The Reapers

The Detective led the way up the stairs, Louis and Angel lagging behind until he gave them the all clear. There were five doors on the second floor, all closed but none, as it turned out, locked. They took them one at a time, Louis opening and covering to the right, Angel to the left, the Detective keeping his back to them and the other doors in view. Three were bedrooms, one of them filled with women’s clothes, the other clearly a young man’s, although their clothing was mixed in the man’s room, and there was a box of Trojans on the nightstand. The fourth room was a large family bathroom that had been converted for Leehagen’s use. There was an open wet room instead of a shower, with a plastic chair beneath the shower head, and a rubber cushion in the tub that could be inflated or deflated as needed. The shelves were packed with medication: liquids and pills and disposable plastic syringes. Underlying everything was a sickly, unpleasant smell: the scent of dying, of someone rotting from within.

A closed door co

Louis looked at Angel and nodded. He took a step back, and kicked hard at the door just below the lock. The lock held, but at that moment the Detective entered the main bedroom. There was the sound of a shot, and then Louis kicked again. The lock splintered and the door flew open, revealing an overweight man in his forties holding a semiautomatic in his hand: Leehagen’s son, Michael. Loretta Hoyle crouched at his feet, her head hidden in her arms. Between them and where Louis and Angel stood was a large hospital bed, upon which lay a withered old man with an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose.

For a moment, Michael Leehagen was distracted. He could not cover both doors at once, so he froze.

And Louis killed him. The bullet struck him in the chest, and he slid down the wall. Blood spread across the front of his white shirt, and he blinked at it in puzzlement as he sat heavily on the floor. Loretta Hoyle peered out of her cocoon, then wailed and reached for him, calling his name as she held his head between her hands. He tried to focus on her, but he could not. His body jerked once. His eyes closed, and he died. Loretta screamed, then buried her face in the nape of the dead man’s neck and began to cry as Angel kicked away the fallen gun.

Arthur Leehagen’s head moved on his pillow, and he regarded his dead son with rheumy eyes. A pale, thin hand reached for the mask, removing it from his mouth. He drew a rattling breath, then spoke.

“My boy,” he said. His eyes filled with tears. They spilled over and flowed from the corners of his eyes, dropping soundlessly on the pillows.

Louis walked to the bed and stood over the old man.

“You brought this on yourself,” he said.

Leehagen stared at him. He was nearly bald, only a few strands of thin white hair clinging to his skull like cobwebs. His skin was pale and bloodless, and looked cold to the touch, but his eyes shone all the brighter for being set in such an emaciated, dessicated frame. His body might have betrayed him, but his mind was still alert, burning with frustration as it found itself trapped in a physical form that would soon no longer be able to sustain it.

“You’re the one,” said Leehagen. “You killed my boy, my Jon.” He had to force each word out, taking a breath after every one.

“I did.”

“Did you even ask why?”

Louis shook his head. “It didn’t matter. And now you’ve lost your other son. Like I said, you brought it on yourself.”

Leehagen’s hand reached for the mask. He pressed it to his face, gasping in the precious oxygen. He stayed like that for a time until his breathing was under control once again, then moved the mask aside.

“You’ve left me with nothing,” he said.

“You have your life.”

Leehagen tried to laugh, but it came out as a kind of strangled cough.

“Life?” he said. “This is not life. This is merely a slow dying.”

Louis stared down at him. “Why here?” he said. “Why bring us all the way up here to kill us?”

“I wanted you to bleed onto my land. I wanted your blood to seep into the place where Jon is buried. I wanted him to know that he had been avenged.”

“And Hoyle?”

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.