Warren Ellis - Gun Machine

“I’m unclear on that,” said Machen.

“If I may,” said Turkel to the hunter. The hunter gave him a broad, mocking smile and bade him continue with a grand sweep of his hand. Turkel swallowed hard and continued. “Tallow is the case, at this point. He’s submitted no paper report that I’m aware of. Tallow’s death erases enough information to cripple further investigation. And, frankly, he seems to be the only one interested in pursuing it. I suspect he’s mentally ill. There is another issue involving one of the guns removed from a storage facility, but investigatively it’s—”

“A dead end?” The hunter chuckled.

“—going to be unproductive,” Turkel said, faint disgust in his face as it turned to the hunter.

“There we have it,” said the hunter. “The death of this man concludes the difficulty in front of us. But I don’t speak of an end to all this. There is work yet to be done.”

“What work?” said Westover.

“My work. It has been undone, and must begin again. My keep has been breached, and my work dismantled and stolen. I strongly doubt that I will ever recover all the pieces, and in any case they may be too tainted to weave back together. I must begin again.”

“If we’re understanding you correctly,” said Machen, “your…collection took the best part of twenty years to put together. But the work is done.”

“Really?” The hunter chuckled again. “Have you all achieved your great ambitions? Dreams all come true? Is there nothing more you aspire to? I doubt that. I don’t think that, for you three, greed was something you could don in your young winters and then shrug off like an overcoat in a warm room. Do you really mean to tell me that there is nothing left that you want? You, Mr. Machen. You could yet be running the great financial mill of this city. In twenty years you could be the mayor. Mr. Turkel here is not yet commissioner, is he? Mr. Westover—well, I shudder to think of what horrors he has still to achieve. Although, if I’m honest, I’m not greatly impressed by the security around his home.”

“You don’t want to stop,” said Machen in a flat voice.

“I don’t want to stop. I have a thing to finish. And since you three also have things to finish, I feel that it works out well for all of us.”

Westover said, “What would it take to make you stop?”

The hunter laughed, surprising even himself.

“It’s a serious question,” said Westover. “It comes with the promise of substantial remuneration and whatever other facilitation you might require.”

“We can begin in the region of half a million dollars in nonconsecutive used bills,” said Machen.

“And, of course, a guarantee of safe passage out of the Five Boroughs, with provision of either a vehicle or a plane ticket,” said Turkel.

“Well, well,” said the hunter. “You’ve been talking among yourselves, haven’t you? Three fat old men huddling in a park in the dark, wondering how to haggle their way out of the lives they chose for themselves. Fearfully hoping to buy off the agent of their success.”

“We hired you, and we can—” Machen began.

“You hired me and so you can fire me? I work for you? Is that what you’re saying? You idiots. You mindless, worthless, laughable slugs. I don’t work for you. You work for me. I found three people so desperate to be somebodies that they gave me money for the work I already fully intended to do. You didn’t give me purpose. You funded my purpose. I took the structure of your needs for my own use. You work for me, and I decide when it ends. All three of you are the same mediocrities you were when I met you. You simply own better shoes now. Look at you. You think I killed at your command to make you great. You’re not great. You are nothing but the things that float to the surface when all obstructions are cut away. You can’t buy me off because this was never about the money. It was about the work. You will continue to fund me as per the original arrangement, and you will continue to give me more modern people to kill, because it amuses me. Do you understand me?”

There was silence, and the stink of their fear.

“You never knew me at all, did you? You never understood a thing. Too focused on your own gain.”

Westover opened his jacket.

The hunter’s hand went into his bag, finding the grips of the gun he took from Kutkha.

Westover noted the movement, inclined his head slightly, and slowed his movements down. He withdrew an envelope from the inside pocket of the jacket and extended it to the hunter. “I presume you can drive,” Westover said.

“When I have to,” said the hunter, stepping back into the shadows to disguise any possible outward sign of the revulsion the thought caused him. He felt the envelope; there was something plastic in there, along with the rustle of folded paper.

Westover lowered his voice. “The envelope contains the details you would need to recover at least some of your weapons. The names therein are…expendable.”

Turkel turned away.

“Well,” said the hunter. “I have a busy night ahead. So I’ll leave you gentlemen to the remainders of your evenings. I want to see you here tomorrow night. Just one of you will do. Choose among yourselves. Decide how we’re going to move forward. We’re all still young, and there’s much yet to achieve here on this great island. Don’t you think?”

Turkel was already walking away, his back to the hunter. Machen and Westover followed him. The hunter watched them go, moving position once a minute for five minutes until he was certain they’d all separated and were taking properly divergent routes. He then found a light source that was lonely enough for him to safely open the envelope and study its contents.

The hunter was not happy about traveling in a motor vehicle, but on this night, the speed of travel in a modern conveyance would undoubtedly be useful. He simply had to decide where Detective John Tallow fell on his to-do list tonight.

“HELP ME,” Emily Westover said.

“What is it?” said Tallow, rising from the table, putting out a palm against the questioning looks he was getting.

“Jason’s downstairs. Said he had to talk to one of the employees. He said he’s going out tonight but he’s not walking the dog.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“He goes out at ten forty-five every night with the dog, walks her around Central Park a bit. Every night. Tonight he says he’s got to go out at ten forty-five but he can’t take the dog.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing to be concerned about, Mrs. Westover.”

“He’s been taking calls from his two friends. I know what this is about.”

“Which friends?”

“I shouldn’t tell you.”

“Mrs. Westover, with all respect, you shouldn’t be on the phone to me either. Now, you just asked for my help. I can’t help you without knowing everything that’s going on.”

“You think I’m crazy.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well, you should.” She laughed. Giggled, in fact. The sound made Tallow go cold, for some reason. “I am crazy. But not so crazy that I don’t know I’m crazy, and I think that’s an important distinction. Andy Machen and that creepy bastard Al Turkel. He’s been talking to them. Something serious is happening tonight. Jason told me that I know what it’s about. Which means it’s about what, what, what he did to get where he is. What they did. Do you understand?”

Tallow had walked into the other room. He caught his reflection in a small mirror on the wall and judged himself before speaking.

“Mrs. Westover, what are you afraid of at Werpoes?”

“Him. He lives there.”