The Reapers

“This is smoke,” he said, holding up a tube wrapped at either end with green tape. “It’s green. And this one explodes,” he said, holding up one wrapped in red tape. “This one is red.”

Tony Fulci looked hard at both of the tubes. “That one’s green,” he said, pointing at the gas. “The other one is red.”

“No,” said Jackie, “you got it wrong.”

“I don’t. That one’s red, and that one’s green. Tell him, Paulie.”

Paulie joined them. “No, Jackie’s right. Green and red.”

“Jesus, Tony,” said Jackie. “You’re color-blind. Did no one ever tell you?”

Tony shrugged. “I just figured lots of people liked red food.”

“That’s not normal,” said Jackie, “although I guess it explains why you were always ru

“Well, it don’t matter now. So the green one is really red, and the red one is green?” said Tony.

“That’s right,” said Jackie.

“Which one explodes again?”

Reluctantly, Willie turned back to the Detective.

“I’ll go with you,” he said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

THEY APPROACHED LEEHAGEN’S HOUSE by the same route they had taken earlier that day, passing through the cattle pens. The car was still in the barn, the bodies of the Endalls still on the floor. The pens gave them more cover than they would have enjoyed had they approached by road although, as Angel pointed out, it also offered others more places in which to hide, yet they reached the rise overlooking the property without incident. Once again, Leehagen’s house lay below them. It seemed almost to give off a sense of apprehension, as if it were waiting for the violent reprisal that must inevitably come the way of those inside. There was no sign of life: no shapes moving, no twitching of drapes, only stillness and wariness.

Angel lay on the grass as Louis sca

“Nothing,” he said. His wound, although little more than a graze, was aching. The Fulcis had offered him some mild sedatives from their mobile drugstore, but the pain wasn’t bad enough to justify dulling his senses before the task was complete.

“Lot of open ground between us and them,” said Angel. “They’ll see us coming.”

“Let them,” said Louis.

“Easy for you to say. You’ve already been shot once today.”

“Uh-huh: a shot from an expert marksman at a moving target over open ground, and he still didn’t make the kill. You think whoever’s in there is going to do any better? This isn’t a western. People are hard to hit unless they’re up close.”

Behind them knelt the Detective, and farther back was Willie Brew. He had said little since the killing at the ruined barn, and his eyes appeared to be looking inward, at something that only he could see, instead of out at the world through which he was moving. The Detective knew that Willie was in shock. Unlike Louis, he understood what Willie was going through. Deaths stayed with the Detective, and he knew that, in taking a life, you took on the burden of the victim’s grief and pain. That was the price you paid, but nobody had explained that to Willie Brew. Now he would keep paying it until the day he died.

Louis looked to the sky. It was darkening again. More rain was coming after the brief hiatus. The Detective followed his gaze, and nodded.

“We wait,” he said.

He turned to Willie Brew, offering him a final chance to absent himself from what was to come. “You want to stay here while we go in?”

Willie shook his head. “I’ll go,” he said. Willie felt as though the life were slowly seeping from his body, as though it was he who had been shot, not the man whom he had left dead on the ground. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He didn’t think he’d be able to hold the Browning steady, even if his life depended on it. The gun was back in the pocket of his overalls, and it could stay there. He wouldn’t be using it again, not ever.

And so they remained as they were, unspeaking, until the rain began to fall.

They moved fast, ru

They made their way to the back door, which was inset with eight glass panes behind which were lace drapes. Through the drapes they could see a large modern kitchen, and beyond it a dining area. An opening to the right of the dining area led into the hallway. It did not have a door, probably to make access easier for Leehagen and his wheelchair.

The back door was locked. Using the butt of Bliss’s gun, Angel shattered a pane and reached in to turn the latch, his fingers moving quickly and nimbly, Angel conscious that he was briefly the most exposed among them. The latch shifted, and he yanked his hand from the gap and twisted the handle, pushing the door open at the same time as he drew himself flat against the wall of the house, anticipating gunfire. None came.

Louis entered first, staying low and moving left, cutting himself off from the sightline of anyone who might be tempted to open fire on them from the hallway. The Detective followed, and then there was the boom of a shotgun from inside the house and the glass above his head shattered. The Detective threw himself to the right and crawled along the floor as a shell was jacked and a second shot came, this one blasting a cupboard to pieces just inches from where his foot had been a moment before. Angel returned fire, allowing the Detective to move into the dining room while the shooter was pi

A young man lay on the timber floor, his scalp bleeding and his eyes rolled back in his head so that only the whites were visible. The Detective had struck him several times with the butt of his gun during the struggle instead of shooting him. It was clear why. He was no more than seventeen or eighteen, with blond hair and a ta

“He’s just a kid,” said Willie.

“A kid with a shotgun,” said Angel.

“Yeah, but still.”

“They never thought that you’d get this far,” said the Detective.

Louis looked into the dining room, where a chair faced the window, set apart from the table behind it. The Chandler rifle still stood upon the table, and the Hardigg case rested on the carpeted floor. He walked over and ran his fingers along the barrel of the gun, then rested his hand on the back of the chair. The Detective joined him.

“This was where he waited,” said Louis.

“It was personal, wasn’t it?” said the Detective.

“Yeah, real personal.”

When they went back into the hall, they found that Willie had gently placed a cushion under the wounded boy’s head.

“Why don’t you stay with him?” said the Detective. “We need someone down here anyway, just in case.”

Willie knew that he was being sidelined, but he didn’t care. He was grateful for the chance to look after the boy. He’d get some water from the kitchen and clean out the wound in his scalp, make sure it didn’t get infected and that he didn’t go into convulsions. He didn’t want to follow these men up the stairs, not unless he had to. Even if one of Leehagen’s men popped up with a gun and pointed it in his face, Willie didn’t think he’d be able to do much about it. He’d just close his eyes and let it come.