Somewhere in the distance, he saw two shapes moving, one tall, the other shorter. He began following the men.
The Detective had gone only a mile in the direction of the explosion when the first car appeared. It was a red Toyota Camry, moving away from them at speed. Willie’s hand tightened on his gun, even as the Detective eased up on the gas, allowing the men to pull farther ahead. Behind them, Jackie Garner and the Fulcis also slowed down.
“You got any plans for when we get there?” asked Willie.
“The same plan as earlier: not dying.”
Thick clouds of smoke were now drifting across the road. It made driving difficult, but it also meant that they would be hidden from the men before them. As it was, they almost drove into them as they reached the site of the explosion. The red car seemed to materialize out of nowhere, stopped with its front doors open, two men still sitting in the front seats. The Detective braked sharply and went right as soon as they came in sight and, behind them, Tony Fulci swung the wheel of his truck to the left, taking it around the Mustang and bringing it to a stop almost level with the men in the car.
Unable to open his door because of the proximity of the Fulcis’ truck, the driver had simply decided to begin shooting, but because of the size of the truck he had to wind down his window and stick his hand out to hit anything. By the time he had managed to do all of that, Tony had fired four shots through the roof of the car, and the driver collapsed sideways, his left hand hanging uselessly from the half-open window, his gun lying on the ground beneath it.
The passenger, clearly wounded but still able to hold a gun, opened the door farthest from the Fulcis and tumbled out, coughing loudly, his eyes streaming from the smoke. The Detective hit the accelerator of the Mustang. The car shot forward, striking the gunman’s lower body and cutting the door from the Toyota. The force of the impact doubled the passenger over at the waist and sent him sailing onto the hood of the Mustang. He fell off as the Detective swung the wheel to the right and stopped the car. The Detective opened his door and stepped out into the smoke and rain, Willie following.
Now there were two men running from the direction of the fire. Both wore yellow slickers and jeans, the slickers standing out even in the smoke, and both carried what looked like shotguns. Willie saw them before anyone else. He tried to speak, but the smoke entered his mouth, causing him to splutter instead. Jackie Garner and one of the Fulcis were still getting out of the truck, and Parker was kneeling beside the man on the ground.
Willie raised the Browning.
I don’t want to do this. I believed that I could, but I was wrong. I thought that we’d be in and out, that we’d find Angel and Louis and get them away from here. I didn’t believe that there would be all of this, this killing. I’m not a killer. I don’t belong here. I’m not these men. I can never be.
The smoke drifted, carried by the breeze, and the figures in yellow disappeared from view for an instant.
Go away. Just turn back. Lose yourself in the smoke. Let this be the end of it.
And then they were back, closer now. He heard shots and saw muzzle flares in the smoke. Willie fired twice at the man on the left, aiming at his upper body. The man dropped to the ground and didn’t move again. A fusillade of shots came from the direction of the Fulcis’ truck, and the second man joined the first. Willie saw Jackie Garner and Tony Fulci move toward the fallen men, Tony covering Jackie as he removed their weapons and checked for any signs of life. The Detective was now looking at the driver of the car. Paulie Fulci joined him, and Willie heard the Detective tell Paulie that the driver was dead, and the other man soon would be. All four of them then began walking in the direction of the ruined barn, but Willie did not join them. He walked over to where the man whom he had killed lay spread-eagled on the ground. One shot had missed him entirely, the other had taken him in the chest. He looked to be in his forties, an overweight, balding figure wearing cheap denims and worn work boots.
Willie put his hands on his knees, leaned down, and tried not to throw up. Stars burst before his eyes. He felt anger, and grief, and shame. He moved upwind of the drifting smoke and sat beneath a tree. The rain was easing, and the tree didn’t offer much shelter in any case, but Willie didn’t trust his own body to hold him up. He leaned back against the bark, tossed the Browning aside, and closed his eyes.
He stayed that way until he heard footsteps. The Detective was approaching. His face was blackened with smoke. Willie guessed that he must have looked just the same.
“We have to keep moving,” said the Detective. “There’ll be others looking for them as well.”
“Is it worth it?” asked Willie. “All of this, is it worth it?”
“I don’t know,” said the Detective. “I just know that they’re my friends, and they’re in trouble.”
He reached out a hand. Willie took it.
“You’ll need your gun,” said the Detective.
Willie stared at the gun on the ground.
“Pick it up, Willie,” said the Detective, and in that instant Willie hated him.
But he did as he was told. He picked up the gun, and joined the others.
Benton heard the gunfire behind him, but he didn’t look back. It was all that he could do to keep moving forward. He was afraid that if he turned around, even for a moment, he would lose all sense of direction, and if he stopped he would surrender any possibility of further movement. All that he could do was to put one foot in front of the other, to maintain his grip on the rifle in his right hand, and eventually he would reach the men he was hunting. Slowly, the connections in his brain were dying, shorting out one by one like overloaded fuses. He could barely remember his own name, and had forgotten entirely the names of the men who had died in the inferno. All he knew was that those responsible for all of it, whatever it was, were ahead of him, and he needed to kill them. Once they were dead, he could stop moving, and then the pain would cease as well. Everything would cease. There would be no pain, no pleasure, no memories. There would be only blackness, like drowning in a warm sea at night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
IT WAS ANGEL WHO spotted Benton first. He was still some distance from them when Angel caught sight of his head appearing over the brow of a hill. He tapped Louis in warning, and together they turned to face the threat.
It was clear that the man was badly injured. He was shambling rather than walking, and he seemed to be drifting slightly to the left and then, realizing what he was doing, correcting himself. His head was low, and he held a rifle in his right hand. As he drew nearer, they could see the damage to his face and body caused by the fire, and they knew from whence he had come.
“Someone survived the explosion,” said Angel. “He’s hurt bad, though.”
“He has a gun,” said Louis.
“Doesn’t look like it’s going to be much good to him.”
Louis raised his own gun and sighted along it as he moved toward the wounded man.
“No,” he said, “I guess not.”
Benton became aware that the men he was pursuing had stopped. It was time, so he stopped in turn, knowing that he would never go any farther, not here and not in this life. The landscape wavered, and the two men in the distance became blurred and misshapen. He tried to lift the rifle, but his arms would not respond. He tried to speak, but no words would come from his scorched throat. All was pain; pain, and the desire to avenge himself upon those who had caused it. His injuries had reduced him to the level of an animal. Disjointed memories of unconnected things appeared in his mind only to disappear before he was able to identify and understand them: a woman who might have been his mother; another who could have been a lover; a man dying in the rain, the blood like colors running in a painting…
The rifle was still in his hand. He knew that much. He concentrated hard, trying to focus on it. He managed to get the index finger of his right hand on the trigger, his left still gripping the stock. He pulled the trigger, firing uselessly into the ground. A tear fell f
rom his eye. One of the figures was drawing nearer. He had to kill them, but now he couldn’t remember why. He couldn’t remember anything. All was lost to him.
His brain, understanding the imminence of its own oblivion, fired itself up for a final effort, and Benton’s consciousness blazed for the last time, clearing his head of pain and anger and loss, allowing him to focus only on the man who was approaching. He raised his left arm, and it was steady. His vision cleared, and he sighted on the tall black figure. His finger tightened again on the trigger, and as he prepared to release his breath, he knew that everything was going to be fine after all.
The load was a 250-grain MatchKing bullet, which would have meant nothing to Benton even if it hadn’t been the bullet that tore through the side of his head, entering just behind and beneath his remaining eye and exiting through his right ear, taking most of his skull with it.
From where he lay on the damp grass, Bliss watched as the target folded to the ground. He shifted position slightly, taking his eye from the sight so he could find the others. They were already running, ascending a slight rise and making for a copse of trees to the east. Even with the XL, they would soon be out of range. He intended to finish off Louis face-to-face, for he wanted him to know who was responsible for taking his life, but the other one, his partner, didn’t matter. Bliss sighted slightly ahead of the smaller man, anticipating where the angle of his movement would take him, then breathed out slowly and squeezed the trigger.
“Shit!” said Angel, as his foot caught on a cleft in the ground and sent him stumbling forward and to his left. Louis was beside him, and paused momentarily, but Angel didn’t fall. A spray of grass and dirt erupted from the ground slightly forward and to the right of where Angel now stood, even as he regained his balance and they continued running, their eyes now fixed only on the safety offered by the woods. Angel heard another shot, but the ground was sloping down and suddenly there were trees around him and he threw himself to the dirt and sheltered behind the nearest trunk. He huddled against it, his knees drawn into his chest, his mouth open as he gasped in air.
Angel looked to his left, but Louis wasn’t there.
“Hey,” he shouted. “You okay?”
There was no reply.
“Hey,” he called again, frightened now. “Louis?”
But there was only silence. Angel didn’t move. He had to find out where Louis was, but to do that would mean peering out from behind the tree, and if the shooter knew where he was, and was sighted on the tree, then he would end up dead. But he had to know what, if anything, had befallen his partner. He flattened himself as close to the ground as he could without exposing his legs to sight, began counting to three in his head, then at two decided to hell with it and risked a quick glance around the base of the tree.
Two things happened. The first was that he saw Louis lying on his side just beneath the lip of the small rise that descended toward the wood. He wasn’t moving. The second thing that happened was a bullet striking the tree trunk and sending splinters into Angel’s cheek, forcing him to retract his head quickly before another shot cured him of concerns about Louis, and splinters, and anything else in this life.
He was unarmed, the man who mattered most to him in the world was lying injured or dead and he couldn’t reach him, and someone had him under his gun. Angel had a pretty good idea who that person was: Bliss. For the first time in many years, Angel began to despair.
It had been a lucky shot, but Bliss was not averse to taking such chances when they were offered. The natural movement of his weapon, combined with Louis’s own momentum, had brought him into Bliss’s sight, and he had taken the shot. He had seen the tall black figure’s legs intertwine and had watched him fall, but then had lost him to view because of the incline of the land. He couldn’t be sure where the shot had hit. He suspected it was the upper back, right side, away from the heart. Louis would be wounded, perhaps mortally, but he would not yet be dead.
He had to be sure. He had made two promises to Leehagen. The first was that Louis would die on his land, that his blood would soak into the old man’s soil. The second was that he would bring him Louis’s head as a trophy. The second promise had been made reluctantly. It smacked of excess to Bliss. It was curious that Hoyle had asked him to do the same with Kandic, the man who had been sent to kill him and whose eventual dispatch had been Bliss’s first job after coming out of retirement. Decapitating him hadn’t bothered Bliss particularly, although it was harder, and messier, than anticipated, and he had no desire to make a habit of it. He also recognized that a personal element had crept into all of his kills: he was now the mirror image of the man he had once been, no longer distant from those he dispatched. In one way, it added an edge to all that he did, even as it made him more vulnerable in another. The best killers were passionless, just as he himself had once been. Anything else was weakness.
But Bliss also realized that he was creating his own mythology. Kandic, Billy Boy, and now Louis-they would be his legacy. He was Bliss, the killer of killers, the most lethal of his kind. He would be remembered after he was gone. There would never be another like him.
But it was time to be done with the task at hand. Louis had been armed. Bliss had glimpsed the gun in his hands. He did not know about the other, the one called Angel, but he had seen no weapon. Bliss suspected that the smaller man would be reluctant to move for fear of taking a bullet. If he acted quickly, Bliss could cover much of the ground between them, shift position to give him a better shot at Angel, and then finish off Louis.
Bliss shifted his weapon and closed in.
“So which way did they go?” asked Willie.
He and the Detective were standing upwind of the smoke. Behind them, the Fulcis were moving the Toyota so that the way would be clear for them if they decided to continue on their current road. Jackie Garner was admiring the destruction wrought upon the grain store. Jackie liked things that exploded.
“It would make sense for them to get as far away from here as possible,” said the Detective. “But then we’re talking about Angel and Louis, and sometimes what makes sense is not what they’re inclined to do. They came here to kill Leehagen. It could be that none of this has changed their minds. Knowing them, it might have made them more determined. They’ll stay off the roads for fear of being seen, so my guess is that they’ll be heading for the main house.”
At that moment, they heard the first shot.
“Over there!” shouted Jackie, pointing over Willie’s shoulder. West, Willie thought, just like the man said.
Two more shots followed in close succession. The Detective was already running.
“Jackie, you and the brothers take the truck,” he said. “Follow the road. Try to find a way to get there quickly. Willie and I will go on foot, in case you strike out.”
He looked at Willie. “You okay with that?”
Willie nodded, although he wasn’t sure what appealed to him less: the thought that he now had to run, or the possibility that he might have to use his gun again once he stopped running.
It was the damp that finally forced Angel to move. Such a small thing, such a minor discomfort in light of all that had befallen them that day, yet there it was. The dampness was causing him to itch and chafe. He shifted his lower body, trying to loosen his trousers, but it was no good.
“Louis?” he called again, but as before only silence greeted him. There was a warm sensation behind his eyes, and his throat burned. He was, he knew, already grieving, but if he were to allow grief to overcome him then all would be lost. He had to hold himself together. Louis might only be injured. There was still hope.
He considered his situation. There were two possibilities. The first was that Bliss had chosen to remain in place, hoping to get a clear shot at either Angel or Louis. But Louis was out of sight, and Louis, Angel knew, was Bliss’s primary target. Angel only mattered insofar as he might interfere with Bliss’s attempts to finish him off. From his original firing position, Bliss must have
been unable to see Louis once he had fallen, otherwise he would have fired upon him again. He couldn’t have been sure that the shot that hit him was a fatal one.
Which raised the second, and more likely, possibility: that Bliss was approaching, moving in on the two men to ensure that the job was completed to his satisfaction. If that was the case, then Angel might be able to break cover without being hit. It was a gamble, though, and while Angel had worked hard to cultivate a number of vices, gambling was not one of them. Even throwing away fifty bucks once at Sarasota Springs had plunged him into a depression that lasted a week. Then again, were he to lose his life now it was unlikely that he would have much time to regret his final decision, and if he stayed where he was then he, and Louis, would certainly die, if the latter was not dead already, and that was a prospect that Angel, for the present, refused to countenance.
He needed Louis’s gun. If he could get to it, then they might have a chance against Bliss.
“Shit,” said Angel. “Hell, hell, hell.” He was experiencing a rising anger at Louis’s selfishness. “Today, of all days, you had to get shot. Out here, in the middle of fucking nowhere, leaving me alone without a gun, without you.” He felt his body tensing, the adrenaline coursing. “I told you I wanted that gun, but oh no, you had to have it. Mr. Big Shot needed his weapon, and now where has it left us? Screwed, that’s where it’s left us. Screwed.”
And at the height of his self-induced rage, Angel ran.
Bliss’s advance had been made easier by the rise and fall of the land, making it harder for Louis’s partner to trace his progress than it would have been if he was crossing level ground. The disadvantage was that, while he was in the slight depressions, he was unable to see the lower part of the woods in which Angel was hidden. He was also aware that Louis might have recovered sufficiently from his wound to enable him to look for cover, but while Bliss had maintained his vigil there had been no sign of movement over the small patch of clear ground between the place where Louis had fallen and the woods in which his lover cowered. Bliss anticipated that the fear of being shot would keep Angel in the woods, but in case he overcame that fear Bliss had quickly covered the ground between his original position and his targets, despite squatting and crawling much of the way. Now he was within touching distance of the rise overlooking the forest. He calculated that Louis lay perhaps ten feet to his right behind it.
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