Let the Devil Out (37 page)

She knocked on the door before reaching for the knob. “Mr. Heath?” She waited. She settled her other hand on her gun. Nothing from inside the house. “Mr. Heath? It's Officer Coughlin. Everything okay?” She waited. No answer. She bumped the door with her shoulder. It opened into a small, second kitchen. She saw no sign of Heath, or of anyone else inside. The thermos they had shared sat on an island in the middle of the room. She entered the house, easing the door closed behind her.

There, behind the door, the golf club he'd held in the park stood propped against the wall. She checked the keypad on the wall above the golf club. The alarm had been deactivated. With the club in its place and the alarm off, Maureen figured nothing bad had happened at the back door. She looked around the kitchen. A familiar scent tickled her nose. Bourbon.

She stepped deeper into the kitchen. She considered calling out to Heath again, hesitated. Broken glass crunched under her boot. Fragments, she saw, of what was likely a highball glass, lying in a pool of spilled bourbon. She backed up. That, she didn't like. Why would Heath drop a drink and leave it there without cleaning it up? Because, she thought, something much more urgent had commanded his attention. She checked the kitchen tile for footprints, saw a couple of dirty work-boot prints that were probably not Heath's. All right, she thought, someone else is in the house. The story so far: After she leaves, Heath comes in the back door, turns off the alarm, sets the thermos down on the island, makes himself a drink. Everything is cool.

Then, later, something brings a sleepless Heath to the back door—a knock, maybe a voice. He opens the door, fresh drink in hand, and whoever is there backs him up into the kitchen, then does something scary enough to make Heath drop his drink. Which hadn't happened that long ago, she thought. The ice cubes had hardly melted. A gun? Heath drops the drink and puts his hands up? He tries to set the drink on the island and misses because something else, like a man with a gun, has his strict attention. She had a good idea who that man with a gun might be. It was then Maureen heard voices coming from deeper inside the huge house.

She turned the volume down on her radio. Maureen was very glad she had not made more noise coming through the back door. Two men, arguing. One declaring, the other persuading. Her best guess: Gage delivering a lecture, Heath pleading not to die at the end of it. She could tell they were moving through the house. Away from her. She glanced at the back door. Solomon, you arrogant idiot, she thought. You let him in thinking he'd come to you, his old benefactor, for help one more time. That you'd keep him here for us, or maybe that you'd finish him yourself somehow. That he'd never come to hurt you, that no one would ever come to hurt you, in your big, safe house.

Maureen unsnapped her holster. She figured she didn't have long to find them. Gage loved a good lecture, loved to hear himself talk, but he had to know his time was running out.

She pulled her gun, held it low by her hip, and considered her options. Gage surrendering, she figured, was not one of them. She knew from the Walmart sporting-goods section that the Watchmen were not the surrendering type. Gage, if he couldn't kill her and escape, would want his blaze of glory for the effort. And he'd want to take her and Heath with him when he went. For all Maureen knew, his pockets bulged with grenades. He couldn't know she was there.

She could call for backup, wait for others to help her search the house. That was the sensible course of action. But the radio would make noise. She was in a quiet house. If the men inside hadn't been arguing, they might've heard her calling out or stepping on the broken glass. Maureen glanced again at the ice on the floor. Waiting for backup would cost her a fair amount of time. Heath's house opened onto Audubon Park. Gage could easily disappear into the park with his hostage. He could have a getaway car on Magazine Street, on St. Charles, on any number of side streets that ended at the park. They could vanish in any direction. That was most likely the plan. They were not far from the river, not far from where Quinn had disappeared under its currents. The river road, dark and winding, would lead Gage right out of town whether he was taking a hostage with him or leaving another corpse in his wake. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. Atkinson: she worked all night like Maureen. Straining to follow the path of the conversation through the dark rooms of the mansion, her gun in one hand, Maureen thumbed a silent message to Atkinson. Her location, the men in the house with her. She sent the text and slipped the phone back into her pocket. Help would come, then, Maureen thought, she just didn't know how long it would take to get there.

The voices in the dark grew heated. Someone struck a blow. The other man hit the hardwood floor. In stages, it sounded like. Knees then hands. Gage urged Heath to get on his feet. Maureen heard doors thrown open. A cold wind blew through the house. They were headed for the porch, Maureen thought, and for the park. She couldn't let them get away, couldn't let them disappear. As quietly as she could, she moved from the lighted kitchen into the deep, dark belly of the big house, moving forward into the cold November wind.

 

35

It is too damn dark in here, Maureen thought. Gage must have made Heath turn off the outside security lights, leaving virtually no ambient light in the house.

The men had stopped talking, and she was losing her sense of how far away they were. She did not want to bump into them. She did not want to get too close. Her biggest advantage was Gage not knowing she was there. She moved slowly through what she thought was a small study into a wide living room. She held her gun in front of her in both hands, pointed at the floor. One set of French doors leading onto the wraparound front porch stood wide open. A trap? Had Gage heard her in the kitchen, and decided to lead her outside? To what advantage? They'd gone outside through the middle of three sets of French doors. There really wasn't any place for Gage to hide and ambush her. He couldn't know she was tracking him.

On the porch in front of her, Maureen could see the motionless silhouettes of Heath's rocking chairs. She listened for footfalls. Nothing. She moved into the doorway, crouched behind one of the rocking chairs. It wasn't much cover, but the darkness that Gage wanted for himself could help her, too.

She scanned the front yard. Nothing in the yard but the black shape of the barbecue. She looked beyond the grill, peering into the darkness under the huge live oaks that bordered the park. The branches grew so large and hung so low to the ground that ten men could hide under them. She strained to see a different shade of darkness, a lighter or darker shadow. She considered retreating into the house. If Gage and Heath had gone deep into the park, there was no way Maureen could track them by herself. She'd be letting them get away. How would she ever explain herself? How would she live with herself if she let Gage get away to kill again?

She rose to her feet, started backing into the living room. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two figures emerge from the blackness of the trees. Gage held a gun to the back of Heath's head. They walked slowly toward the path that ringed the lagoon. There was no time to call anyone now, Maureen thought. Everything was on her.

She strode forward, gun out in front of her, the same way she'd marched on the white van on Esplanade Avenue. She jumped down off the porch, landed as lightly as she could, never taking her eyes from the two men. She kept walking forward, chin up, shoulders back. She kept her gun trained on Leon Gage. Too tough a shot from as far away as she was, especially in the dark. Gage had his arm out, digging his gun, Maureen guessed, into the back of Heath's head. She didn't want an accidental, panicked trigger pull taking out his hostage. She'd seen enough splattered brains for one day. She fought the urge to call out to Gage. She needed control of the situation. She'd have one try at it. The longer she waited, the better.

She was closer now. The men were stepping out from under the trees, their skin turning silver under the lamps lining the jogging path. Gage was running his mouth again, an angry snarl, at the back of Heath's head. Heath held his hands in the air. Even from yards away, Maureen could see him shaking.

Off to the right of the two men, Maureen could see the bench where she'd talked to Preacher about the FBI only days ago. Where he'd warned her to stay away from Solomon Heath. Extenuating circumstances, Preach, she thought. She was sure he'd understand. Ducks slept under the bench, their heads tucked under their wings. Maureen passed through the darkness and came out into the lamplight. Gage forced Heath to his knees, lowered the gun to the back of his head, still talking, talking, talking. He was talking about his dead son. If he'd shut up for even a beat, Maureen thought, he'd surely have heard her approaching.

“Do not fucking move,” she shouted. “Gun down, hands in the air.”

Gage turned to face her. The gun he held to the back of Heath's head did not move. “Why are you here?” he asked Maureen. “This is business between men. Old, old business.”

“I'm making it my business,” Maureen said. “Back away from Mr. Heath and set that gun in the grass.” She took two steps closer. She had a good shot if she wanted it. Gage wore his Carhartt jacket. There was no telling what he had in his pockets. She thought about grenades. “I want both your hands where I can see them, Gage. Now. Right now.”

“I raised an army for him,” Gage said, “and he left me in the wilderness. He destroyed my only son. He
owes
me.”

“I don't care,” Maureen said. “Put down the gun and get on your knees with your hands behind your head. Nobody wants to hear you talk.”

If there was anyone she'd get a medal for gunning down, Maureen thought, here he was. But was that the kind of hero she wanted to be? Because, she thought, here also was the head of the Watchmen, wanted by the FBI, by the NOPD. He knew the Watchmen's plans. Shit, he
made
their plans. He knew what they had planned next. Taking him alive would save lives. Many lives. And she had him caught. He had nowhere to go. She'd held her fire earlier that day. She could do it again. Then his gun hand whipped right at her.

Maureen squeezed off two rounds, and blew Leon Gage off his feet.

Heath ran screaming into the water.

Bird Island erupted into a deafening, squawking riot. Shrieks and beating wings filled the night sky. Maureen marched toward Gage, who rolled around in the grass, moaning in pain. He rose to one knee, drooping, fighting for breath. He still held his gun.

Maureen knew she'd hit him, put two rounds right in his ribs. She raised her weapon, sighted his chest. Center mass this time. He needed convincing, this one. She was right on top of him now. “Gage, drop that fucking gun.”

His elbow bent, his gun hand moved again. But Gage wasn't raising the weapon at her this time, Maureen realized. He was going for his own head. Oh,
fuck
no.

She jumped forward and stomped on his arm at the elbow, knocking Gage onto his back, the joint breaking under her boot. His gun tumbled from his hand and into the lagoon. Maureen held her balance as Gage squirmed in rage and pain under her foot. She tested his ribs with her other foot. He wore body armor, which was why her first two shots hadn't killed him. Which was exactly what she'd hoped for when she'd shot him in the chest and not the head. She moved her right foot from his elbow to his throat, applying pressure until he quit moving. He grabbed at her ankle, but he had no strength left in him.

“You know what I decided?” Maureen asked him. “No one else dies today.”

In his flailing, Gage had lost his glasses. His blue eyes blazed up at Maureen, enraged. She saw in them all that fierce, undying hate that Heath had talked about. She never wanted her eyes to look like that.

Hey, she thought, speaking of Heath …

Maureen looked across the lagoon and saw Solomon Heath sitting on a big gray rock on the banks of Bird Island, his right shoulder and hair covered in streaks of white egret shit.

“You can come back now, Mr. Heath. I've got things under control.” Smiling, she looked down at Gage. She lowered her gun so it pointed at the spot right between those fierce blue eyes.

“Don't I, Mr. Gage?”

 

36

At nine the next night, standing outside the late Clayton Gage's Harmony Oaks apartment, Maureen watched as the door opened and Atkinson walked out, ducking her tall frame under the yellow crime-scene tape guarding the doorway.

“Anything? Maureen asked.

Atkinson locked the door behind her. She shoved her hands deep in her coat pockets, and shrugged. “Nope. Not that I expected there to be.”

They walked away from the brick building, heading for Maureen's police cruiser, parked on Louisiana Avenue. While Atkinson searched the apartment, Maureen had made a coffee run. Two large, hot dark roasts awaited them in the cruiser. On the passenger seat sat three Hubig's pies that she'd have to smuggle to Preacher around Anthony's vigilant watch.

Atkinson looked over her shoulder. “Couldn't let it go without checking it out one more time. Thought maybe, with no one else around, I might see things differently. Changing the way you look at things, and I don't mean that in some deep philosophical way, I mean stand on a chair and look around, change the light, can make a bigger difference than you'd think. You never know. Having the place to myself didn't make a difference this time, but now I can forget about that apartment as part of the case.”

“Detillier and his guys took everything, huh?” Maureen said. She tucked loose strands of hair up under her NOPD knit cap.

“He let me in with his team this afternoon,” Atkinson said, “once the bomb squad gave us the all clear. He let me get a good look around. He did right by me.”

“He gonna let you have a run at Gage?” Maureen asked.