by Mark Dawson
The bathroom was lit by the light of the moon. He pissed and looked at himself in the full-length mirror. He was in great shape. Six foot two, a linebacker’s build, the muscle on his arms, shoulders and left leg making up for the obscene absence of his right. No fat on him anywhere. A tattoo on his right biceps from his time in the Rangers. Dubois had the same tattoo, on the same arm. They’d had them done together by the same guy while they were at Fort Benning. He worked out every day between six and eight, a punishing routine administered by an acquaintance who had served with him before getting out and setting up as a trainer. Babineaux was fifty this year, but he knew that he had the body of someone fifteen years younger.
He looked down at the stump and the carbon-fibre-reinforced artificial leg that had cost him two hundred grand to have built to his exacting specifications, and he was at ease about that, too. The loss of his leg had been a trauma, and then a challenge, and then a problem that he had swept aside like every other problem that was placed in his path. Everything since had been as nothing. Pierce Morgan, Isadora Bartholomew, the man who was protecting her, they were all of no consequence to him. They would step out of his way or they would be destroyed.
He walked out of the bathroom and into his dressing room, flicking the light switch for the soft light that he had on the table at the other end of the room. It didn’t come on. He tried the switch again and still got nothing. The bulb must have gone. He went over to the window and opened the blind. It was still dark outside, the first faint tracings of the dawn on the horizon. He stood there for a long moment, staring out at the point where the perfect blacks became indigos, then lighter purples, soon to transition to the blues and pastels that would herald the sun. He loved the South. He had always lived here, and he always would. He loved this house, the gardens. He even loved the city itself, that seething, swirling pit of corruption and inequity.
He loved N’Awlins because he had mastered it.
He put on the loose-fitting trousers and sweatshirt he wore when he was working out and went downstairs. He paused in the hallway, realising that the lights were all off down here, too. He frowned, wondering whether it could be something as banal as a power cut, and realised that he had seen the street lights and the lights on in the adjoining houses when he looked out of the window.
He realised then, too late, that he was in big trouble.
Babineaux heard the footsteps coming behind him, and, pivoting quickly, saw the man in the night vision goggles, the eerie green glow from the eyepieces leaking out into the darkness from which he had melted. The man had his arm up, leading with a silenced Sig Sauer P226 that was held in a steady and confident grip. The man’s face was obscured by the goggles, but Babineaux could see the stern horizontal line of his lips and the finger held vertically against them.
“Shush.”
Chapter Forty-Four
JOEL BABINEAUX was in the trunk of his Bentley. His hands were fastened behind his back with cable ties, and electrical cord had been looped around his knees and knotted until it was secure. He was hog-tied, good and proper, and helpless. The man who tied him was obviously a professional. He had been calm, yet firm, and Babineaux had quickly concluded there was no profit in trying to see whether he would be prepared to use his weapon. There was a flintiness in his blue eyes that made it very clear that he was.
He didn’t know how long he had been in the trunk, but he had listened hard, detecting the change from the busy urban hum of the city to the noise of faster traffic on the highway. He guessed that they were headed west.
He tried not to panic. It was unsettling, but when he addressed it rationally, this could only really be for one purpose. Pierce Morgan was fighting back. He had pushed all his chips into the middle. He wouldn’t come to harm. He owned Pierce’s company lock, stock and barrel. If he wanted it back, he would have to deal with him.
And then, when that was done, he would retaliate.
The car swung to the left, bumped and bounced over a railroad track, and then, after five minutes of travel along a much quieter road, it slowed and pulled over.
Babineaux composed himself.
The trunk opened. The man was standing there.
Milton.
“Out.”
“I can’t,” he said. “My leg.”
Milton reached down, grabbed him beneath the shoulders and hauled him out.
Babineaux looked around. They were in the middle of nowhere, a minor road that cut right down the middle of a wide expanse of carpet-grass. He saw the belched flames from a refinery in the distance and, closer, he could hear the hum from the interstate. He turned his head to the sound and saw a raised embankment and metal barriers. He saw the glow of lights, the cars hidden behind the ironwork, the yellows and whites and reds. He turned back. There were two other cars parked on the side of the road: a Toyota Corolla and a Hyundai Sonata. The man took him by the arm and led him away from the Bentley.
“What’s going on?”
“We’re changing cars.”
“Why?”
“Because your car is very nice, Mr. Babineaux, but it’s also rather conspicuous. I expect people will already be looking for you. And I’d rather we didn’t attract attention.”
Milton pulled him again, and he hobbled to the Hyundai. The trunk was open.
“So, what is this,” he said, forcing some steel into his voice. “You’re kidnapping me?”
“Just going to hold you for a little while.”
“And you know who I am?”
“Yes, Mr. Babineaux. We met, didn’t we? I know you.”
“So you know how stupid something like this is!”
Milton paused and released his arm. The sudden outburst, the indignation, seemed to register with him. Milton turned. His face was impassive. Frightening.
“You abducted someone I know. A friend.”
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb. You’re just wasting your time. You want some property in the Lower Nine and, maybe, most of the time, that kind of thing works for you. But I’m here to tell you, Mr. Babineaux, that bullies don’t prosper. I’m involved now. And if you think you have a monopoly on those kinds of tricks, you don’t. So now you’re going to have to put up with a little discomfort until the things that you’ve done have been put right.”
“We can talk about this—”
“There’s nothing to talk about. Get in the car.”
“Please. Come on—”
“You either get in the trunk, or I put you in. Your choice.”
Babineaux looked at the man’s face again. He saw no pity there. No mercy. No pliability, no weakness, nothing that he could exploit. He paused, tottered a little on his prosthetic, his eyes going down to the man’s belt and the butt of the pistol that had been jammed there.
He walked to the Hyundai. He saw the silhouette of another person in the front of the car, the shape of his head outlined by the electric blue light of the device that was in his lap. The light died and the door opened. The man who stepped out was physically unimpressive, out of shape and sweating in the heat.
“Ready?” he asked the man.
“Do it. Over there.”
Babineaux watched with dawning horror as the second man went to the Bentley and slid into the front seat. He started the engine, put it into drive, and drove it a short distance down the road to where the gradient that led down into the bayou was steepest.
“No,” Babineaux said to the first man. “That’s a very expensive car.”
The second man stopped the car when it was on the slope, stepped out, and then released the brake. The Bentley rolled down the incline and into the thick, foul-smelling waters below. Babineaux couldn’t see if the water was deep enough to cover it since the car was invisible from the road.
“What are you doing!”
“I’m just getting started, Mr. Babineaux.”
He could see that there was no point in negotiating with them. When bargaining failed, there was always the di
rect appeal to a man’s venality. “How much would it take for you to drive me back to town?”
“I’m not for sale.”
“You know that money wouldn’t be an object? A million bucks? Come on. Two million?”
The man grabbed him with both hands and slammed him against the back of the car, his back jackknifing over the lip of the open trunk. He leant in close and, when he spoke, his voice was low and menacing. “You need to learn something—you can’t buy everything you want. You started this. You upped the stakes. That has consequences. Now you’re going to help me put it right.”
The man pushed down so that Babineaux’s shoulders were in the trunk and then shoved his legs in after him.
“Keep quiet. If you start making noise, I’ll put a rag in your mouth.”
The lid of the trunk slammed shut, and Babineaux was plunged into darkness again.
Outside, he heard muffled voices.
The first man, “Did you call him?”
The second man, “It’s done.”
“All set?”
“Yes. You and Bachman.”
A door slammed, the engine started, and Joel Babineaux was jostled and bumped as the car moved away.
Chapter Forty-Five
CLAUDE BOON was there first. It was a cheap neighbourhood bar, plenty of wear and tear, the kind of place working men came at the end of the day to drink away their troubles. It was early evening and there were already eight other drinkers in the bar. The pace was slow, and Boon leaned back on the bentwood stool and observed. His eyes flicked up to the old TV above the bar. He listened as the waitress chatted with the other drinkers. But, most of the time, he eyed the door and waited for Milton.
He had been contacted by Peacock this morning. The principal, this guy Babineaux, had been abducted from his home some time in the night. It was pretty audacious. The place was wired up with the best security that money could buy, some kind of Fort Knox. And yet, from what Peacock was saying, whoever had taken him had walked right in and driven out again in the guy’s own car.
Whoever had taken him? What was he thinking? He knew who it was.
It was Milton.
A male caller had contacted Babineaux’s wife first thing this morning and had explained what had happened. She had spoken with Dubois, Dubois had called Detective Peacock, and Peacock had called him. Boon had driven in from the swamp to a meeting of the three of them, down by the river. Dubois had given Boon another blast of attitude, suggesting that what had happened was because of his tactics, and he had thought about leaving them to get on with things. Cleaning up would be simple enough. Put a bullet in Bartholomew’s head, throw the body to the gators, and get out of town. There was a moment, Dubois giving him attitude, when he had seriously considered it. But then he thought of the money and his promise to Lila. And he thought of Milton, too.
He liked a challenge.
And so he had swallowed the attitude and stuck around. He said he would meet Milton and straighten things out.
And here he was.
He didn’t have long to wait.
Milton came inside on the stroke of six. He saw Boon, walked across, and took the stool next to him.
“Fuck,” Boon said. “John Milton. Look at you. Fuck.”
“Hello, Bachman.”
The use of his old name gave him pause, but he didn’t correct him. “Long time.”
“Years.”
“Iran.”
Boon nodded. “That was a hell of a job. Didn’t think I’d see you again.”
“Me, neither. You do what we do, longevity isn’t something you expect.”
“Suppose we both got lucky. What are you having?”
Milton shook his head. “I don’t drink.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“What is that? A lifestyle choice?”
“Something like that.”
Boon looked at him and saw the eyes of a drunk. “No way. You got a problem with it? You serious?”
Milton paused and didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Boon could see it.
He laughed. “That’s good. How long?”
“Long enough.”
“Why? Drinking to get away from it all? The memories? Nightmares.”
“You’re not my counsellor, Bachman.”
“If it’s any consolation, I felt the same after the first few. I got over it, though.”
“Good for you, Bachman.”
Boon ordered a bottle of beer. The bartender brought it over and he took a sip, assessing Milton as he did. He hadn’t changed much. A little more ragged around the edges, the expensive clothes he had worn before were replaced by cheap department store jeans and an unironed shirt. Grime beneath his nails. Hair that hadn’t been cut professionally for a while. He still radiated the same air of extreme competence that Boon remembered.
“You got out, then?” Boon said.
“Eventually.”
“How’d they take that?”
“About as well as you’d expect.”
“Yeah. I know that feeling. I thought about leaving, once or twice, but they would have put a bullet in my head.”
“But you’re still out.”
“Didn’t give them a choice in the end.”
“We heard about that. Big explosion.”
“Wasn’t what it seemed.”
“Clearly. What happened after that?”
“I actually tried to go straight.” He laughed at the thought of it. “Funny, right? I tried to do something else. But I still thought about it. What I did. The men and women I killed.”
“Then stop taking people out.”
He shrugged. “It’s not that, Milton. I’m not complaining. It doesn’t bother me. I do what I do best. I take people out. I enjoy the work. And I don’t know how to do anything else.” Milton shifted, a little uncomfortably, and Boon took another sip of his beer. “And this thing we do,” he continued, “the skills we have, they’re not what you’d call transferable. I can’t, you know, take what I’m good at and waltz into another job. Can you imagine working in an office? How’s that gonna play, Milton?”
“It’s not the thing we do, Bachman. Speak for yourself. I don’t know anything else, either, but that doesn’t mean I still do it. I’m out. I’ve been out for months.”
He chuckled. “So, what are you saying, you want a normal life? A woman, kids, a house? Trips to the beach? Take the kids to ballgames?”
“No. I’m not a fool. We don’t get to have those things.”
“So what is it now, then? You come down to this fucking shit-hole of a town, help out hard-luck cases, build houses for people who are too lazy to pick themselves up? What? You saying you’ve turned into some kind of saint?”
Milton laughed bitterly. “I’m not a saint.”
“What is it, then? Redemption? Atonement?”
“I can’t get redeemed, Bachman. You can’t get redeemed. We can’t make up for the things that we’ve done. But maybe I can start paying back, even if it’s only a little. Maybe I can do that.”
Milton took out a pack of cigarettes, put one in his mouth and lit it.
“Look at the two of us,” Boon said. “Sitting in a bar, shooting the breeze as if we’re best buddies, haven’t seen each other for years, catching up on old times. What a fucking joke, right? What a fucking joke.”
Milton pushed the pack across the bar. But Boon rejected it, holding up a hand.
“Look,” he said. “I’m sorry about before. The motel. Nothing personal.”
“Just business?”
“Exactly. Just business.”
Milton had the dead-eyed, ice-blue stare that Boon remembered from before. “People who come to take me out don’t usually have the liberty to sit next to me, have a drink, pretend like it didn’t happen.”
“Why’s that? They’re all dead?”
“Exactly.”
Boon raised his glass in a mock salute. “Same here.”
Milton took
a deep drag on the cigarette, the smoke going all the way down into his lungs. He angled his head and blew it out, up to the ceiling. He balanced the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray.
“Don’t get the wrong idea. We’re not friends. We never were friends, and we never will be. The only reason you’re still breathing the same air as me is because you’ve got Alexander Bartholomew.”
“I know. And the only reason you’re still standing is because you’ve got Babineaux.”
“No,” Milton said. “There’s a difference. You had your shot and you missed. I won’t miss when it’s your turn to go.”
Boon pushed out a grin, bravado, but Milton was as cold as steel. Most people would’ve shown some nerves, just a little, but Milton was sitting there with his hands folded on the bar as if they were shooting the breeze about the Saints’ chances at the weekend. “Let’s not get into a dick-waving contest,” he said. “You’re tough, I know that. I know your reputation. I know the way you look at people like that, your eyes all cold. I know how that makes people feel. But I’m not just somebody, Milton.”
“I know.”
“And we both have something the other wants. What do you say we swap them? I’ll give you the junkie, you give me Babineaux.”
“And then what?”
“We find another way to fix it. This situation with the houses you’re helping them build, I’m told that they’re in the way of a development. Maybe, you and me, maybe we can help get that squared away.”
“So we’re mediators now? Maybe it can’t get sorted. What then? You take another shot at me?”
