John Connolly - The Reapers

“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?”