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, running in pairs. The rain had returned suddenly, falling hard, slanting slightly in the westerly breeze, aiding them in their task by hammering on the windows of Leehagen’s house, masking their approach from those within. They reached the fence at the edge of the property, and then used the shrubs and trees in the yard for cover as they advanced on the main building itself. The house was surrounded by a porch on all four sides. The drapes were drawn on the first-floor windows, and the windows themselves were locked. A disabled access ramp ran parallel to the main steps below the front door, which was glassless and closed. They passed the nurse’s little apartment, a single room with a bed and a small living area. There was nobody inside. She would have been sent away, Angel guessed. Leehagen would not have wanted her as a witness to what was planned.
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 pinned down, making for the door at the far end of the room. As soon as Angel paused to reload, he made his move. They heard shouts, and a scuffle. Angel and Willie rushed into the kitchen while Louis advanced down the hallway, Bliss’s gun in his hand.
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 tanned skin: another farmboy following orders.
“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.
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 smelclass="underline" the scent of dying, of someone rotting from within.
A closed door connected the bathroom to what was, presumably, Leehagen’s bedroom. Louis and Angel assumed positions at either side of it, while the Detective went into the hallway and prepared to enter through the bedroom door.
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.