The Redemption Man

by James Carver

  “Can you see it? Two men with sunglasses sitting outside a bank for nearly two hours. Now, I’m no Columbo but…” Devlin didn’t have time to finish. Martin had already gone. He was behind the counter on his cell talking hurriedly, the blood drained from his face. On the other end of the line, the District Heights Police radio dispatcher recognized the address and the caller’s name and sighed. Martin had raised the alarm at least half a dozen times since the last armed robbery.

  Devlin returned to his car. He tilted his rearview mirror to get a ringside view of the Chevy and made like he was talking on his cell. This would shake things up. If they were undercover police, there would be a quiet conversation, nods of heads, and the cop car would be back on its way. If they weren’t, well, then the gloves were off.

  It took a little under eight minutes for the police to respond. Two black-and-white Ford Police Interceptors arrived in quick succession and pulled up in front of the Chevy. Four officers got out, and one of them, tall and overweight, approached the car while the others stood back, watching for how things would play out. Devlin didn’t miss his cue and wheeled out back onto the highway.

  Inside the Chevy, the driver, a weaselly-looking guy with a thin oily face, watched Devlin disappear down the highway and out of view. He threw up his hands and cried, “What the hell? I don’t believe it. Do you think he saw us and called the cops?”

  “Shit. Maybe he did,” hissed his partner in the passenger seat, who was a good deal heavier and bald with a carelessly shaved goatee. “I told you we shoulda hung further back. We got no choice now. We have to let him go. Just sit the fuck tight, Bradley, and don’t say anything. It might be a nosy cop just fishing.”

  The cop signaled for the skinny guy to wind down his window. He complied.

  “May I ask what your business is here, sir?” asked the cop.

  “Uh, we were just parking up to pick up a coffee and a bite to eat, Officer.”

  The officer looked unimpressed with the answer and asked for IDs, which were duly handed over. “So, Mr. Bradley, Mr. Otterman, you boys came all the way from Ohio for a bite to eat?”

  “You don’t know how hungry I get,” said Otterman.

  The cop took a look at Otterman. “I could take a good guess. Please step out of the vehicle so I can search it.”

  “Uh…well, is there a reason why you need to search my car, Officer?” said Bradley.

  “Please just step out of the car, sir. Or we can talk this out back at the station if you’d prefer. It’s really up to you.”

  Devlin had settled a few blocks back up along the highway, out of sight on the grass bank of a slip road. He watched the two guys standing by looking agitated while the cop searched their car. It was pretty clear by now that they weren’t undercover, and he was able to check them out properly as they stood on the roadside. Sunglasses and badly fitting suits. Difficult to say for sure, but from the look of them and the Chevy, Devlin’s money was on private detectives. If they were PIs, they weren’t high-end; they looked more like they made the bulk of their living from the spousal surveillance racket. Bottom-feeders.

  Devlin could see the cop hadn’t found anything and was giving them some sort of talk. The two PIs got back into their car, waited for the cop to go, and took off. Devlin waited too and then followed some way behind.

  “Shit!” rasped Otterman. “We got no idea where he could be. What a fuckup. Who’s going to tell Stein?”

  “We need to pull over for some gas first. Then we’ll flip for it,” Bradley replied. He rode on for a couple of miles until he spotted a Red Top and pulled off the highway and stopped by a pump.

  “Get a receipt this time, Bradley,” said Otterman.

  “You think we’re gonna get expenses on this? For the day’s work we’ve done?”

  “We caught some bad luck is all. That’s what we tell Trayder. Get me a Pop-Tart, will ya?”

  “Since when do gas stations sell frickin’ Pop-Tarts?”

  “If they do, then get me Wildlicious Cherry…no, wait, Brown Sugar Cinnamon.”

  “Who eats Pop-Tarts anyway? They’re goddamn terrible for you. Just scalding slices of sugared cancer.”

  “Well, it ain’t you who’s…” Otterman broke off midsentence and craned across Bradley to peer through the driver’s window. “Would you look at that. Some stupid bastard is paying at our pump.”

  “What the hell is he—?” But Bradley was cut short as the driver’s door was whipped open. The stupid bastard in question was Devlin.

  Bradley reached for the ignition, but before he could get to the key, Devlin cupped his hand around the top of Bradley’s head and bounced it off the wheel. Bradley shrieked in pain and bent double into his own lap. In the confusion, a panicked Otterman froze, staring in disbelief at his partner, who was rocking back and forth clasping his forehead. Suddenly the stench of gasoline filled the car. Thick, heavy liquid was splashing onto the back of Bradley as he groaned, spilling into Otterman’s lap, covering the dash and dripping down in the footwells. Devlin was holding the pump nozzle and flicking liters of gas over the occupants of the car.

  “What the hell are you doing, you fucking maniac?“ shouted Otterman. “You fucking crazy bastard!” Bradley was gagging on the liquid as it ran over his head and into his mouth and nose. Devlin dropped the nozzle and pulled out a plastic lighter from his jacket pocket.

  “I have to confess, I’ve taken a guess at the octane rating. Tell me why you’re tailing me, or I light you both up and you burn like it’s a hot day in hell.”

  “What kind of priest are you?” Otterman squealed.

  “The kind of priest that was in Air Force Special Investigations for ten years. You guys really should have done your homework.”

  “Please! Jesus, please! Don’t…don’t do it! Christ!” begged Bradley, still choking and spitting out fuel and saliva. “We were tailing you for a client, some guy out of Ohio. I swear, that’s all we knew. Please!” Devlin could see the cashier behind the till looking out of the glass front onto the forecourt, trying to work out what was the commotion was about.

  “Run,” said Devlin, standing back from the door.

  “What?”

  “You wanna live? Get out of the car and run. Go. Now!” Devlin held the lighter high in the air.

  “You’ll blow us all up! There are fucking vapors everywhere!” screamed Bradley, wheezing and retching.

  “I’m ready to meet my maker.” Devlin flicked his thumb and a small flame glowed in his large hands. “Run.”

  Bradley slid out from his seat, snaking through the narrow space between priest and the car, and backed away. Otterman fumbled at the door handle, finally pulling it open and clambering out of the door. In his desperation to get out, he skidded on the sill and fell out of the car onto the concrete forecourt, then scrambled to his feet and sprinted after his partner.

  “Run,” bellowed Devlin.

  The two men scampered off down the highway in their dripping suits, looking back from time to time until they disappeared out of view.

  Devlin pocketed the lighter and took his card out of the chip card reader. It was a risk using his card for the gas, but instinct told Devlin that these guys were unlikely to go to the cops for the same reasons they’d been attempting to covertly tail him and not give themselves away. And the risk had bought him the chance of a snoop in their car.

  Other customers at the pumps were looking over. They hadn’t got to their cells yet. They were mostly terrified for their own safety, standing still, hoping to God they weren’t going to be involved. The fact that Devlin had his clerical collar on created more confusion and bought a fraction more time. But all the same, he figured he had seconds, a minute at most. He leaned into the stinking car, pulled down the driver’s sun visor, and found an Ohio Class A private detective’s license registered to a Rick Bradley. What was a PI from Ohio doing tailing him in DC? He pulled open the glove compartment and scrabbled around the contents, cursing his shaking hands. In amon
gst phone chargers, pens, and receipts he found an envelope. It was addressed to Mr. Ed James. This discovery stopped Devlin in his tracks and immediately set alarm bells going. He punched the dash.

  “For the love of God! Ed? You moron! This is about you? You dumb-assed…!”

  Devlin had known Ed when they served on Osan Air Base in South Korea. They had gotten to be close as brothers, but he hadn’t seen him in nearly five years. Inside the envelope was a Greyhound bus ticket from Springfield Ohio to Massachusetts. On the back of the ticket, Ed had scribbled the words “St. Jude’s,” Devlin’s church. Ed must have been planning to come see him.

  Devlin took the ticket and slipped it in his jacket pocket. The cashier had come out through the sliding door to take a closer look. People were staring while they filled up, looking over, trying to work out what was going on. Devlin replaced the nozzle, walked out of the forecourt, and wove his way across the four lanes of traffic back to the safety of his car.

  As he drove off back toward DC, he took out his cell and scrolled through his contacts until he found Ed James’s number. It was a number he had from a while back. When he called, it rang and someone picked up but didn’t speak.

  “Ed? That you?”

  There was a pause. Devlin could hear deep breaths, then a reply, strained and whispered. “Who’s that?”

  “It’s Gabe.”

  “Gabe? Gabe Devlin?”

  “Yeah. What the hell’s going on, Ed? I just had two guys tailing me all the way from Baltimore to DC. PIs. They had a Greyhound ticket you bought to come see me.”

  “Two PIs were down in DC? Jesus… Listen, Gabe, I know it looks bad, but it’s nothing to concern you, I swear.”

  “Nothing to concern me? Two private detectives follow me for forty miles and I shouldn’t be concerned?” There was a pause. More deep, rasping breaths. “Ed?”

  “I don’t know why they’re following you, Gabe. I don’t know who they are, but you gotta believe me that it’s okay, Gabe. It’s…it’s a gambling thing. That’s all. I got into debt…I thought I might need to borrow some cash, so I was going to go see you, ask you for some dough. But it’s fine…I got it covered now…”

  “Where are you, Ed?”

  “I gotta go, Gabe.”

  “Who do you owe money to?”

  “I don’t…anymore… Like I say, I was in a bit of trouble…but…but it’s in order now.”

  “Oh yeah? You want to tell that to the two guys who hauled their asses all the way over from Ohio to find me?”

  “Jesus, Gabe, what do I have to say? It’s okay…”

  “It’s not okay, Ed. I can tell it’s not okay.” Devlin couldn’t be sure, but it sounded a lot like Ed was holding back from sobbing.

  “Tell me where you are. I’ll come and help you.”

  “Gabe, I got it worked out…” Now Ed’s voice was beginning to break up, cracking with emotion, maybe fear.

  “Let me come see you, Ed. Whatever it is I can help fix it—”

  “You’re not listening to me. It’s okay. It’s all fucking okay! So leave me the fuck alone.”

  “Ed?”

  There was a silence, and then the cell went dead. Devlin redialed, but it went straight to voice message. He looked at Ed’s address on the envelope. It was a place called Halton Springs, north of Dayton, Ohio. He knew Dayton; he’d been stationed there at Wright Patterson Airbase for a while in 2005, and Ed’s last posting had been there too. Devlin pulled over to the side sharply, causing the car behind to sound its horn.

  He turned the engine off and studied his hands. They were still, at last. He angled the rearview mirror to look at himself. His eyes looked tired and worn, seeking desperately for meaning, for an answer, for a purpose. For absolution. He had to pull himself together. The two men tailing him was just a crazy coincidence. It had nothing to do with Devlin. Nobody knew what Devlin had done, and nobody was coming after him. His actions were just a matter for his conscience and his conscience alone.

  Devlin knew from Ed’s voice and from all the things Ed hadn’t told him that something was deeply and badly wrong. He would go help his old friend no matter how bad things were. Even if it ended in pain. Maybe because it ended in pain.

  Devlin put the Halton Springs’ zip code into Google Maps on his cell phone. Jump School could wait. He was going to Ohio.

  2

  Congressman Clay Logan was tall, lean, and toothy. Blessed with a generous helping of breezy Midwestern charm, he was movie-star good-looking with a face that was tanned and sculpted. A successful businessman and rising-star Republican, Logan possessed an enviable mix of talents that inspired unusual resentment amongst his peers, even by Capitol Hill standards. He stood with effortless poise wearing one of his many elegantly tailored suits in front of the assembled guests at the Logan Ranch, beaming that toothy grin, emanating assurance and charisma.

  “I wanna give a heartfelt thank-you to everyone here for accepting my invitation to come up to the family ranch in Halton Springs. You do us a great honor. For some of us just venturing outside Washington may be a cold bath in itself.” A hum of laughter traveled the room. “Tonight is all about how good business can support, lift, and energize a community. Freedom Medical Care currently runs seven hospitals in the state of Ohio and has an economic impact that runs into the billions of dollars.” Logan turned to his left, acknowledging the lady sitting beside him. She was trim, poised, and the right side of glamorous for a serious businesswoman and gave the firm impression of being as smart as whip and twice as quick. “Under the enlightened leadership of their CEO, Marie Vallory, they have reached out and given their assistance to drug rehabilitation and funded research into childhood cancers. And tonight we are celebrating another landmark for Halton and for Freedom Medical, the opening of Freedom’s eighth hospital in Dayton.” There was a burst of applause. Logan paused to let it die and raised a glass. “So I’d like to propose a toast. To Halton Springs and to Freedom Medical—a progressive partnership making each other stronger. Here’s to good business.” The audience took to their feet, glasses in hand, and Logan basked in the adulation.

  After the speeches and toasts at the Logan Ranch, people began to network. They pressed the flesh and moved amongst each other, seeking out anyone who might be of any use at all in the continuing push to advance their careers even an inch forward. Marie and Clay, however, had retired upstairs to Clay’s office to carry on cementing their partnership. Marie was backed against Clay’s oak desk with Clay pressed up against her, nibbling at her neck. Marie moaned. The fingertips of his right hand moved along the outside of her hip and thigh and paused at the hem of her skirt. Marie tipped her head back and took a deep breath as Clay wrapped his fingers under and pulled up her skirt, his knuckles now moving against her hot inner thigh, creeping slowly up, making Marie pray for time to stop and speed up simultaneously. And then Clay stopped. Stopped still. Marie came to, back into the room, blinking in surprise and staring at Clay.

  “Why did you stop?”

  “I think someone’s coming.”

  “Shit.” Marie quickly smoothed down her dress and checked herself against the large window that framed the oak desk. She sat in one of the two chesterfield armchairs that faced the desk, entwining her lower legs. Clay likewise straightened himself up and relaxed into the chair behind his desk just as there was an impatient rat-a-tat-tat at the door.

  “Come in,” answered Clay. The door swung open and Earl, Clay’s younger brother, entered. He was beanpole tall with a head that hung to one side, like he was expecting incoming fire at any moment. His dark brown eyes were mean and narrow and sat under a thick lick of yellow hair that crested over his long forehead.

  Earl registered Marie sitting by the desk but, apart from a flicker of disgust, didn’t give her even the tiniest acknowledgment. His presence instantly made Marie tense, and she did her best to disguise it. She could feel the boiling, swirling rage that seemed to be the one force keeping him alive, but she noticed
too that Clay seemed oblivious to it. Maybe because he’d known Earl all his life, he’d gotten so used to his brother he didn’t see it like everybody else did. Or maybe it was because that was how Clay was, so assured in himself, so self-possessed that Earl’s anger didn’t reach him.

  “Everything okay, Earl?” asked Clay.

  “No. No, it’s not okay. You roped Packer into the fertilization lab. He’s my foreman—get someone else.”

  “Sorry, Earl, but I need Packer. He knows the business, and I can rely on him. I gotta have him, Earl. I need his experience.”

  “Get your own foreman; he was mine first.”

  “Earl, the only person who knows our stock better than Packer is you. And you made it quite clear you wanted nothing to do with the lab. So if you won’t help me, then I think it’s unfair that you won’t let me use Packer. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

  Earl’s knuckles whitened as he curled his fists tight. “No. I haven’t changed my fucking mind.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do here?”

  “Get your own foreman, and stop sucking off of me like a parasite.”

  “We both know that’s not true. The side of the business that’s keeping our raggedy asses in profit is the lab, Earl.”

  Earl’s expression didn’t change, and he spat back, “Packer’s mine. End of.” And then he left, slamming the big oak panel door so hard that the framed photos along the wall jumped on their hooks.

  “It’s hard to believe he’s your brother,” Marie said stonily, her former ardor now vanished completely.

  “Yeah, he’s a tricky son of a bitch, that’s for sure.”

  “Tricky? Are you crazy? He’s an animal, Clay. He’s dangerous.”

  “What can I do? He’s my brother. He’s okay; his bark’s worse than his bite.”

  “When somebody has a bark that bad, that really isn’t any reassurance. No. You gotta do something about him.”