by Ponzo, Gary
“Ah, yes,” Brian chuckled without any humor in the sound. “The mantra of the Four Horsemen.”
He glanced at the file and the .45 next to it. Then he looked up at Brian. “I suppose this is a good time to ask you again – what is going on with you?”
Something flickered behind Brian’s eyes. It disappeared before Sandy could get a read on it, replaced by obvious weariness. Brian sighed. “I’m done, Sandy. I’m out.”
“The hell you say.”
“No,” Brian said. “Really. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t…I can’t keep it at an arm’s length like I used to be able to.”
“You’re serious.”
Brian nodded. “One hundred percent. It’s either that or start drinking more. Or doping. Or something. Because the dreams are starting to catch up to me.” He paused and swallowed. “Just about every night, actually.”
Sandy didn’t reply. He had the dreams, too. Sometimes he had dreams about a job going sideways. His gun wouldn’t work, or the guy would be too lightning fast for him to handle. In those dreams, he always failed somehow and usually woke up as he was being killed. Other times, though, he dreamt about what he actually did. He relived every vivid detail of what really happened on the jobs he’d completed. The truth was, he couldn’t say which dreams were worse.
“So,” Brian said, “I’m done. I don’t have some girl that I’m tired of lying to like Hank did. And I don’t want to hide behind dope or drink or wait until I die of a heart attack like what happened to Bill. I’m just going to leave while I have some piece of my soul intact.”
Sandy raised his eyebrows slightly at Brian’s words. They were more poetic than he was used to from the short, swarthy man. Brian’s usual idea of elegant poetry was a limerick with a double entendre.
“That means I can’t do this last job,” Brian said. “I know I’m violating more than a couple of our precious rules by bringing it here, but I couldn’t wait. I saw it in the mail slot earlier this week, and I just…” he struggled for words, then shrugged. “I was just done.”
Sandy sat quietly, considering Brian’s words. The discomfort or nervousness he’d noticed earlier was starting to make sense to him now.
Brian waited a few seconds, then asked him, “Will you do this for me, Sandy? Will you take this job?”
Sandy looked down at the manila folder on the table, then back to Brian. The news that he was losing his last partner hadn’t sunk in yet. He had no idea what he would do with this job or any other.
“I’ll look at it,” he finally answered.
“Good enough,” Brian said. “I can’t ask for more.”
Brian rose from his seat and held out his right hand. Tears formed in his eyes. He brushed them away irritably with his left hand.
“Sorry, Sandy,” he said. “I hate doing this to you. I just don’t feel like I have a choice anymore.”
Sandy stood and took Brian’s hand. The smaller man’s palm was clammy with sweat, but he gripped Sandy’s hand in a firm handshake.
“There’s an old saying,” Sandy said, “that a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”
Brian smiled through his tears. “What’s that, some John Wayne wisdom or something?”
Sandy shrugged. “I just heard it somewhere. Call it common wisdom.”
“Well, thanks either way,” Brian said, pumping Sandy’s hand one final time and letting go. “I appreciate you making this easier for me. I have to tell you, I was scared as hell to come here today. I didn’t want to do this to you…you know, tell you.”
“I could tell,” Sandy said.
“I’m sure. I was nervous. I felt like I was letting you down somehow.”
Sandy shook his head. “We had a good run. You stood tall. You’re not letting me or anyone else down.”
“You mean that, Sandy?” Brian peered at him closely, his tone urgent. “You really mean that?”
“Yeah,” Sandy said, assuring him. “I do.”
Brian swallowed hard, took another deep breath and let it out. “All right. Then I’m off. You want to know where to?”
“No,” Sandy said. “But I hope you find peace, wherever it is.”
Brian’s face broke into a grin. “Peace. There’s a word I never thought I’d be this in love with.”
Peace, Sandy thought. That elusive state that seems to pull further away with every job.
“Good luck, Brian,” was all he said.
“Thanks.”
Brian turned and made his way to the door. His hand came to rest on the knob. Then he paused. Looking over his shoulder, he asked, “How’s it feel?”
“What’s that?”
“To be the last one standing. How’s that feel?”
Sandy didn’t answer right away. Too many thoughts were buzzing through his head. He didn’t need to worry about coming up with a reply, though. Brian didn’t wait for one. He turned the knob, stepped through the doorway and closed the door behind him without another word.
And just like that, he was the only one left. The last Horseman.
SIX
Sandy took a shower while the coffee brewed. He stood under the spray of water, twisting the knob until it was as hot as he could stand. The water blasted his skin like bee stings. He focused on the sensation, trying to clear his mind.
When he was finished, he made some toast. Only after he’d poured a cup of the strong, black coffee and chewed several bites of toast did he turn his mind toward what had happened.
Bill was dead.
Hank was long gone.
And now Brian had left.
He was alone.
Now, all of the cases would be his.
He asked himself if he could keep up with it. Was it even logistically possible? With all of the prep work he did and surveillance, could he take on a greater load and still operate efficiently? Most importantly, could he do it without arousing undue suspicion or getting caught?
Sandy took a bite of his toast and chewed. He stared out the small window off the back of his apartment. He let the numbers roll around in his head, calculating as reasonably as possible without putting pen to paper.
He swallowed.
Probably.
He could probably still make it work.
But it would be a full time job. And his risk would go up. Of course, so would the pay, such as it was.
Sandy took another bite. He chewed for a little while, then swallowed and chased the toast with a long sip of his coffee. He knew that the real question wasn’t if he could go on, but rather if he wanted to.
For this one, he didn’t listen to his head. The message from that portion of his being was jumbled enough as it was. Some parts clamored for finishing a job, others argued that it was a job that would never be done. The question of justice, always a frequent contender, reared up and made an appearance. Logistical and logical concerns battled for a voice, too.
Sandy ignored them all.
He listened to his gut.
“Is it enough?” he asked aloud, looking down into the blackness of his coffee.
Had he done enough to make up for Yvonne Lewis, the battered wife he’d failed? Had he tipped the scales of justice enough times to even that score, to somehow balance that terrible mistake? Could he stand at her graveside now, knowing he’d let her down all those years ago and truly feel redemption?
Maybe. That was the funny thing about guilt and making up for great failures. All those good deeds seemed to weigh little in comparison to what they were making up for. How many bad guys did it take to make up for one battered woman that became a domestic violence homicide victim because of him? Was there even a number?
There probably was. Maybe he’d feel it in his gut when he’d somehow reached that marker. Perhaps the tightness in his chest would go away. The ache in his stomach might fade. Maybe Yvonne Lewis could rest in peace.
Sandy shook his head slowly. Even if that were to come to pass, there was another debt. Another, much older failure. And this one c
arried an even higher price tag on it. He didn’t think he could ever bring enough justice in the world to make up for that one.
So the question wasn’t if he’d done enough, or if he could ever do enough. The question was—
“Do you want to keep going?” he asked aloud.
The answer was overwhelming and immediate.
No.
He didn’t.
He was done. As done as Brian. As done as Hank. If ever they’d accomplished something akin to justice, their time was over now. He could feel it in his bones. The conviction was palpable, irrefutable. At first, he wondered why he hadn’t sensed this before today, but he knew the truth. As long as there were two of them, it was a duty.
Now it was just him.
“So I’m done,” he murmured. He sipped his coffee again. Some of the hot liquid spilled, splashing on his chin and burning.
He realized it was because he was smiling.
Once the idea sunk in, he went to the junk drawer in the kitchen. He pushed aside a hammer, a few screwdrivers and other odds and ends until he found a notepad. He dug around a little longer until he located a pen. Then he stood at the counter, staring down at the empty page.
A life unlived, he thought.
Was there a piece of it still there, though?
Was that possible?
He lowered the pen to paper, but hesitated. How could he sum everything up in one letter? It seemed that everything since his childhood was threatening to come rumbling out if he started writing now. Just a small bit would not do.
No, he thought. It had to be everything, or nothing.
He started to put the pen down, then hesitated again. Maybe he could write just a little. Just enough.
He didn’t allow himself to think about it any longer. Instead, he quickly scratched out the few words that he felt comfortable with.
Dear Janet,
I know it’s been a long time. I’m sorry for that. But I think I’ll be home soon. I’ve missed you, and I love you.
He didn’t bother signing it. She’d know who it was. He tore the page from the pad and folded it into thirds. After scrounging around the apartment for five minutes, he located an envelope. He wrote the address from memory. He provided no return address.
He slipped the envelope into his back pocket, took a deep breath and confronted the file folder on the table.
It would have to go to office. He’d have to see to that. Put it in the desk drawer and call it good.
Sandy slid the .45 into his belt. He put on a light jacket to cover it up. With the file under his arm, he made his way to the car. His steps felt lighter than he could ever remember. He wondered if this was how POWs felt when they were freed.
I’ve been a POW of sorts, he thought to himself. A prisoner of our secret little war against the system.
As he started the car and headed toward the office, Sandy let that thought linger. He decided that it hadn’t been a war exactly. More like a crusade. And then he had to admit that, all things considered, the whole thing was probably not a success.
Did they do any good at all?
Sandy took a deep breath and let it out. The question irritated him. It was one he asked himself after every job. More to the point, he wondered if it was ever right to do evil – because what else would you call murder? – to accomplish a good end.
Maybe it was right that he thought of it as a war. He was pretty sure that these were questions that soldiers asked themselves as every generation had their war. It was an answer that, for a soldier, was much clearer.
At least as far as Sandy was concerned.
He drove silently. He left the radio off. The whine of the engine was the only music he listened to. The houses and businesses flitted by as he headed straight to the office.
The gate to the storage facility was locked. Sandy punched in the security code and it slid open. He drove to the back corner. He parked the car a ways away from the unit. As he walked toward the office, habit drove him to glance around casually to make sure no one was watching. He saw nothing.
At Unit 88, he paused again to look around. When he saw that everything was clear, he worked the combination lock on the roll up door. He spun the digits to 5-2-7 and tugged the lock downward. It snapped open. Sandy removed it and put it in his back pocket. Then he rolled up the door, stepped inside and quickly lowered the door again. He left enough space open at the bottom to let in some light until he found the kerosene lamp and fired it up. Then he shut the door flush and firm to the concrete.
Sandy flopped the file on the desk as he sat down. He reached for the right hand drawer, then paused. After a moment, his hand drifted to the left hand drawer. He pulled it out all the way, exposing a drawer full of files. Almost every one of them had a red X through the name on the tab, signifying a success. A complete success meant making the scene look like something other than what it was. A drug overdose, a suicide, an accident. Anything that didn’t arouse suspicion, so those few that were obvious homicides didn’t stack up and get attention. The last thing they wanted was someone connecting the dots and deciding that some kind of a serial killer was at work. Sandy was pretty sure that they couldn’t have withstood that kind of investigative scrutiny or intense pressure from police resources.
There were a few with green dots. All had a story. In some cases, the targets were simply not found. If they’d left the region long-term, standard practice was to let them be. Of course, if they returned to the Lilac City, then the file went active again. Sandy couldn’t think of a time that had happened, but it was nice in theory.
He knew one of the green dots was there because the target had developed pancreatic cancer. The Horseman who had that one – Bill, judging by the handwriting – decided that nature was doling out justice better than he ever could. Besides, it was in keeping with Bill’s theory on karma.
Sandy was responsible for one green dot. In the year between his trial and The Keeper sending the file, one of the targets had changed his life around. Sandy didn’t know how recent the change was, but after following the man around for three weeks, he was pretty certain it was genuine.
He looked at the full drawer. The tabs stuck up from the files and he ran his fingers over them. He resisted the urge to count how many were in the drawer.
A lot, he thought. A whole fucking lot.
And most of them had red Xs on them.
Sandy closed the drawer. He pulled open the second drawer, extending it out as far as the runners allowed. It was about one-third full. Red Xs stared up at him like the cartoon eyes of a stick figure character that had been killed.
He started to put Brian’s file in the back, then stopped.
He should at least label it. As insane as that was, it was no more insane than everything he’d been doing – what all of them had been doing – for the last twelve years. Might as well finish the job.
The middle drawer had a few pens and pads of paper inside. He fished around for a moment until he found a green marker. The cap made a loud plastic pop when he pulled it off. Then he slid the file out of the manila envelope. A stack of wrapped, crisp one hundred dollar bills came with it. He brushed the money aside and sat for a long while, the pen poised over the file tab. He stared at the name.
Jeff Odoms.
Never heard of him.
Below that, the crime.
Kidnap/Rape x 2 – J.
Sandy swallowed. The code was simple. Jeff Odoms was a kidnapper and a rapist. With two victims. And the victims were both juveniles.
“Goddamnit,” he muttered.
He capped the pen and set it aside. Then he flipped open the file and began to read.
SEVEN
“We should grab him now,” she said, fingering the small portable radio as they sat in the sedan.
“I know,” he told his partner. “But orders is orders.”
“Nice grammar.”
“I was being cute.”
“No one thinks you’re cute.”
�
��My wife thinks I’m cute.”
She shook her head. “She may have thought that at one point in time. I think that exit is in the rear-view mirror now.”
“Like you would know.”
“I know,” she said. “I’ll tell you what else I know. We should take this guy down now, while we have him hemmed in. It’s the smart way to do it.”
“You’re right,” he agreed. He reached up and twisted the car radio knob, changing the station away from a commercial hawking cholesterol reducing medicine to the oldies station. Mitch Ryder came over the speakers. He smiled, but kept the volume low.
She watched him, then said, “We could, you know.”
“Could what?”
“Just do it. Arrest him.”
He shook his head. “Busting orders is not on my list of smart career moves. I’ve got kids. And a wife, who may or may not think I’m cute, but to whom I still have an obligation.”
She sighed. “Fine. But these orders are wrong.”
“Of course they are. Look who gave them.”
“True,” she conceded. “But what is he looking for? More evidence? The guy is surrounded by twelve years worth of evidence right now. Which he could be in there burning, for all we know.”
“He’s not.”
“How do you know?”
“You see any smoke?”
“No.”
He held his hands up in a ‘there you are’ gesture.
“What if he was, though?” she asked. “What if he was in there burning up the evidence of a twelve year murder for hire scheme?”
“We’d go in for that. Exigent circumstances.”
“Which gives us some discretion.”
“Some. We’d still get the fuzzy end of the lollipop when it was all said and done, but I don’t think we get bounced over it.”
She nodded absently in agreement. After a moment of thought, she said, “You know, he could be using a shredder instead of burning the files.”
“Could be.”
“So we should –”
“Of course, there’s no indication of that, thus no exigency.”
