…20 years old…
Two years the fucker had been on the run. By then, Remy had earned his stripes in the club. He was a prodigy. A skilful killer. The best of the best.
He didn’t even call himself Reaper.
Everyone else did.
But there was one soul he’d been itching to take, and they’d finally found him. He was living as a homeless dude, answering to some whacked up gang called the Os.
“Sounds like cheerios,” Kieran said.
“He did good,” Remy muttered. “He hid himself well, eh, Kieran?”
“Oy, you fuck, it’s Edge now. Kieran is too pretty boy.”
“Why the fuck Edge? You were Storm like week.”
“Someone compared that to some Xmen hottie.”
Remy didn’t even bother answering. He let Edge have it. Frank had called them into his office that morning and threw a duffel bag on the desk.
“Everything…torturous is in here,” he explained. “Honestly, don’t make me open it. It’s fucked. Alright?” They nodded. Sure, they believed him. “The best plan is to scope out the place first, see if the fucker has any back up. Disguise yourselves, look like you’re part of the fucked up community over there. Really, Winthrop has its colourful parts. Don’t get involved in any shady shit because that might lead back to the club, and we really don’t want to bury any of you. You’ve proven useful. And Remy, make sure he has a fitting end, huh?”
Remy nodded. Was that even a question?
They left the office with Edge going off about how undercover it made them sound. But a few hours later, he wound up bitching and moaning about the itchy beard.
“Can’t I take this off?” he whined as they walked the streets of the most depressed, neglected neighbourhoods Winthrop had to offer.
“It defeats the purpose of a disguise, doesn’t it?” Remy replied, annoyed already.
He scanned every homeless person on the street, searching for that evil fucker. The club had a picture of him wearing a giant red jacket. He moved silently, focused on every sad shmuck on the ground. God, he felt bad for them. This was a rough life. How the fuck had his old man funded his alcohol habit?
“Down by the bay
Where the watermelons grow
Back to my home
I dare not go
For if I do…”
He stopped and looked down at the godawful voice singing that godawful song. He paused, taken by surprise to find a little girl in a sad looking sweater, holding up a Styrofoam cup. Her eyes were downcast. She looked broken. Remy didn’t know if this was a seriously good actress, or if she was genuinely busking for some coin.
“You really homeless, or you puttin’ on a performance?” he asked.
She looked up at him. Her eyes were empty. She looked robotic. She lifted the cup and shook it. Opening her mouth, she sang louder. Remy stared down at her, feeling disturbed.
“It’s obviously a scam,” said Edge. “There are no homeless kids around here on their own. Child services, remember?”
“That’s assuming they give a shit,” Remy retorted. “And haven’t we established they don’t many years ago?”
Edge grunted. He didn’t give a fuck. He was still scratching feverishly at his fake beard. Remy knelt down in front of the girl and stared at her for a long moment, trying to assess whether some fucked up adult had sent her out here and was waiting in a car, or if she was seriously homeless.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out 50 dollars and flipped it into her cup. She paused, staring at it like she’d never seen a number so big.
“Where do you sleep at night?” he asked her, looking her over intently.
She wouldn’t look at him. She’d gone completely mute, staring off at the ground. Her breathing changed though. She was scared. Her eyes scanned the streets suddenly, like she was expecting something to jump out at her.
Jesus, it wrenched his heart. “You okay?” he asked.
She swallowed. He heard her stomach growl. He felt too shaken to move.
“We gotta go,” Edge pushed. “She’ll be here tomorrow. You can grill her then.”
Remy lingered a while longer. He stared at her, trying to understand why she looked so broken.
“Be here tomorrow, kid,” he demanded. “Right in this spot.”
That night they found his father, huddled in a group. He looked half-dead from the heavy drugs he’d gotten himself into. It made him feel fucked up for dragging him away to his death. He would have died on his own, he knew. He didn’t have long left. If the drugs weren’t going to finish the job, the winter would.
Unfortunately, Remy’s urges had died down since that morning. Seeing that girl had stirred something in his gut. He felt agony. Images of his mother’s dead body, and the bruises on Rita’s legs and neck haunted him. If he left that girl on her own and something was wrong with her, he’d never forgive himself.
He made quick work of killing his old man. No final words were said. He dragged him in that ratty old disguise and he shot him in the head once. There was absolutely no joy in it. It needed to be done. He simply did not deserve to live. Frank was right. It didn’t feel good at all. It felt like something he could finally cross off on his to-do list.
“Time go to home,” Edge said.
“I’m staying,” Remy returned. “I gotta figure out that girl.”
“Remy, she was obviously planted there.”
“But what if she wasn’t?”
“Rem –”
“Did you Frank told me Milo Dillinger’s getting out of prison and he’s got a very high reward for whomever can find his daughter?”
Edge went quiet, thinking. “You think that girl was it?”
“No,” Remy returned, “because Frank also just told me he was on the case and he found the mother and daughter dead.”
Now he was annoyed. “I don’t get why you’re telling me this then.”
“Because there’s a perfect little girl who looks the exact same fuckin’ age and has the exact same fuckin’ description as the little girl who died.”
One thing that Remy loathed about Edge was his lust for money and all pretty things. He didn’t care about the little girl. He cared about the money. Smiling, Edge smacked Remy on the back. “Fucking great, Reap. Well done.”
She wasn’t in the same spot he told her to be in, and Remy had a feeling she’d avoided it. They asked around, and with a money reward on the table, Edge was extra motivated.
The girl was a regular on the streets, they quickly learned, and she lived in a tunnel. The network of homeless people was impressive. News always travelled. They located the tunnel easily, but their raid was without success. Edge had rounded up every kid in the tunnel, and Remy had gone into every tent, searching under cigarette smelling covers.
The girl was not there.
Instead, they got mouthed off by some batshit crazy lady, threatening them about that lame ass gang.
“The cheerios are gonna kill us, Reap,” Edge snorted.
Remy was too buried in thought to chuckle. He kept glancing back at the tunnel, unable to shake an overwhelming feeling in his gut that he had missed something. It occurred to him what it was. He’d past it twice going in and then out.
There were pictures on the walls of the tunnels.
There was a building with a window, and a stick figure girl waving.
Another was a picture of a mom and daughter.
“Let’s go on a stake out,” he said, “For just a few hours.”
Hardly an hour had went by before some weedy tall dick was dragging out a pleading girl – the girl – demanding to know who her father was. The second he stepped on her, watching her struggle, Remy snapped.
He tackled him to the ground and stomped him to death.
Right in front of the girl.
Then he picked her up and they left. He would later clean up the body with the help of Frank.
God, what would he have done without Frank?
He cradled the girl to his chest, telling her it was going to be okay. They stopped off on the side of the road later that afternoon. She slept in the back of the car as Remy called Dillinger up with the number Frank forwarded.
Dillinger answered the call. The first thing Remy said to Dillinger was, “I don’t want your money. I want a favour when the time comes.”
Edge’s face fell. He would later holler at Remy that he used him to kill a guy. He didn’t understand that having a powerful man in your pocket was better than any kind of money. Their friendship went cold, and Edge moved to another club.
Remy checked into a motel and put the girl in bed. Then he got out, tucked the key under the mat, and sat in his car outside of the motel, waiting for Dillinger to collect her. When he did, he cradled her sleeping form to his chest, settling her in his car. Remy watched them drive off, and he felt hope in his chest.
She was going to have the best life.
His eyes watered as he thought of Rita.
Then he remembered Sara.
He called up Frank. “It’s done,” he said.
“Good,” Frank returned. “You made a good call, Rem.”
“Edge won’t talk to me.”
“Kieran has a lot in life to learn. Money isn’t everything.”
“Yeah.”
“Anything else, Rem?”
Remy went quiet for a moment, and then, “I want to keep tabs on Sara Nolan. Make sure she’s okay.”
Frank took a moment too. “Yeah,” he returned, his voice aching. “I can get that started.”