The Merry Pranked (24 page)

His time on the firing range paid off; that and the fact no one else was shooting back at him. He and Gail had been forgotten in those brief seconds of gunfire and mayhem. Both of Leslie’s bullets hit their mark; Sal and Sammy didn’t know what had hit them as bullets tore into them from behind; both men fell to the ground dead, unaware that the ghost of Mad Dog Marshall still lived and had helped Leslie find his killer instinct.

Watching Sal and Sammy hit the ground, their guns finally silenced Ray took a deep breath and gave in to his wounds, falling back on the ground, praying that back up would soon be there. He was hurting and he really didn’t know how bad.

Suddenly, the back room was silent; gun smoke filled the air, polluting it.
Second hand smoke,
thought Leslie briefly. Off in the distance he could hear the sound of sirens; he sure as hell hoped they were heading in this direction. He quickly moved to Gail and began untying her. She’d been badly beaten; he needed to get her some help, and the Detective too.

What the hell had just happened?

Leslie carefully helped Gail to her feet; she was shaky on them.

“Are you okay?” he asked her. “I’d better check on the Detective.”

Gail felt disoriented. She’d been aware of Leslie pointing a gun in her direction, and remembered instructing him to kill her, but then nothing but a whole lot of loud noises that she presumed was gunfire. She’d braced her body waiting for the inevitable bullet to pierce it; if it killed her instantly, that’d be preferable; she really didn’t want to have to deal with any more pain. There was no darkness, however, just more pain as she fell backwards to the ground bumping the back of her head.

What had happened?

She watched as Leslie made his way towards the man he referred to as the Detective. This was all so unreal. She had been sure they were both dead, but somehow Leslie had saved them.

Lying on the floor away from the others was the man she desperately wanted to kill – Morgan Neil. He was bleeding from the gut but not dead. He was actually moving, struggling to reach down to his ankle; a strange move until he lifted his pant leg and she noticed the metallic tint of a gun in its holster.

The sirens were not so distant now; they were getting louder and louder.

“Leslie,” she tried to say. It came out a little weaker than she had hoped. They had done a number on her face and her mouth. Morgan had the gun out of its ankle holster. She had to warn Leslie.

“LESLIE!” she managed to call out, using all the strength she had in her. It was too late; Morgan had the gun pointed in his direction, a big smile on his face.

Gail had witnessed a lot of evil in her life, from those her Daddy had punished to those she had seen and punished herself. Even without the aid of her drugs, she could see the evil in Morgan; it was greater than any other she had ever seen; she couldn’t let such evil prevail.

With pain coursing through her body with every step, she took a few steps towards Morgan, placing herself between the gun and Leslie. Morgan fired. New pain introduced itself to Gail, as she felt her knees buckle; she fell forward into Morgan’s firing gun, landing on top of him.

Leslie looked on in horror as bullets riddled Gail’s body, as it fell forward, despite the bullets hitting it, and landed on Morgan. He heard Morgan yell out in pain as Gail’s body connected with his, aggravating his stomach wound.

Forgetting the Detective, Leslie, gun still in hand, moved over to Gail and Morgan. He watched as Morgan, wounded, struggled to push Gail’s body off of him. With one loud grunt, he pushed, and she rolled off to the side, onto her back beside him. That was all Leslie needed, a clear shot at the bastard. He had debated long and hard over the past year about the virtues and pitfalls of revenge; he had attempted it once and failed, because whether he liked it or not his innate goodness kept him from willfully taking another person’s life. Despite surrounding himself with killers and death, that wasn’t who he was, and was who he never could be, except for this particular moment in time. Looking down at Morgan, who was trying to catch his breath, Leslie’s humanity receded, and with a surety that he hadn’t known in a long time, he aimed the gun in his hand, the gun Morgan had given him to kill Gail, the gun he was using to play one of his sick games, and pointed it at the killer. He waited those few precious seconds for Morgan to catch his breath, to have the opportunity to look up at him, and see that the ghost of Mad Dog Marshall still lived and thrived; brought back based on the hatred, anger and murder within him. This time Morgan wasn’t laughing, no stupid smile on his face, because he could see the murderer in Leslie’s eyes.

The sirens that had been blaring, signifying help was on the way, had stopped, and Leslie could hear the sounds of others, no doubt police, rushing into the art gallery. It was now or never. He pointed the gun, and without further hesitation fired four bullets into Morgan Neil; four bullets, one each for the family members he had taken from him all those years ago.

By the time the police entered the back room of the art gallery; Leslie had tossed aside his gun and had Gail in his arms. He looked down at her bloody face. He had no idea how many bullets she had taken protecting him, but she was a bloody mess. She was making noises, but words weren’t coming out. He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing; he just held her tightly, praying, even though he knew there was no point.

Gail wasn’t sure what was happening. The pain she was in was slowly fading away; she could feel her mind starting towards that darkness she had longed for not too long ago. Her life was slipping away and she knew it; that was all right with her.

Someone was holding her. She strained to look through her one good eye; she knew who that was – Leslie, Leslie Marshall. If she could have she would have smiled. Even in her current state, she could see the goodness on his face. Before, when she had looked at it that goodness had been fighting for space with evil; the evil was gone now. She reveled in the goodness; the goodness that had also been her downfall. If anyone had tried to pin her down as to why she had helped Leslie, she wouldn’t have been able to say exactly why; she had, and it had led to her being sloppy; she’d thrown away all the careful planning that had sustained her to this day and had paid the price for it. Maybe this was God’s will.

She couldn’t be sure, but she thought he was crying; her vision was getting blurred, but not before she saw
him
. Looking down at her, over Leslie’s shoulder, was her Daddy. He’d come back for her.

Leslie couldn’t control his emotions, the tears flowing freely. The police were calling for a wagon, the popular refrain of ‘officer down’ echoing through their radios and being uttered by those in the back room. He could see they were tending to the Detective; he truly hoped he’d be all right. If he hadn’t shown up, both he and Gail would be dead right now. As it stood, Gail didn’t have much longer, that much he knew; the others must have sensed that also, as they kept their distance.

He looked down at her, desperately wanting to do something. Then what appeared to be a small smile played across her face, or at least what was left of it.

“Okay, Daddy,”
he believe he heard her say weakly as she looked up at him. Then her eyes closed and the faint rasping of her breath increased and then subsided. Leslie closed his eyes; he was afraid violence would follow him forever; that loved ones would always die.

He had loved her, he realized. He’d never loved before. She had at least given him that.

chapter
TWENTY-TWO

“it’s
GOOD
to have you back,” said Walter.

Leslie looked up from his desk and smiled. Walter was standing there, a bottle of bourbon in one hand and two glasses in his other.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked. “It’s not every day I get to have a drink with the man who took down Morgan Neil.”

“I’d rather forget that,” said Leslie, as Walter moved in and sat down. He put the two glasses down and poured them both a drink.

“It’s a hell of a story, Leslie,” said Walter as he pushed one of the glasses close to Leslie. “Where do you stand legally?”

“Not sure,” he said, picking up the bourbon and taking a drink. “Don’t think anyone knows, including the D.A. Have you heard anything about the Detective? Ray Michaels is it?”

Walter laughed. “Ray’s a tough old bastard; known him for years; hear he’s doing all right. From what I heard you guys were lucky he showed up.”

“I was lucky he showed up. Not so much for Gail.”

Walter looked intently at Leslie as he took a long sip from his glass. Leslie could see the wheels in motion in Walter’s head; he knew his friend well and knew he had something on his mind.

“So, kid, is the desire for revenge over?”

Leslie didn’t say anything.

“As far as I can tell, it was rumored four men were involved with your family’s murder,” said Walter. “It would appear that recent events have claimed the lives of three of those reputed killers. That leaves one still alive. Any thoughts on that?”

Leslie had thought long and hard about that. He’d had a week to think it over as the authorities tried to figure out just what the hell had happened. They had dead mobsters and a dead serial killer, all in the same room. He had given up Gail. She was dead, so there was no harm in tying her to the Financial District murders as they were called. He figured he probably owed that to the wounded Detective. The newspapers, including his own, were having a field day with it; one of the reasons he had avoided returning to work for a week. He’d only returned upon the promise he wouldn’t be hassled by his fellow reporters; he promised the publishers he’d give them the full story, at least everything he knew, but only to Walter Souchak and only when he was ready; he knew it bothered them but they’d agreed.

Revenge was an interesting thought, just so long as it remained that, a thought. He’d taken his desires too far, unaware of the consequences; he learned the hard way the difference between reality and fantasy and had no desire to enter the realms of fantasy ever again. Revenge was no longer something he coveted.

“He’s safe,” he said. “I’m out of the revenge business, Walter. Don’t think I was ever really in it to begin with. What’d you find out about Gail?”

“Ah, the world’s greatest mystery,” said Walter. “She’s got every reporter in the country trying to figure out just who the hell she is; she literally doesn’t exist; did she tell you anything?”

“Her father was a killer and so was she. I assume Gail Russell is not her name.”

“I’m sure we’ll come up with something sooner or later; she didn’t just fall from the sky. I’ll tell you one thing, though; her paintings are in much higher demand. Should have bought one of them when she was still alive; probably be able to retire off it in the near future. You know what they say about dead artists and their paintings.”

“I don’t know if I can ever convince you, but, she was more than just a killer. There was something about her, Walter, something special.”

“If you say so, kid,” said Walter getting up from his seat; it wasn’t like a woman had never led him down the wrong path in life. “You’ve had a tough couple of weeks, kid, I’ll leave you the bottle.”

“Thanks.”

“And when you feel like it, let’s sit down and really talk,” said Walter. “Publisher’s going to lose his mind if we don’t fuel the news; I don’t know, maybe I’m getting too old for this game; this is the kind of thing I’d be jumping all over in the past; wouldn’t have wanted to wait. You don’t want to make me look bad, do you, kid?”

“Give me a couple of hours and I’ll give you everything you need; the good, the bad and the ugly.”

Leslie watched as Walter left his office. Everyone wanted to talk with him; everyone wanted the dirt on Gail, the mystery woman and serial killer; it was almost as if she were no longer a human being but instead an object for their macabre titillation.

He got up from his chair and moved to the corner of his office, where a large brown package, the size of a painting was resting against the wall by the window. It had been delivered a week ago, the day after the shoot out at the art gallery. He noticed it when he came in this morning and he knew who it was from; one of the reasons he hadn’t rushed to open it. It was from her. Even in death she had found a way to reach out to him; why shouldn’t he be surprised?

He picked up the painting and rested it on the arms of a chair as he ripped away the brown paper it was wrapped in. He lifted the painting out of the remainder of the paper and moved it so that it was leaning up against a wall. He sat on the edge of his desk and looked at it; he smiled; staring back at him was Gail Russell’s self-portrait or at least the piece of art she titled
Portrait of the Artist - Raw
. The canvas itself was a large reproduction of Gail’s lips, colored bright red with blood, and on a canvas obviously splattered with blood. When he’d first seen it in the gallery, it had puzzled him, and Gail had said very little about it, wanting him to come up with his own interpretation. He hadn’t known what to make of it, but now, it seemed a little more appropriate. The so-called self-portrait, he figured, represented sides of Gail, her caring, loving side, or possibly more her sexual side, along with that of her secret of being a cold-blooded killer. Possibly it represented something hidden regarding her past, or, having gotten to know Gail well; it might just be her way of telling everyone in the art world to
kiss her ass
. Leslie couldn’t help smiling as he thought of the latter, which would not be out of character for the woman he believed he had fallen in love with.

Much like the truth behind her self-portrait, if she didn’t want anyone to know who she was, he suspected nobody ever would; she didn’t matter to them, but no matter what she was, a psychopath, a serial killer or a monster, she had been
the
woman who had changed his life; the only woman who had ever truly mattered to him, as she had been the only one who had ever gotten to the core of his being. He didn’t know if he could continue down the path she had helped him find and change for the better, but if he ever had a chance of doing so, it was because of her; she had offered him his best hope.

No matter what the rest of the world would think, he knew he had her to thank. He took a couple more seconds to study her self-portrait, one of the more honest paintings, she’d told him, she’d painted.

Wherever you are, thank you
,
Gail Russell
, he thought.

It was time; time to tell Walter what he knew; why wait? Leslie left his office, and despite knowing the mess that swirled around him these days, for the first time in a long time he felt good about life and the future.