Bronx Requiem(81)

Beck fired a shot at where William’s muzzle had flashed and rolled to his left. William returned fire where Beck had been, a disciplined single shot. The bullet plowed into the ground, sending up a spray of dirt and grass.

*

Beck rolled onto his back, took the dangling left cuff and attached it to the closed cuff on his right hand so it wouldn’t distract him. He then rolled back onto his feet and quickly angled around past the far end of the lean-to, making sure to stay hidden in the dark. From that position, Beck didn’t have an angle to shoot into the corner. If he wanted to take out William, he’d have to step into the light and put himself in the line of fire.

Beck stopped, wiped his face with his sleeve, getting ready.

He pointed the Beretta straight up and visualized the spot where he estimated William would be crouched behind the pile of wood. Beck knew once he started, he could not stop.

He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, positioned his feet, and came around the corner of the lean-to firing the Beretta, advancing, firing, moving toward Remsen, shooting nonstop, aiming above and to the left of the muzzle flash, all the while angling away from Remsen’s return fire.

Wood chips flew, the exploding gunpowder blinded him, but Beck never stopped. All in. Win or lose.

The Beretta clicked empty. Only a ten-round magazine.

Beck kept moving left out of the light, dropped down flat, blinking to get his night vision back, trying to hear any movement with his ears still ringing.

If William Remsen had any ammunition left, Beck knew he’d lost. He strained to hear any sound from the lean-to. Nothing.

He waited. An eerie silence filled the clearing. Still nothing.

Beck stood up and walked quietly toward the lean-to, making sure to remain in the dark. He stopped and carefully leaned around the sidewall of the lean-to. There was just enough light to make out an inert heap in the back corner. William Remsen.

Beck had no idea how close William Remsen had come to hitting him, and he didn’t care.

He stepped in, grabbed the lantern off the hook, and placed it on the woodpile in front of Remsen’s body. Two of his bullets had hit Remsen. One below his right eye, and one in the side of William’s neck. Beck didn’t bother feeling for a pulse. The 9mm bullet under the eye had blown a sizeable hole out of the back of William’s head, and the other had destroyed a good portion of his throat.

Beck picked up the lantern and walked over to Joe Remsen. His two shots had hit him center chest, both bullets within an inch of each other. Dead man number two.

That left the father. As Beck approached the older man, the lantern casting its white glow out in front of him, he saw Oswald’s head moving. The man emitted a low, agonized sound. When Beck got within a couple of feet, he saw why. Two of the bullets the sons had fired at him had hit their father. One near Remsen’s groin. A massive amount of blood stained the ground.

The other bullet had hit him in his left side about six inches below his armpit, perhaps taking out a lung, and maybe hitting the spine.

Beck stepped away, letting the man bleed out and die in his own time.

He walked over to Joe Remsen and rummaged around in his pockets to find a key to unlock his right cuff. He got it off in a few seconds, pocketing the cuffs and key. He stood and surveyed the scene in front of him.

A gunfight had occurred here, but Beck realized it didn’t have to involve him.

The two bullets in the father were from his sons’ guns. And the bullets in the sons were from the father’s gun.

Beck walked over to Joe Remsen and took the revolver out of his hand. He brought it over to Oswald and put the gun in the dying man’s hand. He aimed the revolver into the night sky so the bullet wouldn’t be found, and pulled the trigger so there would be gunpowder residue on Oswald’s hand. Then he wiped the Beretta to remove his prints, took Joe’s revolver out of Oswald’s hand, and replaced it with the Berretta.

He wiped Oswald Remsen’s prints off Joe Remsen’s gun, and put the revolver back in the son’s hand.

Next, he retraced his steps and carefully walked with the lantern to each place where he’d fired Remsen’s Beretta, looking for spent cartridges. He found eight out of the ten in the white glare of the Coleman lantern, picked up each one with the tip of a twig he found and scattered them near the fallen Oswald Remsen.

He stood for a moment thinking it through. Okay, but what about the dead big guy over near the GMC? Another body to account for. How? Maybe the sons took him down and then went after the father. Why? Maybe in a fight over the money in Remsen’s pocket.

Beck thought about the log he’d thrown at Oswald. He left it where it was. Somebody threw it at the father. Part of the fight. Which gave him an idea. Beck picked up a piece of hardwood from the pile in the lean-to and walked out to Austen’s body. He slammed the wood into Austen’s face a few times, then laid it across his crushed throat and stepped on it.

He returned to the area in front of the lean-to and lightly scuffed over where his shoes might have left impressions. His footprints really didn’t concern him too much. There had been others at this site with shoes making marks different from the Remsens’.

Even if somebody had enough experience in forensics to piece together the horrendous mess, so what? If by some miracle they figured out there had to be a fourth shooter, it wouldn’t lead to him.

He reached into the pocket of Oswald Remsen’s Windbreaker and retrieved everything of his they had taken from him. Lastly, he took out one of the envelopes of money stuffed into Remsen’s inside pocket, leaving the others.