John Connolly - The Reapers

The Detective emerged from the cover of the trees first. Already, Tony and Jackie were running across the road to join him. He kept his gun fixed on the two men in the cab, but it was clear that both were already dead. The driver had been hit in the neck and chest. The passenger might have survived the initial gunfire, but he hadn’t been wearing a belt when the truck hit the tree. He had been a big man, and the force of his head and body hitting the damaged windshield at speed had broken the glass, so that his upper body now lay on the hood of the truck while his right leg was tangled in the same belt that might have saved him.

The Detective walked to where Tony and Jackie were standing over the man on the ground. Jackie picked up the rifle and tossed it into the trees. The injured man was now moaning softly, and holding on to the top of his right leg. It was twisted at the knee, and his foot stood at a unnatural angle to the joint. The Detective winced at the sight. He knelt on the grass and leaned close to the man’s ear.

“Hey,” he said. “Can you hear me?”

The man nodded. His teeth were bared in agony.

“My leg-” he said.

“Your leg’s broken. There’s nothing we can do about it, not here.”

“Hurts.”

“I’ll bet.”

By now, Paulie had turned the truck around and was pulling up on the road above. The Detective indicated that he should stay where he was to watch the road, and Paulie acknowledged with a wave.

“You got anything in your truck you can give him for the pain?” the Detective asked Tony.

“There’s some Jacks,” said Tony. He thought for a moment. “And some pills and stuff. Doctors keep giving us so much, it’s hard to keep track of it all. I’ll go take a look in the glove compartment.”

He lumbered off. The Detective returned his attention to the injured man.

“What’s your name?”

“Fry.” The man managed to gasp the word out. “Eddie Fry.”

“Okay, Eddie, I want you to listen to me carefully. You’re going to tell me exactly what’s going on here, and then I’m going to give you something for the pain. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, then one of these big men is going to stand on your leg. Do you understand?”

Fry nodded.

“We’re looking for our friends. Two men, one black and one white. Where are they?”

Eddie Fry’s upper body rocked back and forward, as if by doing so he could pump some of the pain from his leg. “They’re in the woods,” he said. “Last we heard, they were west of the inner road. We didn’t see them. Our job was just to provide backup in case they made it through.”

“They brought people with them. Two of them are dead at the bridge over there. What happened to the others?”

Fry was clearly reluctant to answer. The Detective turned to Jackie. “Jackie, step lightly on his foot.”

“No!” Eddie Fry’s hands were raised in supplication. “No, don’t. They’re dead. We didn’t do it, but they’re dead. I just work for Mr. Leehagen. I used to look after his cattle. I’m not a killer.”

“You’re trying to kill our friends, though.”

Fry shook his head.

“We were told to keep them from leaving, but we weren’t to hurt them. Please, my leg.”

“We’ll take care of it in a minute. Why weren’t you supposed to kill them?”

Fry started to drift. The Detective slapped him sharply on the cheek.

“Answer me.”

“Someone else.” Fry’s face was now contorted in agony, and sweat and rainwater mingled on his face. “It was someone else’s job to kill them. That was the agreement.”

“Whose job?”

“Bliss. Bliss is going to kill them.”

“Who is Bliss?”

“I don’t know! I swear to God I don’t. I never even met him. He’s in there, somewhere. He’s going to hunt them down. Please, please, my leg…”

Willie Brew had joined them. He stood to one side, listening to what was being said, his face very white. Tony Fulci returned, carrying two Ziploc bags jammed with pharmaceuticals. He put them on the ground and began going through the blister packs and plastic bottles, examining the generic names and tossing aside those that he deemed of no use in the current situation.

“Bupirone: antianxiety,” he said. “They never worked. Clozapine: antipsychotic. I don’t even remember us taking those. Trazodone: antidepressant. Ziprasidone: ’nother antipsychotic. Loxapine: antipsychotic. Man, it’s like you can see a pattern…”

“You know, we don’t have all day,” said the Detective.

“I don’t want to give him something that won’t work,” said Tony. He seemed, thought Willie, to be taking a certain amount of pride in his pharmaceutical knowledge.

“Tony, as far as I can tell, none of these things worked.”

“Yeah, on us. He could be different. Here: flurazepam. That’s a sedative, and there’s some eszopiclone, too. Cocktail those.” He produced a fifth of Jack Daniel’s from his jacket pocket and handed it to the Detective along with four pills.

“That looks like a lot,” said Jackie. “We don’t want to kill him.”

Willie looked at the dead men lying in the bloodstained cab, then back at Jackie.

“What?” said Jackie.

“Nothing,” said Willie.

“It’s not the same,” said Jackie.

“What isn’t?”

“Shooting someone, and poisoning them.”

“I guess not,” said Willie. He was now wishing he had never come. More blood, more bodies, a wounded man lying in agony on the grass. He had heard what Eddie Fry said: he wasn’t a killer, he was just a farmhand pressed into service. Maybe Fry knew what others were trying to do, and for that he bore some responsibility, but he was out of his depth with men like the Detective. Fry and his friends were lambs to the slaughter. Willie hadn’t expected it to be like this. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, and he realized, once again, how naive he had been. He didn’t belong in this situation any more than Fry did. Willie hadn’t signed up to kill anyone, but men were dying now.

The Detective handed the tablets to Fry, then held the bottle steady so that he could wash them down with the Jack Daniel’s. He left the bottle with the wounded man and walked over to the cab of the crashed truck. He opened the passenger door and removed the weapons, then found one of the radios. It appeared intact, but when he lifted it up the back came off and the ruined innards were exposed. He tossed it into the woods in disgust, then looked west.

“They’re in there somewhere,” he said. “The question is: how do we find them?”

THE MAN LEANING ON the roof of the Ford Ranger was very wet. His name was Curtis Roundy, and if there was a stick being waved in his direction then five would get you twenty that Curtis would always find a way to grab the shitty end of it, or that was how it seemed to the man himself. No matter what lengths he went to in order to avoid getting himself into situations where his own personal comfort and satisfaction would have to be sacrificed for someone else’s idea of the greater good, Curtis would inevitably end up holding a fork when soup fell from the sky, or experiencing the gentle trickle of urine down his back amid assurances that it was, in fact, rain. At least, he thought, as he stood with the binoculars pressed to his eyes and his feet squishing in his boots, this was just rain, and his poncho was keeping out some of it.

Nevertheless, it wasn’t much consolation. He would have been a lot happier sitting in the cab instead of standing outside exposed to the elements, but Benton and Quinn weren’t the sort of men who were open to reason or felt any great concern for the welfare of others. It didn’t help that Curtis was younger than them by fifteen years and weighed a whole lot less than either of them, and was therefore pretty much their bitch in such situations. Of all the people that he might have been partnered with, Benton and Quinn were the worst. They were mean, petty, and unpredictable at the best of times, but Benton’s experiences down in the city, and the reaction of Mr. Leehagen’s son upon his return, had rendered him downright savage. He was popping pills for the pain in his shoulder and hand, and there had been an unpleasant confrontation with the man named Bliss, one that had resulted in Benton’s being exiled to the hills, forced to take no further part in what was to come. Curtis had heard some of what was said, and had seen the way Bliss had looked at Benton once Benton had stormed out of the house. It wasn’t over between them, not by a long distance, and Curtis, although he kept his opinion to himself, didn’t rate Benton’s chances of coming out best from any future encounter. Benton had been simmering about it ever since, and Curtis could almost hear him approaching the boil.