Seventy Times Seven (31 page)

The sight that greeted Danny as he peered inside made his stomach turn. The freezer was full of body parts. Laid up like lumps of meat: butchered to make them fit the confined space. Stored here to prevent them from spoiling and causing a stench, until such time as they could be disposed of more permanently. A piece of arm cut from the elbow joint was clearly visible through a thin layer of white frost. But worst of all, a head shorn at the neck: the face partially covered by long matted strips of hair and caked with dried blood; the drawn, colourless skin stretched tight over its skull.

Danny stared at the head in horror, unable to break away. Suddenly every muscle in his body contracted in the same instant, as a terrible realisation left him struggling to catch his breath.

He recognised the face.

Danny reeled back, slamming the lid closed behind him, and crawled backwards until he hit a wall, forcing him to stop. Why had he opened the lid? What had made him do it?

He started to retch.

Danny could hear voices from next door and Sean calling out his name, but he couldn’t answer.

The image of the raven battling for its life in the Black Warrior River flashed through Danny’s mind, and he wondered if that was the moment Angela had died.

It had been an omen – not for Sean, but for his Angel.

He’d broken his promise to take care of her.

As Sean made his way along the hallway O’Brien appeared on the landing at the top of the first flight of stairs with Niamh clamped to his chest and a gun digging into her temple.

‘Leave the girl be, O’Brien, she’s got nothing to do with this,’ said Sean.

He was weighing up the possibility of taking a shot. But Niamh was covering most of O’Brien’s torso and she was moving around too much: it would be far too risky.

‘A dead man talking: that’s quite an act you’ve got, Sean,’ said O’Brien. ‘I bet you’re wishing you’d stayed dead now, eh?’

‘Being a tout not enough for you any more, Owen, you have to abduct wee girls as well?’

‘Shut your mouth and drop your weapon on the floor.’

Sean knew that if he didn’t do what he was told then O’Brien would simply pull the trigger and Niamh would be dead. If he did do what O’Brien asked him, then Danny would be the only hope left of getting out alive.

‘Drop it on the floor and kick it towards me,’ repeated O’Brien.

Sean had no choice. He bent forward and tossed the AR15 on the floor out of reach.

‘Tell your brother to throw his weapon down and come out of the attic with his hands where I can see them.’

Sean was out of options. While O’Brien had the girl there was nothing he or Danny could do, but as soon as his brother gave up his weapon O’Brien would shoot them all and walk away: of that, there was no doubt.

Sean shouted to his brother, but there was no reply.

He tried again.

‘Danny!’

O’Brien had his eyes fixed on the opening in the ceiling at the far end of the hall.

‘I want you down out of that attic in ten seconds or I’m going to put a big fucking hole in this wee girl’s head,’ shouted O’Brien. ‘Drop your gun onto the floor and get your arse down here. No fucking about now, all right?’

When O’Brien looked back at Sean he saw that he had taken a step closer to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Got a notion to rush me, big fella?’

O’Brien fired a single shot that hit Sean on the bottom of his thigh, just above his knee. The force of the impact made his leg buckle underneath him and Sean dropped to the floor.

“I’m not fucking around, Danny,’ continued O’Brien. ‘Out of the attic now or I’ll kill the two of them. Your brother’s already down. You’ve got ten seconds before I shoot again, only this time I’ll be aiming for his fucking skull.’

O’Brien started counting.

‘Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . .’

When he got to ‘three’ there was a hard metallic sound as Danny’s gun clattered down the attic steps and onto the floor.

A few seconds later Danny emerged from the hatch and slowly made his way down the ladders, until he was standing less than three yards from O’Brien with his hands hanging loosely by his side.

Niamh started writhing around, but once again O’Brien tightened his grip and squeezed her until she could no longer move.

Danny could see the fear in his young niece’s eyes. ‘Don’t you worry about a thing‚ darlin, okay? Everything is going to be all right,’ he said, trying to reassure her.

‘Yeah, don’t you worry there‚ darlin,’ repeated O’Brien. ‘Everything is fucking great. You’ll all be together, very soon. Might be a bit cold for you, but don’t you worry‚ darlin, okay!’

Danny knew exactly what O’Brien was referring to, but he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. His face betrayed no emotion.

The sound of Sean’s laboured breathing could be heard coming from downstairs.

‘You okay, Sean?’ shouted Danny.

‘Fine,’ came the reply. ‘Copped one in the leg, but I’m fine.’

Danny looked straight at Niamh. ‘Do you remember the trick I taught you when we used to do our dummy fighting?’

Niamh looked puzzled for a second, then gave a slight nod.

‘Shut your mouth, McGuire,’ said O’Brien, sensing that Danny was up to something.

‘You have been found guilty of treason against the republican cause and sentenced to death,’ continued Danny, shifting his gaze from Niamh to O’Brien. ‘I’m here to carry out the will of the Republican Army council and execute you.’

O’Brien stared back in disbelief. ‘And people think
I’m
off my fucking nut. You take the biscuit, big fella. You’re not even a fucking member of the RA.’

‘I was given a job to do and I’m here to do it,’ replied Danny. ‘Let the girl go,’ he said, keeping his tone steady and resolute.

‘Maybe you hadn’t noticed, fuckwit. I’m the one with the gun,’ replied O’Brien. ‘Look,’ he said, relishing the moment as he pointed the pistol downstairs and fired another round into Sean.

Danny heard an agonised groan from Sean as the bullet tore a strip of flesh from his arm.

‘You’re fucked, Danny boy. Once I’ve killed your brother, and shot this wee girl in the head, I’m going to kill you. Then it’s off to the pub for a pint. I don’t know what I’m looking forward to the most: watching your face as I kill
them
, or watching
your
face as you die. Or will it be the look on people’s faces when I tell them that you were the Thevshi all along? I’ll tell them you squealed like a stuck pig when you realised you’d been found out. What a result! O’Leary is going to lap this up like a cur at a desert well. It’s been fucking with his mind for years who “The Ghost” could be. Too easy, shitehawk, too easy! Couldn’t have worked out better if I’d planned it myself.’

‘O’Leary’s dead,’ said Danny.

O’Brien hesitated momentarily, a brief flash of doubt crossing his eyes. ‘Aye right?’

‘E. I. O’Leary, Slim Jim, everyone connected with the kidnapping of that wee girl there and the death of Angela Fitzpatrick.’

‘Aye, well, that was unfortunate! She wasn’t quite up to the pressure. I meant to give her back to you disfigured, like, but the hot water proved a bit too much for her. Shame really: nice girl.
She
was a squealer too. Got it on tape if you fancy a listen.’

‘You’re next,’ said Danny.

‘Come on, McGuire . . . any time you like,’ said Owen O’Brien disdainfully. ‘Come’n have a go.’

All this time Niamh had kept her gaze fixed firmly on Danny, waiting for the signal.

When it came it was almost imperceptible: a slight movement of the eyes, nothing more, but she caught it.

Niamh’s body suddenly went limp in O’Brien’s arms. Although she was small in stature, her body weight was enough to tip him forward momentarily. It was a move Danny had taught her when they used to play-fight. Drop your body in a limp feint to pull your opponent off-balance then tense and strike.

In the same instant Danny raised his arm in a small, but powerful upward movement and flicked his hand forward. A black-handled knife left his grip and spun through the air in silence, delivering the blade point-first deep into Owen O’Brien’s right eye.

O’Brien let out a high-pitched squeal and stumbled backwards, clawing at his eye socket, then he suddenly pitched forward, his arms flailing wildly, grabbing for the girl. But Niamh was too quick. She ducked out of reach and started down the stairs.

Sean was up on his feet waiting for her, his face wracked with pain.

‘Get her outside,’ shouted Danny, as Niamh disappeared from view.

Danny took a step forward and swung his right leg in a high arc. The heel of his shoe struck O’Brien on the side of his face and knocked him sideways to the ground, but as he fell O’Brien managed to twist himself round and squeeze the trigger of his gun, firing wildly in all directions. Bullets smashed into the walls and ceiling.

Danny ducked out of the way as one whistled dangerously overhead. In the same movement, he flicked his foot forward again and managed to kick the weapon from O’Brien’s grasp.

O’Brien screamed wildly and lashed out. In his frenzy he managed to grab hold of Danny’s leg and start to pull him off balance. He tried to kick his way free, but O’Brien’s grip was like a vice. Suddenly Danny pitched forward, cracking his head on the top of the banister as he fell to the floor.

In an instant O’Brien was on top of him with his knee digging painfully into Danny’s chest, forcing the breath from his lungs: his big, rough hands wrapped tightly round Danny’s throat, choking his airways.

Danny struggled desperately to tip O’Brien off by raising his stomach off the floor and twisting back and forth, but O’Brien’s weight and the lack of oxygen made it impossible. He threw punches at his face, but O’Brien’s arms were splayed out at the elbows, blocking anything from landing with any force.

Danny was rapidly losing his strength. He could feel his arms becoming heavy and limp. He was starting to lose consciousness.

Nearby, a small voice shouted something indiscernible.

He saw O’Brien turn his head and felt the pressure on his neck ease slightly. Suddenly there was a deafening boom and O’Brien’s face appeared to explode in front of him.

Danny coughed and spluttered as the air rushed to fill his lungs. He tried to sit up, but his strength had not yet returned. O’Brien’s headless body lay jerking and convulsing on the floor beside him, no longer any threat.

Danny turned his head, searching for the source of the noise, and saw Niamh on the landing below: her face taut with fear, her expression grim, as she took her finger off the trigger then lowered the AR15 gently to the floor.

She started to cry.

The reflections of bright orange street lamps slipped silently over the windscreen of the VW Polo as it picked its way through the quiet streets of Newry. In the back of the car sat a small girl, curled in a tight ball, staring out of the window with an unfocused gaze.

The expression on the driver’s face was grave, as he glanced round at his brother, sitting with his arms wrapped, like a protective shield, round the young girl’s shoulders. His brother’s face was pale and bloodless: covered in sweat.

No one spoke for the entire journey.

At around 2 a.m. Father Anthony heard a knock at the door. He was sitting by the open coffin of one of his parishioners, keeping vigil over her body. He carefully placed his tea cup on the floor underneath his chair and made his way over to the large vestry door.

Sean McGuire’s cadaverous frame stood hunched in the doorway. Father Anthony offered his hand as support and led Sean through the vestry and along the short corridor towards his kitchen. Danny followed closely behind with Niamh clinging to him, her arms wrapped tightly round his neck.

‘Anyone we know, Father?’ asked Danny as he passed the coffin.

‘No! One of the invisibles! Her husband died a few years ago and she has no family over here to mourn her passing, but a great woman nonetheless. A fighter. Used her wit and humour to fight her battles, not guns and fists,’ said the priest pointedly. ‘But you’re not here for a lecture. Does anyone want anything to drink? Doctor Campbell’s on his way; should be here any minute.’

‘Tea would be grand, Father,’ replied Danny. ‘I’m sorry to put you through this, but we didn’t know where else to go.’

Father Anthony waved his hand dismissively and said, ‘I’m not doing this for you, Danny, I’m doing it for your mother.’

Sean lifted his head and spoke in a quiet voice. ‘All the same, we appreciate it, Father.’

The priest gave Sean a look. ‘I spoke at your last funeral, Sean, and I don’t intend to do the same at your next one. I can’t think of another occasion when I’ve had to minister to someone I’ve already buried, but these are strange times. As far as I can make out it doesn’t mention anything in the Bible about it being wrong – or a sin – to help a dead man. In fact I would argue that is the very tenet of the bloody thing anyway: looking after the dead . . .’ He paused for a second and smiled ruefully. ‘In particular, the ones that have come back to life.’

Marie tipped two heaped spoonfuls of freshly ground coffee into a pot and filled it almost to the brim with boiling water. ‘How do you take it?’

‘Black, please,’ answered Jeff Kneller through a hacking cough. ‘Who did you get to represent you?’ he continued eventually. ‘I hope you didn’t plump for that idiot the court were going to appoint: Geraldine Fitz, she’s a bloody nightmare.’

Marie bit her lip as she handed Kneller a steaming mug of coffee. ‘Went for Mr Larsson. He seems okay, but his summary took longer to read than it did for me to live through the actual events.’

‘Yeah, he does go on a bit, but once he gets going he’s very good; covers all the angles,’ replied Kneller.

Her living room was now clear of all the boxes; most of their contents were packed away in drawers and cupboards. But despite her best efforts to make it feel more homely, the apartment felt strangely empty.

She was smartly dressed, but wishing she’d opted for casual.

Jeff Kneller sat awkwardly on the sofa – it was too low down for a guy wearing a suit, and the whites of his shins were showing above his faded black socks.

‘You sure I shouldn’t have my lawyer present for this meeting?’ asked Marie.

‘This is an “after hours” visit: I’m not on duty, more of a social call.’

Kneller looked uncomfortable without the support of his partner.

‘Are you going out?’ he asked.

Marie smiled. ‘No. I have this strange need to look respectable whenever I’m around a grown-up. I thought the suit would make me look more . . . organised.’

She was hoping he would smile back and make her feel that she wasn’t quite as dumb as she sounded, but Kneller just nodded.

 ‘Got a couple of questions I’d like to ask, then I’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of your evening.’

‘
Sounds
official,’ said Marie. ‘Where’s your boyfriend?’

Kneller knew she was referring to his partner, Joe Evelyn, but he didn’t take the bait. ‘Where’s yours?’ he replied.

‘Is that one of the questions?’

‘I promise you, this is just to satisfy my own curiosity. If you feel uncomfortable with what I’m asking, don’t answer. I want to spend my retirement in peaceful contemplation, not worrying over unsolved mysteries or wondering which – if any – of the bad guys are still out there lurking in the shadows. Besides, it doesn’t look like you’ll need a lawyer at all. The only solid piece of evidence we had on you was the letter you wrote to Finn O’Hanlon . . .’ Kneller looked embarrassed as he finished the sentence. ‘ . . . and that’s been misplaced.’

‘Misplaced?’ said Marie.

Kneller gave a slight shrug. ‘No one knows where it is. The asshole whose job it was to file it put it down somewhere, but can’t remember where. It may still turn up, but we can’t go to a prosecutor and say, “We have evidence, but do you mind waiting till we find it again?” A simple case of ineptitude, but one that works in your favour.’

Marie was surprised at how candid Kneller was being with her, but she kept her thoughts to herself. ‘Are you old enough to retire?’ she asked.

‘By rights I should have another nine years to serve, but ill health doesn’t come with an age limit, and I cut a deal with my doctor. Which reminds me: d’you mind if I smoke?’

Marie shook her head. ‘Only if I can have one too.’

Kneller pulled out a packet of Marlboros and offered them to Marie before taking one himself. ‘Don’t suppose you have a light?’ he asked.

Marie took his cigarette from him and crossed over to the hob. She lit hers first then pushed the tip of Kneller’s cigarette against hers and lit it too.

‘What d’you want to know?’ she asked, blowing a small cloud of smoke out across the room.

‘Is Sean McGuire/Finn O’Hanlon – or whatever he likes to call himself – still in the country?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know where he is?’

Marie shrugged her shoulders. ‘I think he’s gone back to Ireland, but I’ve no idea where.’

‘Did he kill De Garza?’

Marie looked surprised. She’d seen the news reports. It was a huge story, making not only the local news, but the national as well.

Everybody had a theory as to who had organised the hit on De Garza – the guy had a lot of enemies – but it had never once crossed her mind that Sean was somehow involved. ‘I’m pretty sure not.’

‘His brother?’

Marie shrugged again. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

‘Did you know that Finn O’Hanlon was his assumed name: that he was living here under a false passport and his name was Sean McGuire?’

‘I didn’t know that from the off, but I did find out later,’ said Marie.

‘He used to be involved with the IRA and at one point was being groomed for the leadership.’

‘That I didn’t know,’ answered Marie truthfully.

‘We’ve had some preliminary contact with the British authorities and the one thing that none of us can work out is why they sent his brother over to assassinate him?’ Kneller sounded like he was asking her a question.

‘I have no idea. Everything happened so fast, like an avalanche of events, but at no point did we all sit round a table and discuss why we were all present, in these circumstances, at that moment in time, y’know what I mean? The only thing I would say is that Danny seemed more surprised to see Sean than Sean was to see Danny. In a weird way it was almost as if Sean was expecting it to be his brother.’

‘And the night you were over at O’Hanlon/Sean McGuire’s apartment collecting his
belongings
, that was the first time you’d come across Ardel and Hud.’

‘A few weeks ago I’d never heard of
any
of them. If that asshole Conrado hadn’t come into my place of work and started shooting the place up like he was at a goddamn fairground, then I would be sitting here in my pyjamas watching the news wondering who all these fucked-up people were and how they ended up getting involved in so much shit. I’m one of life’s observers, Jeff, I’m not a participant. I shouldn’t be standing here in my own apartment, with a goddamn suit on – cast in one of the leading roles.’

Kneller nodded quietly to himself for a few moments. He seemed to have made his mind up about something.

‘Culo Conrado was an asshole, Vincent Lee Croll was an asshole and Hernando De Garza was twenty different sorts of asshole rolled into one. There’s no one in my department mourning their loss. Whoever terminated those suckers did us a favour as far as I’m concerned. The trouble with people like De Garza is, he was very influential. You can’t shoot an asshole as big as that and not expect to get covered in shit. His murder has created a power vacuum that’s going to cause an explosion, with shock waves that will destroy a lot of people. There will be certain colleagues of his looking for revenge and others who are glad to see the back of him and hoping to fill his shoes. Now, it makes no odds to me if they want to fight it out amongst themselves, but my worry is that if we prosecute
you
for aiding and abetting Sean McGuire – the man who shot Cola Conrado – then the newshounds will get their teeth into it and make the connection between Conrado and De Garza. If that happens you are going to be linked – however tenuously – to De Garza’s death. Chances are you’re going to have some very nasty people knocking on your door. And
they
won’t be here for a coffee and a smoke.’

Marie’s expression was grave. She was standing with her back against the kitchen worktop, but she needed to sit down. She wondered if Kneller could see that her legs were trembling under her black gabardine slacks. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘I’m here to deliver a warning. I’m not trying to scare you, just give you the information and let you make up your own mind. There’s a very strong possibility that all the charges against you will be dropped now. To my mind that’s the right decision. I believe you when you say you were an innocent in all this. That’s not to say you didn’t go along with what was happening, but you’re not a criminal. If I were you I’d take the opportunity to go away for a while, certainly move to a different address, better still get out of the state. The press still have a lot of questions and if you’re not here to answer them, there’s not much they can do.’

‘I’ve just finished unpacking,’ said Marie.

‘You still got the boxes?’

Marie smiled. ‘Threw the last of them out this morning, would you believe?’

‘Go buy some more,’ said Kneller.

Marie held up the coffee pot. ‘You want a top-up?’

‘No, I’m good.’

‘Can I ask you a few questions?’

‘Sure.’

‘What’ll happen to Ardel and Hud?’

‘Who knows!’ answered Kneller. ‘They’ve disappeared. If they know what’s good for them they’ll stay disappeared. There’s already a big prize fund on the heads of anyone involved with De Garza’s murder and Sly Rivera’s. And from what I can gather, Ardel and Hud are in the frame for causing the pile-up on the freeway.’

‘Shame. They were nice boys,’ said Marie.

Kneller placed his coffee mug on the low table in front of the sofa and stood up. ‘I have to go. Don’t take too long to make up your mind.’

‘Does your partner Joe Evelyn know you’re here?’ asked Marie.

‘No,’ replied Kneller.

‘Should I tell my lawyer about our conversation?’

‘No.’

Marie held the front door open and put her hand out to shake Kneller’s as he walked into the hallway. He looked at it for a second as if it was an odd thing to do, then reached out and took hold of it. His grip was firm and he held on to her for a few seconds longer then she was expecting.

‘You take care,’ he said, looking straight into her eyes.

‘You too . . . I hope you have a long and peaceful retirement.’

Kneller gave her a wry smile as he finally let go.

‘It’ll be peaceful, but it won’t be very long.’

Marie closed the door behind him then secured both of the dead bolts and turned the key before pulling the handle to make sure the door was firmly locked.

She listened a few moments for the sounds of Kneller’s footsteps heading for the elevator, but the hallway outside was silent. Maybe he had already left.

Truth was she’d never really liked the apartment anyway. She’d only taken it on until she could save enough money for a deposit on a small house further out of town. First thing she’d do was change out of the bloody trouser suit then – after she’d fixed herself a large sour – head down to the trash and see if her boxes were still there.

Suddenly her letter box flipped open, making her jump. An envelope dropped on to the floor just by her feet. Straight away she picked it up and tore it open.

Marie froze.

There were footsteps moving quickly away from her front door. Someone was outside in the corridor.

Marie strained to listen then relaxed again as she heard the call-bell for the elevator ping.

The envelope contained a sheet of white foolscap covered with handwriting that she recognised instantly. Marie stared at the piece of paper and smiled. It was the note that she had written to Finn: the note that ‘some asshole’ in the FBI had ‘misplaced’.

Marie bent down to the letterbox and lifted the flap. ‘Thank you, Mr Kneller,’ she shouted. Then added, ‘For your ineptitude.’

There was no way of knowing if Kneller heard her as the elevator doors closed behind him, but she hoped he had.