Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series) (27 page)

“Tyler,” Billy said, voice uneasy. Billy was making do with his own fashion sense of soiled blue jeans, Red Sox hoodie, and dungaree jacket. He was younger than Reeve, face pockmarked, barely-there beard, and a long black ponytail. He had a Glock semi-automatic pistol in his hand.

“Ah, Tyler,” Reeve said. “I’m told you’re a magazine writer, right?”

“Not at the moment,” I said. “Had a disagreement with my editor. On my own now.”

He stepped closer to me. Mark started speaking, and Reeve raised an arm; Mark instantly shut up. His Ruger revolver was no longer in sight. I imagined he had slipped it back underneath his coat when he saw Reeve come into the porch. My Beretta was less than two feet away from my right hand, under my jacket, but reaching for it would have been suicidal. The man called Billy was covering me, and Reeve looked like he was one big coiled collection of muscles, ready to tear off my head or chase a cheetah across an African plain.

I braced myself for what was no doubt coming my way, and my terrified meter pegged off the scale at what happened next.

I was expecting shouting, a punch to the face, a kick to the groin; but instead, Reeve reached out and gently stroked my left cheek with a rough
hand. “A magazine writer. A couple of years ago, a magazine writer begged me and begged me to ride along with us for a few weeks. Wanted to be the next Hunter Thompson, whoever the hell he was. I was feeling generous, and the clown showed up in a rice-burner. He tried to keep up with us for a while, and one night, at a rally, he just bored me. All these questions. Yap yap yap.”

Another soft stroke to my cheek. “Last year they found his shiny stripped bones, in a grassy stretch of prairie outside Laramie. Guess his death is still being investigated. You ever been to Wyoming?”

“No, but I hope to get there one of these days.”

That brought forth a smile, and his teeth were firm, clean, and very white. “Sorry, I’m afraid that’s not going to happen. But later, I’ll tell you all about Wyoming . . . face to face, not over the phone, and I’m going to enjoy every long delicious second.”

I tried to make sure my legs weren’t shaking. “I look forward to listening.”

His hand came up once more and
tap-tapped
my cheek. “Remember saying that, Lewis. Remember that well. In a number of hours, you’ll be begging me for a shot to the forehead, and that’s when I’m going to whisper in your remaining ear that I’ve just begun. Billy!”

“Yeah.” Billy stepped forward.

Reeve deftly reached over to me, under my jacket, and disarmed me. “First, take care of this. Second . . . this porch is getting a bit crowded. I want Mister Cole here to have a front-row seat. So go in the house, find a chair or something, and rope or duct tape. The brave magazine writer is going to get the story of his lifetime, what’s left of it.”

Reeve gently walked by me and said, “Oh, please don’t try to make a move, all right? It’ll quickly turn loud and messy. And I’m saving you for dessert.”

He went to the end of Will’s bed and stood there, hands clasped in front of him, and sighed loudly in satisfaction. “So very, very long . . . I’ve waited for this day for a very, very long time.” He leaned over the end of the bed. “Hey! Hey, Will, you old bastard! Wake up!”

Will’s face remained the same, eyes closed, gently rasping. Mark said, “He slides in and out of consciousness. He was talking just a while ago.”

Reeve turned and, still smiling, said “Mark, young man, I don’t fucking think I asked you a goddamn thing, now, did I?”

Mark seemed to lose a foot in height. “Okay.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Reeve said, sounding like a Roman emperor, allowing a bit of mercy before a gladiator match was about to start. “Even though you tried to fuck me over at the very last minute, after I was ready to pay you lots of cash to find this old piece of shit. Let’s see what I can do.”

From inside the house came a loud, clattering noise, and Reeve turned and yelled, “Jesus, Billy, what the hell are you doing out there? Building the goddamn thing from scratch?”

“Sorry,” came the meek voice. “Found some chairs piled on top of a table . . . a couple fell to the floor . . . I’ll be right there. . . .”

In a minute he was, holding a wooden dining-room chair in one hand, a length of rope in the other. He put the chair down near the door leading outside, and Reeve motioned me to have a seat. I took my time, as much as I could, hoping that Maureen had made the necessary phone calls by now, and whatever passed for the U.S. Cavalry in this part of rural Maine was riding or driving to the rescue.

I sat down and Billy came forward, and Reeve said, “Wait. Hold on, genius.”

“Hunh?” Billy said.

Reeve shook his head and gave me a whaddya-gonna-do look. “Moron. You don’t tie someone up with one long length of rope like that. That gives ’em too much slack. Cut the rope into four sections, and tie him off at the ankles and wrists. I don’t want him floppin’ around like a fish when I start playing with him later.”

Billy’s face reddened and, with a sharp knife, he did as he was told. He looked at me and I took a quiet, deep breath, tensed my legs and arms, twisted them some, and Billy went to work. Reeve turned his attention back to the old dying man.

“Hey! Wake up, you old bastard!”

More rasping. Reeve tugged up the bedding at the edge of the bed, said “Billy, your knife, if you please.”

Mark said “Hey, what are you going to do?”

Reeve said “The fuck do you care? Considering who brought me here, just watch and keep your mouth shut.”

Reeve grabbed a pasty white foot, splotched with bruises and broken blood vessels, and quickly shoved the pointed end of the knife into the sole of Will’s foot. Mark gasped and I wanted to look away, but I kept still, and then Will slowly opened his eyes, coughed, and said, “Jesus Christ, what the hell was that?”

Reeve tossed the knife back at Billy, who tried to catch it and failed, the knife clattering to the porch floor. He picked it up, and Reeve said “Will, Will, Will . . . it’s been a long goddamn time, hasn’t it.”

Will coughed. “Sure has . . . hey, is that you, Reeve? For real?”

Reeve went around to the side of the bed. “The same. In the flesh.”

Will said, “Jesus . . . last time I saw you, you was crying and sniffling, shitting and pissing into your diapers . . . what, you were about thirteen then, right?”

For the briefest of moments, Reeve flinched, like something had bored its way into his armor, and then he relaxed and patted Will on a thin shoulder.

“Still got it, you old bastard.”

Will moved his head and shoulders a bit. “Speaking of old bastards . . . how’s your dad Bruno? Still in the SuperMax . . . eh?”

Reeve’s eyes seemed to change color, became darker, more dangerous. “Don’t you dare mention my dad. You got that? Don’t you dare mention his name.”

The old man’s eyes fluttered. “Crazy old Bruno . . . just before I left Wyoming, a deputy marshal told me that his back was giving him lots of problems . . . degenerative disk disease, something like that . . . by the time he’d be sentenced, he’d be in a wheelchair . . . is that what happened to your daddy?” Will coughed. “He in a wheelchair in prison? I bet every day, lots of guys line up so he can suck them off—”

Reeve was quick. It seemed like from one breath to the next, his large right hand was squeezing Will’s throat. The pale face turned pink and then red. Reeve lowered his head to Will and said “Don’t. Mention. My. Dad. Again.”

Then he stepped back, released his hand, and Will started breathing, hoarse and loud, and Reeve started talking again, satisfaction in his voice. “Nearly thirty damn years, but here I am, you old bastard. You broke the
code. You turned on your brothers. And for that, you’re going to pay a pretty hefty bill.”

Will rallied some, his voice stronger. “Do your worst, you punk . . . you’ll be doing me a favor . . . I’ll be going out a man, instead of some weakling, pissing and shitting in his bed. . . .”

“Damn,” Reeve said, “that is one hell of a nice invitation.”

He put his hand underneath his pea coat, and I think all of us in the porch were surprised at what happened next.

Mark said “Step away. And leave my dad alone.”

And he had his Ruger .357 revolver pointed right at Reeve.

I relaxed the best I could. By tensing up my arms and legs earlier, as I was being tied up, I had made myself a bulky target for Billy’s rope-work. With me now relaxing, there was slack. Not much, but it was there. I started to do what I could while Reeve and Billy were focused on Mark’s demand.

Reeve just stared, and then burst out laughing. “Oh, come on, Mark, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

His voice wavered. “I’m changing our deal. I want you to drop whatever weapon you have, and Billy, too. You’re not going to hurt my dad.”

Reeve laughed again. “Mark . . . what, Mister Lawyer-Man, you think this is the time to revise a contract? Do you? We had an agreement. You lead me to your scummy dad, and I give you a healthy chunk of cash.”

Mark said “You broke the deal when you went after Paula.”

If Reeve was concerned about having a .357 Ruger pointed at his midsection, he was doing a good job of hiding it. He said, “Hey, I was just looking for a little . . . insurance. That’s right. An insurance policy, to make sure you didn’t get cold feet when the time came. Even burned down your offices to make sure you got the message after that old man didn’t give you up. Can you blame me?”

Working, working on the ropes. I could feel the one binding my right wrist start to loosen, and it also seemed the old chair itself was starting to come apart. I could feel the right arm of the chair start to give way.

“Step away, get rid of your weapons. You and Billy both. Nobody’s going to hurt my dad. I’ve changed my mind.”

“Hey, hold on there,” Reeve said. “You tell us where he lives, you say you’re gonna wait for us there, and now you don’t want to get it on?”

“That . . . that’s right,” Mark said, defiance in his voice.

Reeve nodded and said “All right, sport, looks like you’ve got the upper hand.”

And damn, he moved so fast, almost as fast as Felix when he’s in the zone, and Reeve slapped Mark’s hand, the revolver fell to the floor, and Reeve grabbed Mark’s coat and punched him hard in the right eye. Mark cried out, fell against the near wall, collapsed, sobbing.

Will coughed. “Leave . . . leave him alone. . . .”

Reeve picked up the Ruger, slipped it into his coat pocket. The air in the porch was changed, was crackling with tension and fear and the certain knowledge of approaching violence. I kept my breathing as relaxed as possible. Continued working my hands. The chair arm was definitely loose.

“Sorry, Will, old man.” He turned to Mark, who was on the floor, back up against the wall, hand held up to his eye. Reeve kicked at Mark’s feet, and he yelped again. “Hey, Lawyer-Man, you tried to change the scope of our contract, right? Right?”

Another kick, a low moan. Billy was standing next to me and was staring straight at the bloody scene unfolding before us.

“Now it’s my turn.” Reeve’s head swiveled. “Billy!”

Billy was startled. “Sure, Reeve. What?”

“The car. Go to it. In the rear, black leather zippered bag. About three feet long, one foot wide. Bring it in. Now.”

Billy started to go out, and Reeve said, “Oh, for Christ’s sake, take the porch door. Do you think I’ve got all day to stick around?”

Billy brushed past me, had a moment of difficulty opening the door—it seemed stuck—and then he got it opened after a few curses, went out, and started walking away. The storm door took its time closing.

Reeve came to me, gently brushed my cheek again—I snapped my head away—and went over to Will. He patted Will’s bare feet and said, “Great original plan I had with your loving son over there. He told me where you lived, we both show up at the same time. He’d get his revenge on daddy who abandoned him all these years, and I’d get revenge for what you did to my dad, you old piece of shit.”

Will whispered something I couldn’t hear. Reeve laughed again. “Nope, not gonna happen. But I will tell you what’s gonna happen. Hey, Mark . . . get your ass up!”

Mark slowly got up. His left eye was nearly swollen shut, and blood was trickling down the side of his face.

“Jesus, why is everybody moving so goddamn slow today?” Reeve asked. He stepped over, grabbed Mark, tugged him over so they were standing next to each other at the end of Will’s bed.

Holding Mark by the scruff of his neck, Reeve shook him back and forth like he was a rag doll. “See your boy, Will? Eh? See your boy? Answer me. . . .” Reeve went into his coat pocket, brought out Mark’s revolver, held it against his temple. “Answer me, or I’ll blow his head off into the ocean.”

More coughs. “Yeah . . . I see him . . . let my boy be . . . let ’im be. . . .”

Reeve laughed again. It was the laugh of a man seeing an infant playing with a kitten, and also the laugh of a man seeing an enemy of his fall into a woodchipper.

“Let him be? Oh dear me, that’s so not going to happen. You put my dad and his friends in jail. You betrayed them all. And me . . . I came all the way here from Wyoming to put a bullet between your eyes, for what you did to my dad. But like Mister Lawyer-Man here, I’m changing the terms of the contract.”

Reeve shook Mark again, went on. “You’re a sick, sick guy. You’re gonna die tomorrow, or next week, or next month, but I’m gonna leave you with something to remember me by. You know Billy, you know what he’s getting for me?”

I kept on working working working, thankful Reeve’s entire attention was being directed to the dying man in front of him. My fingers hurt, a couple of fingernails had been torn. Reeve said, “First time I get sent up, part of my parole, I worked in a butcher shop. Lousy work, but so long as it kept me out of the joint for a while, I sucked it up and stayed there. That means I know my way around saws and blades . . . and I always keep a set of my old butchering tools with me.”

One more shake of Mark, who groaned, arms hanging limply at his sides. “So think about this,” Reeve said, slowly and carefully. “Billy’s gonna
come back here in a minute or two. Then he and I, we’re gonna tie up your boy here, and right in front of you”—and by now his chest was heaving with anger, or excitement, or both—“I’m gonna cut off his head, and then I’m gonna take his head, put it between your legs, and then leave you be.”