The Boat Man: A Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 1)

by Dustin Stevens

  Reed let him continue without a word until the priest looked up again. “Why do I get the impression you’re not surprised to see me here?”

  “You have to understand something. The Michael that exists today, the Michael that you’re now looking for, isn’t the same Michael who I know.

  “What happened that night was monstrous. It changed him. I truly believe it broke his spirit.”

  All Reed knew about that night was what Pierce had told him, which was bad enough on its own. There was no doubt, though, that enormous chunks of it had been left out.

  “So he spoke to you about it?” Reed asked.

  “No,” Galanos whispered. “Not really. He didn’t have to though. The things he did talk about made it clear what was in his heart, what he was thinking.”

  At that he started to weep again, his voice dipping lower. “I tried to talk to him. I thought I was getting through, but it’s clear I wasn’t.”

  There was much Reed needed to know, many questions to be asked, but he knew this wasn’t his interview to conduct. He was at the mercy of Galanos’s emotions.

  “Maybe he was right,” Galanos whispered. “Maybe it would have been better if they’d killed him, too.”

  Too.

  The word shot Reed’s eyebrows up his forehead, his eyes opening wide. In his ears he could hear Pierce saying, some of the guys had done things in the park, though he hadn’t taken part. Reed had been so focused on catching the killer, on finding the identity of Michael Rigas, he had completely pushed aside any thought of the girl.

  “They killed her,” Reed whispered, his stomach dropping, dread flooding into the void left behind.

  For the first time since sitting down, Galanos turned to look at him. “You didn’t know?”

  All Reed could manage was a shake of his head, no words escaping him.

  “Janice Rigas was a beautiful person, in every sense of the word. The daughter of a Japanese father and a Greek mother, she was hopelessly devoted to Michael, to God, to everything that was right in this world.”

  He paused again, fresh tears coming to his eyes. “The injuries she sustained were just too much though, the stab wound, the slices across her stomach...”

  Fireworks exploded in Reed’s mind as he heard the words, realizing that Pierce had lied about the end of that night. His reaction to the pictures wasn’t from seeing his friends, it was from seeing those wounds, so similar to what had happened before.

  “By the time that jogger happened by, she was already gone.”

  He looked at Reed before continuing, “They did the same to Michael, but somehow, whether it was the grace of God or a cruel trick of the Devil, he hung on. Spent over two months in a coma, didn’t even get to go to her funeral.”

  It had taken almost a solid week, a lot of pick and shovel work, clues hinting at answers, but finally, Reed understood what this was all about.

  “He never took it to the police?” Reed asked.

  “No,” Galanos said. “By the time he woke up, he was a different person. Gone was any of the baby fat he once had, the jovial nature that colored his cheeks. In their place was a hardened man, someone who spent a lot of time asking me questions about vengeance.”

  Vengeance. The word resonated through Reed’s mind, linking back to conversations he’d had in previous days.

  “Charon.”

  Raising a gnarled, paint-splotched hand, Galanos pointed to a stained glass window high on the wall beside them. Reed raised his eyes to find the same image Jim Shatley had showed him, over six feet high, depicted in vivid color.

  “I tried and tried to get him to talk about what happened, to come to grips with all of it,” Galanos said, “but it never took. Instead, he wanted to discuss God’s wrath, to hear what the church had to say about justice.

  “To find out everything he could about Charon, the Boat Man, the one responsible for escorting souls into Hell.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Reed bypassed the cell phone, going straight for the radio hanging beneath the dash. One hand he kept draped over the steering wheel, the other he used to hold the microphone just an inch from his face, his fingers squeezing the spring loaded button on the side.

  “McMichaels? Jacobs? Gilchrist, you there?”

  If anybody else was listening on the line, they might have balked at the complete lack of protocol, but it was the furthest thing from Reed’s mind as he sped down the freeway, his front lights flashing. He released the button, fuzz coming in over the line as he waited for a response.

  “Come on, come on, come on,” he muttered, glancing at the rearview mirror to see Billie pacing as much as the confines of the car would allow. The sound of her paws working over the plastic filled his ears, her hot breath fogging up the rear windows as they drove.

  “McMichaels, Jacobs, Gilchrist, you there?” Reed repeated, his tone relaying the urgency he felt.

  Everything he had learned in the last few hours, both from Pierce and Galanos, proved that Michael Rigas was their man.

  Two years before, the Kings of The Bottoms had attacked him and his wife, unprovoked. They had killed her and left him for dead, putting the man in a coma for two months.

  Once he did awake, he was no longer the same person, not interested in forgiveness or even society’s general idea of justice. As far as Reed could tell, no police report had ever been filed about the incident, no formal investigation launched.

  Instead, the man had shown up talking to his priest about notions of wrath, about Greek mythology and the purveyor of souls into Hell. That very same purveyor was known to require a toll for passage, a toll that was found in the throat of his victims.

  Whether they realized it or not, the Kings had turned Michael Rigas into the Boat Man.

  “Yeah, this is Jacobs and McMichaels, go ahead,” the voice of Jacobs called over the line, pulling Reed from his thoughts.

  “Gilchrist, Greene, you guys out there too?” Reed asked, keeping the mic pressed tight against his lips.

  “Yes, sir. That you, Reed?” Gilchrist responded.

  Nodding grimly, Reed pressed the plunger and said, “Yes, everyone, this is Reed Mattox. I am currently tearing down I-270 with the flashers going, making like hell for The Bottoms.

  “I have strong reason to believe that Michael Rigas, the man responsible for the murders there this week, is en route if he is not already on site.”

  Over the line he could hear somebody mutter, “Jesus,” though nobody addressed him directly.

  “Suspect is to be considered armed and extremely dangerous. His targets are a pair of African American males in their late 20s to early 30s named Willie Pryor, aka Dub-P, and Marcus Knighton, aka Mac.”

  Reed paused as he glanced over his shoulder, making sure the lane was clear before drifting off the freeway, hitting the exit ramp at 70 miles an hour. As the car drifted, he could hear Billie sliding, her body slapping against the passenger door.

  “I could use all of you, and anybody else from the 8th who is listening, at the abandoned Mobil station at the corners of Scanson and Duvall. Right now I am just leaving the freeway, ETA eight minutes.”

  “Roger that,” Gilchrist said. “We just left the precinct, be there in five.”

  “On the opposite end,” Jacobs added, “be there in same. Please advise on how to approach upon arrival.”

  Reed answered without pause, almost yelling the response into the receiver. “Take targets into custody. Once scene is secure, will begin immediate sweep of the area.”

  Both parties confirmed and signed off, Reed dropping the microphone onto the passenger seat beside him.

  For the last few nights Pryor and Knighton had both been baiting Rigas, standing out in the open, daring him to act on them. Even if he wasn’t there at the moment, Reed still had to get them off the streets and out of sight until he could be brought in.

  Something told him though, that wouldn’t be an issue.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  The Boat
Man ran his hand under the black knit fleece he wore, letting his fingertips trace over his stomach. Moving slowly, he inched them up just past his navel, to the ridge of furrowed skin that ran across his stomach to his ribs. Rough and uneven, the healed flesh made a clear line across him, separating his midsection into two parts.

  In the preceding months, the Boat Man had come to think of the scar as a metaphor for his life as well, severing it into two parts. On one side of it was Janice, their years together, the future they had planned. On the other was nothing, an empty shell of an existence, a life that was predicated on only one thing.

  A single thing that was now just hours away.

  What the world held for him after this, or even if there would be a place for him at all, didn’t much matter to the Boat Man. Everything he had done, from the months of rehab, to exhaustive physical training, to the tedious research and preparation, had been with an eye to wiping out the evil that had destroyed his life.

  It was for that reason that he had not gone to the police, had not been able to open up to Father Galanos about his true intentions. This was his task to complete, his oath that he had sworn to the memory of his wife.

  Stepping from the shadows of the room, the Boat Man could see the cars of Willie Pryor and Marcus Knighton parked in the Mobil parking lot, just as they had been the night before, just as they had been most nights for the previous three months.

  In each of their hands was a bottle in a brown paper bag, both taking occasional sips as they leaned against their front hoods. He was too far away to hear what they were saying, though he could see them gesturing as they spoke.

  The mere sight of them brought a white-hot rage to his chest, gripping his entire body, causing his every nerve ending to twitch with fire. The fingers on either hand curled into tight fists as he stared down at them, remembering their faces so clearly from that night, having waited so long for this time to come.

  Hefting the gun up from its makeshift hold, the Boat Man rested the barrel on the edge of the windowsill. He braced the stock of the gun against his shoulder and slowly exhaled, again sweeping the area through the magnified lens of the scope.

  From where he was positioned both cars were parked at an angle, Knighton’s back to him, Pryor facing forward. One at a time the Boat Man set the lowest range sight of the scope, counting off the seconds in his head, imagining the first shot and then the second.

  It was time.

  Taking aim at Pryor, the Boat Man curled his finger around the outside of the trigger guard, feeling the cold steel against his skin. There he left it, drawing in deep breaths, making sure his hand was steady, before shifting it to the inside, flush against the trigger.

  The first shot made only a slight popping noise, the sound swallowed up by the light evening breeze. A single flower of orange was emitted as the muzzle flashed, his round hitting center mass, the target crumpling to the ground.

  Beside him the Boat Man watched as Knighton grew rigid, too stunned to move, the bottle falling from his hand. A second squeeze of the trigger punctured his back in the same spot as Pryor, the impact of the blow knocking him forward, draping his body over the front of the opposite car.

  Keeping his sight focused in on him, the Boat Man drew one more deep breath, watching as Marcus Knighton’s body rested on the hood, his arms outstretched beside him.

  With one last curl of his finger, he fired a solitary parting shot directly through Knighton’s right forearm.

  Chancing a few last seconds, the Boat Man watched through the scope as Knighton’s body slid down the side of the car, a trail of smeared blood in his wake. His corpse disappeared between the automobiles, hidden from sight, tucked away beside Pryor.

  A feeling of deep satisfaction settled into the Boat Man’s chest as he pulled back from the window.

  Sliding his left hand down the barrel, he gripped the weapon with one hand, using the other to dig deep into his pocket. There he found the pair of metal discs lodged in the corner.

  Exceedingly rare, the obols were a wedding gift, a family heirloom passed from father to son on the day of his wedding. For a brief time The Boat Man had imagined himself giving them to his own son, keeping alive a tradition that stretched back generations.

  With the death of Janice, though, the ancient coins had come to serve a much different purpose.

  One at a time he tossed them through the open window, watching as they disappeared into the night.

  Two more fares to Hell, paid in full.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  A pair of blue-and-whites was already on the scene as Reed pulled to a stop. He left the front flashers on as he climbed out, their light illuminating the intersection, bouncing off the nearby buildings, tossing long shadows out over the street.

  Side by side, at the front of the lot were the Pontiac Tempest and the Buick Skylark, blocked by twin police cruisers, blue-and-red flashers adding to the light show.

  “Oh, shit,” Reed muttered, breaking into a run, feeling his badge bounce against his chest. As he moved, he drew his weapon from the holster on his hip, the gun trained in front of him.

  Tucked away behind either end of the Tempest were Jacobs and McMichaels, their weapons extended. Behind them Gilchrist and Greene were crouched low, attention aimed in the opposite direction, using the Skylark as a shield.

  On the ground between them were two bodies, recognizable at a glance as the two men Reed had spoken to the night before.

  “Oh, shit,” he whispered again.

  Keeping his weapon drawn, Reed slid on a knee between the officers, coming to a stop just inches from Willie Pryor. Lying flat on his back, a single entry wound was present in the upper left side of his chest, the circle no larger than a nickel. A single trickle of dark blood ran sideways from it, the pavement under him a growing pool of blood.

  “What the hell happened?” Reed asked, remaining in a crouch, hopping over Pryor and moving to Knighton.

  “This is what we found when we got here four minutes ago,” Jacobs yelled, keeping his attention aimed forward.

  “Nobody saw anything?” Reed asked.

  Knighton had been rolled flat onto his back, the collar of his puffy jacket pulled back to expose his carotid artery. Unlike his friend, a gaping hole the size of a softball was left in the middle of his chest, blood and tissue spatter coating the glossy yellow fabric.

  Also different from Pryor was his right arm, the lower half of it hanging at an angle, a second shot placed right through the meat of the forearm.

  “Nothing,” Gilchrist said. “We got here just a second after they did. Found them already like this.”

  “Shit,” Reed muttered, looking at the two bodies.

  It was clear from the entry wounds that Pryor had been shot in the chest, Knighton in the back. That likely meant a single shooter getting both as they were standing against their cars.

  Rising almost to full height, Reed checked the hoods, seeing two distinct blood sprays along the front of the Skylark, none for the Tempest.

  “Shots were fired from the southwest,” Reed said, shifting over between Jacobs and McMichaels, looking out above the roof just behind the driver’s seat. The combined red, blue, and white lights of the three police vehicles bathed everything in an odd assortment of colors as his gaze scanned over the intersection, settling on the enormous brick edifice across the street.

  “The school,” he whispered. “The son of a bitch was tucked away in there, firing down on them.”

  Dropping back down, Reed pulled his radio from his waist, raising it to his lips.

  “Dispatch, this is Detective Reed Mattox,” he snapped in clipped words, “I need a full tactical assault team at the corner of Scanson and Duvall Streets right now. Target is an abandoned schoolhouse that served as the hide for a shooter in a double homicide.

  “Assailant may or may not still be inside.”

  He lowered his radio a moment, glancing to either side. “You guys good here?”

  “Yeah
,” McMichaels grunted, his body still tense, his head moving from side to side, checking every shadow.

  “All set,” Jacobs said, his mouth pulled into a tight line across his face.

  “Greene, Gilchrist?” Reed asked, raising his voice just a bit.

  “We’re good,” Gilchrist replied.

  “You sure you don’t want us to go in right now?” Greene said, looking back over his shoulder to Reed. “Three of us could clear it, leave two here to secure the scene.”

  “Roger that, Detective,” Jackie’s voice sounded over the radio. “Units have been dispatched and are en route. Be on hand in under 15.”

  Reed nodded without responding.

  “No,” he said, his attention aimed at Greene. “I’m not sending you guys in there against what looks like a 50-cal undermanned and underequipped.”

  He shifted and looked back across the interior of the Skylark, the double layer of windows distorting the image. “I’d be willing to bet all they’re going to find is a bunch of homeless people scared shitless, and it’s not worth the risk.”

  “Yeah?” Jacobs asked.

  “Yeah,” Reed said, nodding, running back everything he’d learned in the previous hours on a fast loop. “This guy isn’t on a suicide mission, he has a job to do and he’s going to get it done. The fact that he shifted from a sword to a long-range rifle, something he could kill with and still get away, proves he’s in the self-preservation business, at least a little longer.”

  “What do you mean a little longer?” McMichaels asked, glancing over at him, tension easing from his body.

  Reed met the glance, a thought coming to mind. Without responding, he raised the radio back to his face and said, “Jackie, who’s on standby tonight?”

  There was a brief pause, followed by Jackie bursting back on the line, panting as she spoke. “Iaconelli and Bishop. You need them, too?”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight