Shutter Man (31 page)

Billy could feel it. He was close. He had been so long a time in the shadows that he had all but forgotten there was light.

But now that he and Sean and Gran had drawn four lines of the square, it felt as if a great weight had lifted from his shoulders, his heart.

One more line and there would be sun.

He looked down.

It was Emily. Her beautiful face was gazing right at him.

‘Michael. It’s me.’

‘You’re here.’

‘I’m so confused and sad. They say that you’ve done some very bad things, but I don’t believe it to be true. It
can’t
be true. They say that if you put down your gun, and put your hands in the air, nothing bad will happen to you.’

Billy just listened. Emily was right there. His heart soared.

‘You might think I’m just saying these things because they’re making me say them,’ she said. ‘But it isn’t so. I believe them when they say you won’t be harmed. This is what I want too.’

Billy looked at his grandmother.

‘This is Emily,’ he said. ‘The girl I told you about.’

‘It’s a trick,’ his gran said.

‘No,’ Billy said. ‘You don’t understand. She’s going to come with me. To France.’

Movement now, just outside the windows. A slice of light, then it was gone.

Billy looked at the iPhone again. Emily was gone too.

Had she really been there?

He glanced around the shadowed room. It was a roomful of strangers. All women.

None of them were Emily.

‘Billy,’ the old woman said. She wore a white dress.

Billy turned to the wall behind him. First picture, bottom row. It was his grandmother.

‘Take this,’ she said. ‘It is time.’

Billy crossed the room. His grandmother picked up the straight razor, opened it. The blade winked blue in the light streaming through the windows.

Billy put down the iPhone, picked up the telephone. The man was still on the other end.

‘Can Emily come in here?’ Billy asked.

‘I don’t think we should do that,’ the man said.

‘Why?’

‘What if something went wrong? There are people with guns all over the place. You wouldn’t want something bad to accidentally happen to Emily, would you?’

‘No.’

‘But she does have something for you.’

‘She does?’

‘Yes,’ the man said. ‘I could bring it inside.’

Billy looked at the door. He had to think.

‘Billy?’

The phone was silent for a full thirty seconds.

‘You can bring it in,’ Farren said.

Byrne felt a cool wave of relief wash over him. It was instantly replaced by a warm wave of fear.

‘Maybe when I get in there, we can talk about letting Jessica go. She’s not part of this. She has a son and a daughter.’

Byrne waited.

‘One lie. One trick. All their blood will be on your hands,’ Farren said.

‘No tricks. You have my word.’

‘You’ll have to come soon. We have to go to Midnight Mass.’

It was Christmas Eve dinner. Billy could smell the spiced beef, the colcannon, the plum pudding. They were gathered in the small parlor above The Stone. The Christmas lights flashed outside on the avenue.

His mother was there and she wasn’t sick. She looked robust and healthy. There was high color in her cheeks. She wore a white pullover with a blue blouse beneath.

‘Where’s Sean?’ Billy asked.

‘Don’t listen to these people,’ his grandmother said.

Billy turned to the voice. Something was wrong with Gran. She looked so old. It was just today when her hair was black. Black Irish, she would say with a wink, but he and Sean had seen the coloring in the trash. The Clairol. They never let on they knew.

Now it was cloud white.

‘It’s a trick,’ his gran said.

Billy looked at his mother. The woman was not Deena Farren. Billy checked the pictures on the wall. The photo where his mother should be was blank.

This woman was younger. He had never seen her before.

Billy looked at the window, at the flashing lights.

They were expecting Uncle Pat and his father. Later that night they were going out for some last-minute shopping. Then it was off to Midnight Mass at St Patrick’s.

The doorbell rang.

‘Don’t,’ his gran said.

‘It’s okay.’

‘Michael.’

Michael Anthony Farren.
 

Billy crossed the room and opened the door.

When Byrne stepped inside the front door, with his hands over his head, Jessica saw him take in the room, the layout, the entrances and exits, the players.

In his right hand he had a yellow rose. He placed it on the entry table.

‘Close the door and lock it,’ Michael Farren said.

Byrne did as he was told.

Farren gave Byrne a thorough pat-down, gestured for him to cross the room, where Anjelica Leary was seated, the opposite side from the front door and the wall of photographs.

Before doing so, Byrne took off his suit jacket, laid it across the arm of the couch. As he did so, he glanced at Jessica, then at his jacket. She followed his gaze and saw what he wanted her to see.

She then looked at his hands, which were shielded from Michael Farren. He had three fingers extended on each hand.

And Jessica knew.

Byrne turned, walked to the other side of the room. He stood next to the television.

Máire Farren rose slowly to her feet, crossed to the fireplace, opened the flue, struck one of the long kitchen matches there and lit the fire. As she did this, she began to make a keening sound.

Jessica looked at Michael Farren. He gave no indication that he knew he’d met Byrne at the row house on Reed Street.

‘You can let my partner go,’ Byrne said. ‘You have me.’

Michael Farren said nothing for a moment. ‘You said she has a family?’

‘Yes. A son and a daughter.’

‘You’re trying to protect them.’

‘Yes.’ Byrne turned on the television. ‘Just like I’m trying to protect you now.’

Michael looked over at the TV, back. ‘You?’

The old woman continued to sing softly, seemingly oblivious to the conversation happening around her. One by one she put the birth certificates into the fire. With each piece of paper she changed her song.

‘Let me help you,’ Byrne said.

Farren looked back at him. ‘Why? Why do you want to help me?’

Byrne slowly began to drop his hands to his sides. ‘Don’t you know me, Michael?’

The old woman stopped her wailing. She had one birth certificate left. It was Anjelica Leary’s. ‘Don’t listen to him,’ she said.

Michael Farren looked between his grandmother and Byrne. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I can help,’ Byrne said. ‘I can take you back. Back before the accident.’

‘Stop it!’ the old woman screamed.

‘Back to The Stone?’ Michael asked.

‘Back to The Stone,’ Byrne said. He gestured to the street. ‘Back to before all this.’

‘Shut up,’ Máire Farren said.

‘Don’t you know me?’ Byrne repeated. ‘I’m your father.’

Michael just stared.

‘I’m your father,’ Byrne repeated.

Michael Farren turned around, looked at the wall. There, on the bottom row, on the right, was where his father’s picture was pinned. Daniel Farren. He wore a white shirt, a blue necktie. He was wearing exactly what the man in front of him was wearing.

He
was
the man in front of him.

‘Da.’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t listen,’ Máire said. ‘It’s a trick. He’s using the glamour.’

‘Look at the picture, Michael.’

‘That’s not my name.’

‘It
is
your name. Billy’s not real.’

‘Don’t listen to him,’ the old woman hissed.

‘Your name is Michael Anthony Farren,’ Byrne said. He pointed at the TV. ‘You are my son.’

Jessica saw that the TV was not showing a news break-in at all. The AV unit had attached a cable to the house, running to a disc player in the tech van. Byrne had recorded the plea in the news van. The appeal was on a continuous loop. The photograph on the wall was the one Jessica had removed from Byrne’s suit jacket and pinned there. It was the photo she had taken of Byrne.

‘That’s me,’ Byrne repeated. ‘You’re my boy.’

Michael looked at the TV, then at the photo, then at Byrne. Jessica could see the struggle. He really couldn’t recognize anyone.

‘All you have to do is put the gun down and we’ll get you some help,’ Byrne said. ‘
I’ll
get you some help.’

‘He’s
lying
.’

Jessica saw Máire Farren struggling to keep her balance. She couldn’t. Her skin was starting to turn ashen; her breathing was shallow.

Michael Farren took a step toward Byrne. ‘Will you take me shooting? Me and Sean?’

‘Of course,’ Byrne said. ‘Anywhere you want to go.’

Michael Farren began to unscrew the suppressor from his weapon.

‘Can we go to that place in the woods?’ he asked. ‘I know the way.’

‘We’ll go right now. All you have to do is put the gun down.’

Michael Farren dropped the suppressor. ‘I’m a better shot than Sean. Always was.’

‘I can’t take sides on that one,’ Byrne said.

‘I can shoot the deer, and Sean can skin them. He’s always been better with the knife.’

‘That’s what we’ll do then.’

Farren squared himself in front of Byrne.

He held the gun at his side.

The dream was over. His father was home and they could start Christmas.

‘What did you bring me, Da?’ he asked.

His father pointed to the table by the door. It was a single yellow rose. Billy picked it up, smelled it. It reminded him of lemons. Someone had once told him this, and it was true.

‘
Nollaig Shona Duit
,’ he said.

‘Happy Christmas to you, son.’

‘Let’s say a prayer, Da.’

‘Sure,’ his father said. ‘Which one?’

‘“A Familiar Stranger”. We’ll say it together.’

‘
Stop
,’ his grandmother said.

Michael turned to look at her. It was not his gran. This was an old woman.

‘Michael.’

Michael turned back to his father.

‘The prayer.’

He was Michael. Michael Anthony Farren.

He ejected the magazine from the weapon. One by one he took the bullets from the magazine. He no longer needed them. His father was home.

‘
I saw a stranger today
,’ he said. ‘
I put food for him in the eating place. And drink in the drinking place. And music in the listening place
.’

He dropped three bullets to the floor.

‘
In the Holy name of the Trinity He blessed myself and my family. And the lark said in her warble: Often, often, often goes Christ in the stranger’s guise
.’

He dropped the second last bullet.

‘
O, oft and oft and oft goes Christ
…’

‘…
in the stranger’s guise
.’

Michael Farren dropped the last bullet on the floor.

Jessica glanced at Máire. She was breathing heavily. Anjelica Leary had not moved, had not spoken a word.

Michael began to cross the room, the gun out front.

‘Just put it down, Michael,’ Byrne said. ‘Just put it on the floor.’

Still he continued across the room. He was going to hand the gun to Byrne.

‘Stop!’ Byrne yelled.

He did not stop.

‘
Oft goes Christ
…’

He stepped in front of the sheer curtains.

Jessica saw it, the red dot on Michael Farren’s back.

No
, she thought.
Byrne has him.

Wait.
 

She looked at her phone. She’d never make it.

‘
In a stranger’s guise
.’

Michael Farren lifted both hands. His right hand held the Makarov.

Jessica closed her eyes, heard the glass shatter, the sound of the copper-jacketed round tearing through Michael Farren’s chest, slamming into the wall, the dull thud as his body hit the floor.

‘No!’ Byrne screamed. In two strides he was across the living room, and had Jessica on the floor.

As the sound of the gunshot echoed in the room, all Jessica could hear was the labored breathing of Máire Farren, and the fading song of death.

Two days after the dark events in Anjelica Leary’s row house, Jessica, Byrne and all the detectives involved in the case met at the office of the district attorney.

The charges against Sean and Michael Farren were still pending, even though they were both deceased.

The possibility of there being confederates with whom the Farrens had worked was likely, and the investigation into the circumstances surrounding the horrible crimes was ongoing.

On the surface, what investigators were all but certain about was that Michael and Sean Farren, most likely at the behest of their grandmother, Máire Glover Farren, had caused the deaths of Robert Kilgore, Angelo, Mark and Laura Rousseau, Edwin Channing, Danielle Spencer and Benjamin Porter. Porter was the man engaged to be married to Danielle Spencer. He worked for Brinks.

The blood evidence discovered in the basement of The Stone matched that of a woman whose body was found floating in the Schuylkill River. She had been shot once in the head. The recovered bullet matched Sean Farren’s M&P. The woman was identified as Megan Haupt, aged twenty-six, late of the Francisville section of the city.

The two bodies discovered next to the tracks in Grays Ferry were twenty-four-year-old Raymond Darden, and Gary Uchitel, twenty-one, both of Olney. The pair were said to have exchanged words with a man who fit Michael Farren’s description. Ballistics tied the recovered spent cartridges to Farren’s Makarov.

Máire Glover Farren was pronounced dead that night at U of Penn. The cause of death was given as congestive heart failure. According to her immigration record, she had been eighty-eight years old.

The cruet of blood found in her pocket did not belong to any of the victims. There was presumptive evidence that the blood was more than seven decades old. There was speculation that it belonged to the woman’s late husband, Liam Farren.

Before anyone involved in the case thought to make the move to seal the old woman’s house, it was ransacked and burned to the ground. The newly rehabbed row houses on either side were mostly spared.

The woman whom Farren assaulted in the house on Reed Street, as well as her infant baby, fully recovered from the ordeal.

After the events leading up to the shooting of Michael Farren had been published in moment-by-moment detail in the
Inquirer
, the lead reporter on the story got a call from a woman named Carole Stanton, who said she had a new detail to add to the timeline.

Ms Stanton was the owner of City Floral. She said that on the night of the events, she received a visit from a man answering Michael Farren’s description. She said the man ordered flowers – specifically roses; a different variety each time – to be delivered once a week to a woman named Emily Carson at Queen Memorial Library, until the money ran out.

She said the man left a shopping bag on the counter.

Inside was fifteen thousand dollars.

They stood across the street from the ruins that were Máire Farren’s house. Every so often people would walk by, take cell phone pictures and videos.

‘It was a museum,’ Byrne said. ‘I don’t think anything in there was any newer than sixty years old.’

He’d told her of the Sator Square carved into the basement walls, the photographs of the corn stooks.

‘Do you really think the old woman thought she was some kind of mythic creature?’

Byrne didn’t answer right away. ‘I don’t know. But you know as well as I do that when people have a deep belief – any kind of belief – it can be a powerful thing.’

Jessica said nothing.

‘You saved us in that house, partner,’ Byrne said.

Jessica thought back to the moment Byrne had walked in, his hands held high. When he’d put his suit coat on the arm of the couch, he made sure the photograph was sticking out, the photograph she’d taken of him for Sophie. When he showed her three fingers on each hand, she knew she had to find a way to replace Danny Farren’s photograph on the wall. It was the third picture in the third row. It all came down to the last second.

‘I think it was a team effort,’ she said. ‘And we didn’t save everyone.’

Byrne glanced over at The Stone, back. ‘They couldn’t be saved, Jess.’

At five o’clock that afternoon, the mayor and the police commissioner held a news conference.

Byrne declined to attend.