The Redeemers

by T. J. Martinell

  Groaning, Ian struggled to crawl back toward cover.

  Another shot, this time striking him in the arm. No sign of where it had come from. Ian cried out, but tried to keep moving. However, the pain was too great. He fell over on his side.

  Above Carl, a flash came from the attic window. He snapped his gun up and riddled the glass. Then he realized the shots hitting Ian hadn’t followed that trajectory. They had been fired from someone on the ground, same as them.

  “Don’t move.”

  The voice was on his left, out of sight. He didn’t have to see him to know who it was.

  “Drop the gun.”

  Carl obeyed, setting his gun by his feet.

  “Kick it away,” the voice said.

  He did so.

  “The same with your revolver. And all your spare ammo, too.”

  Order obeyed.

  Tony stepped into his sight, a pistol aimed with a stiff, outstretched arm. His clothes were now tattered, dirtied. But despite the tears and cuts he wore it proudly. Aside from a trail of blood on his forehead probably from crawling through the bushes, he had escaped Carl’s aim.

  “I didn’t think it would end like this,” he proclaimed. “For you, at least.”

  Carl put his hands up, faced Tony with a grin.

  “What’s so funny?” Tony asked.

  “Nothing. Just that you thought about how it would end for us. Did you think it would be together?”

  The question left Tony bemused. “What did you think?”

  “I thought what I think right now. I’ll die when I’m supposed to die.”

  “Does it feel like now is the time?”

  “Pull the trigger and find out.”

  Tony held his aim steady. His eyes shrank as he stared closely at Carl. “I should kill you. You came here to kill me.”

  “Then do it.”

  “Are you so anxious to die?”

  “There are worse things than death,” he said.

  People observed from afar, from the fences and the telephone poles and the cars. They weren’t afraid of getting shot. They weren’t a part of that world.

  Carl stared into the pistol. Would he even see the muzzle flash? Would it take time for the bullet to sear through his consciousness before it exploded into oblivion, or would it be instantaneous?

  Beads of sweat fell from Tony’s brow. Slowly, he lowered his gun.

  “Well?” Carl asked.

  “I am not going to kill you.”

  No relief. Just bewilderment.

  “Why not?”

  Tony walked up to him, his eyes watery. “I don’t want to kill you. Does that make me weak?”

  “No. I didn’t want to kill you, either. But someone’s got to die, right?”

  Tony bit down on his lower lip, looked at the crowds gathering near them. He could make himself famous right then and there; the man who took down “Killer” Carl.

  “I’m not going to kill you,” he said. “Not today.”

  He retrieved Carl’s Tommy gun and slung it over his shoulder. He then picked up the revolver, but rather than put it in his pocket he emptied the shells from the cylinder and then tossed it back on the ground.

  “A token of my goodwill,” he said. “Perhaps one day you will understand.”

  Tony glanced at Ian, still clawing at the ground, a twinge of remorse in his face. He then walked away. Carl didn’t turn to see where he would go. He immediately raced over to Ian, undeterred by the blood covering his hands as he lifted his friend and dragged him over to the curb so he could sit up straight. His leg was drenched in red, and his pulse was weak.

  “I’ll get you help,” Carl said.

  Ian wasn’t listening. He grabbed at his tie and tore it off his collar, then put it back on and started working at it.

  “What are you doing?” Carl asked.

  “I’m not dying before I fix this tie.”

  “Come on. Let’s get you help.”

  “No. I know I’m going to die. I just want to tie this thing right. Just once.”

  Carl tried to get him to move. He wouldn’t budge, and he weighed too much for Carl to carry by himself. He tried to make a tourniquet using Ian’s belt to stop the bleeding in his leg. Tearing away at his trousers, he felt for the wound, while Ian struggled to get the tie done.

  “What does it matter?” Carl asked.

  Ian’s complexion was flushed. “I don’t want to go without regrets. I’ve done everything else I’ve wanted to do. This would be my one regret.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Carl sat on the curb and helped steady Ian as his strength left him. Ian’s fingers quaked as he pulled the edge of the tie through the knot he had formed. A gasp of joy fell from his lips as completed the knot and tightening it around his neck. It covered the shirt collar at first, but Carl helped him fix it.

  “How long did it take you to learn that?” Carl asked.

  “Longer than I wished. But thank God it wasn’t too late. No regrets.”

  They sat on the curb like two kids waiting for the bus to arrive and take them to school. Gradually, Ian leaned further and further into Carl until his head fell against his chest.

  Carl felt his forearm, then his neck. When there was no pulse he put the man’s hand down and picked him up and carried him to the car. He put him in the front passenger side seat, securing him with the safety belt. He drove, and to the casual observer on the sidewalk and running across the street Ian did not look dead but merely in a deep slumber.

  ***

  There was no condemnation from Norton when Carl returned with Ian’s body and news that Tony was still alive. Carl apologized for the failed assignment, explained how Ian had died. He could tell that the loss had been one of many that day, and Norton had simply become inured.

  Carl did not mention how he had survived. Others had seen Tony spare him. Perhaps they might not have known who he was.

  But the newspaper couldn’t know. Norton couldn’t know.

  Tony might brag about it, yet that was unlikely. If he had wanted to make a name for himself, he would have killed Carl. Sparing him was risky. It could give the impression that Tony was indecisive and weak.

  Consumed by half a dozen situation updates across their territory, Norton gave Carl a gentle pat on the arm and then returned to his work. Carl made sure no one saw him leave the building and head to the parking lot. They were not supposed to take risks, but he couldn’t hold himself back. He had had too many close brushes with death to not treasure every second of life.

  He had to see Kaylyn.

  He had hardly ever been to her place. It was not too far away, but given Marconi’s attacks there was no telling where his men might be. Neutral territories didn’t mean much at the beginning of a war, and his car made anonymity impossible.

  Luckily, he had no trouble getting there, a few miles north of downtown and still south of Fremont. Kaylyn lived in a little apartment complex at the corner of her street. He drove around it a few times and surveyed the premise. All he saw were a few locals and vendors, all of whom he knew by name.

  Parking on the south side of the complex near a bush, he went up to the third story where she lived and knocked on the door. She had to be home; she didn’t work until later in the evening. She had no other job, she never was up and out that early in the morning.

  No one answered. He knocked again. “It’s me, Carl.”

  Nothing.

  Another violent knock. “Open up! Come on!”

  He pounded the door with both hands. He then pressed his face against the wooden frame like it was a pillow.

  As he stepped back, Kaylyn came up the stairs. She had a black overcoat on, her hair a mess.

  “Carl?” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Where were you?”

  She looked stunned. “What?”

  “Why weren’t you here?”

  She stared at him, blinked, and then walked up to the door and unlocked it. “I’m not always i
n my apartment. I have things to do, errands to run.”

  The room was sparse yet tidy. She owned few things and had need for even less of them. He walked around and admired some of her furniture, like the rocking chair in the corner by the window overlooking the intersection.

  “What’s wrong, Carl?” she asked.

  “Did you hear about this morning?”

  “I heard there was trouble with one of the other newspapers, but not much else. What happened?”

  He glanced at her. “I need to talk to you.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  He tried to hug her. She pulled away, squirming between his arms and stood by the bed.

  “What’s gotten into you?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You used to fight to be with me. Now you want to get away from me.”

  “I’m just concerned. You seem very upset. I’ve never seen you like this.”

  “No. You’ve been like this for a while. A long while.”

  Her face was pale. “I don’t know what you want, Carl.”

  They looked at each other and were silent.

  “I love you,” he blurted out.

  Her eyes widened.

  His voice cracked. “I didn’t think this would happen, but it did. I want you. I need you.”

  She took the news in a way he couldn’t decipher. Her face grew sympathetic, while her body tensed up. “Oh, Carl. I didn’t know.”

  “Well….don’t you love me?”

  She looked down, her hand up over her face. “This isn’t the time to ask me.”

  “Why not? When is the best time? Tomorrow? A week? A month? Ever?”

  “Don’t do this, Carl.”

  “It’s already been done. I’ve said my peace. How about you?”

  She exhaled as though flustered. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

  “Get what? Tell me.”

  “Why do you say this now?”

  “Should I have said it sooner?”

  She was quiet, played with the strains of her hair. He couldn’t stand idle any longer. He grabbed her by her arms, pulling her up to him as he held her so that she couldn’t look away from him.

  “Tell me,” he said. “Say it.”

  She didn’t actively struggle or fight him. The rest of her body resisted; the quivering in her lip, the continuous shift in her gaze. Her eyes were like wet gems. Tears formed in the corners.

  “Carl,” she uttered, “please let me go. This isn’t how you want me to do this, is it?”

  Her words affected him like they were part of a magic spell. It was the tone; she sounded vulnerable again. He brought his arms down, and she wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “Go home,” she said. “I’ll explain everything tomorrow.”

  “Explain? Why can’t you tell me now?”

  “Carl, please trust me.”

  “Alright.”

  She took him by the arm and walked with him to the door. He was opening it when she slammed it shut and threw herself at him and kissed him. Just when he started to hope things would go further she eased up on him and pulled away with one final kiss. She then studied him intently.

  “You love me, don’t you?” he said. “Just say it.”

  She was crying again. “If I didn’t love you, I would have said it.”

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  ***

  The mood in the library resembled that of a wake. The music was somber, a soft, low tune emanating from a guitar player on stage. The regular patrons had already gotten wind of the conflict and were quiet when Carl, Tom and the others arrived. The waiters had the tables prepared in anticipation, drinks and newspapers awaiting them. Carl plopped in his chair while Duong ordered additional drinks, one for each man killed. The stringers gathered on one side of the table as the waiter came back with a tray of filled glass shots and placed them individually on the opposite side.

  When the waiter left, Carl picked up his glass and raised a toast to the honored dead. Staring at the glass in front of empty chairs around to their left and right, they toasted and drank and then sat down. None of them reached for the newspapers. They listened to the guitar player on the stage creating a gentle ambiance for them as they reflected on the day.

  Tom broke out a pack of cigarettes and distributed them around. The men smoked silently, still gazing at the untouched shot glasses. Eventually, they turned to small talk to get their mind off the loss.

  But not Carl. He couldn’t take his eyes off the drinks. They were like small tombstones, representative of the men whose fates he should have suffered, too. Yet, he hadn’t. Not because of some random chance event or happenstance. It had been deliberate. Tony had chosen of his own free will to let him live. It hadn’t affected him before. Only then had it occurred to him just how fortunate he was.

  He couldn’t get it out of his head. He was afraid of how his encounter with Tony would affect his reputation. “Killer” Carl could easily be replaced with “Coward” Carl if word got around.

  Perhaps that was Tony’s secret intention. Far better to let an enemy live in shame than die with dignity.

  Yet once more, Carl knew it wasn’t the case, and that bothered him the most. He had seen it in Tony’s eyes. There had been nothing malicious or clever about his decision. The act had been inspired by genuine mercy.

  It made no sense. What did Tony have to gain by letting him live if he didn’t intend harm for it? Surely, he had to know Carl wouldn’t give it up. If Norton ordered another hit, he’d obey. He’d hate it. It would torment him. But he’d do it because it was his job.

  And his father; what would he think if he ever found out? Wouldn’t it have pleased the elder Marconi for his son to have kill a major foe?

  Tom nudged him. “You alright?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You don’t look it.”

  Carl nodded at the shot glasses. “We lost too many today.”

  “It won’t last forever.”

  “No. But it might last longer than we want.”

  “Norton seems pretty confident.”

  “I’m sure. He won’t stand to lose. Someone else will do the killing and dying.”

  “You don’t hold it against him, do you?”

  Carl shook his head as he downed his drink. “Nah. I just have to remember what it cost. It costs lives.”

  Tom nodded and patted him on the back. “I’m glad you made it out alive, today. I was a little worried.”

  “I’m not leaving you yet. Life would get too boring without me.”

  “I hope you could say the same about me.”

  “Who else could keep me entertained?”

  Tom plopped a cigarette into his mouth. “How about Kaylyn?”

  Carl stared at the shot glasses as the waiter passed by. The young man looked down at them as though to take them, but Carl’s gaze had him pass by without disturbing them.

  “Have you talked to her?” Tom asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Tom nudged him aggressively. “That sounds like something.”

  Carl tried to keep an ambiguous face as he reached under the table and tapped the side of his jacket. He felt the lump in the front pocket where the box was nestled beside his hip.

  Somehow, Tom noticed it. He leaned over, eyed Carl’s jacket, then studied him worriedly. “What’s going on, man?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Come on.”

  Carl sighed as he glanced at the other men at the table. Duong had gathered him around him as he discussed their morning escape. They appeared thoroughly distracted.

  He reached into his front pocket and carefully took out the small velvet box. Keeping it under the table, he opened it next to Tom. Inside was a gold claddagh ring. In-between the two hands there was a crowned heart encrusted with a small diamond. He had purchased it just hours before from a vendor at Pike Place after visiting Kaylyn.

  Tom glanced at the ring for a moment the
n looked away, continuing to nurse his drink. Carl put the ring away, afraid someone else would see it. He ordered another ale, content to let Tom form his opinion without further comment.

  He was halfway through his beer when Tom muttered under his breath. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Why not?”

  “You think you’re going to marry her?”

  Carl sighed again. He didn’t expect Tom to jump on board right away. It went against everything he had once championed.

  “I know what you’re thinking,’ Carl said.

  “Well, at least one of us is.”

  “I love her. And I know she loves me.”

  “She didn’t actually say she did, did she?”

  “Is this about her? Or are you just angry you haven’t found someone?”

  Tom chuckled sardonically as he wiped his mouth. “I’m not the one buying rings. And shouldn’t you wait until this war is over?”

  “I don’t know when it’ll be over,” Carl said. “I don’t want to wait until then.”

  “Then do it. Who knows? It might last the rest of our lives.”

  “What are you referring to? The war with Fremont or marriage?”

  “Either. Or both. I hope only one.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next morning Carl awoke to an absolute quiet scene outside.

  He and Tom had picked a new spot in the International District. They had converted an abandoned Chinese restaurant into a makeshift residence. Nothing fancy, just enough for them to sleep and eat. It was believed to be safe. But yesterday had taught him nothing was safe, nothing was secure. Any place was vulnerable to attack.

  The serenity made them suspect an ambush. They a hidden exit out the back of the building, where all seemed well, too.

  They arrived to find the Cascadian prepared for a long war. Guards were stationed outside at all the exits. Plain-clothed men were scattered around the vicinity as lookouts. Carl also detected the sharpshooters in adjacent buildings.

  In the newsroom one corner had been sectioned off to provide space solely for communicating with their street men. The rat-a-tat-tat of typewriter keys muffled the voices of men taking messages from the safe houses. From what Carl could hear, their street reflected the same situation everywhere else in their territory.