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

by DuBois, Brendan

  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.”

  Mark started a low wail, like an old Irish woman learning that her youngest had been lost at sea, and Reeve pushed him to the floor, kicked him, and then took off his Navy pe
a coat. Will started to say something, nothing I could make out; and with his coat off, Reeve took off his shoulder holster, lowered it to his feet. He then started unbuttoning his flannel shirt.

  When he’d gotten his shirt unbuttoned and tugged part way off his tattooed arms, that’s when I raised myself and the chair off the floor and slammed into his back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  My mouth slammed shut hard with the force of the impact, feeling like my chin was broken, but I managed to get Reeve on the floor, with his arms tangled in the sleeves of his flannel shirt. The chair cracked and I got a hand free, pulled it out of the ropes, and got a length of a chair leg and strut, and slammed it against the back of Reeve’s head.

  “Move!” I yelled to Mark, and I slammed one more time and Reeve was bellowing, moving underneath me, and I got up, pulled the rest of the ropes and chair off of myself, and shouldered my way outside the porch. I could have stayed behind, I could have gotten in a wrestling match with Reeve, and I would have lost. He was an expert in hand-to-hand combat, in brutal bar fights that started and finished within seconds, and I had to get out.

  Quick look to the right. Billy was coming across the lawn, carrying the leather case with Reeve’s butchering tools. Billy stopped, mouth agape, and he dropped the case and started fumbling under his dungaree coat.

  His Glock was coming out shortly. To the left were trees and low brush. To the front, and much closer, was a jumble of rocks and boulders and foaming water from the incoming waves. I didn’t hesitate in my running: I made my way straight to the rocks.

  The water was iceberg cold. I shuddered and slipped and fell, banging my ribs. Shouts were coming out of the house. I looked back.

  Mark was out of the porch but was still hidden from the approaching Billy, who was still fumbling under his coat. Still had some time.

  And Mark turned, and his .357 Ruger was in his right hand.

  Good man! He had managed to retrieve it in all the confusion.

  “Mark!” I yelled. “Over here!”

  My quick thought was that he could join me by the rocks, and we could make a stand with his Ruger until the cops arrived.

  Mark saw me, looked right at me, and turned and started running.

  To the safety of the trees.

  By now Billy had his Glock out. Reeve was at the open door of the porch, shirt off, tattoos decorating his massive chest and upper arms.

  “Where are they?” he bellowed.

  “The writer guy,” Billy yelled back. “He’s over here, by the rocks. I don’t know where the other guy went!”

  “Kill him!” Reeve shouted. “Kill him now!”

  I kept my head down, started moving away up the cove, best I could. Reeve ducked back into the house. I moved. The rocks and boulders were cold, slimy, the foamy waves breaking over me, chilling me, choking me.

  I slipped and fell, over my head. Quick thought of drowning instead of being shot. What a damn choice.

  Got up, spurting water, moved some and looked up.

  Billy was staring down at me.

  Glock in his hand.

  Staring and staring. I couldn’t understand why he was waiting, or what he was thinking.

  I froze still. Not moving. In the far, far distance, it looked like Reeve was out of the house again, heading to where the Mazda and pickup truck were parked, but I wasn’t paying that much attention. He could have been Jimmy Hoffa for all I cared at the moment.

  The Glock started to rise up.

  I took a breath, thought of what to say, doubted anything was going to work.

  A gunshot, part of Billy’s head blew open in a spray of blood and hair, and he collapsed in front of me.

  Out in front of the house, a vision from the Old Testament, a bearded and angry prophet in a robe, stumbling out of the house, a revolver in both of his shaking hands.

  “Get . . . away . . . from . . . my . . . boy!” Will shouted. He moved in Reeve’s direction, and another shot was fired. Reeve rolled and ducked behind the Mazda, then rose up with the speed and suddenness of a jack-in-the-box, and fired off three quick rounds, all of which hammered into Will’s chest. He fell flat on his back, bare legs tangled together.

  I got up from the rocks, went to Billy’s body, looking for his Glock, not seeing it, not seeing it. Reeve moved around from the Mazda, spotted me, yelled out “Still got plans for you, Cole!”

  No Glock.

  I ducked behind Billy’s body, pushed at the heavy weight, got his jacket flopped open, dove around his belt—

  Got my Beretta.

  Raised it up, clicked off the safety, didn’t bother taking time to aim.

  No time. Best to get off a quick shot, to surprise or scare the target.

  I fired.

  Reeve was definitely surprised, ducking down, but I doubted I had scared him.

  He raised up his pistol and I shot again.

  He whirled, cursed, grabbed at his side, and bounced behind the Mazda again, fired once at me, and I sent three more shots downrange at him.

  I ducked behind the rocks, breathing hard, accidentally dropping the Beretta into the ocean and grabbing it with my left hand.

  I moved some, raised up my head.

  No movement. No motion. I stared at the Mazda. I was fortunate to be in a spot where I could see through the undercarriage.

  Didn’t see Reeve.

  Looked to the corner of the house.

  No Reeve.

  I sloshed through the ocean, looked again.

  Nothing.

  I got to a point where a large pine tree was near the rocks, and I got out, banging both knees in the process, and spent a couple of minutes behind the wide tree trunk.

  Still nothing. I moved from tree to tree until I got a good view of the far side of both the Mazda and the pickup truck, and the rear of Will’s house.

  Empty.

  I walked over to the Mazda, pockmarked with bullet holes. On the stretch of lawn by the driver’s side of the car, there was a smear of blood. My heart was pounding right along and it was hard to catch my breath, but I was pleased to see that my hands holding the Beretta were rock-solid. I made my way around the edge of the house, saw another splatter of blood.

  So there you go.

  Out in the distance, a siren.

  Weapon still in firm hands, I went over to Will.

  His eyes flickered open.

  Still alive.

  I knelt down. His chest was a bloody mess.

  His voice wavered but still had strength behind it. “My boy. . . .”

  I lowered my head to his as he said it again. “My boy. . . .”

  I reached out, grabbed his hand, squeezed it hard. “He’s just fine. You saved him. You saved him, Will.”

  I think he tried to smile, but I’m not sure. Bright pink blood foam was on his lips, a contrast to the white foam washing up on his land. I squeezed his hand again, and his eyes flickered once and remained open.

  His chest was no longer moving. But there was a lot more blood lower down.

  Didn’t make sense. It still looked like all of Reeve’s shots had struck him right in the chest. I looked more closely at his hospital gown, didn’t see any tears or rips, and then it made sense.

  To get out of his hospital bed, to reach his weapon, to save his boy, Will had had to tear the urinary catheter out of his body.

  I squeezed his hand again. “Damn, Maureen was right. You were a tough old bird.”

  I got up as a white cruiser from the Washington County Sheriff’s Department roared down the road and along the dirt driveway. I placed my Beretta on the ground and walked back and stood still, arms and hands extended. A young deputy sheriff in a dark blue uniform shirt and trousers stepped out, pistol extended.

  I raised my hands before he could say a word. I yelled out, “There’s a man in the woods, armed! He’s dangerous!”

  He spoke into a handheld microphone at his shoulder, head moving about, other hand holding his weapon. Then he got around the crui
ser—smart move, putting it between himself and the woods—and he came to me. “You don’t move, you keep your hands up, you keep still!”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, doing exactly what I was told. He looked at the bodies of Will and Billy and said, “Sweet fuck, what the hell happened here?”

  “A shootout.”

  “Christ, I can see that. What the hell happened?”

  I was going to point with my right hand but quickly remembered my orders. “The old man by the house . . . he shot and killed the man by the rocks. The old man was shot by a third man, the one who’s in the woods.”

  “Why’s he in the woods?” the deputy sheriff asked.

  Fair question. “Because I shot him,” I said.

  He slowly moved around, weapon aimed right at me. “Kneel down, ankles crossed, hands behind your head.”

  I stood still. “Deputy, any other day of the week, I’d love to. But you’ve got an armed biker gang leader out in the woods, and even wounded, he’s tough and quick enough to put a bullet through your head with no hesitation.”

  “I’m ordering you, on the ground, now!”

  I refused to move. “Deputy, I have the utmost respect for law enforcement, but your best bet now is to let me pick up my pistol and for us to wait for reinforcements. I have a carry permit for here and New Hampshire.”

  His young face was bright red. “On the ground, now, or I’m gonna put you in a world of hurt.”

  Sirens.

  Sirens were approaching.

  I lowered myself to the ground, as ordered.

  I may be dense sometimes, but I can learn on occasion.

  The first down the short driveway was a gray Maine State Police cruiser, followed by another sheriff’s cruiser, followed by a police cruiser from a neighboring town. I was quickly and efficiently handcuffed, someone threw a blanket over me, and then a lengthy argument proceeded over who was going to take control of me, the bodies, and the crime scene.

  I just waited, standing still, legs shaking from the cold, the deputy sheriff holding on to one of my arms, a State Police trooper holding on to the other, and the local cop trying to decide which side to join. The debate sometimes got fierce and personal, and I kept my mouth shut, until I saw two black Chevrolet Impalas with blue and red flashing lights in their grilles slowly approach the parked cruisers, like they had all the time in the world.