Graves put his hand on her arm, stopping her as she went to push the door open.
“Kam, I…”
She met his eyes. His face was open, more open than she’d ever seen him. He’d dropped the straight-laced mask for once. Her heart sped up. Was he finally going to give her something? Finally tell her he had feelings. Was he going to pucker up those lips and lean in?
“Kam…I just wanted you to know…” he said.
“Yes?”
“I just…I just…wanted to tell you…”
Oh for god's sakes, spit it out, man!
“…That it’s been an honor to work with you,” he said.
She sighed and patted his hand. Oh well, close as she was going to get. Except he wasn’t going to get away with it this time.
“You owe me more than that, buster,” she said.
She grabbed his coat and pulled him to her. Before he could react, she planted her lips on his. He jerked back, but she didn’t let him pull away. After a second he softened and let it happen.
She didn’t get any tongue.
But, she’d take what she could get.
She let him go, then popped the door open and slid out before he could say anything. The air was cool and had a grassy, farm smell to it. Which maybe it worked for some people, but wasn’t to her taste. Real air had a tinge of car exhaust to it.
The other door opened and gravel crunched as Graves came up to her.
“Kam,” he said.
“Shut up. You’ll ruin the moment,” she said.
She held the Beretta at her side. Her fingers touched the three extra clips in her pocket. It seemed unlikely she’d need them. There would be just one of the Reaper in that barn. He’d want to face her by himself. It would be better if Graves stayed behind. Especially since the idiot seemed to have a death fixation. Maybe she could flush the Reaper out fast enough that Walt wouldn’t have to even come in.
Yeah, right.
The Reaper wasn’t going to make it easy.
She took a deep breath and stepped toward the barn. The sky was darkening fast now. The barn loomed over her, the double doors like the maw of some blocky beast, ready to swallow her.
The gravel crunched under her shoes and her leg popped and creaked as she walked toward it.
Time to get this over with.
Fifty-Nine
One of the big double doors was ajar. Harley faced eighteen inches of blackness, twelve feet tall. Her palm sweated on the butt of the Beretta.
Walt came up beside her. “This is a bad idea,” he said.
“You already told me that,” she said.
“Just wanted to remind you.”
“Thanks.”
“You might want this,” he said. He held out a flashlight. She snatched it from his hand.
“Yeah, it’ll help him see me better,” she said. She pointed to wires leading to the barn from a nearby pole. “How about you look for a light switch?”
“Assuming he hasn’t cut the wires.”
“Try to think positive.”
They flicked on the flashlights. Harley raised her gun and the flashlight and squeezed through the opening. Her heart hammered like a roofing contractor on speed, but it felt good to be holding a gun in her hand again. She felt confident. The Reaper wasn’t going to get away this time.
Something whistled through the air. It hit her left arm and slammed it against the wood. Then the pain hit and she let go of the flashlight. She screamed and tried to duck, but her arm was pinned to the door.
“Kam!”
Footsteps pounded toward her.
“Walt! No!” she cried.
A gunshot thundered. Walt grunted. She turned and saw him crumple to the concrete floor, his flashlight rolling away.
“No!”
She clawed at the thing pinning her arm to the door. Some kind of arrow. Jesus, what kind of freak used arrows? She slid the Beretta into her pocket and wrapped her fingers around the arrow. She yanked at it.
The pain was incredible. She groaned and nearly blacked out.
But it wasn’t the worst pain she’d ever had.
She steadied herself. If she couldn’t pull it out, then break it. She pulled down. The shaft bent, but didn’t break. Metal.
“That was too easy, Detective Harley. I expected you to be more difficult.”
The Reaper. Her blood froze at his cultured tones. She fumbled for the Beretta in her pocket.
“Really, I expected you to put up a fight,” the Reaper said, “After all this was supposed to be our big showdown.”
Her fingers closed around warm metal. The pain made her vision waver. She scanned the darkness. Nothing. The dim glow of the flashlights showed her concrete and nearby wooden beams. She had a sense of a vast space beyond her.
“Show yourself, asshole,” she said, “I’ll give you a fight.”
“Ah, now that is the Detective Harley I know,” the Reaper said.
Where was the voice coming from? It seemed to echo all around her. The bastard could have been standing next to her for all she knew.
“Come out,” she shouted, “Or are you too afraid to face me?”
“Caution is fear’s first cousin, is it not?” the Reaper said, “I’ve lived a long time in a profession that is fraught with danger. I try not to rush headlong into anything.”
Her fingers tightened around the gun. She slipped her finger around the trigger. The voice seemed to be coming from directly ahead of her. Was he watching in the shadows behind one of those wooden beams? There had to be a way to draw the fucker out.
“You’re a fucking coward,” Harley said, “You’re just a worthless piece of shit who thinks he’s better than everyone else.”
The Reaper’s laughter echoed around her. “I know I'm better than everyone else," he said, "Why do you think I've been trying to rid this poor planet of its blight? The world would be a much better place without all of you.”
The voice seemed to be coming from directly in front of her. She twisted her body to hide the arm in her coat pocket. Electric pain coursed down her other arm and she gasped.
“Do not worry, Detective Harley,” the Reaper said, “Your pain shall be over soon.”
The voice was definitely coming from directly in front of her. She started to pull the Beretta out of her pocket. The Reaper had a gun this time. She’d only get one shot at this. Literally.
“I would like to take some time and show you just how much I hate humanity,” the Reaper said, “But, alas, I cannot afford to tarry. The authorities are momentarily distracted, but they will be here before long.”
The Beretta cleared her pocket and Harley swung it up. She pulled the trigger four times. The gun bucked in her hand, roaring flame and thunder.
Then there was an arrow sticking out of her other arm. Pain exploded from it. She dropped the Beretta. It clattered to the concrete. She slumped back against the door. The pain was making the darkness close around her. No! She shook her head and bit her tongue. If she went unconscious now she’d never wake up.
“You people are so stupid,” the Reaper said.
She realized he was standing in front of her. He was dressed all in black, including the mask that covered his face. Just like when they had fought in her father’s garage. He cradled a crossbow on his arms. It wasn’t loaded.
He was wearing a black shoulder holster. A pistol was tucked in it under his left arm.
“Did you really think I would make myself an obvious target?” the Reaper asked, “I mean, really? You didn’t even make this challenging for me.”
Though the waves of pain beating down on her, she tried to focus on his head. He took a step closer.
“You must be like your father,” the Reaper said, “All tough exterior, but a trembling coward when confronted with the immediacy of his own death.”
She brought her head up and spit at him. He dodged it easily.
“Fuck you,” she said, “My father was a million times better than you. He was a hu
man being. You’re just a walking piece of shit.”
“Your words are meaningless,” the Reaper said, “Just the babbling of a lesser creature. But, I see you are hurt. Shall I put you out of your misery?”
He lowered the crossbow and pulled a knife from behind him. The blade was long, thin and black, like a sliver of night.
Harley slumped, hanging her head and whimpering. “Please no,” she said.
She watched his feet. He took two steps closer.
“Showing your true colors at last,” he said, “I don’t know why–”
Harley lunged forward. She ignored the searing pain from left arm as she drove it over the arrow embedded in it. She brought up her right arm, slashing at the Reaper’s face.
The point of the arrow tore his mask and bit into flesh.
The Reaper screamed and fell back.
“Fucking bitch!” he cried.
She threw herself at him. She plowed into him, throwing all her weight on him. He grunted, staggering back. He swung at her with his knife. The blade sunk into her side.
She didn’t let up.
She punched his face. The pain from her arm made the world go white for a moment. Then they were both falling. The Reaper landed first, his back smacking hard against the concrete. The air whuffed out of him along with a girlish cry.
Harley grabbed the arrow still stuck in her arm and drove it into his throat.
Suddenly his hands were scrabbling at his throat. He gagged and choked. Harley pressed her forearm down, keeping her weight on the arrow. His hands beat at her, trying to push her off. He tried to roll her off, rocking side to side, but she held on, riding him like bucking bronco.
The bottom of her forearm where it met his neck was hot and wet. His blood and hers, mingling.
“Let’s see who bleeds to death first, asshole,” she whispered to him.
She could feel him weakening, the life draining out of him. His hand moved down his side. Touched the knife that was still embedded in her.
"No you don't," she said. She shifted her weight on the arrow. She pushed it down through her forearm, deeper into his neck. It struck on something hard, then slipped free.
The Reaper shuddered, then went still.
Light blossomed around her. She looked up to see Graves standing by the big double door, his hand on a bank of switches on the wall. He was hunched over, hand pressing his side. Red seeped through his fingers.
“Jesus, Harley,” he said, “Are you okay?”
She looked down at the Reaper. The black mask still covered his face, except for the red slash the arrowhead had made. She had to know. Had to see. Moving her arm was agony, but she had to do it. She pulled his mask off.
It was him. Carlson Savoy.
The same face as the clone they had captured. The face was older, lined, but still bland. The only remarkable thing was his thick, gray hair. His brown eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling, his mouth open. His lips were red with blood.
Footsteps beside her. Graves, kneeling.
“Oh, Jesus, Harley,” he said, “We gotta get an ambulance.”
She would have agreed with him, but she was feeling too tired to speak. A warmth was stealing over her. Her eyelids were just so heavy. She had to close them. She lay her head on the Reaper’s chest, stilled now for eternity.
Her voice was a whisper, but she got the words out: “I got him for you, dad.”
The darkness closed in around her.
Sixty
Harley was surprised to wake up.
Her nose told her she was in a hospital. Astringent smells of disinfectant and medicines overlay the scent of blood and sickness.
She lay still for a long while, her eye closed. Dim, pinkish light came through her eyelid. She hadn’t lost the other eye then. A good thing. Slowly she translated and cataloged the signals her brain collected from the far reaches of her body. Both of her forearms ached and burned. An experimental flexing of her fingers sent hot flashes of pain running up her arms. There was another pain in her left side. It had a dull, deep throb that disturbed her more than her arms did.
And her stump itched. Of course.
The other leg and foot seemed unharmed. The knee ached a little, but maybe that was just the weather. She had a headache and her lips were dry. But those seemed within the normal range of feeling, too.
Somehow, she had lived.
It seemed unlikely, given the amount of blood that had to be coming out of her back…
She let the jumble of images wash over her. Graves getting shot. The Reaper looming up out of the darkness like death himself. The feel of his neck under her arm, their hot blood mingling. Finally, his eyes, wide, unseeing.
Dead.
“I won,” she said. Her voice was cracked, raspy.
“You sure as hell did,” Graves said.
She opened her eye. Hospital room. Pale green paint, plain brown trim around the door. Bedside table, empty. Tubes running out her arm, one of them full of dark liquid. Metal rails on the bed, pale blue blanket and white sheets. An empty chair sat across the room.
“Walt?” she said.
“Over here.”
She rolled her head toward the sound of his voice. A green curtain hung from a metal track, blocking her view. A familiar hand grabbed the curtain and yanked it aside. There, in his own hospital bed, with I.V. tubes stuck to his own arm, lay Walt Graves. He grinned. She couldn’t help but grin back. If her body would have let her, she would have jumped out of the bed and tackled him.
“You’re alive,” she said. A stupid thing to say, but she couldn’t help it.
“So are you,” he said.
“Yeah, why?”
That was the real mystery. Graves shook his head, still grinning.
“You got lucky. Really lucky,” he said, “You remember that Buick parked in the barn?”
Buick? She tried to remember what she’d seen when the lights when on. There was a dim impression of a vehicle parked deep in the shadows.
“Uh, not really,” she said.
“Well, turns out it was the Reaper’s kill car,” Graves said, “And he had a body in the trunk. Except the body wasn’t dead yet.”
“Huh?”
“Apparently the Reaper was saving this guy for desert or something,” Graves said, “The Reaper snatched him at random, like he always did. The guy heard what went on. He heard me calling in for medics. That’s when he started banging on the trunk and screaming that he was a doctor. I pried the trunk open and he went to work on you. Kept you alive until the paramedics showed up. We ended up getting a helicopter ride to the hospital.”
Harley rolled her head back. She didn’t remember any of it. But then, she’d been mostly dead.
“Holy shit,” she said.
“Yeah,” Graves said.
She rolled her head back toward him. Graves was staring at her, still smiling. “But the Reaper’s dead, right?” she asked.
“He’s dead,” he said.
It didn't feel like a triumph. She'd wondered for years what it would feel like to finally get the son of a bitch. Would she have jumped up and down and cheered? Done a fist pump? Naw, not her style. In the old days, she would have had a drink. Now…she just wanted to relax. Could she finally do that, knowing he wasn't out there anymore?
Or was he?
“What about the clones?” she asked.
Graves frowned. He lifted a hand and rubbed his head. Her heart sped up. Which was probably going to set off alarms at some nurses station, but she didn’t care.
“Did Parker get the clones?” she asked.
“Sort of,” Graves said.
“Sort of? What does that mean?”
“From what Parker told me, when they got to the building, something happened,” Graves said, “Either the clones–or maybe the Reaper set the building on fire. They all burned up.”
Harley took a deep breath. Which sent jolts of pain shooting out from her side. Maybe shallow breaths for a while, instead.
Except…why bother with her? He could have just disappeared. Given his resources, Carlson Savoy could have created a dozen new airtight identities.
“Did they ever find the doctor guy, you know the guy who made the clones?” she asked.
Graves frowned and looked away. He stared at the door like he was wishing for someone to come in.
“Yeah, he was in the barn,” he said, “Forensics went through it. They found a huge cellar hidden under it. Parker told me guys with twenty years under their belts, guys who had seen everything, were running out and puking their guts out. Dr. DeVol was down there. The Reaper had taken his time with him.”
Harley bit back the first thing that came to her tongue. Serves him right.
The clone guy might have been a coward for going along with the Reaper’s plan, but he didn’t deserve whatever the Reaper did to him. No one did.
“So they finally found the Reaper’s playground?” she said.
Graves nodded. He looked disturbed. And a little green. Had Parker shown him pictures. Or just described things in extraneous detail?
“Are they sure they got all the clones?” she asked.
Graves shrugged, then grimaced and put a hand to his side. How bad had the Reaper gotten him? Not enough to keep him down.
“Who knows,” he said, “Parker said there weren’t any records to be found at any of the Reaper’s places. We’ll just have to hope the Reaper got them all.”
Some of the tension crept back into her shoulders. Were there still a few rogues out there? Would she have to track them down and kill them too? She laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Graves asked.
“I’m just picturing hunting down all the clones,” she said, “I’d be the serial killer serial killer.”
Graves gave her a sour look. “You have a weird sense of humor.”
She settled her head back on the pillow. She and Graves were alive and the Reaper and his clones were dead. At least most of them.
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