The Redemption Man

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The Redemption Man Page 12

by James Carver


  “Okay,” Devlin conceded. “There is something you might be able to help me with.”

  “I knew it! Come on, Father, spill the beans already.”

  “I told you about the guy I was trying to find. I think he was involved with a man called Trayder Stein. A businessman in Columbus.”

  “I know him. Big in finance, eccentric guy, does all sorts of good works, throws big charity galas that we cover.”

  “That’s him. I think my friend has got himself in some sort of trouble, and it may be something to do with Stein. I haven’t got a hell of a lot to go on at the moment, and I need all the help I can get figuring out what that trouble might be.”

  “What kind of help do you need exactly?” asked Fox.

  “All it would be is seeing if there’s anything your paper has on Stein. Anything…irregular. Doesn’t matter how big or small it seems.”

  “You could just google that stuff.”

  “Sure, the stuff that’s printed. But if you could have a nose around, talk to colleagues, see if there are any rumors about who this guy is, anything that hasn’t made it to print. Anything the lawyers had struck down.”

  “Okay. I can do that. See what the buzz on him is, if anyone’s running a piece on him, or had a piece dropped. I can’t make any promises though.”

  “I understand,” said Devlin.

  “What time is it?” asked Fox impatiently.

  Stevens glanced down at his watch. “Eight thirty.”

  Fox spat into her palm and put out her hand. “Okay. It’s a deal. I’ll run the story.”

  The three shook hands. Fox fetched her rucksack from the table she’d been sitting at and pulled out a notebook and pen. Then Stevens ran through the events of the last few days in Halton Springs PD. While Fox wrote, he described the disagreements with Walker and Cutter and their desperation to pass the case off as a traveler homicide despite the lack of concrete evidence. Fox took every detail down, and when she finished, she drained her drink and hopped off her barstool like she was ready to sprint.

  “I better go if I’m gonna get this in some kind of shape, past editorial, and get it in before the ten-o’clock print run of the morning edition. And it’ll be online too and on our news apps for breakfast. See you, fellas. Pleasure doing business. And, Father, I’ll look into that other thing for you.”

  Then she threw her rucksack over her shoulder, and in a flash, Katy Fox was gone.

  20

  Earl Logan didn’t drink. Never had, never would. A teetotaler. Except for one time when he was fourteen. He’d drunk nearly a fifth of rum that he’d found in the bunkhouse, then puked his guts up and got one hell of a whipping from his dad. It was a bad experience, but that wasn’t why he abstained. He didn’t drink because it stopped him having the one thing he enjoyed more than anything else: control. Right now he didn’t have control. He’d been humiliated by his brother and by that bitch Vallory. After being rounded on by Clay and Marie, he had driven into town and sat in his pickup in the parking lot of a Best Buy. If he were asked how long he’d been sitting there, gripping the wheel and consumed by visions of violence, he would not have been able to say. Eventually he got out of his car and staggered into the night, panting like a wild animal. Earl was a storm looking for a ship to wreck.

  He passed groups of people walking through Main Street from their nights out. Saw them coming back from restaurants, recently gentrified bars, and even some new place called the Little Arts Theater for Christ’s sake. It had some foreign film on, probably French. What the fuck did these people know about making things? thought Earl. Producing things? The world of real work?

  If only Earl did drink, he could waste himself in liquor, dissipate all his rage in alcohol, and come around the next day, reborn. The trouble with Earl Logan was he had nowhere to put all the rage that the Lord had given him. Clay had got none of it, and Earl had been saddled with it all. But that rage had to go somewhere. It would not be quenched until it had done some terrible and incalculable damage.

  And then he saw Devlin.

  Earl watched Devlin walking along the sidewalk with his stupid cigar in his mouth. He knew all about Devlin, about his interfering at the police department. Earl had his sources. This was the guy who defied his orders. The guy who drove past him onto his own ranch. A trespasser. A trespasser that had made him look like a pussy. He was going to fucking die for that.

  “Devlin!”

  Devlin heard his name roared and stopped still. Up ahead he could see Earl standing with his feet apart and his fists gripped, staring him down.

  Devlin took a split second to assess and plan. Earl looked like he wasn’t carrying any weapons, but Devlin couldn’t be sure. He glanced around. There was a group of five people behind him and cars passing by. He saw an alley that gave rear access between two stores, about six foot wide. He’d take the fight there, away from bystanders.

  Earl saw Devlin throw his cigar down and duck into the alley.

  “Chickenshit priest,” he muttered. “I’ll mow you down.” He turned into the alley after Devlin and saw him standing halfway down, dimly lit with only a halo of light behind him. So much the better, he’d follow Devlin down to hell if it meant extinguishing him.

  The scene was set and the moment of conflict decided. Earl felt a piercing thrill of adrenaline fork though his veins like lightning. He approached Devlin as if gravity as well as fate were pulling him toward the priest.

  Devlin took a breath, slow and even, and exhaled. No panic. No fear. His heartbeat had slowed, and his thoughts were crystal clear. He had known this was coming, so let it come.

  What followed next lasted at most twenty seconds, yet to both men it seemed to unfurl like a ballet.

  Earl had approached to an arm’s distance, and he suddenly pushed out at Devlin’s chest. Devlin let the force take him back a few steps so he didn’t overbalance. Earl took this as an opportunity to follow in on him, jabbing at Devlin’s face with a sharp right fist and looking to follow with his left. Devlin lowered his face and held his arm up so that the punch dissipated against his forehead and fist. Earl came swinging in again with a looping blow aimed at Devlin’s kidney, one of Earl’s favorite targets. Devlin twisted his left hip back and let the blow catch him across the stomach. Not a direct hit, but it still took the wind out of him and gave Earl the chance to swing from the other side, up into Devlin’s ribs. It was the first direct blow Devlin had taken, and Earl was following in with a stomach punch. Devlin saw his opponent’s fists down and smartly popped Earl in the nose with a giant knuckled fist. Earl was flung back, his eyes smarting, and bright blood flowed over his mouth, chin, and neck.

  “You fucking prick!” Earl howled, his teeth bared and dripping with blood. “You’ve fucking done it now!”

  Earl came barreling at Devlin, his fists flashing.

  Even though Devlin kept his arms up, he caught at least four or five blows to the head. Bright flashes sent his vision one way, then the other. Don’t close your eyes, he thought, don’t close your eyes. Devlin scooted back, retreating, and Earl took a split second to pause, draw a breath up through his nostrils, and pile back in.

  Blood trickled into Devlin’s eyes, some of it from the wounds from his fight up at Ed’s place. He wiped it hurriedly away so he could see and held his position right up until the first blows of Earl’s new assault were about to land. He put all his weight back on his left foot and snapped out his right leg, driving it into Earl’s midriff, between the groin and the stomach. Earl groaned and collapsed. The downward trajectory of his head was stopped by Devlin’s great hand grabbing a fistful of Earl’s hair. Earl was yanked back up to feel the force of Devlin’s forehead jackhammering into his nose and eye socket. Blood and snot exploded everywhere.

  Devlin was wild now; he had a bloodlust. He grabbed Earl’s shirt and held his useless lanky frame a foot from the ground, craning over him and screaming into his face.

  “Where’s Ed, you bastard?” Devlin yelled. “Tell me wh
ere Ed is, or I’ll break your head open!” But it was no use. Earl was nearly out cold, senseless to the world. Devlin loomed over him, his fist raised, ready to pummel his head into mush.

  And then an image broke its way into Devlin’s head—an image of a little man with a wool hat and an army surplus jacket, his jeans dark with filth and his sneakers just battered bits of canvas without laces.

  Devlin dropped Earl on the ground and gasped, his heart frozen with guilt. His eyes closed shut, and his guts rolled with self-hate. “Father, forgive me.”

  He looked down at Earl, who had been stunned by the blow to his head and was prostrate on the ground. His shining eyes were just visible through his half-shut eyelids. Blood had run from his nose across his cheek and was dripping off his ear and neck onto the ground. Devlin suddenly felt an overpowering love and pity for this man, as painful and biting as if he were Devlin’s own child, the child he had lost nine years ago.

  Cold hatred had transformed into burning compassion. The priest placed his right hand on Earl’s head very gently and began to recite the prayer for liberation from diabolical influences. As he uttered each line, the priest could feel a great heat building in his palms and fingers that then poured into Earl’s body, making it arch and twist, not violently, but as if he were slowly being released of a great burden.

  “Lord Almighty, merciful and omnipotent God,

  Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,

  Drive out from him all influence of evil spirits.

  Father, in the name of Christ, I plead you to break any chain that the devil has on him.

  Pour upon him the most precious blood of your Son.

  May His immaculate and redeeming blood break all bonds of this man’s body or mind.

  I ask you this through the intercession of the Most Holy Virgin Mary.

  Archangel St. Michael, intercede and come to my help.

  In the name of Jesus, I command all devils that could have any influence over him,

  To leave this man forever.

  By His scourging, His crown of thorns, His cross,

  By His blood and Resurrection, I command all evil spirits to leave this man.

  By the True God

  By the Holy God

  By God who can do all,

  I command you, filthy demon, to leave this man in the name of Jesus, my Savior and Lord.”

  The moment Devlin had finished, Earl let out a sigh as if he were greatly and finally eased and then descended into a profound sleep. Devlin sat back on his heels, shaking and spent. For a long time he gazed at Earl, and then he studied his trembling hands, searching for a remnant of the force that they had produced.

  When Earl came around and got himself up off the floor, there was no sign of Devlin. He felt numb with defeat, sick with violence, and empty—empty like he had never felt before, like a blistering fire inside him had been snuffed out. He staggered from streetlight to streetlight and made his way through residential streets out to the northeast of the town, where the houses became grander and taller.

  He was blinded, not just by injury but by a fatal sense of being utterly lost in this world. Utterly abandoned.

  “Where am I?” he kept calling out again and again. “Where am I?”

  He stood and roared it at full voice in the middle of the street. “Where am I?”

  A couple walking by crossed quickly to the other side of the road. Lights went on in some of the houses, and drapes and blinds twitched.

  But nothing changed. Whatever Earl did, nothing changed. And yet something had. Something within. Something fundamental to his sense of his own existence had shifted.

  He shuffled on for few more yards until he saw a familiar house. The only place left for him. He rang the bell and a figure appeared in the hallway, visible through the frosted glass. Earl’s heart leaped. The door opened. It was Brendan. Brendan’s eyes opened wide, and he gasped in horror at Earl’s appearance. Earl looked up helplessly, as if all his life had been poured into Brendan’s power. Then he kissed Brendan full on his lips, tenderly and gratefully, like he was drinking up the cure to all his sadness. And he said, “Take me back…please.”

  “Earl? What happened to you?”

  “I don’t…know… I…please, you’re all I have. I don’t have anybody…anything.” Earl put his bloodied head on Brendan’s shoulder and began to sob and wail like a child. Brendan placed his arms around Earl’s spent, shaking body.

  “Come inside,” he said.

  Then the door closed, and the street was quiet.

  21

  It was a very fine May morning in Halton Springs. The sky was a flawless blue, and the town was energized by talk. Lots of talk. Talk of Earl Logan rampaging through the streets the night before. Talk of him being beaten up. Everyone was fascinated to know what was behind the downfall of the troubled younger son of Halton’s first family.

  And most of all there was talk of the article by Katy Fox in the Dayton Sun that had gotten picked up on local television news: The criticism of the police handling of the Long Pine homicide. Criticism too of the mayor’s direction of the police department. Talk of stale, narrow-minded public officials at odds with the new, prosperous, outward-looking, and metropolitan town of Halton Springs, a town with cafes springing up selling chai tea lattes and playing world music, with an arts scene, with young moms pushing the most expensive strollers. A town on the up.

  Cutter was sitting up in bed, his cell jammed against his ear, reading glasses on and the Dayton Sun spread across his lap. “Fuck,” he hissed. “Fuck.” His wife turned over sleepily and moaned, “Jim, don’t shout...”

  Cutter held the cell against his chest and snapped at his wife. “Shut up. This is serious.”

  His wife tutted and slurred, “Don’t talk to me like that.”

  Cutter put his phone back to his ear. “When was the body found, Caleb?”

  Walker was sitting at his kitchen table with a mug of coffee and the Dayton Sun flat out in front of him. “The cleaner found it this morning around eight o’clock. Time of death somewhere around three in the morning.”

  “This is the worst fucking news we could have had,” Cutter rasped. “On top of this damn article. That bastard Stevens blabbed to the journalist I bet. Or that Rasputin guy he’s started hanging out with, God’s own detective, Devlin. This homicide has shot our only line of investigation dead in the water. It potentially makes us look like fools and gives credence to this wretched news story.”

  “We have to have grounds now to suspend Stevens, only he knew this sort of information,“ said Walker.

  “No. No. We can’t do that, Caleb. This woman, Fox, she’ll have every right to keep her source confidential. Maybe we should consider another route. Damage limitation.”

  “Like what?”

  “We need to distance ourselves from this investigation. It’s a poisoned chalice. Whatever we do it’s not good publicity. I say we make Stevens the lead on this investigation.”

  Walker nearly had a coronary. “Stevens? Are you out of your mind?”

  “Wait. Calm down, Caleb. Think about it. Whoever has this investigation on their plate, if they don’t solve it we can offer their head. And, let’s face it, Stevens isn’t up to solving this. We both know that. Even if he does get somewhere on this case, there are ways of…muddying the water. But my guess is he won’t. What I am saying is, it always makes sense to have a fall guy ready.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Trust me, Caleb, it’s better to run these things from the wings. Oh, and Caleb?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Who the hell is this Devlin guy? Run some background checks. It’s in our interests to know that he’s clean…or not.”

  Stevens had slept in late. It was a school waiver day, and Rachel had the day off work, so she had slept in with him a while. Then the kids had come in and jumped up and down on the bed, and Rachel had gone downstairs to make breakfast. Greg knew he was very lucky, very lucky indeed. But he also knew that hi
s luck would soon be running out.

  He read Fox’s article on his laptop and, on the whole, didn’t regret leaking the information. He also read through the hundred-odd comments posted below it, and it seemed, when you stripped out the trolls, that they were broadly supportive. He didn’t bother checking work emails. It was his day off. They could go to hell.

  Rachel came up with breakfast, scrambled eggs and bacon with toast and coffee. Then she had watched him silently while he ate, and they both felt a pain in their hearts. After, while Rachel was clearing up downstairs and the kids were watching the TV, Stevens’s cell rang. It was Todd Miller’s number. Talk about a morning ruined, thought Stevens sourly. What pile of shit was he about to land on him? More fallout from yesterday? Maybe a summons to talk about the news article. Then what? Suspension? He took a breath.

  “Morning, Todd.”

  “Morning, Deputy.” Strange, thought Stevens, Todd usually addressed him on first-name terms. “I know it’s your day off,” continued Miller, “but we got a situation.”

  “Todd, you better run this past Chief Walker. I think he’s keeping me off any active investigations for the time being.”

  “Yeah, ah, actually he’s the one who wants you out here.”

  Greg sat up on the side of the bed. “Why? What’s happened?”

  “There’s been another homicide, sir. Another decapitation.”

  “Jesus! Have we ID’d the vic?”

  “Yeah, we think so. It’s not good, sir. The victim lived at 28 Fairfield Drive.”

  The address flashed up an image of a house in Stevens’s mind. He knew that address. “But…but isn’t that Brendan’s address?”

  “That’s right, sir. We figure that’s who the body is. It’s Brendan McKenzie.”

  “I’ll be right out there.”

  Stevens was winded by deep shock at the news of Brendan’s murder, but even in the midst of this dreadful news, he had also grasped the game-changing nature of the event. It kicked the Gypsy theory into touch and made Cutter and Walker look like idiots. For the first time in Stevens’s life, he had stood up against the two men. And it had turned out to be manifestly the right thing to do.

 

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