“Who died?” Patrick asked.
“Dr. Cameron Singer,” the DCPD officer said. “Know him?”
“Gosh, I haven’t seen Singer in . . . ten years? Maybe more,” Patrick said. “Ben?”
Ben gave a noncommittal shrug. The officer looked at Cian and Eoin. He raised his eyebrows.
“Green cards?” the officer asked.
“Of course,” Eoin said.
“We’re legal as can be,” Cian said. “Some Yank shoots at us – probably some bloody Proddie with a grudge – and here you are, blaming the victims.”
“Yes, the victims of a twelfth-story drive-by shooting,” the officer said.
Cian raised an eyebrow and looked indignant. Three men in ugly blue suits stepped into the room from the hallway. Patrick went to speak with them.
“FB flippin’ I,” the DCPD uniformed officer said under his breath. “You want to go . . .”
“Actually,” Ben smiled. “We’d prefer it if you took us to Bolling.”
“Me?” the DCPD officer asked.
“If that’s all right with you,” Ben said.
“Sure,” the DCPD officer said. “Looks like they’re taking over the scene anyway.”
Ben hustled Cian and Eoin to where Patrick was chatting with the FBI agents.
“We need to go, sir,” Ben said.
“I apologize,” Patrick said. “My son and daughters are in the hospital. We need to get home.”
“Of course,” the FBI special agent in charge said. “I know how to reach you.”
“Thank you,” Patrick said.
The DCPD officer gave the FBI special agent in charge a wry look and led them out the door. They managed to leave the suite with their trash bags full of clothing. They were in the elevator before the DCPD officer spoke.
“Actually, sir,” the DCPD officer said. “I heard you were in town. I was on my way over here when the call came in.”
“Why here?” Patrick asked.
“You stay here when you’re in town,” the DCPD officer shrugged.
“Obviously, a lot of people know that,” Patrick smiled.
“Um, okay,” the police officer said. “I came because I’m a friend of your daughter’s, sir. I heard she had some trouble and was in the hospital.”
“You know Alex?” Ben asked.
“I know of Alex, sir. Who doesn’t?” the DCPD uniformed officer nodded. “Samantha helped me out of a jam when I was in the Navy. As crazy as it sounds, I was actually in the wrong place at the worst time. She was my JAG, saved my keister and my commission. We named our second daughter Samantha after her. I guarded her when she testified last summer – you know, in that trial. She’s good people.”
Patrick smiled.
“How is she?” the DCPD officer asked.
“She’s going to be just fine,” Patrick said.
“That’s a real relief, sir,” the DCPD officer said. “I’m glad.”
The elevator stopped at the bottom floor.
“Now let’s get you to Bolling,” the DCPD officer said.
They followed him out of the hotel and into his car. Between Patrick’s VIP power, and Ben’s military intelligence muscle, they were on a plane back to Denver within the hour. Eoin and Cian sat a few seats away. Patrick used the plane time to read through Dr. Singer’s journal. Ben leafed through the files Eoin had taken.
“Did you think Cam would . . . ?” Ben asked Patrick in a low voice.
“No,” Patrick replied in the same low tone. “I saw him put the pen in his pocket. It registered to watch it, but I never thought he would use it to kill himself.”
“Pretty brutal,” Ben said.
“And jerk out of my hands?” Patrick asked. “Never in a million years would I have imagined such a thing. You?”
Ben shook his head.
“Makes me wonder why it’s better to die than to talk,” Patrick said.
“I’m stuck on the ‘joke’s on you,’” Ben said.
“Mean anything to you?” Patrick asked.
Ben shook his head.
“I looked it up,” Patrick said.
“And?”
“Nothing,” Patrick said.
“What’s weird to me is that they both said it as they died,” Ben said.
“Like a mantra or a religious statement,” Patrick nodded. “Like offering up your suffering to Christ or whatever.”
“Maybe it doesn’t mean anything,” Ben said.
Patrick turned to look at Ben, who shrugged.
“It’s as good an answer as any,” Ben smiled.
Patrick chuckled.
“I’m sure it’s occurred to you,” Ben said.
“What?” Patrick asked.
“The cleaners were there for Eoin,” Ben said.
Patrick gave a curt nod.
“We’re going to have to watch him,” Ben said.
“He’s been through a lot of scrapes,” Patrick nodded.
“They both have,” Ben said. “They have the luck of the Irish.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Patrick said.
“How so?”
“The Titanic was built in Belfast, not far from where they were born.”
Ben glanced at Patrick, and then at Cian and Eoin. He raised an eyebrow and nodded.
“You’ll figure something out?” Ben asked.
“It won’t do much good if we can’t figure out what the hell is going on.”
Ben glanced at Patrick’s worried face.
“We’ll figure this whole thing out,” Ben said with more confidence than he felt.
Patrick looked at him and nodded. They flew the rest of the way in worried silence.
FFFFFF
One day later
Saturday morning
November 27 – 9:06 a.m. CST (10:06 a.m. EST)
Federal Medical Center, Carswell, Texas
The Mister waited for the guard to open the door to the interview room. The Federal Medical Center was the only maximum-security federal prison for women in the United States. It was also a psychiatric hospital. Through the tiny window, he saw Niamh Kelly-Mac Kinney for the first time. Her head bowed over her clasped hands. She looked like a nun. When the guard pushed the door open, Neev’s head didn’t move.
The Mister stepped into the room.
“I’ll be right outside,” the guard said. “There’s a call button if you need a doctor.”
The Mister tilted his head in a kind of nod. He waited for the guard to lock the door. He held up his briefcase.
“There’s a file in here that’s supposed to tell me everything I need to know about you, Mrs. Mac Kinney,” the Mister said.
“Why don’t you go fuck yourself?” Neev said in Belfast Gaelic.
“Because I’ve come a very long way to spend the day talking to you,” the Mister replied in Belfast Gaelic. Surprised, Neev looked at him for the first time. “I’ll probably fuck myself tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.”
She gave him a sly smile.
“Her Majesty’s Secret Service?” Neev asked.
She’d continued in Belfast Gaelic, so he did as well.
“Right now, I happen to be the person who can either improve your situation or send you to a black hole for the rest of your life.” The Mister shrugged. “It’s really up to you.”
“What do you want to know?” Neev asked. “My name is Niamh Kelly-Mac Kinney. I am the second child of Brigid McGee and Ronan Kelly.”
She lifted a shoulder in a shrug and returned to looking at her hands.
“There isn’t much else,” Neev said.
“Where’s Jack?” the Mister asked.
For the briefest second, Neev’s eyes echoed gut-wrenching pain. She blinked at the Mister. He counted. One blink, two blinks, three blinks before her eyes settled to even. She shrugged.
“Fiddledeedee,” the Mister said.
Neev’s head flicked up to look at him. He walked to the table and pulled out the chair across from her. He waite
d a moment before sitting down.
“Fiddledeedee,” Neev said in English.
“The fly has married the bumblebee,” the Mister replied in English.
Neev blinked. One blink, two blinks, three blinks and her eyes cleared. She furrowed her brow for control and clasped her hands. She bowed her head. Her lips moved as she silently said what looked like “Ár nArthair,” the “Our father” prayer in Irish Gaelic.
“Do you know where you are?” the Mister asked in Belfast Gaelic.
She shook her head.
“Where’s Jack, Neevie?” the Mister asked.
“Don’ know,” Neev said in heavily accented English. “I woke up one morn’, and he was gone. He was beside me when I went to sleep; gone in the morn’; never came back.”
“And your children?” the Mister asked.
“Grown with babes of their own,” Neev shook her head. “No, it’s just me and Jackie on that old farm. We’re . . . We were so happy. I was . . . happy.”
The Mister’s eyes scanned her face for a manipulation or a lie.
“What happened?” the Mister asked.
“Don’ know,” Neev said. “I went to town. When I came back there was a note on my kitchen table . . .”
Neev’s eyes welled with tears.
“I said, ‘No, I won’t do it,’” Neev said. “My own brother’s wife. I’m from Shankill. Jackie’s gone; he’s got to be dead. I came in from milking the next day to find his ear sitting on my kitchen table. Blood . . . I knew it was his because of the earring he got when he was in Long Kesh. He never took it off. He didn’t want to forget what freedom was worth. They took his ear and left it bleeding on my table. I was mad. ‘Take my Jackie’s ear? I won’t do a thing.’ His ring finger with his wedding ring still on it appeared in my mailbox and . . . they said my grandbabbies would be next. My kids and their babbies; they’re the only good thing I ever did. Ever. Of course, they came from Jack. I . . .”
Neev shook her head and said, “I should have hung myself. Better than betraying my family; betraying myself. Better than living without Jackie forever.”
“Why didn’t you ask for help?” the Mister asked.
“Who’s going to help me?” Neev shook her head.
While her words spoke of self-pity, her voice was matter of fact.
“What about your brothers and sisters?” the Mister asked.
“Never forgave me for what happened with Mom,” Neev said. “I never forgave myself, so I understand.”
Neev shrugged.
“Truth is, I’m a rigid and judgmental person,” Neev said. “Even if I try, I don’t have the easy grace that Johnny and Rita have. Ask my girls; they will tell you what a wicked, horrid person I am. They will tell you the truth.”
Neev nodded.
“I only ever had Jack,” Neev looked at the Mister with sorrow-filled eyes. “Now he’s dead.”
The Mister leaned back in his chair and watched her. She wasn’t what he’d expected; yet, she was exactly what Tom Drayson said she was – a tired, middle-aged grandmother who had wrapped herself in a cloak of the loneliness and despair.
“How do you know Jack is dead?” the Mister asked.
“I failed.”
“No one knows that,” the Mister said. “In fact, all that’s known is that a bunch of people are in the hospital. Think about it. The Hargreaves have enough clout and money to keep this story under wraps.”
He took a copy of the Denver Post from his briefcase and tossed it on the table. The headline read: “Bad reaction to Thanksgiving.” The sub-headline says, “After a night of drinking, family erupts in violence, sending seven to the hospital.”
Neev pulled the paper to her and read the beginning of the article.
“This is a trick,” Neev said.
“Think it through,” the Mister said. “Prominent, well-liked family involved in highly classified government work. What’s the likelihood that they have an arrangement with the press regarding what happens to them?”
Neev gave him a long look.
“All you know is that Jack was taken and that you were asked or forced or programmed . . .” The Mister let his words linger to see how she responded to the idea of being programmed. She scowled. “You see what happened to you. I see something much bigger, like a giant sinkhole that you and Jack happened to fall into. Help me, and I will help you, or die trying.”
“Even if Jack’s alive, I’ll spend my life . . . ,” Neev gestured around her. “I should.”
The Mister didn’t respond.
“Right?” Neev asked.
“Quite possibly,” the Mister said. “And . . . quite possibly not. No one wants you to suffer more than you have.”
“I should suffer for what I’ve done,” Neev said.
“It seems like you’re suffering quite a bit,” the Mister shrugged.
“How will you get him back?” Neev asked. “How will you find my Jack?”
“I probably won’t,” the Mister said.
“Then . . .”
“The person who will find your Jack, and bring him back safely, I might add, was stabbed a few days ago,” the Mister said.
“Alex?” Neev looked surprised. “But she’s a soldier who does . . . some secret something. I don’t remember what Johnny said. Um . . . maps! She draws maps, deciphers codes.”
“She finds people who are being held hostage and arranges for their rescue,” the Mister said. “She works all over the world. Perhaps you’ll remember John’s father had a daughter?”
“Aednat,” Neev said.
“Do you remember when she disappeared for a while?” the Mister asked.
“Emigrated to the US, I heard,” Neev said. “She was gone a while. Why?”
“She was taken. Used in the sex trade as payback against her father. Alex found her and returned her to her family.”
“Poor lass,” Neev said.
“But you’re right, Alex also draws maps and does a few other things.”
“She’d find my Jackie?” Neev asked. “For me? After all of this?”
“It’s my understanding that they’ve already started to work on it,” the Mister said.
“For me?”
“For you,” the Mister said.
“And Wyatt? Samantha? Are they . . . ?” Neev asked.
“I think you’ll have to apologize,” the Mister said. “They don’t blame you. They know something bigger is going on.”
“What about Max and Art? They were injured.”
“They know something bigger is going on,” the Mister said.
For the first time in their conversation, Neev’s entire being was present.
“Turns out you’re not the boss,” the Mister said.
Neev’s mouth dropped open with surprise. Her eyes welled with tears.
“How . . . ?” Neev whispered.
“Eoin told me that Jack says that to you all the time,” the Mister smiled. “Eoin’s here, by the way.”
“Eoin?”
“To help you get clear,” the Mister said. “Are you ready?”
“Ready?”
“I want to know every detail, every smell, every color, every word, everything that makes up the cascade of this event for you,” the Mister said. “We’re going to go over and over it to make sure we don’t miss a thing. It’s not going to be fun. We’re going to work hard all day and probably most of the night. I’ll make a tape and a video recording so we can keep track of every word. Eoin is going to do his thing to see if we can jog the details loose.”
Neev nodded and looked away.
“Are you willing to work?” the Mister asked.
“I am,” Neev nodded. “But . . .”
“But what?” the Mister asked.
“I kept recordings – video and audio – of everything that happened,” Neev said. “Every phone call, personal interaction, note, letter – everything.”
“You did?” the Mister leaned forward.
“I’m a Kelly, sir,
” Neev said. “I even kept his ear and finger.”
“Where are they?”
“I hid them before I left,” Neev said.
“You’ll tell me where they are?” the Mister asked.
Neev nodded. The Mister gave her a genuine smile.
“I’d still like to do the debriefing,” Neev said. “Just to make sure.”
“Make sure?”
“Make sure I don’t have a split,” Neev said. “You saw one, didn’t you?”
The Mister nodded.
“Fiddledeedee,” Neev said.
“It’s a standard induction,” the Mister said.
Neev nodded.
“I’ll get Eoin,” the Mister said. “We’ll move to a room that’s more comfortable.”
The Mister got up and went to the door. He turned back to the table.
“Any idea what ‘The joke’s on you’ means?” the Mister asked.
She didn’t respond. In fact, she didn’t move.
“Neev?” the Mister asked. “Mrs. Mac Kinney?”
He reached across the table to touch her, and she fell into a grand mal seizure.
F
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
One day later
Sunday mid-morning
November 28 – 10:41 a.m. MST (9:41 a.m. CST)
Denver Health, Denver, CO
“Did they find the ear and . . . what was it?” Alex asked.
She was standing near the back windows of their hospital room. Max was in the bed near one wall, and Steve lay in the bed on the opposite wall. Raz’s bed was between Steve and Alex’s empty bed. Troy had gone home on Friday afternoon. Samantha and Wyatt went home on Saturday.
Because she had such significant hip injuries, she had to be up and walking for at least fifteen minutes of every hour. Fearing she’d use her arm, John refused to remove the tape from her right arm. She walked in her cocoon of gauze and tape.
“Finger,” Matthew said. He glanced at Joseph, who nodded. They had come to give Alex a report on the team’s progress. “Yes, her youngest daughter found everything at the very bottom of their chest freezer. The files were in plastic bags at the underneath her casseroles. The audio and video tapes were in the middle of a frozen stew. But get this; the finger and ear were in a loaf of bread.”
“How did she find that?” Raz asked.
“I guess Neev makes a wonderful loaf of bread,” Matthew shrugged. “‘Beautiful,’ her daughter said. This loaf wasn’t as beautiful. Once she found the loaf, she started looking.”
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