John Connolly - The Reapers

Leehagen swallowed drily. “A good friend. A loyal friend.” The mention of Hoyle’s name seemed to give him new energy, if only for a moment. “We’ll hire others. It will never end. Never.”

“You have no one left now,” said Louis. “Soon, Hoyle won’t either. It’s over.”

And something extinguished itself in Leehagen’s eyes as he realized the truth of what had been said. He stared at his dead son, and remembered the one who had gone before him. With a last great effort, he lifted his head from the pillow. His left hand reached out and grasped the sleeve of Louis’s jacket.

“Then kill me, too,” he pleaded. “Please. Be…merciful.”

His head sank back, but his eyes remained fixed on Louis, filled with hatred and grief and, most of all, need.

“Please,” he repeated.

Louis gently released Leehagen’s grip. Almost tenderly, he placed his hand over the old man’s face, closing the nostrils tightly with his thumb and index finger, the palm pressed hard against the dry, wrinkled mouth. Leehagen nodded against the pillow, as if in silent agreement with what was about to pass. After a few seconds, he tried to draw a breath, but it would not come. He spasmed, his body shuddering and trembling. His fingers stretched themselves to their limit, his eyes opened wide, and then it was over. His body deflated, so that he seemed even smaller in death than in life.

There was a movement at the bedroom door. Willie Brew had entered during Leehagen’s final moments, troubled by the silence that had followed the gunfire. There was desolation on his face as he approached the bed. Killing those who were armed was one thing, however terrible he considered it, but killing an old, frail man, snuffing the life from him between a finger and thumb as one might a candle flame, that was beyond Willie’s comprehension. He knew now that his relationship with these men had come to an end. He could no longer tolerate their presence in his life, just as he would never be able to come to terms with the life that he had taken.

Louis removed his hand from Leehagen’s face, pausing only to close his eyes. He turned to the Detective and began to speak, just as Loretta Hoyle lifted her head from her dead lover’s shoulder and made her move. Her face had the feral quality of a rabid animal that has finally tipped over into madness. Her hand emerged from behind her lover’s body holding a gun, her finger already on the trigger.

She raised it and fired.

It was Willie Brew who registered the movement, and Willie Brew who responded. There was nothing dramatic about what he did in response, nothing fast or spectacular. He simply stepped in front of Louis, as though he were nudging into line before him, and took the bullet. It hit him just below the hollow of his neck. He bucked at the impact, then backed into Louis, who reached instinctively beneath Willie’s arms to break his fall. There were two more shots, but they came from Angel as Loretta Hoyle died.

Louis laid Willie on the carpet. He tried to loosen the shirt to get at the wound, but Willie pushed his hands away, shaking his head. There was too much blood. It gushed from the wound, drowning Willie in its tide. It bubbled from his mouth as his back arched, Angel and the Detective now beside him. Knowing he was dying, they took his hands, Angel the right and the Detective the left. Willie Brew’s grip tightened. He looked at them and tried to speak. The Detective leaned down, his ear so close to Willie’s lips that blood sprayed upon his face as the mechanic tried to say his final words.

“It’s okay, Willie,” he said. “It’s okay.”

Willie struggled to draw breath, but it was denied him. His face darkened with the effort, and his features contorted in his distress.

“Let it come, Willie,” whispered the Detective. “It’s nearly over now.”

Willie’s body slowly grew limp in Louis’s arms, and the life left him at last.

THEY WRAPPED WILLIE BREW’S body in a white sheet and placed it in the bed of a truck that was parked at the back of the house. Angel drove, the Detective beside him, while Louis kept vigil beside Willie. They followed the road to where the Fulcis and Jackie Garner were waiting. They saw the body in the back of the truck, the sheet stained with blood, but they said nothing.

“Nobody came,” said Jackie. “We waited, but nobody came.”

Then vehicles appeared in the distance: three black vans and a pair of black Explorers, approaching fast. The Fulcis grew tense and hefted their guns in anticipation.

“No,” said Louis simply.

The convoy came to a halt a short distance from where they stood. The passenger door of the lead Explorer opened, and a man in a long black overcoat stepped forward, placing a gray homburg hat on his head to protect him from the rain. Louis climbed down from the bed of the truck and walked to meet him.

“Looks like you’ve had quite the morning,” said Milton.

Louis regarded him without expression. The distance between the two men was only a couple of feet, but a chasm yawned there.

“Why are you here?” said Louis.

“There’ll be questions asked. You don’t just declare war on someone like Arthur Leehagen and expect no one to notice. Is he dead?”

“He’s dead. So is his son, and Nicholas Hoyle’s daughter.”

“I would have expected no less of you,” said Milton.

“Bliss, too.”

Milton blinked once, but said nothing in response.

“You didn’t answer my question,” said Louis. “Why are you here?”

“A guilty conscience, perhaps.”

“You don’t have one.”

Milton inclined his head gently in acknowledgment of the truth of Louis’s statement. “Then call it what you will: professional courtesy, a tying up of loose ends. It doesn’t matter.”

“Did you order the killing of Jon Leehagen?” said Louis.

“Yes.”

“Did Ballantine work for you?”

“On that occasion, yes. He was just one more layer of deniability, a buffer between us and you.”

“Did Gabriel know?”

“I am sure that he suspected, but it wouldn’t have done for him to have asked. It would have been unwise.”

Milton looked over Louis’s shoulder, in the direction of Leehagen’s house, and his eyes were far away for a moment.

“I have bad news for you,” he said. “Gabriel died during the night. I’m sorry.”

The two men stared at each other. Neither broke.

“So, what now?” asked Louis.

“You walk away.”

“What’s the cover story?”

“Gang warfare. Leehagen crossed the wrong people. He was engaged in illegal activity: drugs, people trafficking. We can say the Russians did it. We hear you know all about them. I’m sure that you’ll agree it’s entirely plausible.”

“What about the survivors?”

“They’ll keep quiet. We’re good at making people hold their tongues.”

Milton turned and waved to the clean-up teams. Two of the vans headed for Leehagen’s house.

“I have one more question,” said Louis.

“I think I’ve answered enough questions for now. In fact, I’ve answered all of the questions I’m going to answer from you.”

He began to walk back to the Explorer. Louis ignored what Milton had said.

“Did you want Arthur Leehagen dead?” asked Louis.

Milton paused. He was smiling when he looked back.

“If you hadn’t done it, we’d have been forced to take care of him ourselves. People trafficking is a risky business. There are terrorists out there willing to exploit every loophole. The Leehagens weren’t as particular as they should have been about who they dealt with. They made mistakes, and we had to clean up after them. Now we’re going to clean up after you instead. That’s why you’re walking away, you and your friends. It looks like you did one last job for us after all.”