?’ he said. ‘This is not life. This is merely a slow dying.’
Louis stared down at him. ‘Why here?’ he said. ‘Why bring us all the way up here to kill us?’
‘I wanted you to bleed onto my land. I wanted your blood to seep into the place where Jon is buried. I wanted him to know that he had been avenged.’
‘And Hoyle?’
Leehagen swallowed drily. ‘A good friend. A loyal friend.’ The mention of Hoyle’s name seemed to give him new energy, if only for a moment. ‘We’ll hire others. It will never end. Never.’
‘You have no one left now,’ said Louis. ‘Soon, Hoyle won’t either. It’s over.’
And something extinguished itself in Leehagen’s eyes as he realized the truth of what had been said. He stared at his dead son, and remembered the one who had gone before him. With a last great effort, he lifted his head from the pillow. His left hand reached out and grasped the sleeve of Louis’s jacket.
‘Then kill me too,’ he pleaded. ‘Please. Be . . . merciful.’
His head sank back, but his eyes remained fixed on Louis, filled with hatred and grief and, most of all, need.
‘Please,’ he repeated.
Louis gently released Leehagen’s grip. Almost tenderly, he placed his hand over the old man’s face, closing the nostrils tightly with his thumb and index finger, the palm pressed hard against the dry, wrinkled mouth. Leehagen nodded against the pillow, as if in silent agreement with what was about to pass. After a few seconds, he tried to draw a breath, but it would not come. He spasmed, his body shuddering and trembling. His fingers stretched themselves to their limit, his eyes opened wide, and then it was over. His body deflated, so that he seemed even smaller in death than in life.
There was a movement at the bedroom door. Willie Brew had entered during Leehagen’s final moments, troubled by the silence that had followed the gunfire. There was desolation on his face as he approached the bed. Killing those who were armed was one thing, however terrible he considered it, but killing an old, frail man, snuffing the life from him between a finger and thumb as one might a candle flame, that was beyond Willie’s comprehension. He knew now that his relationship with these men had come to an end. He could no longer tolerate their presence in his life, just as he would never be able to come to terms with the life that he had taken.
Louis removed his hand from Leehagen’s face, pausing only to close his eyes. He turned to the Detective and began to speak, just as Loretta Hoyle lifted her head from her dead lover’s shoulder and made her move. Her face had the feral quality of a rabid animal that has finally tipped over into madness. Her hand emerged from behind her lover’s body holding a gun, her finger already on the trigger.
She raised it and fired.
It was Willie Brew who registered the movement, and Willie Brew who responded. There was nothing dramatic about what he did in response, nothing fast or spectacular. He simply stepped in front of Louis, as though he were nudging into line before him, and took the bullet. It hit him just below the hollow of his neck. He bucked at the impact, then backed into Louis, who reached instinctively beneath Willie’s arms to break his fall. There were two more shots, but they came from Angel as Loretta Hoyle died.
Louis laid Willie on the carpet. He tried to loosen the shirt to get at the wound, but Willie pushed his hands away, shaking his head. There was too much blood. It gushed from the wound, drowning Willie in its tide. It bubbled from his mouth as his back arched, Angel and the Detective now beside him. Knowing he was dying, they took his hands, Angel the right and the Detective the left. Willie Brew’s grip tightened. He looked at them and tried to speak. The Detective leaned down, his ear so close to Willie’s lips that blood sprayed upon his face as the mechanic tried to say his final words.
‘It’s okay, Willie,’ he said. ‘It’s okay.’
Willie struggled to draw breath, but it was denied him. His face darkened with the effort, and his features contorted in his distress.
‘Let it come, Willie,’ whispered the Detective ‘It’s nearly over now.’
Willie’s body slowly grew limp in Louis’s arms, and the life left him at last.
30
They wrapped Willie Brew’s body in a white sheet, and placed it in the bed of a truck that was parked at the back of the house. Angel drove, the Detective beside him, while Louis kept vigil beside Willie. They followed the road to where the Fulcis and Jackie Garner were waiting. They saw the body in the back of the truck, the sheet stained with blood, but they said nothing.
‘Nobody came,’ said Jackie. ‘We waited, but nobody came.’
Then vehicles appeared in the distance: three black vans and a pair of black Explorers, approaching fast. The Fulcis grew tense, and hefted their guns in anticipation.
‘No,’ said Louis simply.
The convoy came to a halt a short distance from where they stood. The passenger door of the lead Explorer opened, and a man in a long black overcoat stepped forward, placing a gray homburg hat on his head to protect him from the rain. Louis climbed down from the bed of the truck and walked to meet him.
‘Looks like you’ve had quite the morning,’ said Milton.
Louis regarded him without expression. The distance between the two men was only a couple of feet, but a chasm yawned there.
‘Why are you here?’ said Louis.
‘There’ll be questions asked. You don’t just declare war on someone like Arthur Leehagen and expect no one to notice. Is he dead?’
‘He’s dead. So is his son, and Nicholas Hoyle’s daughter.’
‘I would have expected no less of you,’ said Milton.
‘Bliss too.’
Milton blinked once, but said nothing in response.
‘You answer my question,’ said Louis. ‘Why are you here?’
‘A guilty conscience, perhaps.’
‘You don’t have one.’
Milton inclined his head gently in acknowledgement of the truth of Louis’s statement. ‘Then call it what you will: professional courtesy, a tying up of loose ends. It doesn’t matter.’
‘Did you order the killing of Jon Leehagen?’ said Louis.
‘Yes.’
‘Did Ballantine work for you?’
‘On that occasion, yes. He was just one more layer of deniability, a buffer between us and you.’
‘Did Gabriel know?’
‘I am sure that he suspected, but it wouldn’t have done for him to have asked. It would have been unwise.’
Milton looked over Louis’s shoulder, in the direction of Leehagen’s house, and for a moment his eyes were far away.
/> ‘I have bad news for you,’ he said. ‘Gabriel died during the night. I’m sorry.’
The two men stared at each other. Neither broke.
‘So, what now?’ asked Louis.
‘You walk away.’
‘What’s the cover story?’
‘Gang warfare. Leehagen crossed the wrong people. He was engaged in illegal activity: drugs, people trafficking. We can say the Russians did it. We hear you know all about them. I’m sure that you’ll agree it’s entirely plausible.’
‘What about the survivors?’
‘They’ll keep quiet. We’re good at making people hold their tongues.’
Milton turned and waved to the clean-up teams. Two of the vans headed for Leehagen’s house.
‘I have one more question,’ said Louis.
‘I think I’ve answered enough questions for now. In fact, I’ve answered all of the questions I’m going to answer from you.’
He began to walk back to the Explorer. Louis ignored what Milton had said.
‘Did you want Arthur Leehagen dead?’ asked Louis.
Milton paused. He was smiling when he looked back.
‘If you hadn’t done it, we’d have been forced to take care of him ourselves. People trafficking is a risky business. There are terrorists out there willing to exploit every loophole. The Leehagens weren’t as particular as they should have been about who they dealt with. They made mistakes, and we had to clean up after them. Now we’re going to clean up after you instead. That’s why you’re walking away, you and your friends. It looks like you did one last job for us after all.’
He turned and signalled to the remaining black van. The side doors opened, and two men stepped out: the Harrys.
‘The local cops picked them up’, said Milton, ‘probably on Leehagen’s orders. Best thing that could have happened to them, under the circumstances. Take them home, Louis, the dead and the living. We’re finished here.’
The Charlie Parker Collection 2 Page 127