“Polite little fellas, ain’t they?” said Aristede, who had worked for Hoyle for almost as long as Simeon.
“I guess,” said Simeon.
“My old man never trusted them, not after Pearl Harbor. I liked those ones, though. He’d probably have liked them, too.”
Simeon didn’t comment. Regardless of race or creed, he tended to keep his feelings about others to himself.
The woman who owned the pool company was named Eve Fielder. She had taken over the running of it after her father died and had built it into a well-regarded concern catering to upscale clients and private health clubs. Right now, she was staring at the receiver that she had just replaced in its cradle and wondering for just how much longer her company would be of any concern at all.
“Happy?” she asked the man seated across from her.
The man wore a ski mask. He was short, and she was sure that he was white. His colleague, who was tall and, judging by the flashes of skin that she could see beneath the mask, black, was sitting quietly at the kitchen table. He had tuned her satellite radio to some godawful country-and-western station, which suggested a degree of sadism in those who were currently holding her hostage. Alone. For the first time in years, she wished that she was not divorced.
“Contented,” said the small man. “It’s the best we can hope for in life.”
“So what do we do now?”
He checked his watch.
“We wait.”
“For how long?”
“Until the morning. Then we’ll be on our way.”
“And Mr. Hoyle?”
“He’ll have a very clean pool.”
Fielder sighed.
“I get the feeling this is going to be bad for my business.”
“Probably.”
She sighed again.
“Any chance we could turn off that hick music?” she asked.
“I don’t think so, but he’ll be gone soon.”
“It really sucks.”
“I know,” he said. He sounded sincere. “If it’s any consolation, you’re only going to have to listen to it for an hour. Me, I got a life sentence with that as the sound track.”
Hoyle worked in his private office until shortly after 9:00 A.M. He was an early riser, but he liked to break up his morning with exercise. He spent an hour on the stairmaster in his personal gym before stripping down to his trunks and entering the pool area. He stood at the side of the pool, his toes hanging over the edge. He put on his goggles, took a deep breath, then dived into the deep end, his body barely making a splash as it broke the water, his arms outstretched, bubbles of water emerging from his nostrils and floating upward. He stayed under the water for half the length of the pool, then kicked for the surface.
The dosing system had been altered during the maintenance check, making the water slightly acidic, and sodium cyanide had been added to the chlorine dosing system. When the door lock was activated, and the internal lights came on, the cyanide solution was released rapidly into the acidified water, resulting in the release of hydrogen cyanide.
Hoyle’s pool area had just become a gas chamber.
Hoyle was already feeling dizzy by the end of the second lap, and his sense of direction seemed to have deserted him because he had finished his lap against the side of the pool, not the end. He was having trouble breathing and, despite his exertions, his heartbeat was slowing. His eyes began to itch and burn. There was a pungent taste in his mouth, and he vomited into the water. His lips were hurting, too, and then the pain was all over his body. He started to kick for the ladder, but he could barely lift his feet. He tried to shout for help, but the water had entered his mouth, and now his tongue and throat were burning, too.
Hoyle panicked. He could no longer move sufficiently to keep himself afloat. He sank below the surface and thought he could hear shouting, but he could see nothing because he was already blind. His mouth opened and he started to drown, the water seeming to scald his insides.
Within minutes, he was dead.
By the time Simeon realized what was happening, it was too late for him to save his employer. He managed to override the security system, but the instant that he smelled the air in the pool he was forced to seal it off once again. As an additional precaution, he evacuated the penthouse until the area had vented, then went back in alone. He stared at Hoyle’s body, suspended in the water.
Simeon’s cellphone rang. The caller display told him that the call was coming from a private number.
“Simeon,” said a man’s voice.
“Who is this?”
“I think you know who it is.” Simeon recognized Louis’s deep tones.
“Was this your doing?”
“Yes. I didn’t notice you leaping in to save him.”
Simeon instinctively looked around, staring at the tall buildings that surrounded the pool, their windows gazing back at him, impassive and unblinking.
“He was my employer. I was hired to protect him.”
“But not to die for him. You did your best. You can’t protect a man from himself.”
“I could come after you. I have my reputation to consider.”
“You’re a bodyguard, not a virgin. I think your reputation will recover. If you come after me, your health won’t. I suggest you walk away from this. I don’t believe that you knew everything of what passed between Hoyle and Leehagen. You don’t strike me as the kind of man who would comfortably set up another. Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you’d like to contradict me.”
Simeon didn’t speak for a time.
“Okay,” he said. “I walk.”
“Good. Don’t stay in the city. Don’t even stay in the country. I’m sure a gentleman of your abilities won’t find it hard to pick up work somewhere else, far away from here. A good soldier can always find a convenient war.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then our paths might cross again. Someone once told me to avoid leaving witnesses. I wouldn’t want to start thinking of you in that way.”
Simeon ended the call. He put the cellphone and his security pass by the side of the pool and left Hoyle’s penthouse. He traveled down to the lobby and walked quickly but casually from the building, facing the great skyscrapers that dominated the skyline, their windows reflecting the late fall sun and the white clouds that scudded across the sky. He did not doubt for one minute that he was fortunate to be alive. He felt only a slight twinge of shame at the fact that he was running away. Still, it was enough to make him pause in an effort to reassert his dignity. He stopped and looked up at the buildings around him, his eyes moving from window to window, frame to frame. After a time, he nodded, both to himself and at the man who he knew was following his progress:
Louis, the killer, the burning man.
Louis, the last of the Reapers.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A NUMBER OF BOOKS proved particularly useful during the writing of this novel. They were: Sundown Towns: A Hidden Dimension of American Racism by James W. Loewen (Touchstone, 2005); The Adirondacks: A History of America’s First Wilderness by Paul Schneider (Owl Books, 1997); and On Killing: The Psychological Cost of Learning to Kill in War and Society by Dave Grossman (Back Bay Books, 1996).
I am grateful for the kind assistance provided by Joe Long and Keith Long while researching the Queens sections of the book; and to Geoff Ridyard who, in another life, would have made a very good assassin indeed. Thanks also to my U.K. editor, Sue Fletcher, and everyone at Hodder & Stoughton; Emily Bestler, my U.S. editor, and all at Atria Books and Pocket Books; and to my agent, Darley Anderson, and his wonderful staff. Finally, Jennie, Cameron, and Alistair put up with a lot, as always. Love and thanks to you all.
John Connolly
