A Case of Fury

Chapter 20

The rosebushes grew thick outside Glen Karloff's living room window. Raphael had established himself in their midst thirty minutes ago. It was a good hiding spot with a perfect view of the inside, and no one would guess anyone was there because that was how close the bushes grew. Raphael had several trails of bleeding scratch marks on his face and the exposed parts of his arms to show for his efforts.

It was past midnight, about time for him to get into business. He'd failed the other mission Boss gave him, after all the time and energy he put to it he hadn't managed to track down the Red Eye murderer. He'd killed the newest detective in the police—what was his name? Hussler?—and painted a red eye next to his corpse hoping it would catch the eye of the real murderer. But so far he had no luck. There had been no more such murders after what he did. Did something happen to the murderer? Or had he really taken notice of the copy act and was secretly biding his time to make his own plans? Either way he'd failed in uncovering his identity. He cannot have another failure today.

Raphael should already have gone in. He was to collect a few papers from Karloff's room. Keep an eye on his work. He knew Boss wanted to ruin Karloff. He didn't like it.

"Because I want to be the one to bring your ruin, father," Raphael whispered to the night.

He thought of all the nights he spent on the streets after councilman Karloff turned him out of his house, forbade him to call him father anymore. He remembered the nights of watching through the window, just as he was doing now, watching his brother wallow in all the luxury without a care in the world.

He remembered the day he walked into Greenbrier, his gun concealed inside an old trench coat Starch let him borrow. He recalled how he put a bullet in his brother's head, how he stood still and watched as Raven Karloff crumpled to the floor, dark blood oozing from his hairline.

A warning to his father.

Raphael had often wondered if he regretted the shooting. He didn't know. He'd pulled a trigger and people had fallen dead. Their lives had meant nothing to him. What purpose did they have by staying alive anyway? They were all going to be worm food some day.

A flap of wings sounded to his right. Raphael saw a bat cut across a lamp in Karloff's garden, swooping down to touch the water of the pool and flying up again in the blink of an eye. Piggy had once told him that was how bats drank water.

Piggy knew a lot about animals. Raphael had no idea where he could have learnt them all when he was cooped up in the underground most days. Raphael never sat around for him to tell about how zebras can't see the colour orange or how elephants can smell a rain miles away—he heard them while passing, and while sitting at a different table and pretending not to listen. He'd never asked them to let him join too, to share stories over plate of roasted chicken or mouldy bread depending on how business went, and even when they offered he'd turned away with cold apathy.

Needing friends made you weak.

Raphael spared a glance at his watch. It was getting late. Dawn would break in a few hours. He had to hurry. He glanced back into the living room. There was only a faint light inside that came from a tiny desk lamp. Karloff sat in an armchair, the lamp on the armrest and a book on his lap.

This wasn't supposed to be a meeting with the target. Boss couldn't have notified him that he was going to have a visitor tonight. So why the hell was Karloff awake?

Raphael could probably sneak in and have a look at the papers, take quick photos of them. But when the man of the house was awake it was safer to break in during the day. Light would be a disadvantage, but the slightest sound he made wouldn't have the host sneaking up on him with a golf club or a chair and turning on the lights anyway. It was a bigger disadvantage that sounds travelled better at night.