Shutter Man (29 page)

While Jessica drove back to her office to begin the process of coordinating a protection detail with the DA’s homicide unit, Byrne stayed behind.

‘This will all be over soon,’ he said. He gestured to the sector cars on the street. ‘You’re in good hands.’

They sat over coffee in the woman’s small, tidy kitchen. Every few seconds Byrne looked at the doors, the windows, waiting for hell.

The woman just stared at him.

‘What is it?’ Byrne asked.

‘I remember you.’

As soon as she said the words, the memories began to sift back. The heat of that night, the mosquitoes, the explosions overhead.

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ Byrne said. ‘Remember me from where?’

‘You were much younger then, of course. The world was much younger.’

Byrne said nothing.

‘My name was different,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t Leary. Back then I had my first husband’s name.’

‘Ma’am?’

‘It was Daugherty.’

The word was a roundhouse. ‘You’re Anjelica Daugherty?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Catriona was my little girl.’

She had never been what one would call beautiful – her features were a bit asymmetrical, a heavy-boned girl they would say – but she’d had a twinkle, an easy laugh, and it served her well.

Of all the adults Byrne had known from the Pocket, Anjelica Daugherty had seemed closest to his age. She knew the music and the movies and the TV shows.

The woman sitting in front of him looked long passed by.

‘My God,’ she said. ‘Kevin Byrne.’

She ran a hand through her hair, straightened her skirt.

It was a moment captured by the reality that here were two people who’d met on one field of life and now, nearly four decades later, were meeting on another. Time was the great leveler, Byrne thought.

‘She would be old enough to be a grandmother, she would.’

Byrne just listened.

‘It sounds so phony to simply ask how you are,’ Anjelica said. ‘It’s been nearly forty years. How you are today is because of those forty years. How we
all
are.’

Byrne had his own memories of that time, that night. He remembered seeing Catriona on the street the day before her murder. He remembered how her face lit up when she talked to Jimmy Doyle. He remembered how the slightest breeze would brush back her fine blond hair. He remembered her blush.

He looked up, into Anjelica’s eyes. He’d never really seen it before, but now he did. Little Catriona favored her mother.

‘Catie would sometimes stay with her gran in those days, those summer days. It was just a few blocks away. I had to work two jobs.’ She wiped a tear. ‘All those nights my ma tucked her in. It should have been me.’

‘You did what you thought was right. You were providing for your family. Catie was
with
family.’

He almost said she had been safe, but that wasn’t true.

‘You weren’t from the Pocket, were you?’ Anjelica asked.

Byrne shook his head. ‘We were living in Pennsport at the time. My father was a longshoreman. I used to visit my cousin a few times a year. Mostly summer.’

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘The Kittredges.’

Byrne nodded. ‘Ronan was my second cousin. I stayed with my aunt Ruth and uncle Matt.’

‘I liked Ruth. She was a dear woman.’

‘She was.’

‘Always one to visit with a pie when troubles came.’

Byrne remembered the aroma of his aunt’s mincemeat and rhubarb pies. It took him back.

‘Are you still close to any of them?’ Anjelica asked.

Byrne thought about the most recent funeral in his family, three years earlier; about his aunt Ruth, decimated by cancer, herself widowed ten years earlier.

‘Both Uncle Matt and Aunt Ruth have passed.’

‘I’m so sorry. ‘

‘Thank you.’

Byrne recalled that he and Ronan would do odd jobs around Anjelica Daugherty’s house in the weeks following Catriona’s murder. Anjelica always tried to pay them, but they refused. She made up for it by feeding them to burst on home-made stews and spaghetti.

He looked over, caught her smiling. It erased so many hard years.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘You look the same.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You do,’ she said. ‘It’s different for boys than it is for girls, you know. Boys get bigger. They might lose a little hair. But that which made them look like they did when they were ten or so remains. My father looked like a big boy until the day he died.’

Byrne couldn’t see it, but who was he to argue with someone who said he still looked young?

‘I remember Ronan,’ she continued. ‘He was always walking around with a baseball bat or a ball of some sort. Either that or he was running somewhere. I recall being envious of his energy.’

It was true. Ronan always played with the big kids. He was on the varsity squads in baseball and football at school in his freshman year.

‘So many years have passed,’ she said. ‘I’m almost afraid to ask how he is these days.’

Byrne remembered exactly where he was and what he was doing when he heard of Ronan’s death. He considered that there was no need to add this sorrow to Anjelica Daugherty’s already weighted heart.

He shrugged. ‘I’m afraid we lost touch.’

As Anjelica looked out the window, Byrne studied her profile. He recalled seeing her in the park that terrible night, the way she opened her mouth to scream but no sound emerged, not for the longest time. Perhaps the real scream had been trapped inside her. Perhaps it still was.

‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Did you marry?’

Byrne nodded. ‘I did.’

‘Are you two still together?’

‘That one’s a little tougher to answer,’ he said. ‘We divorced years ago, but last year we started seeing each other again. It’s too soon to tell, but I think we’re doing okay. She’s in New York now on business.’

Anjelica smiled. ‘That’s a good story. I like a story like that.’

Byrne took out his wallet, retrieved the photograph of Colleen, taken just a month or so ago on the campus of Gallaudet University. He showed Anjelica. ‘My daughter.’

‘My God,’ she said. ‘She’s beautiful.’

‘Favors her mother.’

As Byrne took back the photo and put it away, his phone rang. It was Josh Bontrager.

‘Yeah, Josh.’

‘Perimeter is in place,’ Bontrager said. ‘Two detectives from the DA’s homicide unit are coordinating. They need to see you.’

‘I’ll be right out.’

He glanced out the window, saw Jessica pulling up.

‘ADA Balzano is back. She’s going to sit with you.’

Anjelica stood up. Before Byrne knew what was happening, she pulled him into an embrace.

‘I saw it on the news,’ Anjelica said. ‘I can’t believe that is little Mick Farren.’

Jessica said nothing.

‘And the father. Danny Farren. He looked so… old is what I guess I want to say. I imagine we all do.’

‘Now that the news has broadcast this, it will only be a matter of time,’ Jessica said. ‘There’s nowhere for Michael Farren to go. We have his place of residence covered. Every cop in five counties is looking for him.

‘I’m going to stay the night,’ she continued. ‘In the morning, the city will send an armored car for us and we’ll go down to the courthouse together.’

‘It seems like a lot,’ Anjelica said. ‘For Michael Farren.’

‘He’s a very bad man, Anjelica. There really is no telling what he will do.’

Out of the corner of her eye Jessica saw the K-9 Unit arrive. She recognized the officer and the dog, had worked with them both.

‘There’s a very good chance that Michael Farren will be apprehended soon,’ she said.

‘Then we can stop all this?’

Jessica shook her head. ‘We don’t know the full extent of the threat. He may be working with other people.’

Because of the Farren family’s history with pipe bombs, the K-9 officer was sweeping the grounds for explosives. Another pair of officers from K-9 were en route. These dogs would search for Farren, based on the scent of some clothing they had collected at The Stone.

‘I thought I was done with all this,’ Anjelica said. ‘Back when my Catriona was taken.’

‘It will all be over soon.’

Jessica’s phone rang. It was Byrne.

‘Perimeter is locked,’ he said.

‘Is it quiet?’ Jessica asked.

‘It’s quiet,’ he said. ‘I’m coming in.’

A few seconds later, Jessica opened the door. Byrne entered.

Anjelica stood, walked over to the sideboard, where a pot of tea sat in a cozy. She turned to Byrne. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘No thanks,’ Byrne said. ‘I’m fine.’

Anjelica stood looking at the old, chipped tea service. ‘I just remembered. I bought this set at a house sale. From Máire Farren, of all people.’

‘Who is that?’ Jessica asked.

‘Danny’s mother,’ Byrne said. ‘Michael’s grandmother.’

‘She was a rummager, that one,’ Anjelica said. ‘A scrounger and a thief. Once a year she would set up a yard sale behind that bar she owned, sell all kinds of things. What people didn’t realize was that they were buying things stolen from each other’s houses.’

Jessica and Byrne just listened.

‘After Desmond died, she moved into that house at the end of the lane. Just a few blocks from here, near the avenue. The blue one with the shutters. Do you remember it, Kevin?’

‘You’re saying the Farrens owned that house?’ Byrne asked.

‘I’m sure they did. They were not a family to be beholden to anyone, especially a bank or any manner of landlord.’

Byrne got on to dispatch. If the Farrens owned that house, Michael Farren might be holed up there.

‘I’m going down there,’ he said. Jessica saw him adjust the Kevlar vest, tucking in the flaps.

‘Who’s out back?’ she asked.

‘Two officers from the 17th. They’re both experienced men.’

Byrne moved to the front door, peered through the blinds. He turned to Jessica, held up his rover. ‘I’ll be on channel.’

When Byrne left, Jessica deadbolted the door, slid over the security chain, pulled on the handle. It was redundant, but redundancy saved lives.

‘What is it?’ Anjelica asked.

‘There’s no cause for alarm. We just need to take a few extra precautions.’

Anjelica pointed at the television, which was on but had the sound muted. Jessica glanced over. It was a news alert. A picture of Michael Farren was splashed across the screen.

‘Michael Farren,’ Anjelica said. ‘Little Michael.’

Byrne remembered the house from when he was younger. It had been pretty beat up back then, had always been in need of a coat of paint. He didn’t recall who had lived there, but he remembered well seeing it the other day.

It was the lone dilapidated row house in the middle of the block being rehabbed by Greene Towne LLC.

Four patrol officers established a perimeter at the corners of the house. Bình Ngô took the rear, while Byrne mounted the steps to the front door. He looked through the window. He saw no movement.

He drew his weapon, knocked on the door. No answer. He tried again with the same result. He raised Bình Ngô on his two-way.

‘Any movement back there?’

‘Nothing,’ Bình said.

Byrne had to make a decision. There was no time to wait for a search warrant. They did not know for certain that this property still had anything to do with the Farrens. A call to Licenses and Inspections had not been returned.

‘I’m coming back there.’

By the time Byrne reached the rear of the property he’d made the decision. He shouldered open the back door with ease.

They cleared the scene in minutes.

The house was unoccupied.

As Byrne walked through the old house, it felt as if he were stepping back in time to his own grandmother’s house. Everywhere he looked was another bridge to the past. The old furniture, the ancient drapes, the threadbare area rugs, the double bed with the depression on one side, the ceramic bowl and pitcher on the dresser.

In the parlor there was no television, but rather an old console radio. Dozens of books on faeries and Irish folk legends. One of them was written by Francesca Esperanza Wilde, Oscar Wilde’s mother. There were a handful of books on the
ban sidhe.

And everywhere there were framed pictures. Pictures of Liam Farren in uniform, pictures of Danny and Patrick, pictures of Michael and Sean, pictures of more than fifty years of customers at The Stone.

On the wall over the antique sofa was a large picture of corn stooks. Seeing it gave Byrne a chill. At the bottom was written
Where the faeries live
in a childlike scrawl.

Room after room was a museum to antiquity.

Before leaving, Byrne found a door at the back of a closet. He opened it, clicked on his Maglite, descended a narrow staircase. At the bottom was a small stone room.

There, chiseled into the wall, as large as the wall itself, were five words that made Byrne’s heart race.

The entire wall was a Sator Square.

In a ring around the square were thirty or so framed photographs. Michael and his grandmother when he was an infant. Michael and his grandmother when he was a toddler, a young boy, a pre-teen. One was of Michael in a hospital bed, his eyes closed. In this photograph his grandmother held a white rosary.

It was the last picture that gave Byrne pause, one that answered a question that had circled him since he interviewed Perry Kershaw outside Edwin Channing’s house.

In the final picture, the adult Michael Farren stood with a wizened, white-haired woman on a street corner in Grays Ferry. In the background was a billboard advertising a movie. The movie was
American Sniper
.

My God, Byrne thought. She’s still alive.

Máire Farren was the old woman.

She was the one singing the death songs.