Past Echoes

by Graham Smith

  I land face down and he clambers up my back.

  His fists batter at my kidneys and ribs until he’s in a position where he can land his blows on my head. Due to his wounded ankle he’s lying on top of me, instead of properly straddling me, and getting plenty of purchase behind his punches.

  Rather than squirm round to offer him my face, I lever both of us from the floor and whip my hands on the one he’s trying to snake round my throat. We fall together, but now one of his hands is beneath me and that means he’s off balance.

  I push up with one hand while holding on to his wrist with the other.

  I tip him off me and whip myself away from him, delivering a kick to his ankle as I go.

  He yelps and suggests I’m of a similar nature to Oedipus.

  I pull myself to my feet and kick him in his gut as he tries rising to his knees.

  He grunts, but the bulletproof vest must have taken most of the venom from the blow.

  I’m about to deliver another kick when his hand grasps at his jacket and produces a knife.

  Ike’s blood still taints it, and I’m not fool enough to go near him while he’s holding it.

  The Mortician uses my reticence to clamber up to his good leg.

  I use the time to pull out my own knives.

  He’s better than me with a knife, I have no doubt about that.

  His eyes flick to my knives, and an understanding brightens his face when he sees they are ordinary domestic knives, rather than the hunting knife he holds.

  He now knows I’m an amateur, that I don’t have any great amount of training, and that every piece of hurt I’ve inflicted on him so far has been achieved by dumb luck.

  ‘If you walk away now, there’s very little I can do to stop you.’

  ‘You shot my girlfriend. I’m only going to walk away when you’re dead.’

  He pauses.

  ‘The girl on the boat?’

  I nod affirmation as he slashes his knife towards my throat.

  Instinct makes my hands go up to deflect his blow and I feel his knife slice through my jacket, opening deep cuts on my forearms.

  One of the knives slips from my hand as the pain causes my fingers to uncurl.

  Adrenaline takes a stance and my empty hand grasps the handle of a large frying pan.

  It’s longer than his knife and, with the right amount of force behind it, is heavy enough to break a bone.

  I take a few half-assed swings with the frying pan. I’m not trying to hit him: I’m judging his range and the speed of his reactions.

  He’s quick and there’s a certain mobility to him despite the fact he’s only putting any real weight on one leg.

  I swing the pan again, taking care not to put so much power into a missing swing that the momentum carries me to a point where I’m vulnerable.

  His face shows he’s assessing me as much as I’m assessing him.

  A spark in his eye warns me of a counter lunge, and I deflect his attempted stab with the frying pan.

  With his arm knocked out wide, I swing the frying pan upwards towards his balls. It gets trapped between his legs, but he’s off balance. A yank on the frying pan forces him to put weight on his smashed ankle and he yelps as I bury my knife into his bicep.

  His knife goes into my shoulder and I feel it scrape my collarbone as we fall to the floor.

  We both roar in pain as we fight for control of the knives.

  I use both my hands to twist his wrist to breaking point. He drops the knife and I give his wrist a sudden rotation that makes the bones crack.

  I’m not done there though. I lever myself off him and do the same to his other arm.

  He’s now only got one limb that doesn’t have broken bones.

  I pull my knife from his arm and lay the blade against his throat.

  There’s fear and pain in his eyes, but also acceptance. I guess with his kind of profession you expect that one day it may well be you who dies.

  ‘This is for Taylor.’

  I slide the knife across his throat and leave him gushing arterial blood onto terracotta tiles.

  92

  When I open the door from the kitchen to the dining room, I see the room is already filling with smoke.

  I double over, and half limp, half trot, to the door that leads to the hall. It’s warm to the touch, but there’s not a lot I can do about that.

  I duck lower to avoid the billowing flames that come in when I open the door. Once the initial gust has passed, I dash through the burning hallway to the stairs as fast as my wounded leg allows.

  My thoughts are on those who’re left upstairs: Baruch and Ike; Tagliente and his buddies; the five hookers.

  The heat is intense, and the smoke has me coughing and choking by the time I reach the foot of the stairs.

  I reach the upstairs corridor on hands and knees to keep the worst of the smoke from being sucked into my lungs. While the heat hasn’t yet reached here, the smoke is thick and noxious. It pervades the whole building and shields the ceiling from view.

  The pain in my shoulder is riotous to say the least, but I ignore the agony as I scurry, still on my hands and knees, to where Baruch and Ike are.

  Ike is unconscious, but I see a spark of life in Baruch. I go to lift him and fail.

  He shakes his head. ‘That ain’t gonna happen. I’m done for, and so is Ike. Ain’t no way you’re gonna be able to carry us out of here before the fire gets all three of us. Even if you do, I can’t see us making it.’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense.’ I try to be sincere and determined, but he looks at me knowingly.

  ‘You got a gun? Burning and screaming in agony ain’t the way I want to go.’

  I pull out the gun I retrieved from the kitchen floor, and insert the clip containing five bullets.

  Baruch lifts his good arm, with his hand open, and I lay the gun in his palm. The pistol looks tiny in his great paw.

  I look at his face and see nothing but calmness.

  ‘No regrets, Jake.’ He swallows and coughs. Bright arterial blood seeps from the corner of his mouth. ‘Now, get yourself out of here.’

  I give him a nod of thanks and sneak a look at Tagliente before I leave.

  He’s still laid out on the bed, but now he has a bullet wound in his left side. I stand and take a better look. There’s a huge, ugly exit wound on his other side, but his chest is still rising and falling.

  I’m hit with a sudden new level of comprehension. The Mortician was here ahead of schedule because he was coming here anyway. His purpose was murder. Whatever had gone on between him and Tagliente had angered someone to the extent that Tagliente’s death had become a priority.

  Perhaps he’d pissed off The Mortician, but my guess is that he’d tried to hire him to take out Chellini, and whoever else was in the running to take over Chellini’s organisation.

  The length of time The Mortician had been away was enough for him to have been able to get to New York, speak with Chellini, and return.

  The damage that The Mortician’s bullet will have wrought to Tagliente’s intestines is unimaginable and, while I’m the first to acknowledge I’m not a doctor, I really don’t fancy his chances of surviving a rescue attempt.

  With the fire blazing away downstairs, the only way left for us to escape is over the balcony I’d used earlier.

  I take the gun from Baruch, put its muzzle against Tagliente’s forehead, and pull the trigger. It’s a mercy killing and, while I’m not sure he deserves my mercy, I feel released from murderous instincts and the desire to inflict serious pain now that both The Mortician and Tagliente are dead.

  Baruch takes the gun from me and looks to his brother. As I leave the room, he’s lifting the gun towards Ike’s head.

  He shoots once as I cross the hallway, and again when I reach the lounge door.

  Their deaths, along with those of Taylor and Yerik, are something I know will eat at my conscience, but that’s a matter for another time.

  93

 
I enter the lounge and slam the door shut. It won’t stop either the fire or the smoke, but it will slow them. The open French doors that were smashed by The Mortician’s bullets, and my mad dash, are drawing the fire upwards, so everything I can do to limit the free movement of air will buy us time.

  There are seven bodies lying on the floor but only six of them are trying to look my way.

  The redhead with the scarred face is motionless and there’s a crimson stain on her white dress. One of The Mortician’s bullets must have caught her when he was raking the room trying to kill me.

  I check for her pulse without success.

  I pull the knife from my boot and free the other six. Twelve eyes show fear as they stretch their limbs and massage tender areas to stimulate blood flow.

  Tagliente’s two buddies look reasonably buff. Whether their muscle comes from the gym or hard work, they’ll be able to help the girls.

  ‘Right, you lot. Listen up. This is the plan. We’re going to go over the balcony, slide down the roof, and drop to the ground.’ I point to Tagliente’s buddies. ‘You two go first, and I’ll lower the girls as far as I can so you can catch them. Don’t worry, ladies, it’s only a few feet from the edge of the roof to the ground.’

  One of the guys says something about being afraid of heights, so I drop him to his knees with a gut punch.

  ‘Listen up, douchebag. I killed The Mortician tonight. You’ll do as you’re told, or you’ll be next. Do you understand me?’

  He nods as he clambers to his feet.

  I lead everyone to the balcony and take the two guys to where I’d made my escape earlier.

  ‘Guys. There’s a drop of roughly ten feet once you go over the gutter. Don’t try and stay on your feet; roll like you’ve done a parachute jump. I’ll do my best to make sure the girls come down as slowly as possible, but you’ll have to catch them. Can I trust you to do that, or do I have to make threats?’

  The guy I hadn’t punched shoots me a look of disgust. ‘Shit, man. You came back for us and the girls. You coulda left us to burn, but you didn’t. We’ll help them all we can.’

  I nod, and point to the edge of the balcony.

  He climbs over the rail and slides down the roof.

  When I hear him shout a confirmation that he’s down, I help his once-punched buddy over the balcony. He’s shaking like a plate of jello being driven over a mountain track, but he doesn’t hesitate for more than a heartbeat.

  The girls are jostling for position, but I halt them with a raised hand and clamber over the end of the balcony myself.

  With one hand wrapped around the balcony rail’s corner post, I help the first girl over the rail and hold her arm as she slides down. My arms burn at the strain, but that’s nothing compared to the agony of where The Mortician’s knife dug into my shoulder.

  When I can extend myself no further, I let go of the girl’s arm and release her. She slides down the roof and disappears over the edge.

  A moment later I see the two guys laying her on the manicured lawn behind the house.

  The second and third girls follow without incident, but the fourth is a different proposition.

  She has most of one leg and all of one arm missing. That’s a problem, but not an insurmountable one.

  The real issue is her state of mind. She’s gone beyond fear, passed terror, and totally ignored petrified. The girl is having a full-blown panic attack and is wailing and thrashing herself around.

  I gently take hold of her and try to use a soothing tone without letting too much urgency creep into my voice.

  ‘You killed Ruby; you and that other man. You’re going to kill me now, aren’t you?’ She swings her arm at me.

  Her hand bounces off my head as an explosion fills the air. The lounge door crashes to the floor and a huge fireball billows towards us.

  I throw myself on top of the girl and use my body to shield hers from the fireball’s volcanic breath.

  She squirms beneath me until I realise there’s no way I can calm her down before we either get incinerated, or die from smoke inhalation.

  From inside the house there’s the sound of collapse, so I make a fist and hit the girl just hard enough to make her groggy.

  It’s wrong on many levels, but I force my aching leg to carry me back into the lounge. Somehow, I can remember the code Tagliente gave us for his safe when he thought we were burglars. The dial spins beneath my fingers and I get the safe door open in less than a minute.

  There’s a stash of money and what looks to be a variety of drugs. The money goes into my backpack and I toss the drugs onto the floor by the door so they’re sure to burn.

  I don’t like stealing and I don’t consider myself to be a thief. The only reason I’ve taken this money is to repay Alfonse what he’s loaned me, and so I can afford to finish this affair in a way that’s right for all concerned.

  With the money stashed, I head back to the balcony and lift the final girl’s inert body over the rail.

  Now when I put my hands on the slates, they’re hot from the fire below. Not twenty feet from us a section of the roof falls in and sends a shower of amber sparks billowing upwards.

  I lay the girl on the slates and lower her to the extent of my reach before letting her fall.

  Beneath me the roof creaks and shifts downwards a little.

  As soon as I see the guys are out of the way, I release my grip on the corner post and slide down the roof.

  There’s no attempt at braking this time, and I don’t even try to grab the gutter. Instead, I’m preparing myself for a hard landing.

  I thump to the ground, roll twice, and come to a halt in a row of rose bushes.

  The pain from their jagging, scratching thorns is welcome: it tells me I’m alive; that I’ve survived this ordeal.

  I drag myself to my feet and thrust a hand into my backpack. I grab a bundle of money and toss it towards the girls. ‘That’s from Tagliente.’

  Next, I lurch round to the front of the house.

  Ike’s car is still there.

  For the first time tonight I have a spot of good luck: the keys are in the ignition. So are the keys to The Mortician’s SUV.

  I back The Morticians car up to the guardhouse and haul Yerik’s body into the driver’s seat.

  After opening the fuel cap, I plant Yerik’s foot on the gas pedal, release the parking brake, and send the SUV tearing off toward Tagliente’s burning front door.

  The fire ignites the SUV’s gas tank as I’m climbing into Ike’s car.

  Whether the fire will burn hot enough to destroy the bodies of my three new friends is anybody’s guess, but I’ve done as much as I can to make sure there’s no trail leading back to Halvard and Gavriel.

  94

  I dump Yerik’s car in an alleyway and clamber out. There were several moments on the drive back to New York from the Hamptons when I thought the sirens arrowing towards Tagliente’s house were about to turn and pursue me.

  None of them had, and because I was afraid of being spotted I took back roads wherever possible.

  I’m at the point of exhaustion when I totter through the door of Halvard’s pawn shop and approach the counter.

  Gavriel sees me coming and lifts a flap in the counter with one hand, waving me through with the other.

  Halvard is sitting in the office chair, and the way he looks over my shoulder before examining my face tells me everything I need to know.

  ‘They fell?’

  ‘They did.’

  I’d say more, but there are times when words are useless.

  What could I tell him? Would it help, knowing that one nephew had been murdered by a ruthless killer? That his other two nephews were so badly injured they couldn’t escape the fire he’d lit?

  His eyes are rheumy and there are occasional tears running down his cheeks.

  He looks at my dishevelled state and goes back to staring into space. I wonder if he’s remembering them – as children, attending their bar mitzvahs and watchin
g them grow from children into the huge men they’d become.

  ‘Did they die in vain?’

  ‘No, they didn’t. The Mortician’s dead and they died heroes.’ I lick my lips and ponder on how much to tell him. He won’t want to know about individual suffering, or how Baruch had killed his brother out of mercy before turning the gun on himself. I decide Ike’s bravery, in spearing his eye on The Mortician’s knife, is worthy of telling, even if the details are best left unsaid. ‘All three of them were heroes, but especially Ike. His courage knew no limits.’

  Halvard gives the faintest of smiles. ‘Ike always was fearless. There was nothing that boy wouldn’t try to climb.’

  We sit in silence for a while and then I rise to leave. I still have one task left before I catch a plane back to Casperton.

  95

  Alfonse picks me up at the airport. His face is full of concern and there’s no mistaking the fact that he’s had very little sleep since I returned to New York.

  As I walk towards him I see his eyes watching my every movement. He’ll be noticing that I can barely lift my feet, that one arm is tied up in a rudimentary sling, and that my face and scalp are covered with minor contusions.

  ‘Is there any part of you that isn’t beat up?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘This isn’t you, Jake.’ He pulls a face. ‘You may have seen yourself as an instrument of vengeance, but that’s not what you are. You know it and so do I. I’m not saying the people you have killed didn’t deserve to die, I’m saying it’s not your place to decide who lives or dies, and it’s not your job to deliver that kind of justice.’

  I’d hang my head in shame if I was still a kid. ‘I know. I knew it before I went after them, but haven’t you ever been so angry?’

  I let the question tail out; there’s no rationalising what I’ve done, not to him, not to anyone else, not even to myself.

  Alfonse turns out of the airport parking lot and heads towards town. ‘Have you any idea how often Chief Watson has been in touch, demanding I tell him where you are?’