Reaper, page 23
‘Don’t ever think you were a match for me,’ he said, and laughed at his own joke, the sound sending a chill through Max’s bones.
Immobile, his eyes scanned around the room, trying desperately to figure an out, an escape, anything.
‘Don’t … You don’t have to do this,’ he said. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Why? I would have thought it was obvious.’
Max tensed his legs, realising the only way out was through Mortimer. He tried to calculate if he could get to him before he could use that lighter.
Mortimer must have sensed the change as he raised an eyebrow and flicked the lighter to life, waving it in a figure eight in front of his face.
‘Uh-uh, don’t even think about it,’ he said.
The sight of that flame, so very, very close, heightened all of Max’s senses. He became aware of the soft growling coming from behind him and turned slightly to see where the dog was.
Mortimer saw him move and gave another disturbed laugh. ‘Don’t expect that useless mutt to guard you. He didn’t do either of his previous owners any good. And very, very soon you will be joining them.’ He let the flame go out. ‘And that is the beauty of it. You are going to have a very sad demise. Not only will they think you torched your own friend’s gym, they will think you tried to burn this place down, but were too stupid to do it right. An unfortunate accident by an incompetent arsonist.’
Was that movement Max detected in the shadows behind? He didn’t dare betray it, kept his eyes fixed on the man in front of him, the man holding the lighter.
Once more the Reaper flicked the lighter wheel, once more the flame leapt to life.
‘Mortimer.’
Shock spread across his face at the sound of the soft voice from behind him. The Reaper spun around, and in one smooth movement pulled a gun from his pocket, bringing it around and up, firing a shot into the darkness.
The sudden violence of the sound ripped the air apart.
Fuck. Please, Meredith, be armed, Max thought, but his heart dropped. If she had been, that shot would have been an invitation to respond, to open fire. But there was nothing. He didn’t want to think the unthinkable, that he’d hit her.
‘Where are you, bitch?’
‘Over here, fucktard.’ The voice came from another direction.
The Reaper swung his body around, following the sound.
‘Oh, don’t get cute with me, woman. All it will take is for me to drop this lighter and it will be all over for your friend here. You’ve got five seconds to show yourself before I do it.’ The smarmy confidence in that voice reached a place within Max that over-rode the horror, a part of him that knew he could not let Meredith take that option, could not let it happen.
Max knew this was his only chance, and he had to ignore every urge in his being and charge towards that flame, towards that man.
He gritted his teeth and sprang forward, and in that moment saw a blur of movement, a flash of brown that in milliseconds had closed the distance, latched on to the arm that was holding that deadly lighter, the unsuspecting weight of his bulk knocking Mortimer backward and onto the ground, into the puddle of gasoline he had trailed.
Max watched in horror as the hand and that silver lighter moved in an arc, torchlight reflecting off its surface as it reached closer and closer to the ground. He saw Mortimer’s face spin back, the horror register as he realised the path of his momentum, the detonator in his hand, the destination. Too late he tried to drop it, release the wheel, kill the flame, but it was too close now.
The vapour ignited explosively and in that instant the flare of light illuminated the ghostly figure of Meredith across the room, clutching her arm, a dark stain seeping through her fingers.
In that instant he knew he had to move, separate himself from the trail of death that led to his petrol-soaked feet.
But he also had to save the dog.
And Meredith.
Everything had to happen in that same instant for them to have hope of surviving. But there was no escaping the laws of physics, of time, of motion. No escaping the reality that they were on this side of the conflagration, she was on the other.
Her name fell from his lips.
‘Meredith.’
67: Reaper
He watches in fascination as the flames lick up his legs.
Mesmerised by their dance until the prickling morphs into an insidious heat.
A heat that turns into a sear.
That turns into a million stabbing knives.
He tries to scream but can’t. Instead his own laugh crests over the roar in his ears.
He should have killed that fucking dog when he had the chance.
Epilogue
The wintery sun shone low across the playground in Myers Park. The playground was a tumble with well-wrapped kids oblivious to the cold. Max sat on the bench, coffee in hand, dog at his feet. The ethereal chill he felt here in times past was not as acute, dulled by the returning light and the knowledge that it was safe – he was safe, his people were safe, the menace was gone. The vivid memories of his demise would take longer to diminish, though.
Meredith sat beside him, wisps of red hair, fiery and aglow, backlit by the sun.
‘How’s the fallout been?’ he asked.
‘Well, I’ve still got a job, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Why wouldn’t you, though?’
‘Let’s just say the powers that be weren’t too impressed that I – that we – had a theory about the Reaper still being alive and chose not to share it.’
He could understand why they might have been disappointed.
‘But at the time, if we had told them they wouldn’t have believed it or acted on it,’ Max said.
‘Correct. We were in an untenable position. We were damned if we did and damned when we didn’t.’
She sure had that right.
‘Lucky for us it all worked out okay.’
‘That was far from okay, Max,’ she said, her voice low, but not accusing. ‘None of it was okay. We both could have died in there.’
Max’s eyes fell to her arm in the sling, and he felt a physical pang of guilt that she had taken that gunshot for him, had to endure surgery and the aftermath of it. She had risked everything for him. And what had he done in return? He shuddered as the memories of that escape flooded through him. The wall of flames roaring towards him, instinct throwing him backward and away from those terrifying tendrils of destruction, desperately trying to create distance, a fire break, stop them leaping across to him. He recalled grabbing a saw horse left by the builders and hurling it through the bay window, getting hold of the dog and throwing him after it. Diving through himself and the sharp sting of glass slicing flesh.
He could still smell the acrid stench of petrol fumes, feel the searing heat against his skin, hear Mortimer’s screams.
How could he ever express his gratitude, his remorse, his utter mortification at how helpless he had been. He hadn’t been able to reach her, to save her – he’d barely been able to save himself. He’d had to trust, to pray, that she could save herself and in that horrifying moment he had felt such an utter failure, as a friend, as a man.
How could any words truly express his sorrow, his desolation.
But he had to try.
He took a shuddering breath.
‘I’m sorry.’ Two words, two simple words.
She looked at him then, nodded slowly, gave a tired smile.
‘I know.’ Two more simple words, but delivered with empathy and understanding. It was more than he deserved, and it was enough for now. He sure as hell didn’t deserve her.
He reached down and scratched Ace’s head. The dog cocked it to the side to guide the hand to his favourite spot.
A silence hung between them before Max felt compelled to break it.
‘Why do you think he did it – I mean all of it?’
‘Who’s to say what was going on in his head,’ Meredith replied. ‘We’ll never know. The mayor said he was a strange man, got very intense. Said he’d been pretty hot under the collar about clearing the streets of – as he put it – druggies, mental cases and homeless. Said Mortimer had been the one to float the idea of rounding up rough sleepers and putting them into shelters, and implementing a curfew to keep everyone safe from the Reaper. But then that twat would say that. Anything to cover his own arse and how he may have contributed to anything. I don’t trust that man as far as I could kick him.’ Max appreciated her lightening the moment, breaking the intensity.
‘He’s a true politician.’
‘He is at that, and will find a way to spin it for his advantage.’
She was idly swirling the coffee cup in her hand, but Max could sense she had something more to say.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were still sleeping rough?’ she said after a moment. ‘Why didn’t you let me help you?’
That wasn’t what he expected. That also felt like a ‘damned if you do, damned if you don’t’ question. He stared at the carefree children running around with the joy and innocence of young life. How did he respond to it? To the hurt in the inflection of her voice? He thought of all the times he had lied, or broken her trust, and the consequences, to him and others – mostly to her. It was time he was honest. He owed her that.
‘It wasn’t something I was proud of. And I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want you to judge me.’
He could feel her turn to look at him, but he stared resolutely ahead.
‘Why would you think I would judge you? After everything you had been through?’
‘I guess I just lost faith in everyone. Thought it would make me look weak.’
‘Jesus, Max. What’s it with men and being too stubborn or too damned proud to admit something, when you could have had help.’
He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘Look, there’s no easy way to say this, but you’ve got to get your act together. You’re a grown man, Max, and I won’t even pretend to fathom what hell you went through with Jess’s murder, but that was years ago now.’
‘It’s easier said than done.’
‘I know. And I will help as much as I can. We’ll see if we can get you some work, a roof over your head.’
‘That feels a bit unattainable right now.’
‘You can’t keep on living rough.’ She leaned down and patted Ace across the shoulders. ‘You’ve got a four-legged reason to get your life in order, Max. And I’m going to give you an ultimatum here, which you’ll probably hate me for. But you have to sort your shit, or I take the dog away.’
He did turn and look at her then, and realised from the – was it tough concern on her face? – that she meant it. And he knew full well she would carry out her threat.
He looked down at the mutt leaning against his leg, felt his warmth, saw the big brown eyes connect with his and knew this creature was something he couldn’t give up. He needed him. They needed each other.
‘Fuck you, Meredith,’ he said, and saw a fleeting look of shock cross her face before she caught the little lift in the corner of his mouth.
The corners of hers reciprocated.
‘You sure you don’t want a whippet as well?’ she asked.
The tension and enormity of everything that had transpired over the last week burst out, starting as a ripple before developing into a cascade of laughter that hurt his already aching ribs.
‘Fuck no,’ he said, seeing her face contort as she too burst out in laughter. ‘That skinny thing is all yours.’
Acknowledgements
This past year has been one of the hardest in my life with a myriad of major life challenges that pushed me to my very limits. One of the constants that kept me going, even though I must confess I cursed it at times, was writing this book – this [insert favourite expletive] book. But I was determined to get it done, as I needed to feel I achieved something amongst the chaos and trials of 2025. I feel inordinately proud that I got there. An immense thank-you to my fabulous publisher Karen Sullivan for supporting me throughout and believing in me, and to West Camel, my editor, for your patience and skill in helping me craft this novel. I am so grateful to you both.
Thank you to my agent Craig Sisterson for being so supportive, and being such a proud advocate of New Zealand crime-writing.
This novel has a few references to spooky happenings in Auckland, so a huge thank-you to ex-Aucklandites Michelle and Peter Wouldes, and Owen, for letting me know about Auckland’s ghostly history. I enjoyed weaving it into the story. And you guys have to admit that Dunedin is the best place to live!
A special shout-out to my workplace, Rumenaut, which turned into my weekend writing oasis, and to my colleagues for supporting me and jollying me along when the going got tough, especially my writing conscience chief nagging officer.
Jo Register and Michael Bathgate – what would I have done without you? I can’t thank you enough. And Richelle How, your constant encouragement kept me going through the dark times. Thank you to all of my friends and writing colleagues, and to my lovely little book group, for your support and belief in me.
Thank you to my family for being there for me and to my kids, Riley and Corey, for checking in to see if Mama was writing and doing okay. I am so damned proud of you both.
At the end of what had already been a harrowing year, we lost another brother. This novel has been dedicated to Doug, who died in November 2025. Douggie, I miss your mischievous sense of humour, very long-winded stories, and I miss being called Bub.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Vanda Symon is a crime writer from Dunedin, New Zealand, and the President of the New Zealand Society of Authors Te Puni Kaituhi o Aotearoa. The Sam Shephard series, which includes Overkill, The Ringmaster, Containment, Bound and Expectant and Prey, hit number one on the New Zealand bestseller list, and has also been shortlisted for the Ngaio Marsh Award. Overkill was shortlisted for the CWA John Creasey (New Blood) Dagger and Containment and Expectant have been nominated for USA Barry Awards. All six books have been ebook bestsellers. She is also the author Faceless, first in the City of Shadows series.
@vandasymon
@vandasymon
Vanda Symon
Author website: vandasymon.com
Amazon author page: Vanda Symon
Other titles by Vanda Symon
available from Orenda Books:
The Sam Shephard Series
Overkill
The Ringmaster
Containment
Bound
Expectant
Prey
The City of Shadows Series
Faceless
Copyright
Orenda Books
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West Dulwich
London SE21 8HU
www.orendabooks.co.uk
First published in the United Kingdom by Orenda Books, 2026
Copyright © Vanda Symon, 2026
Vanda Symon has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-917764-10-0
eISBN 978-1-917764-22-3
Typeset in Garamond by typesetter.org.uk
For sales and distribution, please contact info@orendabooks.co.uk or visit
www.orendabooks.co.uk.
Vanda Symon, Reaper
