Perhaps thirty feet from me, at the edge of a pool of light shed by the last streetlamp on the road, a cloud formed and then disappeared. Something moved in a startled, frightened gesture. A face scanned to the left, then to the right, and a figure peered from behind a tree. It was Mifflin, one arm still shrouded in a sling. As I drew nearer, shielded by the shadows and my footfalls silenced by the snow, I saw blood drip thickly from his fingers and join a growing pool at his feet. I was almost upon him when some small sound caused him to turn. His eyes grew wide and he rose swiftly, a knife flashing in his good hand. I shot him in the right shoulder and he spun, his feet twisting beneath him, falling on his back and loosing a loud cry of pain as he landed. I moved forward quickly with the gun trained on him. He blinked hard and tried to focus as the light illuminated my features fully.
"You," he said at last. He tried to rise but he had no strength. Only his head moved before the effort proved too much and it fell back into the snow. As I looked at him, I saw that a long gash had been torn across the front of his coat. Something shone wetly within.
"Who did this?" I said.
He tried to laugh, but it came out as a cough and blood sprayed from his mouth and flecked his teeth with red. "An old man," he said. "A fucking old man. He came out of nowhere, slashed me, then took Contorno before we even knew what was happening. I fucking ran, man. Fuck Contorno." He tried to move his head, to look back to the town. "He's out there now, watching us. I can tell."
Maybury was quiet, and nothing moved on the street, but he was right: there was a watchfulness about the darkness as if, somewhere in its depths, someone held his breath, and waited.
"There'll be help here soon," I said, although I was unsure even as I spoke that things had gone our way back at the police department. At least we had Louis, I thought, otherwise we'd all be dead. "We'll get you to a doctor."
He shook his head once. "No, no doctor," he said. He glared at me. "It ends here. Do it, you fuck, do it!"
"No," I said softly. "No more."
But he was not going to be denied. With all the strength left in his body, he reached into the breast of his coat, his teeth gritted with the effort. I reacted without thinking and killed him where he lay, but when I drew his hand from his coat it was empty. How could it be otherwise, when he had only a knife to defend himself?
And as I stood back something seemed to flicker in the darkness across the street, and then was gone.
I headed back to the police department and had almost reached it when a figure appeared to my right. I twisted toward it, but a voice said: "Bird, it's me." Louis appeared from the shadows, his shotgun cradled in his arms like a sleeping child. There was blood spray on his face, and his coat was torn at the left shoulder.
"You tore your coat," I said. "Your tailor's going to shed a tear."
"It was last season's anyways," said Louis. "Made me feel like a bum wearing it." He stepped closer to me. "You don't look so good."
"You are aware that somebody shot me?" I asked, in a pained tone.
"Somebody always shooting you," he replied. "Weren't somebody shooting at you, beating up on you or electrocuting you, you'd be listless. Think you can hold it together?" His tone had changed, and I guessed there was bad news coming.
"Go on," I said.
"Billy Purdue's gone. Looks like Ressler collapsed from his wounds and Billy dragged him by the cuff of his pants over the cell while Angel and the others were distracted. Took his keys from his belt and a shotgun from the rack, then let himself out. Probably left the same way we did."
"Where was Angel? He okay?"
"Yeah, Angel and Walter both. They was helping Jennings to reinforce the back door. Seems like the last of Tony's guys made a second attempt on it after we left. Billy just walked out, clean and free."
"After we'd helped him by clearing the way." I swore viciously, then told him about Mifflin and the eviscerated man in the snow.
"Caleb?" asked Louis.
"It's him," I said. "He's come for his boy, and he's killing anyone who threatens him or his son. Mifflin saw him, but Mifflin's dead."
"You kill him?"
"Yes," I said. Mifflin had given me no choice but to kill him, yet there had been a kind of dignity to him in his last moments. "I have to get out to Meade Payne's place."
"We got more immediate problems," said Louis.
"Tony Celli."
"Uh-huh. It's got to end here, Bird. His car's parked maybe half a mile east, just on the edge of town."
"How do you know?" I said, as we began walking in that direction.
"I asked."
"You must have a very persuasive manner."
"I use kind words."
"That, and a big gun."
His mouth twitched. "A big gun always helps."
A black Lincoln Towncar stood on a side road, its lights dimmed, as we approached. Behind it were two other cars, big Fords, also with their lights dimmed, and a pair of black Chevy vans. In front of the Lincoln, a figure knelt in the snow, its head down, its hands tied behind its back. Before we could get any closer a gun cocked behind us and a voice said: "Put them down, boys."
We did as we were told, but didn't turn around.
"Now walk on."
The driver's door of one of the Fords opened, and Al Z stepped out. As the interior light came on I saw another figure, fat and silver-haired, dark glasses on his eyes and a cigarette in his hand. Then he faded into the gloom again as Al Z closed the door. He walked to the kneeling figure as three other men appeared from the second Ford and stood, waiting. The kneeling figure raised its head, and Tony Celli looked at us with dead eyes.
Al Z kept his hands stuffed firmly in the pockets of his gray overcoat and watched us as we approached. When we were ten feet from Tony Celli he raised a hand, and we stopped. Al Z looked almost amused.
Almost.
"I asked you to stay out of our business," he said.
"Like I told you, it was the 'our business' part that I had a problem with," I replied. I felt myself swaying, and willed my body to remain still.
"It's your hearing you have a problem with. You should have picked somewhere else to start your moral crusade."
He withdrew his right hand to reveal a Heckler & Koch 9mm, shook his head gently, said, "You fucking guys," in his soft, clipped tones, then shot Tony Celli in the back of the head. Tony slumped face first on the ground, his left eye still open and a hole where his right eye used to be. Then two men came forward, one with a plastic sheet over his arms, and they wrapped Tony Celli and placed his body in the trunk of one of the cars. A third man ran a gloved hand through the snow until he found the bullet, then slipped it into his pocket along with the ejected case and followed his comrades.
"He didn't have the girl," said Al Z. "I asked him."
"I know," I said. "There's someone else. He took a blade to two of Tony's men."
Al Z shrugged. The money was now his primary concern, not the ultimate fate of those who had chosen to follow Tony Celli. "The way I figure it, you've done worse than that," he said.
I didn't respond. If Al Z decided to kill us for what we'd done to Tony Clean's machine, there wasn't a whole lot I could say that would make him change his mind.
"We want Billy Purdue," he went on. "You hand him over, we'll forget what happened here. We'll forget that you killed men you shouldn't have killed."
"You don't want Billy," I replied. "You want your money, to replace what Tony lost."
Al Z took his left hand from his pocket and moved it in a gesture that indicated: "Whatever." Discussing the circumstances of the money's retrieval was just an exercise in semantics as far as he was concerned.
"Billy's gone. He got away in the confusion, but I'll find him," I said. "You'll get your money, but I won't hand him over to you."
Al Z considered this, then looked to the figure in the car. The cigarette moved in a gesture of disregard, and Al Z turned back to us.
"You have twenty-four hours. Af
ter that, even your friend here won't be able to save you." Then he walked back to the car, the men around him dispersing into the various vehicles as he did so, and they drove away into the night, leaving only tire tracks and a smear of blood on the snow.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The station house looked like it had been attacked by a small army. Its front windows were almost entirely shattered. The door was pitted with bullet holes. Angel opened it as we arrived, and glass tinkled to the floor. Walter stood behind him. Behind us, some of the braver locals were approaching from the southern end of the town.
"Now we go find Caleb," said Louis, but I shook my head.
"There are going to be more cops on their way here soon. I don't want you or Angel here when they arrive."
"Bullshit," said Louis.
"No, it isn't, and you know it. If they find you here, no amount of explaining is going to get you out of trouble. Anyway, this part is personal-for me and for Walter. Please, get going."
Louis paused for a moment, as if he was going to say more, then nodded. "Tonto," he called. "We leavin'." Angel joined him and they headed for the Mercury together. Walter stood beside me as we watched them go. I reckoned I had about an hour left in me, maybe an hour and a half, before I collapsed.
"I think I know where Ellen is," I said. "You ready to go get her?"
He nodded.
"If she's still alive, we're going to have to kill to get her back."
"If that's what it takes," he said.
I looked at him. I think he meant it.
"Okay. You'd better drive. It hasn't been my best day behind the wheel."
We left the car a quarter of a mile beyond the Payne house and approached it from the rear, using the trees as cover. Two lights burned inside, one in a front room, the other in an upper bedroom. There was still no sign of life when we reached the verge of the property, where a small hut, its roof fitted with a sheet of corrugated iron, stood decaying slowly. There were footsteps in the snow that were not entirely obscured by the snowfall. Someone had been moving about recently, and the engine of the truck parked close by was still warm.
A smell came from the hut, the desolate odor of decaying flesh. I moved to the corner, reached around and carefully slipped the bolt. It made a little noise, but not much. I opened the door and the smell became stronger. I looked at Walter, and saw hope die in his eyes.
"Stay there," I said, and I slipped inside.
The smell was so strong now that it made my eyes water, and the stink was already clinging to my clothes. In one corner stood a long chest freezer, its corners eaten by rust which had left holes in its structure, its unconnected lead twisted around one support like a tail. I covered my mouth and lifted the lid.
Inside, a body lay curled. It was dressed in blue overalls, its feet bare, one hand behind its back with the rotting fingers splayed, the other obscured by the body. The face was bloated and the eyes were white. They were an old man's eyes. The cold had preserved him somewhat, and despite the ravages that had been visited on his body I recognized him as Meade Payne, the man in the photo back at the diner, the man who had died so Caleb Kyle could take his place and wait for Billy Purdue to come to him. Beneath his body, I saw a tail and black fur: the remains of his dog.
Behind me, I heard the door creak on its hinges and Walter entered slowly and fearfully, his eyes following my stare into the freezer. He could not keep the relief from his features when he saw the body of the old man.
"This the guy in the picture?" he asked.
"That's him."
"Then she's still alive."
I nodded, but I didn't say anything. There were worse things than being killed and I think, in the dark, shuttered places of his mind, Walter knew that.
"Front or back?" I said.
"Front," he replied.
"Okay, let's do it."
The house smelled sour when I opened the front door quietly and stepped into the large kitchen. There was a pine table with four matching chairs, the surface of the table covered with bread, some of it days out of date, and opened cartons of milk that even the temperature in the room had not prevented from going off. There were also some cold cuts, their edges curling and hard, and a dozen empty Mickey's Big Mouths, along with half a bottle of cheap grain whiskey. In one corner stood a black trash bag, from which the worst smells of all came. I reckoned it contained over a week's worth of rotting food.
Through the open kitchen door I saw Walter enter the house, his nose wrinkling at the smell. He moved to his right, his back to the wall and his gun panning across the front dining room, which was connected to the kitchen by a half-open door. I moved forward and did the same with the TV room on the left side of the house. Both rooms were littered with discarded potato chip bags, more beer bottles and cans, and half-eaten food on dirty plates. The TV room also contained a green knapsack, all strapped up and ready to be taken away. I gestured to the stairs and Walter led, keeping to the wall to avoid any creaking steps, his gun high in a two-handed grip.
On the first landing was a bathroom that stank of urine and excrement, with damp, filthy towels lying across the toilet or piled on the floor by the door. Up two steps was the first bedroom, the bed unmade and more scattered food on the floor and dresser, but with no other indication that it had recently been occupied. There were no clothes, no shoes, no bags. It was in this bedroom that the light still burned.
Ellen Cole lay on the bed in the second bedroom, her hands tied to the bed frame with ropes. There was a black rag tied over her eyes and ears, cotton padding stuffed beneath the band to muffle her hearing. Her mouth was taped, with a small hole torn in its center. Two blankets covered her body. On a small bedside table sat a plastic water bottle.
Ellen didn't move as we entered the room although, as we drew closer, she seemed to sense us. Walter reached out to touch her, but she drew away with a small sound of fear. I pulled back the blankets gently. She had been stripped to her underwear, but she didn't appear to be hurt. I left them there as I searched the third bedroom. It, too, was empty, but the bed had obviously been slept in. When I returned to the second bedroom, Walter was gently holding Ellen's head and working the blindfold free. She blinked, her eyes narrowed even in the comparative darkness of the room. Then she saw him and started to cry.
"All empty," I said.
I walked to the bed and cut the ropes holding her hands with my pocketknife while Walter stripped away the tape. He held her in his arms as she cried, her body heaving against him. I found her clothes in a pile by the window.
"Help her to get dressed," I told him. Ellen still had not spoken, but while Walter slipped her feet into her jeans I took her hand and drew her attention to me.
"Ellen, there are just two of them, right?"
It took her a moment or two to respond, then she nodded. "Two," she said. Her voice was strained from lack of use, and her throat was dry. I gave her the water bottle and she took a small sip through the straw.
"Did they hurt you?"
She shook her head, then began to cry again. I held her, then moved away as Walter put her sweater over her arms and drew it down. He put an arm around her shoulders and helped her from the bed, but her legs collapsed almost immediately.
"It's okay, honey," he said. "We'll get you down."
We were about to make our way down when, from below, there came the sound of the front door opening.
My stomach tightened. We listened for a moment or two, but no sound came from the stairs. I indicated to Walter that he should leave Ellen. If we tried to move her again, we would alert whoever was downstairs. She made a tiny, mewing sound as he drew away from her and tried to hold him back, but he kissed her gently on the cheek to reassure her, then followed me. The front door hung open, and snow billowed in from the darkness beyond. As we approached the final steps, a shadow moved in the kitchen to my right. I turned and put a finger to my lips.
A figure moved across the doorway, not looking in our direction. It w
as the young man I had met on my first visit to the house: Caspar, the man I believed to be Caleb's son. I swallowed hard and moved forward, my hand up to let Walter know that he should hang back near the front door. I counted three and stepped into the kitchen, my gun raised and pointing to my left.
The kitchen was empty, but the connecting door into the dining room was now fully open. I sprang back to warn Walter, just in time to see a shape move behind him and a knife gleam in the dimness. He saw the look on my face and was already moving when the knife came down and caught him in the left shoulder, causing his back to arch and his mouth to contort in pain. He brought his gun across his body and fired beneath his left arm, but the knife rose and caught him again, this time in a slashing movement across his back as he fell. Caspar pushed Walter hard from behind, and his head impacted with a loud smack on the end of the banisters. He fell to his hands and knees, blood running down his face and his eyes heavy and dazed.
The young man turned to me now, with the knife held blade down in his right hand. There was a fresh bullet wound at his hip, staining his filthy chinos a deep red, but he did not seem to notice the pain. Instead, he curled himself and hurled his body down the hallway toward me. His mouth was open, his teeth were bared and the knife was ready to strike.
I shot him in the chest as he ran and he stopped hard, his body teetering on the soles of his shoes. He put a hand to the wound and examined the blood, as if only then would he believe that he had been shot. He looked at me one more time, cocked his head to one side and then made as if to move at me again. I fired a second shot. This time, the bullet took him straight through the heart and he fell back onto the bare floor, his head coming to rest close to where Walter was trying to raise himself onto his hands and knees. I think he was dead before he hit the ground. Above me, I heard Ellen cry out, "Daddy," and saw her appear at the top of the stairs, dragging herself across the steps toward him.
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