Evil for Evil (10 page)
“How fair is that?” I asked.
“Well, the poor lady is blindfolded and holding those heavy scales. We can’t expect miracles from her, can we? You need your drink freshened?”
“Good idea,” I said, and followed Adrian and Sam to a table where bottles were lined up. I knew that I couldn’t press Adrian any further.
“
Guid forder
,” Adrian said, raising his glass. “That’s good luck the way Ulster Scots say it. I think we’ll be needin’ a wee bit of luck before this is done.”
We clinked glasses and drank, the warmth of the whiskey filling me as I tried to sort out what this new information meant. I was sure Adrian was right about the luck.
“Adrian,” I said. “Your accent is a bit different from the others. Are you from around here?”
“Not originally. I was brought up by my aunt in Dublin. I think bein’ in the minority down there made me a bit more tolerant of the minority up here. Live and let live, I say, and each man to his own church, neighborhood, and pub.”
“Not a bad philosophy. You must have friends on both sides.”
“Aye, and enemies too, even within my own family. There’s no easy way these days. Now excuse me while I visit with some of the lads. We don’t all get together but for funerals or retirements.”
“He seems like a good guy,” I said to Sam as Adrian left us.
“He is. Treats everyone fair and square. Say, Billy, will you give me a lift back to camp? I drove up with Adrian but it will save him a detour if you’re going that way,” Sam said. “He’ll probably want to stay a while too.”
“Sure thing.”
Sam moved to a window that faced the backyard. The living quarters were all at the back of the house, separated from the station house by a long hallway.
“It’ll be dark soon,” he said, pulling the curtains to look at the sky. Clouds showed their pink undersides, and the blue sky was starting to turn a deeper, darker shade. I moved to set my unfinished drink down, figuring that if I finished it I’d be in no shape to drive in the dark on the wrong side of the road.
Sharp, loud cracks of rapid-fire gunshots exploded in the air, overriding the sound of shattered windowpanes. Sam clutched a white curtain as he fell. It settled on top of him, soaked in crimson red as it lay across the two holes in his chest. I dove for the floor as more bullets sprayed the house. In the parlor, bottles burst and stuffing from chairs floated in the air.
I crawled to Sam. His eyes were open, but there had been only bad luck for him.
IT HAD BEEN a BAR, there was no mistaking the sound. And it had been a full twenty-round clip. The first two rounds had hit Sam dead center but the rest were sprayed wildly at the house, a warning to stay put. He was gone; there was nothing to do for him. The only sound registering after the deafening rounds was the tinkling of glass as loose shards fell to the floor. There was one chance, and I took it. I covered my face with one arm and dove through the window, the last bits of glass and wood giving way easily. I hit the soft grass and rolled, pulling my .45 from its holster and flipping off the safety.
If the shooter was still behind the hedge and reloading, I was dead. A BAR clip can be changed in seconds. But I doubted that he’d hang around a station full of armed constables.
Shouts and cries came from the house, but no gunfire from behind the hedge. I sprinted across the yard and vaulted the gate, crouching as I turned with a view down the back of the shrubbery. A path led along the rear of the houses beside a small stream. Birch trees grew on the opposite bank. I ran to the end of the hedge. Shell casings lay scattered on the ground from where the gunman had fired.
It was slow going. Each backyard had a toolshed or section of fencing that could be a hiding place. I had a clear view of the stream for a good distance. Had he crossed the water into the birch grove? Would he have had enough time? I cursed as I dashed by the next backyard, trusting to speed and surprise.
No, I decided, he wouldn’t have, especially not lugging a BAR around. The damn things weighed around twenty pounds loaded. And he couldn’t take a chance on being seen. There had to be a getaway car, close enough to reach quickly but far enough away not to be seen from the station. Time to take another chance. Maybe I’d gotten all the
guid
forder
Adrian had offered up.
I jumped a fence into a small garden. It took up most of the rear yard, except for a stone patio that connected to the house. A woman in an apron standing in the kitchen door held her hand to her mouth. Her eyebrows rose halfway up her forehead in shock as I trampled her chrysanthemums. She shook her head, removing her hand to hold it out, cautioning me to stop. I did. Ahead of me, a bed of pansies spread purple and white, perfect except for two footprints crushed into them. She pointed to the side of the house, to my right, then shut the door and disappeared.
If he was planning to ambush me, he’d probably be at the back, waiting to catch me as I came around either side; if a car was there, he might already be in it. Damn. I ran as lightly and quietly as I could along the left side of the house. I peeked around the corner, watching for the steel barrel of a BAR. It wasn’t the best weapon for close quarters like this. He’d have to expose himself to fire it at me. I edged along the house, my back to it and my .45 in my right hand ready to fire.
I heard a car engine turn over. That had to be him. Maybe he’d cut across the neighbor’s yard. I moved to the corner of the house and took a stance aiming down the side. Nothing. I ran out into the street in time to see a car pull out from the other side of the road. Parked on the left side, ready for a getaway in the opposite direction from the station. A perfect spot, I had to admit.
As the car pulled out, a truck rumbled down the road toward it. The road was narrow, and the driver of the car had to hit the brakes and wait for the truck to pass by. I sprinted out into the street and made for it, a small gray Austin saloon, the driver up front, one guy in back, probably cradling a BAR. The Austin wasn’t that large, and it would be damn hard to maneuver the BAR out of the window.
“Stop!” I yelled, at both the car and the truck. If the truck stopped, the Austin would be hemmed in. But the truck didn’t stop. Instead he leaned on his horn and increased speed, probably wondering what the crazy Yank was going on about.
“Halt!” I was close to the Austin now, close enough to take out the driver if I had to. As it continued to pull out of its parking spot, the man in the backseat leaned out, a revolver in his hand. Two shots cracked in the air as his sparse hair flew around his head. I dove flat onto the pavement and squeezed off a single shot, going for a tire. I don’t know what I hit, but with houses all around I couldn’t take any chances. I watched the Austin disappear, my only reward a glimpse of the shooter’s face. A round, balding head, dark brown hair, a sharp chin, and eyes that darted up at the sides, like an imp. I thought I heard him laugh as he fired.
I got up on one knee, winded, as footsteps pounded the pavement and a whirl of dark green surrounded me.
“Did you see him?” Adrian gasped.
“Yes, I got a look at him. Car was an Austin, gray, four-door, license plate began with FZG, but I couldn’t get anything else.”
“You’re certain it was the fellow who fired at us?” Carrick asked, less out of breath than Adrian.
“One man in the backseat, and he fired at me twice.”
“I heard pistol shots. Was the last one yours?”
“Yes,” I said as I got to my feet and holstered my automatic. “I went for a tire but I don’t think I hit anything.”
“That was quick thinking, Boyle, and brave, going through that window. I doubt he thought anyone would give chase so quickly. Well done,” Carrick said.
“It’s terrible about Sam, terrible it is,” said Adrian, looking at his feet as he rubbed a sleeve across his eyes. “He was standing right next to me.”
“Anyone else hurt?” I asked.
“Luckily, no,” Carrick said. “Let’s get back and call out a description of the car. Probably pinched it around here, and they’ve switched by now, but still . . .”
But still, it was best to go through the motions, to do something that helped reduce the chaos unleashed by one man with an automatic weapon and the will to kill. There was glass to be swept up, windows to be replaced, bullet holes to be filled, and an All Points to be put out.
Activity to help us return to normalcy what violence had shattered. None of it meant anything to a dead man.
THEY PUT OUT the call, and we waited for the base to send an ambulance to take Sam’s body away. He was laid out on a table in the backyard, wrapped in a sheet stained a rusty brown. Two constables stood by him, tunics buttoned and caps on. They nodded as I walked past, grim gestures of acceptance, shared anger, and grief.
Mildred was sweeping the kitchen while Bob pulled pieces of glass from the windowpanes. Another constable came in and put a tin can on the table.
“Twenty shell casings, sir,” he said to Carrick. “Haven’t touched a one.”
“We’ll check for fingerprints,” Carrick said, “although I doubt there will be any. A good deal of the ammunition stolen was already loaded in clips, if that was a Browning.”
“It was,” I said. “Very distinctive sound.”
“Yes, it didn’t sound like a Thompson, which the IRA favors. I think using it may have been a message.”
We sat, and a glass of whiskey appeared at my elbow. It was odd how gunfire and death sobered you up. I took a gulp and let myself feel it settle into my gut.
“What kind of message?”
“Leave it alone,” Carrick said.
“The hell I will.”
“I
wasn’t suggesting you should. I certainly won’t, not when one of my stations is attacked and a guest murdered. But there’s something you should think about, Boyle.”
“What?”
“Who was the real target? For the past hour or so, constables were passing by windows. If they wanted to kill just anyone, they could have done so at any time. But the person they hit first was in an American uniform. Now I ask myself, was that random or planned? And if it was planned, who did they think they were killing?”
“Me?” I took another drink.
“Simms, did Lieutenant Burnham say if anyone knew he was coming to the funeral?”
“Not exactly, sir, but he gave me the impression he decided to come on his own, to pay his respects.”
“So it’s likely no one knew officially that he went to the funeral at Dromara. But even if they did, they couldn’t have known he was coming here. We decided only at the last minute.”
“But I called Thornton,” I said, seeing where he was going. “I left a message for him that I was headed here.”
“Yes, from the arms depot, where any number of people heard you, including Jacobson, who certainly would have told Brennan if he inquired. Not to mention anyone at the Newcastle base who handled your message.”
“And they would have expected to find only one American here, so they didn’t even need to know what I looked like. Jesus. If Sam hadn’t looked out that window . . .”
“He might be alive, and you’d be dead,” Adrian said, a touch of bitterness catching in his throat.
“Aye, and if you’d been standing close to Billy when he next went to the window, you could be lying outside under my best sheet as well,” Mildred said. “You catch yourself on, Adrian Simms!”
“Sorry,” mumbled Simms, his face reddening.
“Good lad,” Mildred said, and returned to putting the kitchen back together. Bob taped cardboard over the windows, darkening the room. He pulled the curtains before he turned the light on.
“No sense giving them a target, just in case,” he said.
“This does give you one advantage, Boyle,” Carrick said. “But it won’t last long.”
“What’s that?”
“If I’m right, whoever intercepted your message will think you’re dead, until he hears there was another American present who gave chase.”
“You’re right.”
I stood, anxious to get to Ballykinler and say hello to Brennan and Jacobson to see their faces. I needed to get there before the ambulance transporting Sam’s body showed up. Word was bound to travel fast once it got on base.
“Do you want a constable to go with you?”
“No, no thanks. But that picture of Taggart, can I have that now?”
Carrick asked Bob to fetch one from the station office. Mildred pressed a cheese sandwich wrapped in wax paper on me, and set down a small cup of tea.
“You drink a wee bit of that now, Billy. And be sure to eat something, dear.”
“Thanks, Mildred.” I put the tea to my lips and blew on the steam. Bob came in and tossed a mug shot onto the table.
“That’s Taggart, about two years ago,” he said, tapping his finger on the picture. “We brought him in on suspicion of IRA activity but couldn’t prove anything. Had to let him go. Apparently, he’d just come north and we had no idea he was such a big fish.”
I set the tea down and studied the picture. Thinning brown hair, a chin that jutted out, and those eyes, with that amused expression. A roguish charmer, perhaps.
“That’s the man in the car, the man who shot at me. The man with the BAR.”
“Red Jack Taggart, here?” Adrian said, as if it seemed impossible.
“Aye, it was a message all right,” Carrick said. “And one he may well deliver again. Watch how you go, Boyle.”
That was exactly what Grady O’Brick had said to me, less than two days ago, and already someone was dead, someone at a window who might have been me.
“No. Red Jack needs to watch how
he
goes.”
IT HAD STARTED to rain but I drove the jeep fast, my .45 on the seat next to me, safety off, round in the chamber. I didn’t know whom I could trust, with the strange exception of just about any Ulster Loyalist. Someone was feeding the IRA information, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be one of them. It could be someone wearing khaki but not someone wearing the RUC dark green.
I sped down narrow country lanes as whitewashed thatched cottages stood out in the darkening evening light. Each was a threat, and I scanned windows for the snout of a BAR. I downshifted too late as I took one curve, and the jeep slid on the slick roadway. The tires kicked up loose gravel as I gunned it out of a ditch and regained the road. That slowed me down. No sense getting myself killed—one dead lieutenant today was more than enough.
Names swirled through my head. Brennan, Jacobson, Thornton. Maybe Lasner, the sergeant at the communications section? Heck? Maybe even him, if he’d been at headquarters when my message came through. Parties unknown? Sure were plenty of them around here. Could it have been pure chance that Sam was killed? Wrong window, wrong time, wrong bullet?
No, I didn’t think so. If I was an IRA man, I’d wait instead of shooting an unknown Yank, in case he might be a sympathetic Irish-American. But those first two shots were right on target, to the chest, and then everything else had been to keep people flat on the floor while Red Jack made his getaway. The only American he thought would be there was me, a sympathetic Irish-American if ever there was one. Either my reputation as a Boston detective preceded me, or I had stumbled onto something, something that pointed to him. What?
I had no idea, I admitted to myself as I stopped at the main gate to Ballykinler. The GI on duty glanced at the automatic on the seat next to me. I told him there were bandits on the back roads, and he nodded as if it were common knowledge as he opened the gate. I went through the second gate, to the Ordnance Depot, with my .45 holstered, remembering that these guards were sharper than the others.
A few minutes later I opened the door to the office. A clerk was on the telephone, going down a checklist. Jacobson was on the phone in his office, standing with his back to me, waving one arm in the air. I walked closer to him.
“How was I supposed to know . . . yeah, yeah . . . I’ll call you.” He hung up.
“Hi, Saul,” I said. “Is Sergeant Brennan around?”
“Jeez, Boyle, knock or something, why don’t you?” He did look surprised but maybe that was because he didn’t expect to find me standing right behind him. “Why is everybody looking for Brennan? Is it about the BARs?”
“Who else is looking?”
“Thornton. He’s sending MPs over to pick him up.”
“Was that him just now on the phone?”
“No, that was Joe Patterson, he’s a sergeant in charge of the MP detail. I told him I’d given Pete an evening pass. He has to be back by midnight.”
“Any special reason for the pass?”
“When he gets jittery he likes to get out, have a few drinks with the locals. I think it calms him down to be away from the army for a while.”
“Him and a million other guys. Any idea where he went?”
“He said he’d probably go in to Clough. He likes the Lug o’ the Tub, know it?”
“I know where it is. Anything unusual going on? With Brennan, I mean?”
“He was OK after he talked to you. We were out on the loading dock after a shipment of bazookas came in. One of Jenkins’s trucks went by on its way to the mess hall. He clammed up. Came back an hour later and asked for the pass. Why, what’s going on?”
“An MP was shot a while ago,” I said. “Sam Burnham, know him?”
“Lieutenant, right? Yeah, I know who he is. What happened?”
“Long story. Listen, any idea why seeing Jenkins’s truck would make Brennan nervous?”
“I have no idea, Boyle. Maybe Pete is mixed up in all this, I don’t know. I have enough problems as it is. I got bazookas without rockets, 81mm mortars with no ammo, 60mm mortar shells but no mortars— you want me to go on?”
“No need, I’ll leave you to your troubles,” I said, thinking that Brennan must not have mentioned anything to Saul about the MPs coming for him. “Thanks.”
“Find those BARs, that’ll solve one of my problems at least,” Saul said as I left. Everyone wanted me to find the BARs but I was more worried about them finding me first.
Saul had acted completely normal after his initial shock when he turned around and saw me. Did Brennan’s departure have anything to do with the attack on the station? I didn’t see how it could. Maybe the sight of the truck had made him jumpy, or maybe he’d started a fight in the wrong pub over politics or religion, and he was worried about the Red Hand. But why leave the base? Did Saul know the MPs were coming for Brennan, and if he did, why would he give Brennan a pass?
I drove out of the Ballykinler base, turning left on the road to Clough. The last thing I wanted was another drink, but I had to check on Brennan. Besides, by now it was likely that word had gotten back to Thornton about Sam being shot. As soon as they sent the ambulance for his body, the XO would get a report. Executive officers got reports all day and all night, from every formation under their command. Which probably meant that Thornton had known Sam was going to the funeral. He was probably the only person who knew there would be
two
American officers there. Not that I could come up with a reason to suspect him, other than having caught him in a couple of lies, but it did make me wonder. Was Sam the intended target after all? If he was, why? What could he have known that was worth his life? I needed to talk to his sergeant, Patterson, to see if there was anything I was missing. Adrian too, since he seemed to be a pal of Sam’s.
The Lug o’ the Tub sat near the edge of the road, its whitewashed stone walls gleaming in the moonlight. The overhanging thatched roof loomed darkly, and the smell of peat smoke floated in the night air. There wasn’t much room to park, so I edged the jeep off the road as best I could. Bicycles leaned against the building and one old sedan was parked beside it. No other jeep was in sight.
I opened the door and stepped into a haze of yellow lamplight, cigarette smoke, and murmured conversations. The bar was set along the wall to my left, and necks craned as they do in neighborhood bars all over the world, checking out the newcomer. I had
new Yank
written all over me, and the locals, in their white shirts and vests, or shabby old suit coats that had once been their Sunday best but now wore the shine of decades, turned away as one, grinding out cigarettes and sipping their Guinnesses. The barman nodded, ever so slightly, keeping his eyes on me as I scanned the room. Tables were set along the walls, and small groups huddled over their drinks. Four GIs sat at one, grimly drinking warm beer and probably thinking of bars back home that had actual women in them. Clough was not much for nightlife, and the clientele was decidedly male, and on the grayer side of that sex. In the farthest corner, with his back to the wall, sat Grady O’Brick. He raised his glass to me and as he did, his drinking partner turned around. Pete Brennan grinned when he saw me, a cigarette at the corner of his mouth drifting smoke across his squinting eyes.
“Come join us, Billy Boyle from America,” Grady called out to me. I saw they were near the bottom of their glasses, so I nodded and went to the bar.
“What are they drinking?” I asked the barman, hooking my thumb back in Grady’s direction.
“Tonight it’s Caffrey’s Ale,” he said. “They brew it up in Antrim, a good Ulster ale.”
“Make it three of those. They drink together often?”
“You new around here, Yank?” He raised an eyebrow as he began the slow pour from the tap, expertly wiping foam from the glass and starting another. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his forearms were strongly muscled, as the rest of him looked to be. His weight was starting to settle, though, and from the flecks of gray in his dark hair I figured him to be close to fifty, and not a man to speak out of turn.
“Yes, I am.”
“I can tell by your color. You’ve been in the sun, and we don’t get near enough for that shade of yours.”
“You should be a detective,” I said.
“If I were, I wouldn’t walk into a pub in any part of Ireland and start asking questions about regular patrons. Apt to be bad for business. Know what I mean?”
“Listen, I didn’t mean anything by it. Grady asked me to stop by, and I didn’t know they knew each other, that’s all. The name’s Billy Boyle,” I said. “My family came from Donegal, in the Republic.”
The barman set aside the first glass, topped off with an inch or so of foam. He wiped his hands on his bar rag and offered me one for a shake. “Tom McCarthy. You must be that officer Grady rowed in from the flying boat.”
“Like I said, you should be a detective.” He grinned, and it seemed that I’d fallen on his good side with my name, family history, and maybe the connection with Grady O’Brick. “Do you know Pete Brennan as well?”
“Oh, Pete, he comes in when he can. Likes to sit by himself most nights, but he and Grady have struck up a friendship, as you can see.” He finished with the second glass and began to work on the third, tilting it and letting the amber liquid slide down the side, stopping for the foam to settle down. “Young Pete has seen the elephant, he has.”
“You can tell?”
“I served with the Dublin Fusiliers in the last war,” Tom said. “Saw a fair bit. I survived Gallipoli. Not many men standing today who can say that.” He brushed the foam from the top of the last glass and set it down.
“You can tell then.”
“Aye, and Pete has seen more of the old rogue than any man’s a right to. It weighs on him, the idea of going back to all that. They sent us from Gallipoli to the trenches in France, and I can tell you, these things do weigh on a man.”
“Has Pete told you any of this?”
“Not in so many words. Grady passed some on, the rest is in his eyes. I can see you’ve come from the war but it hasn’t torn you up complete yet.”
“Doesn’t mean I want to go back either,” I said as I counted out the price of three ales.
“Aye, but you will.”
There was nothing I could say to that. I left the money on the bar, grasped the three glasses, and headed for the table.
“Saint Billy it is, come to the rescue of some thirsty gents,” said Grady, laughing at his own wit.
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” said Brennan as I sat down next to him.
“Name’s Billy, Pete, at least while we’re drinking together.”
“OK, Billy, then here’s to you,” Pete said as he raised his glass.
“
Fad saol agat,
” Grady offered, raising his glass and smacking his lips.
“Long life to you,” I translated for Pete.
“Ah, a Yank who knows the old tongue!”
“
Fad saol agat, gob fliuch, agus bás in Eirinn,
” I said, giving out the full version of the toast. “Long life to you, a wet mouth, and death in Ireland.”
“I’ll take two out of three,” Brennan said.
“Well, it is the first time I said that one here in Ireland. It sounds a lot more nostalgic back home in Boston.”
“It’s a fine thing to hear you have visions of the old sod in America, Billy Boyle. Do you know your name in Gaelic, boy?”
“I know the family name used to be O’Baoighill. My grandfather came to America with that name on a note pinned to his coat.”
“It’s good you know that, boy. But it’s a thing for certain that he never spoke it aloud in Ireland. Them peelers would beat you to a pulp. Ó Bruic, that’s my name in Gaelic, but I still speak it quiet like—force of the habit, you know.”
“So, Grady Ó Bruic, tell me, why did you warn me to watch myself the day you picked me up in that boat?”
“I knew the American police were fallin’ over each other to find the lads who took those guns. Are they good guns, boy? Anyway, it seemed to me that with a Yank copper waitin’ for you, and you lookin’ a good Irish boyo, that they’d be bringin’ you in to do the dirty work as it were. Get in with the locals, you know, and worm the truth from them. If you put the finger on the IRA, your life wouldn’t be worth an empty glass of Tom’s good ale. And if you didn’t, then all the blame would fall on you like spring rain comin’ off the Mournes. Just my way of thinkin’, mind you.”
“I’m in no position to disagree. Someone emptied a BAR into the Killough RUC station this evening while I was there. They missed me, but killed one of our guys, Lieutenant Sam Burnham.”
“Jesus Christ,” Brennan whispered.
“Only him?” Grady said. “Why, for heaven’s sake? Why shoot an American and leave all those RUC coppers alive?”
“Jesus Christ,” Brennan said again, staring into his glass, as if there were answers floating in the foam.
“Easy, Pete, easy, boy,” Grady said, his voice low and soothing.
“He was a decent man,” Brennan said through gritted teeth. “They always seem to go first. Then the brave ones, then the guys who keep their heads down, and finally the cowards and goldbricks. It got so I’d watch the replacements come ashore and I could tell right away which they were, how long they’d last. I hated them, with their quick, nervous laughs, always wondering what to do to stay alive when they were already dead.”
“This isn’t Salerno,” I said, trying to match Grady’s tone. Brennan’s eyes stayed glued to his glass.
“The place doesn’t matter, don’t you know that? It didn’t matter to Sam, and it doesn’t matter to those guys over there,” Brennan said, his head nodding in the direction of the GIs drinking at the other table. “Italy, France, it doesn’t matter. Do you want to know what matters, Billy?”
“What?”
“Geometry. Intersecting lines. They’re everywhere, you just can’t see them. Right now, this very minute, there’s a bullet in a case of ammo somewhere, maybe in a factory in Germany, maybe stockpiled in Rome. It’s moving, slow or fast, but it’s moving, and so are you. Sometimes you both sit for a while, but sooner or later, you move. They send us to some beachhead, and the Germans order more ammo. Think about it,” Brennan said, drawing lines in the air. “You can’t stop it. A German truck brings up ammo, including your bullet, close to the front. Another truck brings you up to the line. Now you’re in your foxhole, maybe a quarter mile away. You and that bullet have traveled hundreds of miles, from different parts of the world, and now you’re close. A Kraut sergeant brings a case of cartridges up to his platoon, hands them around. Another Kraut loads his rifle, all the while you’re moving, just like that bullet, on a path to an unknown place.”