The Reapers

by John Connolly

  “I should have been told,” said Louis.

  “What have you heard?”

  “Rumors, that’s all.”

  “It’s been a long time since anyone encountered him. It had been suggested that he was dead.”

  “Wishful thinking.”

  “Does he frighten you?” asked Gabriel slyly, calm now returning to his face.

  “Do I have reason to be frightened?”

  “None of which I’m aware. But in the case of the gentleman to whom you’re referring, I wouldn’t be privy to that kind of information. He’s been off the radar for a long time, but you two do have a history. If he did return, he might be in the mood to renew old acquaintances.”

  “Not very reassuring for me. Maybe not very reassuring for you either.”

  “I’m an old man.”

  “He’s killed old men before.”

  “I am different.”

  Louis conceded the point.

  “Still, you and your partner handled today’s upsets rather well. I imagine that you’d present quite a challenge to him, even after all these years. What did you do with the trash?”

  “I had it taken away. Landfill.”

  “And the old lady?”

  “We bought her chocolate cake.”

  “Would that everyone were so easily mollified. How are your friends from the auto shop?”

  “Shaken. I told them to close up for a few days. They’re staying at a hotel.”

  Gabriel finished his lemonade and stood, picking up the newspaper as he did so and sliding it into his coat pocket.

  “I should have something for you in a day or two,” he said.

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “Well, it’s not good to have this kind of thing going on. It makes everyone look bad.”

  “And we can’t have that.”

  “Indeed not. Walk safely.”

  And with that, Gabriel was gone.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  TWO MORNINGS LATER, GABRIEL held another meeting, this time in Central Park. The sky was clear and blue, unmarred by clouds after the gloom of the previous days, and there was a crispness to the air, a cleanliness, as though, however briefly, some of the fumes and filth of the city had been miraculously purged from it during the night. It was a day from childhood, but as he grew older Gabriel struggled to remember a time when he was young. The fragments of memory that remained to him seemed to involve another person, one unrelated to himself yet distantly familiar nonetheless. The sensation was similar to watching an old movie and recalling that, yes, one had seen this film before, and it had meant something, once upon a time.

  He hated getting old. He hated being old. Seeing Louis had reminded him of all that he had once been, of the power and influence that he had wielded. There was still a little of it left, though. He no longer had Reapers at his beck and call, willing to do his bidding or the bidding of others for money, but favors were owed to him for favors done, for confidences kept, for problems buried and lives ended. Gabriel had stored his secrets away carefully, for he knew that his own life depended upon them. They were his security, and a currency to draw upon when necessary.

  A younger man joined him, falling casually into step beside him. He was taller than Gabriel by a head, but Gabriel had almost three decades of often bitter experience on his companion. His code name was Mercury, after the god of spies and spooks, but Gabriel knew him as Milton. He suspected that it might be his real name, too, for, although an educated man, Milton’s knowledge did not appear to extend into the field of literature, and an allusion to Paradise Lost by Gabriel early in their relationship had been met with a blank look. Then again, one never knew with agency men, and particularly ones of Milton’s pedigree. One might have offered Milton intimate evidence of his own sexual preferences, complete with photographs, illustrations, and even former partners, to a similar end: a blank look. Blank. It was an appropriate word, in this case. Everything about Milton suggested a man who had been created in a laboratory in order to attract no attention whatsoever: average height, average looks, average hair, average clothing. There was nothing remarkable about him at all. In fact, so unremarkable was he that the eye tended to skate over him, barely registering his presence, and then instantly forgetting what it had seen. One had to be an exceptional individual to go through life so unnoticed.

  Milton and Gabriel strolled by the lake, walking slowly enough to allow joggers to outpace them but fast enough that they could not be followed themselves without noticing. Milton wore a gray wool overcoat and a gray scarf, and his black shoes shone in the fall sunlight. Beside him, Gabriel, his white hair sprouting untidily from beneath a woolen cap, looked like a genial tramp. After some minutes had passed, Milton spoke.

  “It’s good to see you again,” he said. His voice was as average as the rest of him, so that even Gabriel, who had known him for many years, could not tell if the words were meant or not. He decided that the sentiment might be genuine. It was not, as far as he could recall, something Milton said very often.

  “And you,” Gabriel lied, and Milton smiled, any offense caused by the untruth exceeded by his happiness at catching it. Milton, thought Gabriel, was the kind of man who was only at ease when the world was disappointing him, and therefore living down to his expectations. “I didn’t expect you to come in person.”

  “It’s rare that we have a chance to meet these days. Our paths no longer cross as once they did.”

  “I’m an old man,” said Gabriel, and he was reminded of the context in which he had used those same words earlier in the week. He wondered if he had been correct then, if his age and his previous status might be enough to protect him from Bliss’s predation. The thought had troubled him. He bore some responsibility for what had been done to Bliss, although Bliss could hardly have been surprised when retribution was visited upon him for his own actions, but the animosity between Bliss and Louis was of a deeper, more personal nature. No, if Bliss had returned, Gabriel would not be in his sights.

  “Not so old,” said Milton, and now it was his turn to lie.

  “Old enough that I can see the tunnel at the end of the light,” said Gabriel. “Anyway, it’s a new world with new rules. I find it harder to recognize my place in it.”

  “The rules are still the same,” said Milton. “There are just fewer of them.”

  “You sound almost nostalgic.”

  “Perhaps I am. I miss dealing with equals, with those who think as I do. I no longer understand our enemies. Their purpose is too vague. They don’t even know what it is themselves. They have no ideology. They have only their faith.”

  “People enjoy fighting for their religion,” said Gabriel. “It’s inconsequential enough to matter deeply to them.”

  Milton didn’t say anything in response. Gabriel suspected that Milton was a worshipper. Not a Jew. Catholic maybe, although he lacked the imagination to be a good one. No, Milton was probably a Protestant of indistinct color, a member of some particularly joyless congregation that thrived on hard benches and long sermons. The image of Milton in church led Gabriel to imagine what Mrs. Milton might look like, if there was such a person. Milton did not wear a wedding band, but that meant nothing. It was in the nature of such men to give as little as possible away. From something as simple as a wedding band, a whole existence might be imagined. Gabriel pictured Milton’s wife as a pinched woman, as stern and unyielding as her religion, the kind who would spit the word “love.”

  “So, you’ve had contact with our lost sheep,” said Milton, changing the subject.

  “He seemed well.”

  “Apart from the fact that somebody appears to be trying to kill him.”

  “Apart from that.”

  “The police drew a blank on the first set of prints,” said Milton. “So did we. A candle: that was quite ingenious. The gun found at the garage was clean, too, according to the police reports. No previous use.”

  “That’s surprising.”

  “Why?”


  “They were amateurs. Amateurs tend to make small mistakes before they make large ones.”

  “Sometimes. Perhaps these gentlemen dived in headfirst, and went straight from zero to minus one.”

  Gabriel shook his head. It didn’t fit. He pushed it to the back of his mind, leaving it to simmer like a pot on a stove.

  “We did, however, have more luck with one of the second sets. Curious that the owners of those prints have yet to surface.”

  “Landfill,” said Gabriel. “It’s difficult to surface when you’re under thirty feet of earth.”

  “Indeed. The prints came from a man named Mark Van Der Saar. Unusual name. Dutch. There aren’t many Van Der Saars in this part of the world. This particular Van Der Saar did three years upstate at the Gouverneur Correctional Facility for firearms offenses.”

  “Is that where he was from?”

  “Massena. Close enough.”

  “Employers?”

  “We’re looking into it. One of his known accomplices is, or was, given Mr. Van Der Saar’s recently acquired status as a decedent, a man named Kyle Benton. Benton did four years at the Ogdensburg Correctional Facility, also, incidentally, for firearms offenses. Ogdensburg, too, is located upstate, in case you didn’t know.”

  “Thank you for the geography lesson. Please, go on.”

  “Benton works for Arthur Leehagen.”

  The rhythm of Gabriel’s footsteps faltered for a moment, then recovered itself.

  “A name from the past,” he said. “That’s all you have?”

  “So far. I thought you’d be impressed: it’s more than you had before you met me.”

  They walked on in silence while Gabriel considered what he had been told. He shifted pieces of the puzzle around in his mind. Louis. Arthur Leehagen. Billy Boy. It was all so long ago, and he felt a soft surge of satisfaction as he fitted the pieces together, establishing the connection.

  “Do you know of two FBI agents named Bruce and Lewis?” he asked, once he was content with his conclusions. Milton had glanced at his watch, a clear sign that their meeting was about to come to an end.

  “Should I?”

  “They were looking into our mutual friend’s affairs.”

  “I’m not sure that ‘friend’ is a word I’d use in this case.”

  “He has been friendly enough to keep his mouth shut for many years. I should think that is more amicable behavior than you’re used to.”

  Milton didn’t contradict him, and Gabriel knew that he had scored a point.

  “What kind of interest are they showing?”

  “They seem to be delving into his property investments.”

  Milton withdrew a gloved hand from his pocket and waved it disdainfully in the air.

  “It’s all of this post-9/11 bullshit,” he said. Gabriel was shocked to hear him swear. Milton rarely showed such depth of feeling. “They’re under instruction to follow paper trails: unusual business investments, financial dealings that seem suspicious, property and transport holdings that don’t add up. They are the bane of our lives.”

  “He’s not a terrorist.”

  “Most of them aren’t, but along the way useful information is sometimes unearthed and followed up. It probably got passed on to these agents, and now they’re curious.”

  “They’re more than curious. They seem to know something of his background.”

  “It’s hardly a state secret.”

  “Oh, but some of it is,” said Gabriel.

  The two men stopped, squinting against the sunlight, their breaths mingling in the dry air.

  “He has a reputation,” said Milton. “He’s been keeping bad company, if such a thing were humanly possible given his own nature.”

  “I assume you’re referring to the private investigator.”

  “Parker. And I believe he’s a former investigator. His license has been revoked.”

  “Perhaps he’s found some more peaceful ways of occupying his time.”

  “I doubt it. From what little I know of him, he feeds on trouble.”

  “Yet, if I did not know better, I might have said that Louis was almost fond of him.”

  “Fond enough to kill for him. If he has attracted attention, then he has brought it on himself. The only wonder is that it has taken the FBI so long to come knocking on his door.”

  “That’s all very well,” said Gabriel, “but there is as much that is unknown about him as known, and I’m certain you would prefer matters to remain this way.”

  “I hope that’s not a threat.”

  Gabriel placed a hand on the younger man’s arm, patting lightly the sleeve of his overcoat.

  “You know me better than that,” he said. “What I mean is that any investigation will eventually come up against a brick wall, a brick wall constructed by you and your colleagues. But such barriers are not impregnable, and the right questions asked in the right places could produce information that would be inconvenient to both parties.”

  “We could always get rid of him,” said Milton. He said it with a smile on his face, but the remark still drew a wary look from Gabriel.

  “If you were going to do that, you would have done it long ago,” said Gabriel. “And would you have disposed of me, too?”

  Milton began to walk again, Gabriel falling into step alongside him.

  “With regret,” said Milton.

  “Somehow, I find that almost consoling,” said Gabriel.

  “What do you want me to do?” asked Milton.

  “Call off the dogs.”

  “You think it’s that easy? The FBI doesn’t care much for other agencies interfering in its affairs.”

  “I thought you were all on the same side.”

  “We are: our own. Nevertheless, I’ll talk to some people and see what I can do.”

  “I would be most grateful. After all, you’d be protecting a valuable asset.”

  “A once-valuable asset,” Milton corrected, “unless, of course, he’s in the market for some work.”

  “Unfortunately, he appears to have chosen another path.”

  “It’s a shame. He was good. One of the best.”

  “Which reminds me,” said Gabriel, as though it were a mere afterthought and not something that had been preying on his mind since he had learned of the death of Billy Boy. “What do you know of Bliss?”

  “I know Laphroaig and a good cigar,” said Milton. “Or isn’t that what you meant?”

  “Not quite.”

  “We lost contact with him many years ago. He was never on our Christmas card list to begin with. I found him distasteful. I shed no tears when he fell from grace.”

  “But you used him.”

  “Once or twice, and always through you. I learned to hold my breath, and I washed my hands afterward. As I understand it, you and your ‘friend’ contrived to put an end to his career.”

  “We were moderately successful,” said Gabriel.

  “Moderately. You should have used more explosive.”

  “We only wanted him dead, not half the people who might have been standing nearby when it happened.”

  “In some circles, such humanity might be taken as a sign of weakness.”

  “Which is why I have devoted such time and energy to reducing the size of those circles. As, I think, have you.”

  Milton inclined his head in modest agreement.

  “Nevertheless, there are indications that Bliss may be back on the radar.”

  “Really?” For the first time, Milton looked directly at Gabriel. “I wonder why.”

  Gabriel had learned to read faces and tones of voice, to balance words spoken against gestures made, to pick up on the slightest of inflections that might give the lie to what was being said. As he listened to Milton speak, he felt certain that he had not been told all that the other man knew of what was taking place.

  “Perhaps if you heard anything more, you might be inclined to give me a call.”

  “Perhaps,” said Milton.

 
Gabriel reached out his hand. Milton took it and, as they shook, Gabriel neatly slid a piece of paper beneath the cuff of Milton’s shirt.

  “A small token of gratitude,” said Gabriel. “A container that you might be ill-advised to allow to leave the yard in question.”

  Milton nodded his thanks. “When you see the lost sheep, pass on my regards.”

  “I’ll be sure to do that. I know he thinks fondly of you.”

  Milton grimaced. “You know,” he said, “I don’t find that very comforting at all.”

  Gabriel contacted Louis later that evening, again through their respective answering services. They spoke for only a few minutes in a cab taking Gabriel to the Performance Space on Broadway. The driver was absorbed in a lengthy and animated telephone conversation being conducted entirely in Urdu. Gabriel had amused himself earlier in the journey by attempting to follow what was being said.

  “I had a call,” said Gabriel. “It came from a gentleman who works for Nicholas Hoyle.”

  “Hoyle? The millionaire?”

  “Millionaire, recluse, whatever.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “It appears that Mr. Hoyle would like to meet you. He says he has information that could be useful to you, information concerning the events of recent days.”

  “Neutral territory?”

  Gabriel shifted in his seat. “No. Hoyle never leaves his penthouse. He is, by all accounts, a most peculiar man. You’ll have to go to him.”

  “That’s not the way things are done,” said Louis.

  “He approached you through me. That is the way things are done. He would be aware of any consequences that might arise should he fail to observe the usual niceties.”

  “He could have sent those men to draw me out.”

  “If he was intent upon that, he could simply have hired better help and finished the job there and then. Anyway, he has no reason to move against you, or none of which I am aware, unless you have angered him in the course of some of your recent activities.”

  He arched a questioning eyebrow at Louis.

  “Doesn’t ring any bells,” said Louis.

  “Then again,” said Gabriel, “I can’t imagine that you and your friend from Maine leave many loose ends. Cancer offers a better survival rate than crossing you. Given that, I imagine Hoyle has some mutually beneficial arrangement in mind. The choice is yours, though. I am merely passing on the message.”