Devils in Exile

by Chuck Hogan

  Maven went low around the corner, back toward the head of the hallway. He heard footsteps on the stairs, and some in the wide hallway.

  “Maven,” said Termino, calling out from somewhere nearby. “Why don’t you—”

  Maven didn’t wait, he darted out and started firing, striking the body on the stairs. Someone opened up on him from the other end of the hall, and Maven returned, holding him off long enough to duck through another door.

  Maven bumped up against a wall and smelled cedar. He realized he was inside a broad, empty closet. He rushed back out, taking rounds in the side and back, his vest repelling them as he folded inside the next doorway.

  Another bedroom. This one smelling of perfume. Danielle, he thought, though he was alone there—for the moment. He waited behind the door, ears ringing, unable to hear footsteps.

  Flashlights now. In the hallway. Going door-to-door.

  Maven got low and stayed that way.

  Two flashlights and submachine guns pushed inside, scanning the room. Their beams picked up a three-part mirror in the far corner, bouncing their light and movement around the room. They opened fire on the perceived ambush, shooting wildly, everything staccato and strobed in the room. Another gunman rushed in to join them, and Maven fired low from behind, dropping all three.

  The flashlights fell, throwing odd slants of light across the floor. The gunmen groaned, gasped. Maven stayed where he was.

  Termino moved inside. His flashlight playing over the faces of his wounded men, looking for Maven.

  By the time his beam found the shattered mirrors, Termino understood what had happened. He never turned. He didn’t bother.

  He saw his reflection in the glass fragments remaining in one side of the mirror. Maven standing behind him, gun out.

  “Fine,” said Termino. “Whatever.”

  A SINGLE GUNSHOT PUNCTUATED THE BARRAGE OF AUTOMATIC FIRE on the floor below. They got him, Royce thought, belt-tucking his Beretta, keeping hold of Danielle’s arm as he dug out his phone.

  “Termino,” he said, using the push-to-talk function. “Lew. Lew?”

  Maven’s voice answered, “He’s unable to take your call right now.”

  Royce hardly believed it. Danielle squirmed under his grip, he was squeezing her biceps so tight.

  He recovered, reasserting himself, a note of command in his voice. “You listen here, Maven. I’ve got Danielle with me, so be very fucking careful where you—”

  Ponk! Ponk! Ponk!

  Three chips cracked open in the floor around Royce’s feet. Maven, firing blindly up at them. Royce staggered backward, unhit.

  He had only three guys left upstairs with him. He grabbed a submachine gun off the nearest and shoved the guy toward the stairs.

  “Hold him off !” said Royce, pushing Danielle toward the bedroom door at the end of the darkened hall.

  MAVEN LOCATED THE SIDE STAIRWAY, RUSHING UP TO THE THIRD floor. He exited the alcove and entered the middle of the hall, behind the gunmen watching the main stairs. Maven had the drop on them.

  Then a three-round burst from behind ripped up the back of his vest. Maven twisted, went down, fired behind him.

  It was Royce, spitting flame from a door at the end of the hall.

  The gunmen, alerted by Royce’s volley, spun and opened up on the end of the hall, half-blind.

  Maven rolled to face them, firing from the floor, shins and knees, dropping them.

  He rolled back to face Royce, who had closed the door by then.

  Maven rolled back again, finishing off two gunmen, a third alligator-crawling into a doorway to die.

  Maven crabbed into a room to reload.

  ROYCE DUMPED HIS PHONE AND THE BERETTA ONTO THE DRESSER, needing both hands free for the Steyr. It carried a thirty-round magazine, but he had no time to check how many were left.

  He went to the east-facing window and looked down into the security light shining upward. A lower corner of the roof was near enough, but then what? A long fall onto the courtyard and two broken legs.

  Barricading the door would be an idiot’s play. He wanted Maven blundering inside, didn’t he? Walking right into the chain saw.

  So he set up along the shadows of the side wall, ten feet laterally from the door. He gripped the Steyr, ready to open up on the first person to walk inside. All he had to do now was to provoke Maven into making one final mistake.

  Royce looked to Danielle, standing at the dresser with her back to him, her eyes catching some of the window light, teary, glowering.

  “Call him,” hissed Royce, crouching against the wall with a tight smile. “Call to him!”

  MAVEN WAS SORE FROM THE ARMOR HITS, BUT STILL NOT CARRYING any lead. His breath was short and shallow, coming from high in his chest. He couldn’t get enough air.

  He had finished reloading when he heard Danielle’s voice.

  “Neal! Neal …”

  Like stabs from a knife. Driven by thoughts of Samara, he rushed into the hallway. A thin strip of silver light lay at the bottom of the door at the end, small fingers of light reaching out from bullet holes in the wood.

  Royce was behind that door. Maven didn’t hesitate, starting toward it, pistols up.

  Bang! Bang-bang!

  The reports stopped him. He expected more holes in the door, but the shots had remained inside the room.

  He ran at the door, striking the knob square with the heel of his boot and busting it open, crashing inside.

  The barrage he had expected—the one he was relying upon to tell him the source and direction of his target—did not occur.

  Instead, he found Royce on the floor at the base of the shadowed side wall. A puddle of darkness was expanding beneath his neck. The Steyr was inches from his hand, though he showed no interest in it.

  Maven turned. Danielle stood in the shadow of a dresser, smoke rising from a Beretta pistol cradled in her hands.

  Maven looked back to Royce. He kneeled on his chest. Royce’s mouth was open, but he made no attempt to talk. His eyes were full, staring up at the snowy shadows drifting against the ceiling.

  Maven waited. He waited for Royce to look at him.

  Royce never did. His eyes stayed on the ceiling, amazed by the tumbling black flakes. He died watching them.

  Maven stood after a while. Danielle came up behind him.

  “He was going to kill you,” she said.

  The emptiness Maven felt was acute, like the hole in his head where his left eye used to be. He said, “We were going to kill each other.”

  Danielle reached out to him one-handedly, like a child uncertain whether the thing she wanted to touch was hot or cold. “I did it for you.”

  Maven took the murder weapon from her other hand and dropped it onto Royce’s chest. Then he turned and started back through the broken door. He was walking away.

  “Neal?” she said, a note of panic in her voice.

  Maven kept walking.

  RETREAT

  MAVEN DROVE THE PARISIENNE NORTH INTO THE VERMONT mountains, Ricky sleeping fitfully next to him. No radio, no conversation, no stops. The stillness of the frozen terrain suited his mind-set.

  The sign read MOUNTAINSCAPE RETREAT. The main building looked like a small ski lodge. The branches of the surrounding trees were coated with sun-reflecting ice, like trees made of glass.

  The inside was alpine, peaceful. The admitting director’s lips appeared very pink within his salt-and-pepper beard. “The VA has its own residential detox and recovery,” he said.

  Maven said, “They’re not top five in the country. I looked you up.”

  “There is currently a three-month waiting list for a bed, and even then, his insurance would cover very little of it.”

  Maven lifted the duffel bag onto the counter. He ran the zippers down each end.

  The admitting director looked at the cash inside.

  “Enough for a full six-month program,” said Maven. “He’s a disabled army veteran. You can move him to the front of the l
ine.”

  OUTSIDE, MAVEN HELPED LOAD RICKY OUT OF THE CAR AND INTO A wheelchair. Ricky looked over at the admitting director, watching them from the building.

  “You can do this,” said Maven, kneeling in front of Ricky. “You have to.”

  Ricky winced, the thought of a six-month stay worsening his headache. “You’ll take care of my car?”

  “I will.”

  “You gonna visit?”

  “Yeah. I’m gonna visit.”

  Ricky looked down into his lap.

  Maven said, “Ricky. I know I fucked up a hundred different ways. I’ll carry that with me forever.”

  Ricky looked at him—really looked at him—and said, “What about you? What do you do now?”

  Maven straightened. “One more thing I gotta do. One last guy I gotta see.”

  BURNING WINDOW

  LOCKERTY WAS IN HIS UNDERWEAR EATING PASTA AT THE KITCHEN table. He was a messy eater and didn’t like to feel self-conscious, so he always ate alone. And if the meal involved a red sauce, he ate without too many stainable clothes on.

  The television was on next to the refrigerator, but he had the Boston Phoenix personals open in front of him, and he was more interested in scanning for some action. By chance, he looked up as the photograph of a young, black boxer was shown on the screen. The words below read, “Brockton Fight Legend in Grisly Discovery.”

  The Dynamo. Lewis Termino. Royce’s pit bull.

  A grisly discovery?

  Lockerty said to the TV, “Are you shitting me?”

  The story ended fast. He had come to it too late.

  “Mr. Leroy!” he called.

  He tried changing stations, but he kept pressing the wrong buttons. He couldn’t find out anything more.

  “Mr. Leroy!”

  The house was awfully quiet. Nothing more than the sound of water running through the pipes. Lockerty stood, leaving his napkin on the table, downplaying his concern. He moved to the window and looked outside, where dusk was turning to night.

  He arrived just in time to see the end of a long shadow running across the yard below.

  “Mr. Leroy!”

  He took a knife off the table and went to the back stairs, calling for him. The upstairs bathroom door was shut. Lockerty rushed inside with the knife, just as Mr. Leroy was stepping out of the shower.

  Mr. Leroy looked at the knife, looked at Lockerty.

  Lockerty said, “I think he’s here.”

  Mr. Leroy squeezed his blond dreadlocks with a towel, then reached for his pants. “Bringin’ me his other eye.”

  MAVEN WAITED BENEATH THE FRONT PORCH AS LOCKERTY’S WATCHman came to the head of the stairs, looking toward the cars, investigating the noise. When he turned to go back to his padded chair, Maven grasped his ankle from the side, upending him hard. Maven jumped onto the porch in a flash, but the fall had done the job, the watchman out cold.

  Inside, Carlo heard Lockerty calling him from upstairs. “A minute!” he yelled back, moving out the front door onto the porch, checking on the bang he had heard and felt. He saw a man lying half on his side at the top of the steps. “Jimmy!” he said, rushing to him.

  But it was not Jimmy. It was Maven, and he lifted his hand and shot Carlo twice in the chest.

  Mr. Leroy arrived thirty seconds later. He stopped at the threshold of the wide-open front door, seeing Carlo dead on the porch.

  Mr. Leroy smiled and started back inside, going to the stairs, gun first.

  MAVEN FOUND THE BEDROOM AT THE END OF THE UPSTAIRS HALLWAY. The bed he had been strapped to was still there, the lumpy mattress stained and bare. He looked to the window, saw the same leafless tree branches he used to stare at. He went to the window and for the first time saw the ocean beyond, the shore lapping at a narrow beach underneath the low, swelling moon.

  He pulled out a knife and slashed open the top of the mattress, exposing springs and old filler. He pulled out a squeeze bottle of lighter fluid and doused the mattress, flipping a lit match at it.

  The white Jamaican entered the room barefoot and bare-chested. The flaming mattress compelled his attention, leaving Maven just the extra moment he needed to come at him hard from the side.

  He drove Mr. Leroy against the wall, rattling the old window. Mr. Leroy’s gun discharged, the round firing into the floor, the shock of it causing him to take his finger off the trigger. Maven slammed his arm against the wall and the gun popped free. Maven reached for it and quickly tossed it onto the flaming bed.

  Mr. Leroy pulled a knife from his pocket, flipped it open, and—before Maven turned back—buried it in Maven’s thigh. His leg screamed, and Mr. Leroy went after Maven’s gun arm and neck, locking up his elbow, forcing Maven toward the flames. Maven pushed back, the knife in his leg weakening and yet hardening him at the same time. The Jamaican had a hand around Maven’s throat, and Maven saw a timepiece around the man’s wrist, and something about it commanded his attention.

  An Oris timepiece. Maven’s watch. Seeing it changed everything. Maven pivoted on the painful leg, shifting his weight with a wrathful yell, spinning Mr. Leroy around. He backed the Jamaican toward the flames—near enough that the Jamaican’s dreads began to smolder.

  Mr. Leroy let up on Maven’s throat, and Maven shoved away from him, the Jamaican just avoiding the flames. Maven looked down at the knife handle jutting from his thigh and yanked it out in one swift motion. It hurt more coming out than going in. The blade was slick with his blood, and in a moment of madness, staring at Mr. Leroy, Maven licked the silver clean.

  Mr. Leroy’s fire-brightened eyes went wide, seeing this. His hair was smoking. Maven advanced, backing him up to the window, not with his gun but with the knife.

  MR. LEROY’S HOWLING CHASED LOCKERTY FROM HIS HIDING PLACE inside the house. He rushed out the still-open front door, past Carlo’s dead eyes and down the stairs, past Jimmy lying on the grass, rounding the corner toward the cars with keys in hand.

  The cars were all burning inside, the upholstery torn up and flaming.

  Lockerty panicked. He thought about running for the road in his underwear. Then he went back up the porch stairs to Carlo, looking for his gun. He grabbed it and ran down to the grass, this time heading around the house toward the back, toward the shore.

  He stopped when he saw flames coming from the second-floor of his house. At that precise moment a shirtless body smashed through the window and fell, dreadlocks over bare feet, to the ground.

  Lockerty saw one-eyed Maven standing in the window, framed by fire, looking down. Lockerty popped two caps in his direction, running across the grass to the wood steps leading to the moonlit beach. Wind ripped through him, running too fast, breathing too hard. The sand was harder closer to the water, so he ran with the edge of the tide lapping at him, out past the edge of his property, hoping to find some hiding place beyond.

  The first gun crack he barely heard. The second kicked up a bit of sand in front of him. He turned and fired behind him while still running. The third skipped up some water, again a miss. Lockerty turned to shoot again and was struck, middle left between two ribs, and the sudden pain brought him down.

  He fired twice more in anger at Maven’s distant figure, and the gun clicked dry. Lockerty dropped it and tried crawling, but it was no good. He lay down to rest a moment and found it impossible to sit up again.

  The water at his feet made bearable the heat building up inside his chest. All he could do was watch Maven limp toward him across the sand, a gun low at his side.

  MAVEN SAT A FEW YARDS AWAY FROM LOCKERTY, FEELING NOTHING for him now. The older man was dying and there was nothing to say.

  He looked out at the water coming in, cold as moonlight, dark as oil. His thigh muscle twitched, the knife wound like a little mouth crying out in blood and pain.

  When he looked back at Lockerty after a while, Lockerty was dead.

  Maven detected movement to his right. A seagull, picking through the night sand. Maven hadn’t expected to see this: he hadn
’t expected to see the end. He’d envisioned himself somehow fading away as the job was completed. Expiring in the process. Dying in the attempt.

  Maven sighted the gull, believing it to be the same one that had visited his sickbed dreams. But eventually he lowered the gun, knowing he was done.

  THE CYCLE

  THE MORNING SUN ROSE COLD OVER THE NEIGHBORHOOD, LIGHT coming in at a hard slant. Maven waited after ringing the bell, and the door was pulled open by a young, brown-skinned man wearing a Tufts crewneck over a collared shirt.

  Maven said, “Looking for Agent Lash.”

  Rosey Lash sized up the caller, cautious. “Hold on.”

  Inside, Rosey stepped back into the kitchen where Lash was clearing their breakfast dishes. “Some guy here for you, Dad. Looks pretty out of it.”

  Lash went to his jacket hanging over a chair and slid his sidearm out from the holster beneath it. He tucked it into the back of his pants and went to the door.

  It was Maven, though it took Lash many moments to be certain. The eye patch was legit, he could see the edge of a scar showing off one corner. Maven’s face looked as if someone had got at it with a potter’s tool. He wore a loose-fitting army jacket, a large duffel bag at his feet.

  “Well.” Lash backed away from the door, inviting Maven inside.

  Maven carried the heavy bag with a painful limp. He set it down next to the kitchen table with a clunk and lowered himself into one of the chairs, one leg outstretched.

  Lash stood for another moment, then sat down across from him, such that Maven could not see the gun tucked into the small of his back.

  “Rosey, why don’t you hit your room for a bit, all right?”

  Rosey looked at his father. “You sure?”

  Lash said to Maven, “We’re fine here, right?”

  Maven nodded.

  Rosey didn’t leave yet. “You sure you’re okay?”

  Lash wanted to pull his bighearted boy into a hug. He did care about the old man after all.

  “We’ll be fine,” Lash said, and Rosey backed off, retreating down the hall.