The Redemption Man

by James Carver

  “What can I do? I can’t throw him out of the business.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s family.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “And because he’s a part owner. The business was split between both of us when dad died.”

  “There wouldn’t be a business without you, Clay. How many times have you cleared up the mess he’s left behind? How many beatings has he given out? If you weren’t his brother and your dad wasn’t who he was, he’d be at the state penitentiary, in solitary. Or death row. I mean it, Clay—he’s a psycho.” Marie stood. “His behavior is a risk to your career, and therefore it’s a risk to mine.” She walked to the door and turned to give her parting shot.

  “Do something about him.”

  Marie left but her words hung in the air, and Clay swung his chair round to look out the window, taking in the clear night sky, the wealth of visible stars, and the spread of the ranch below. His gaze drifted over the dark outlines of the trailers and barns and up to the highway. As he weighed up Marie’s ultimatum and the intractable difficulty that Earl’s personality presented, his eyes idly tracked a pair of headlights in the distance that approached and passed the main ranch entrance at high speed, spearing along the dark landscape like a shooting star. Kids, he thought, damn kids, high on something or other and tooling around like maniacs. They’ll get someone killed. Then he swung back to his desk and resumed picking over his private troubles.

  The car out on the highway all by itself was an old Ford Explorer, and the occupant wasn’t some stoned kid. He was a weary priest, gripping and leaning into the steering wheel. Devlin looked up at the lights on in the ranch house, a grand building that sat some way back from the highway.

  A feeling was growing in Devlin, a sense of purpose, maybe even destiny, that he had been searching for a long time. For the past few weeks, he had been possessed by a strange feeling. Maybe it was guilt, maybe it was the dawning realization of what he had done, maybe he was straight out losing his mind—whatever it was, it coursed through his body. And then there was the dream. The same dream night after night. He closed his eyes momentarily to try and forget and then forged ahead. Halton Springs was surely where he was meant to be.

  3

  Devlin drove by the ranch that stretched out along the highway for about five or six miles. After that he passed a group of trailers that looked like a small encampment of travelers. And all the while he drove, in the background, sitting on the skyline, was the forest. It had become a constant companion on Devlin’s journey toward Halton. All the way from the ranch to Ed’s house and beyond, never out of sight from the highway, a dark edge of dense woodland that climbed up and away into the far night sky.

  Devlin could see on his cell’s Google map he was coming up on Ed’s address, so he slowed to a crawl by a row of trees that screened Ed’s house from the highway. Where the line of trees ended, he found a turnoff that led up a gravel path. He stopped short of the house, cut the engine, and took a good look at it.

  Cloaked from the road by ash trees and lit only by moonlight was a shabby one-story house. It had a modern white-wood exterior with a sloping, ribbed metal roof. The windows were old and dirty with faded, peeling, dull green shutters, some of which had come off their hinges. The garage was up at the north side of the house, the side farthest from Devlin, and was open. From where Devlin stood, he could just see the back of a cargo van parked inside.

  The house was dead quiet. And dark. Not a single light was on. Devlin walked across the path up to the porch, rang the bell, and waited. No answer. He looked in through the living room window. It was hard to make anything out, so he pressed his face up against the cold glass. There were the shapes of a couple of armchairs and beyond them a rectangle of countertops marking out the kitchen diner. He scouted around back, looking in through the other windows, but at night, without any light inside the house, he couldn’t make out much else. He circled back around and stopped in front of the open garage door and the cargo van.

  Inside the garage, Devlin tried the handle on the van’s door. It clicked and released. He pulled it open, slid in, and turned on the cab light so he could take a look around. The van stank of tobacco. The seats were battered and marked from heavy use, the dash was scuffed, and there were Styrofoam cups and junk food packaging lying around in the footwells.

  Devlin scanned the dash. It was fairly basic: AC controls, CD player and radio, and three cup holders in a row. The clock showed just under a hundred thousand miles. He sat facing the steering wheel and reached across to the glove compartment and pulled it open. Inside the compartment were a bunch of receipts for gas, a couple of pouches of tobacco, and a slim GPS unit. He took the GPS and looked it over. To Devlin it seemed kind of old-fashioned to have a separate GPS unit; they’d been mostly superseded by smartphones. He turned it on and it flashed up a logo and then a home screen appeared, but there was no list of recent journeys. Devlin turned it off and slipped it into his pocket, then twisted round to look into the cargo part of the van. There was an empty liquor bottle lying on its side, discarded cable ties, a coil of yellow tow rope, and nothing else. Devlin swung back around and got out of the cab.

  At the back of the garage was a service door to the main house. Perfect for a way in. Then he noticed that someone else must have had the same idea: the frame by the lock had been busted and splintered. The house might not be as empty as it appeared, thought Devlin. He pushed the door and it creaked open a few inches. He paused for a moment; if he was going in, he was going in prepared. He stepped back and took a look around the garage. Below the fuse box and propped up against the back wall was a two-by-four. He picked it up to feel the weight in his hand. It was good enough. Solid. He turned the flashlight on his cell phone on and slid through the service door into the main house.

  The service door opened onto the living room with the breakfast bar and the kitchen diner to the right. There was a heavy, unpleasant odor in the house, a rank mix of cigarettes and stale food and sweat. He shined the light around. To his left, in front of the living room window and front door, was a sofa, a couple of armchairs, a coffee table, and a TV housed in a tall cabinet. Straight ahead, in the older part of the house, he could see a hallway that had to lead to the bedrooms and bathroom. The only sounds were the tick of a clock and the hum of the refrigerator. He found a light switch on the wall and flicked it on. The shadeless low-watt living room bulb hummed and flickered into life, its flat yellow light revealing a room covered in dirty plates, greasy discarded pizza boxes, half-empty cups, and open beer cans. There were overflowing ashtrays, piles of old car magazines, and a couple of stray socks left by the armchair that hadn’t made it to the laundry basket. The place looked and smelled like it belonged to a lonely middle-aged man.

  Devlin walked through the living room, his feet moving between the islands of mess on the carpet, and stood at the top of the hallway. He put his right shoulder against the wall and slid along till he came to the first door. He pushed it wide open and stepped in, his weapon ready at shoulder height, flashlight in his other hand. He flicked the light switch on. It was the bathroom, and it was empty. He then moved along the wall to the second door and pushed it open with a foot, stepped across to the other side of the doorway, and craned in. It was a small, simply furnished bedroom. He entered, turned the light on, and checked the closet and under the bed. Nothing. The last door was on the other side at the end of the hall. Devlin figured it was the master bedroom that ran the length of the hallway. Again, he gently kicked it open with a foot. No movement. Nothing. He eased inside, flicked the switch on, and moved over to the closet, swinging open the doors and rifling through the rack of clothes with the length of wood. Empty. He checked under the bed. Clear. All clear.

  It began to look to Devlin like the person who had broken in had long gone. Or maybe he had just jumped to the wrong conclusion. It was as likely, knowing Ed, that he had lost his keys at some point and had had to break in himself.
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br />   Devlin allowed himself to relax, pocketed his cell, and walked back out into the hall. As he stood pondering his friend’s deserted home, he heard a long, deep creak of old wood, like the first note of a sad song, coming from the ceiling. He looked up and had a split second to register two legs dangling from an attic hatch before he was flattened under the massive bulk of a falling body. Someone north of two hundred and fifty pounds had dropped onto Devlin, ambushing him from above and knocking him to the ground.

  Devlin found himself struggling for breath and trapped on the floor. The guy holding him down was huge. He wore a black leather jacket, black pants, and a black balaclava, and he stank of rum, like that Bay Rum lotion old men use. He had to be nearly three hundred pounds. The two-by-four had gone flying out of Devlin’s grip, and his arms were pinned down by two enormous legs, doubled up and kneeling on his biceps. Instinctively Devlin opened his jaws wide and sank his teeth into his attacker’s inner thigh. Fabric tore and flesh filled the small space between Devlin’s front teeth. His attacker gave out an animal-like roar of pain. He sat up and fell forward, frantically trying to pull his leg away, allowing Devlin to slide out from under him and grab the two-by-four. Devlin turned, ready to bury the piece of wood into the other guy’s head, but he’d already hobbled up to the other end of the hallway. He was big, but he wasn’t so fast right now with Devlin’s teeth marks still burning in his thigh.

  Devlin got up after him like a sprinter out of the blocks and rushed him, shouldering him in the back. The intruder rocked forward, stumbling over cups and cans, overturning the coffee table, and staggered back toward the living room window. He came to a stop and drew out a hunting knife from a leather sheath hanging off his belt. Devlin dropped the two-by-four and grabbed the two uppermost legs of the overturned table, lunging forward with every ounce of force, speed, and strength he could muster, holding the table rigidly out in front of him like a battering ram. Devlin and the table went crashing into the assailant and on through the windowpane. The knife was forced out of the assailant’s hands as he went backward through the shattering glass and rotting wood. The two of them plunged into the sudden chill of the night air, shards of glass raining everywhere.

  Devlin rolled to a halt in the midst of chunks of wood and a carpet of sharp, broken glass. The intruder had rolled on a little farther. Devlin tried to pick himself up, but the layer of glass around him slowed him down. He was too late getting up on his haunches, and the other guy was already taking a run-up. There was no time to form any kind of protection from the low kick to his guts that lifted Devlin’s body off the ground and back down onto the glass. Devlin squirmed on the ground, gulping at the air like a fish out of water, knowing that once he was down, he stood next to no chance of being let up. Then Devlin felt his hair being grasped and pulled, his face yanked up toward the stars, and glimpsed the shadow of a huge fist somewhere in his peripheral vision before his head was hit by a freight train that arrived out of nowhere. A fist like a side of beef, cold, raw, and solid, slamming into his cheekbone and jaw. Then he was lying on the broken glass and damp earth again, spitting blood onto his chin. He felt his hair being yanked up once more. He waited dangling in midair for the knockout blow, but instead of oblivion, he was thrown back down on the ground. He heard heavy feet scramble and hit the ground running, off into the distance.

  A moment passed. Could have been an hour, could have been a minute. Devlin reflected that he had been in many, many fights but that he’d clearly gotten a little rusty. What mattered was he was still alive and hopefully in working order. The next time he went up against that bastard, so help him God, he’d rip his head off. Whoever he was.

  One thing was for sure though: Ed definitely wasn’t home.

  And then the ground lit up blue like an underwater grotto.

  4

  The three of them sat around a square, gray table in a charcoal carpeted interview room with washed-out yellow walls. Devlin initialed each of the Miranda rights on a piece of card and pushed it back across to the lead cop, a young guy, probably not even thirty.

  The door to the interview room had been left ajar, and as the lead cop was scanning the arrest report, Devlin noticed a small group of uniformed officers heading out of the lineup room on the opposite side of the hallway. A moment passed and two other more senior officers came out of the lineup room and followed. From their rank insignia, Devlin had them down as the sergeant and the deputy.

  The arresting cop broke off from his papers and asked, “You sure you don’t want to get proper medical attention?”

  “No, thank you,” said Devlin.

  The lead cop’s name was Miller. Officer Gray, his partner, was a young black cop, probably in her early twenties and serious. She had cleaned Devlin’s cuts, administered a few Band-Aids, and given him painkillers at Ed’s place.

  “You’re lucky—all our patrol cars got individual first aid kits and we got training,” said Gray.

  “I feel real lucky right now. Looks like I couldn’t have chosen a better place to have the hell beaten out of me.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Gabriel Devlin…” Miller glanced down at the arrest report. “Or would you prefer Father? But I’d say you’re a long way from church right now.” Devlin had taken his collar off when Gray had dressed his cuts, so right at that moment, Devlin didn’t much look like a priest—more like a guy with a liking for black.

  “Are you a Catholic, son ?” Devlin asked.

  “No,” replied Miller.

  “Do you believe in God?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then I don’t think it matters either way to you, does it?”

  Miller bristled a little but shook it off and continued. “Mr. Devlin, let’s get down to brass tacks…your account of this evening’s events. So, you came to Halton Springs looking for Ed James, who you knew from the Air Force where you worked in...?”

  “Office of Special Investigations.”

  “On discovering he wasn’t at home, you noticed that there were signs of forced entry at his residence?”

  “Correct.”

  “On examining further, you encountered a male of approximately six foot eight and three hundred pounds dressed in black. You both fought, resulting in damage to the window and furniture and injuries to yourself, which we treated at the scene, injuries which you refused any further treatment for and for which we have completed a medical refusal report. Your assailant escaped on foot before our arrival.”

  “Yep.”

  “I know this is a long shot, but…do you think…could it have been a Bigfoot, Mr. Devlin?” Devlin didn’t laugh and Officer Gray never laughed at anything, so an awkward silence followed until Miller followed up with a question that he also intended to be a warning.

  “You sure you don’t want that lawyer?”

  “Positive.”

  “If I were in your position, Mr. Devlin, I’d definitely want the services of a lawyer.”

  “I don’t need ’em.”

  “Perhaps you’d care to explain why? After all, some of us aren’t big shots who worked at OSI.”

  Devlin shrugged. “If you really need me to tell you, well then, I guess I better tell you.”

  “Oh yeah, I really need you to tell me.”

  “Okay.” Devlin leaned forward, eye to eye with Miller, and clasped his hands together on the desk. “I’m just gonna ride this thing till the charges die, son. I haven’t got anywhere I need to be. No deadlines. No budget to meet, no figures to explain. As you pointed out, I used to work, albeit a way back, in Air Force Special Investigations, so I can see where this pans out to. My relationship with Ed will check out. My injuries and the damage to the property are consistent with my account of events. Now, admittedly, I don’t know the specifics of Ohio law, but B and E is likely to be a relatively low-level felony and, without any evidence of intent, very hard to make stick in a court of law. Equally, I don’t know the specifics of this station, but I’ve rarely seen one this size this busy. With this
many cops on shift, someone’s on overtime, so something has just gone down, and even on a slow night my case would be a bad bet. Tonight? The odds are astronomical. So my educated guess is that you’re going to consult with your superior officer, and he’s gonna tell you exactly what I just told you. Son.”

  Miller gave Devlin a long bitter look and just about swallowed down his bile. He looked at one of the papers in front of him and back up at Devlin.

  “You were taken into protective custody last week in Boston for...” Miller looked down at his sheet. “Public intoxication.”

  “Is that a question or a statement of fact?”

  “Doesn’t paint a picture of a law-abiding citizen or a good priest.”

  “No law was broken. That’s the only picture you can look at, Officer.”

  Miller glowered at Devlin. Devlin’s cool pale blue eyes stared back with the simple confidence that Miller did not have it in his powers to touch or affect Devlin in any way. Eventually, Miller became self-conscious and turned red, then abruptly gathered up the arrest report and walked out of the interview room down the hall to the deputy’s office.

  Miller intercepted the deputy as he came out of his office pulling his coat on. He looked like he had the troubles of the world on his shoulders.

  “Everything okay, Greg?” asked Miller. “Looks like you got your hands full.”

  The deputy didn’t answer immediately. Instead he beckoned Miller back into his office.

  “You might as well know, Todd, we’ve just had a homicide called in, couple of miles out east, over by Long Pine National Park. About one hundred and fifty meters from the highway.”

  The priest was right, thought Miller, Smart-ass bastard. “Jesus. Wait, up where the Gypsy camp was?”

  “Around there, yes.”

  “I bet those sons of bitches did it.”

  “Well, let’s not jump to conclusions, Todd. The crime technician’s on her way over. I’ve called in the rest of the patrol and Sergeant Taylor, and they’re heading over to the crime scene. What did you want?”