Steven Dunne - The Disciple

‘Before long there’s a whole Reaper network to do the killing,’ said Brook.

‘Many hands make light work… a bit of a commie mantra but it fits. But here’s the mystery, the thing this Burton will never think to address. Someone has failed to deliver on this kid. Twice.’

‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’ said Brook. ‘About some people’s commitment to the cause.’

Drexler grunted his amusement. ‘It does. But go careful, my friend. Even an untalented flatfoot like Brian Burton spotted one thing.’

Brook raised his glass and fixed his eye on Drexler. ‘Oh? What’s that?’

‘How many times you’ve failed to catch this guy.’

Brook took a sip of his drink. ‘He doesn’t rate me very highly,’ he said with a thin smile.

Drexler nodded. ‘Another of those details missed, Damen. That’s why Burton’s a fool. He actually thinks you’re incompetent. But he doesn’t know you at all. Personally, I think it must take a special type of genius to keep letting The Reaper slip through his fingers and still look like he’s doing his job properly.’

Brook eyed his host for a moment, trying to organise his thoughts. The gloves had been peeled off and he would finally get some answers. Time to throw his first punch.

‘Well, on this side of the pond, Mike, we have something called the rules of evidence. We’re not allowed to execute suspects just because they have a knife in their hand.’

Drexler smiled back. ‘I see you’ve been doing your own background reading. You’re referring to the Reverend Hunseth. Seems like a long time ago.’ He looked off into the fire, as Sorenson had all those years before. Then he looked back at Brook. ‘I got some grey hairs over it, sure, but I’m fine with it now. Nobody missed him. Nobody mourned him — ’cept maybe the local liquor mart. But you’re wrong, Damen. Even on my side of the pond they don’t like unexplained shootings. Questions were asked. People were interviewed. But I was a federal agent and my partner was in danger. I was able to answer them and that was enough. See, back home, the good guys have guns too.’ He laughed at a private joke. ‘I suppose that makes me The Reaper, Damen.’

‘You were for the Reverend.’

‘Hunseth got what he deserved.’

‘Did your father?’ Brook was pleased to see the icy expression infect Drexler’s face, his knuckles whitening for a few seconds.

Finally Drexler smiled and affected a slight nod, to acknowledge a blow well aimed. ‘Always go too far, because that’s where you’ll find the truth.’

Brook nodded. ‘Albert Camus.’

Drexler eyed him. ‘You know Camus. Why am I not surprised?’ He took a sip of whisky. ‘So tell me, Damen. Is this teacher, Ottoman, getting what he deserves? Is he The Reaper’s disciple?’

‘He didn’t do it, Mike.’

‘You amaze me,’ said Drexler in a monotone. He cocked his head and considered Brook as though anew. ‘What happened? Were they getting too close? Was it too obvious to your superiors? Did you have to throw them a bone? The professor wouldn’t be pleased. He’s not keen on civilians getting hurt in the crossfire.’

‘Sorenson’s dead.’

Drexler nodded. ‘That’s the rumour.’

‘That’s a fact,’ said Brook. ‘I was there.’

Drexler took another sip of his drink. He walked over to a small stereo and switched it on. He checked the disc then pressed play. ‘But he lives on through others, Damen. His will be done.’ A deep sonorous note sounded from the speakers and a choir took up the opening verse.

‘And what’s that exactly?’

Drexler swivelled to face Brook. ‘Cutting out the dead wood, Damen. So the tree can grow stronger.’

‘Is that what you’re doing here, Mike — strengthening the tree?’

‘I’m writing a book, my friend, for the good guys who already died. That’s why I’m here.’ He reached into the drawer of a nearby chest. He pulled a gun from it and placed it on the arm of the chair then looked away, remembering, a sudden sadness invading his features. He closed his eyes, but Brook resisted the urge to make a lunge for the gun. ‘Faure’s Requiem. Imagine heading for the next world with this rolling around in your head.’

Brook’s eyes burned into Drexler’s death mask. ‘There isn’t a next world.’

Drexler grinned, his eyes still closed. ‘No, there isn’t.’

‘But I’d prefer the Debussy if I have a choice.’

Drexler opened his eyes. ‘I don’t have any.’

Brook nodded. ‘No, of course.’ He looked at the weapon and then at Drexler. ‘If this is my reward for breach of contract,’ Brook paused for effect, ‘then I’m ready.’

‘Ready?’

‘But first I’ll tell you what I told Sorenson. The Laura Maples case … I was young and in a bad place. I made a mistake. Floyd Wrigley was a mistake and one that I am never going to repeat. No matter what Jason Wallis has done to me I’m not going to kill him, nor am I going to join your little network. I’m not like Sorenson and I never was.’ Drexler stared at him and Brook fancied he could detect uncertainty for the first time tonight. His hesitancy pleased Brook, so he continued. ‘So if it’s all right with you, I’d like a last cigarette and then you can do what you’ve got to do.’

‘Last request — just like in the movies.’ Drexler looked down at his gun, then smiled. ‘Don’t get the wrong idea, Damen. I’m no tough guy. Just careful. I don’t know how far off the reservation you’ve strayed. But one thing about Sorenson, you of all people should know, is that when the good guys get in the way, that’s when you get out. Those are the rules. No civilians. No John Ottomans. No matter what the cost. You’ve served. I’ve served. We’re the thin blue, my friend. We’ve got rights.’

Brook’s eyes narrowed. Answers. Fat chance. All he was getting here were more questions. Why had Drexler killed Harvey-Ellis? And why was he still in Derbyshire? The Inghams were dead. His work was done. Was he hanging on for Brook to deliver on his contract with Sorenson? Or was he planning another atrocity?

‘You can forget about me, Mike. I won’t kill Jason Wallis.’ Brook stared hard at Drexler who wouldn’t look back. Instead he put his hands together, immersed in the music. ‘When are you leaving?’

‘Soon. A week.’

‘You paid six months’ rent in advance.’

Drexler smiled. ‘I won’t starve. My research is nearly done. I just need to speak to one last person and I’ll be on my way.’ ‘And who’s that?’

Drexler fixed him with a twisted smile. ‘Don’t you know?’

Brook rose to leave, declining to finish his drink. ‘Thanks for all your hospitality, Mike.’ Drexler accepted with a nod of the head. ‘I won’t bother you again. But don’t contact me and don’t send me any more emails. And, rules or no rules, if you come back to Derby…’ Brook turned to be sure he locked onto Drexler’s eyes ‘…I’ll kill you.’

Drexler picked up the gun and followed Brook to the door, pulling a cigarette from a pocket and throwing it into his mouth. Brook walked into the blackness without looking round. ‘Goodbye, Damen.’ Drexler aimed the gun at Brook’s retreating back. He squeezed the trigger briefly then relaxed and let the gun fall to his side. He went back inside and lit his cigarette, removing the clip from the M9.

He sat down to finish his drink, examining the weapon. Sorenson’s gun. It had never been fired in anger since the professor had given it to him. Maybe it never would be. Maybe Sorenson really was dead. Maybe he really was chasing ghosts.

When Brook woke the next day, it was to the sound of knocking on his door. He jumped out of bed and glanced at the clock. To his surprise it was ten past nine. He padded to the window overlooking the lane and saw a taxi in the road. A second later, Grant stepped back from the door and looked up. She was dressed for walking. She saw him at the window and waved.