The booming gunshot was still echoing in the alley as the lifeless body tumbled to the wet, oil-slicked pavement. The shooter, staring down the barrel of gun, didn’t watch him fall, but instead focused somewhere far past the wispy tendrils of smoke that coiled up and away from his gun. The color had run away from his sight, washed away, he imagined, by the relentless rain and the endless pursuit that had finally ended with that last shot. Well, not really the “last shot”. There was still one more life to claim.
Still staring into the gray, he lowered the gun and dropped to his knees, suddenly tired. Actually, “tired” wasn’t exactly right. He was empty, completely empty. All the rage, pain, the overwhelming grief was gone. He didn’t feel the cuts, burns and bruises, or the half-healed gunshot wounds. How many did he have? He’d lost count. It didn’t matter. It was done. He was done. They were all dead. Maria and Celestine were well and truly avenged. There was nothing left for him.
He had known since killing the first one that each body he added to the pile was a nail in his own coffin. If one of them didn’t kill him, surely he’d end up with a needle in the arm in some execution chamber. He’d ruthlessly planned and executed each of their deaths, and he figured he was only steps ahead of the police. And now there was no one left to kill. Might as well wrap this one in a nice, tidy bow for the police - helpless, overwhelmed jackasses that they were. He had to admit that they had helped him, in their own bumbling way, by providing the names of the men who had died at his hand.
In his mind, he drew a line through the last name. Seven brutal rapists and murderers that would never harm anyone again. One more death to go. With a weary, single nod, he checked the pistol. Round in the chamber, hammer back. As he raised the gun, he thought once of his wife and precious daughter, but no hope swelled in his chest. The only memory he could summon was a black and white photo of them, forever smiling in a silver frame, forever lost to him. Especially now. If there was an afterlife, he was most assuredly not going to wherever they were. These last thoughts drifted away, and his mind emptied as he pressed the barrel, still warm, under his chin and tightened his finger on the trigger.
“There’s still so much left to do.”
The voice was quiet, a whisper in the roaring white noise of the rain, and yet he heard it like a bell in his mind. In the periphery of his vision, he saw someone leaning against the wall of the alley, face veiled in shadow cast by the hood of a parka. A bright yellow parka that seemed to flare like a sun amidst the gray. Had he been standing there the entire time? Watched him execute this man in cold blood? Had his vision been so tunneled, so laser-focused on the back of his last victim’s head that he’d not seen him? It didn’t matter. He took another breath and closed his eyes. The gun barrel had gone cold in the rain, and the icy metal felt like it was drawing the color out of his flesh.
“Wait. Gabriel…”
The voice rang like a bell again in his mind. And that name…that wasn’t his name, was it? His name was Sonny. Sonny…Why couldn’t he remember his last name? His name was S-…He shuddered, shaking his head, as if trying to shake off…something. The gun lowered from his chin.
“Ah…so you do remember the name.” The man pushed away from the wall, stepping towards him. At least, he thought it was a man. The figure, slender to the point of being effeminate, seemed to swim in the large rain slicker. Hands out, palms up, the figure walked forward, slowly, almost lazily. "I've been searching for you for years...decades. Don't go away before we've had a chance to talk. I don't know if I'll be able to find you again..."
Though the thin man in the ridiculously yellow rain slicker didn't appear menacing, Sonny (Gabriel?) felt his skin crawling, as if his entire body was preparing for a gigantic static shock. Almost as a reflex, he pointed the gun at the man, who raised his hands gracefully out in front in a calming gesture. Even in the voluminous slicker, his movements were fluid, hypnotic. The hands were slender with long, delicate fingers. A large ring adorned the right hand, a large red stone flashing even in the dull gray of the storm.
"Easy now. I'm not a threat, just a...friend. A long, lost friend." The figure had stopped five feet away, hands still out. He was certain he did not know this person, and yet...there was something familiar. It felt like deja vu, or a forgotten name, dangling from the tip of his tongue.
"I don't know you." His voice sounded uncertain to him. The gun, suddenly heavy, made his arm ache as he pointed it at the strange figure, and yet he steeled his aim and said again, as firm as he could, "I don't know you."
Raising his hands slowly to the bright yellow hood, he pulled it back in a languid motion. "We've not met. Not in this lifetime. But you know me."