His stomach was still on European time, and he filled it at a nearby steakhouse called Libby’s that served bison burgers and homebaked chicken pies as big as a hubcap. It was hot, but the humidity was bearable and a fresh southerly breeze kept his shirt from sticking to his back as he left Libby’s and walked back to the car.
He picked up the main highway, heading south. After Europe, everything seemed on a giant scale, wide and flat and spread out. He passed lumber yards and industrial plants and warehouses and used car lots before he spotted the general store he was looking for and pulled over.
Inside, the place was crammed with every kind of goods imaginable. He picked up two light denim shirts, two pairs of black jeans, compact binoculars, sunglasses, a baseball cap that said ‘Tulsa Drillers’, five plastic litre bottles of water and an issue of Oklahoma Sports and Fitness. The old guy behind the counter wore dungarees and had thin white hair and a face like crinkled tan leather.
‘What’s the nearest hotel around here?’ Ben asked him as he paid for his stuff.
‘English, huh?’ the old guy asked, peering at him.
‘Half Irish,’ Ben said.
‘Good for you. My people came over from Mayo, before the war. That’s the Civil War I’m talkin’ about. Name’s Gallagher. Frank Gallagher.’
‘Pleasure to meet you, Frank,’ Ben said, wondering if he’d have got such a friendly welcome if he’d said he was English. ‘I’m Ben.’
‘First time in Tulsa, Ben?’
‘First time.’
‘Vacation?’
‘Not exactly,’ Ben said.
‘Didn’t figure you for a tourist. Stayin’ long?’
‘Long as it takes.’
‘I reckon that’s about right,’ Frank replied with a wrinkled grin. ‘Anyhow, you got the old Perryman Inn just down the road. Rooms’re comfortable enough, I guess, nuthin’ fancy.’
‘Sounds like my kind of place,’ Ben said.
‘Maybe I’ll see you around. Store’s open day or night. I live right upstairs, so you just give me a yell any time. Got most everything you’ll ever need.’
‘You’re not kidding,’ Ben said, glancing around him at the sagging shelves.
Nuthin’ fancy was the perfect description of the Perryman Inn, which turned out to be a motel only a couple of small notches above the rank of a fleapit. The proprietor was a guy with a beard and a paunch the size of a beach ball who was only too happy to take cash without asking for any ID. Ben was only too happy to do business that way, and he had no problem with the room either. It was cool and shady with the blinds down, and nobody in the world knew he was here. Ben locked the door, showered, changed into his new jeans and a new shirt. Then he put on the sunglasses and cap, grabbed his bag and went out to the Patriot.
As he drove into the heart of the city, the signs of the impact the oil boom had made were hard to miss. They were visible all around, in everything from the spectacular art deco architecture the Tulsans had built up with their newfound fortunes to the huge parks with manicured expanses of green, fountains and artificial lakes and waterfalls, all dominated by the looming presence of the Bank of Oklahoma tower, the tallest building in the state, a proud monument to big fat beautiful dollars. The place was an oasis of money in the middle of the prairie.
Ben used his map to locate City Hall on East 2nd Street in the heart of downtown. He parked the Patriot across from the modern glass-fronted building and the right distance away so that he could sit and watch the entrance and stay discreet. It was four forty and the sun was still bright and high and hot in the blue sky. He took out his phone and keyed in the same Tulsa landline number he’d called from Ireland. The same receptionist replied, in the same nice southern twang as before, ‘Mayor’s office.’
‘Hi, this is Ronnie Galloway from Marshall Kite Enterprises.’
‘You called a couple of days ago, right?’ the receptionist replied coldly. ‘From England?’
‘That’s right, London,’ he said, scanning the building’s scores of windows and wondering which one she was behind, not a hundred yards from where he sat. ‘Is Mr McCrory available?’
‘He’s in his office,’ she informed him. ‘But he’s not taking calls right now.’
‘I’ll try again another time,’ Ben said, and switched off the phone. He’d no intention of speaking to McCrory, had only wanted to find out if he was in the building. He’d no intention of marching in and confronting him, either, because that was an obvious blind alley. Much better to sit tight, wait for McCrory to appear and then quietly follow him to see where the trail might lead. It might be days of cat-and-mouse games before it would lead anywhere interesting. Ben didn’t care. Stake-out surveillance was nothing new to him.
He kept the windows rolled down, sipping water to keep cool and keeping one eye on City Hall while looking totally immersed in Oklahoma Sports and Fitness. He studied the layout of the building. There might be another entrance round the far side that he couldn’t keep tabs on, but there appeared to be only one main car park. There was a good chance that anyone leaving the place would come into his field of view.
Five o’clock came and went. Soon afterwards, the first trickle of office workers began leaving the building. Some walked to their cars, others departed on foot. Ben wound up the Jeep’s tinted windows. They made little difference to what he could see from inside, but passers-by wouldn’t be able to see him. The inside of the car began to heat up quickly. That couldn’t be helped. He reached into his bag and took out the compact binoculars he’d bought from Frank Gallagher’s general store. They might not have suited Bernard Goudier for watching birdlife on the beach in Galway, but they fitted Ben’s purposes just fine. He turned them up to maximum zoom and watched the office staff leaving City Hall.
Most were women, leaving in pairs and small groups, chatting and smiling and laughing now that their working day was over. He ignored them and focused on the men. Some were older, some were younger. Some wore suits and ties, some didn’t. None of them was Finn McCrory.
Ben went on waiting, patient and watchful. Another half hour passed. The traffic of workers leaving the building peaked and then began to thin out. By quarter to six, there were just the occasional ones and twos filing out of the entrance. By six, the trickle had pretty much stopped altogether.
Unless he’d managed to slip out unseen, the mayor must be working late. Which wasn’t unexpected, and wasn’t a problem. Ben had nowhere else to go.
At half past the hour and still no sign of McCrory, Ben had had enough of Oklahoma Sports and Fitness, even if he was only half-focused on it. He tossed it aside and returned to his reading of Elizabeth Stamford’s journals.
Chapter Thirty-Five
When Erin had been a little girl, her outings to the zoo with her father had been some of the happiest times of her childhood. Maybe that was partly why she’d driven straight there today, craving some kind of comforting nostalgia to soothe her after the shock of what had just happened. But it was also a deliberate strategy. The Tulsa Zoo and Living Museum was one of the most public places she could think of. At this time of year, it was milling with crowds all through the day. Nobody would dare attack her here.
Which gave her about forty-five minutes’ space to think before closing time. The late afternoon was still sunny and warm. She stood at the rail of the elephants’ enclosure. She liked elephants, always had. They looked wise and kindly and infinitely patient, like benevolent old uncles shuffling unhurriedly about in baggy grey boiler suits. She felt sorry that they were in captivity, but it was a lot safer for them here than in their own country. Nobody would butcher them and rip out their ivory and leave their ravaged bodies to rot in the sun. They’d escaped all that. They were protected.
Suddenly, she envied them.
She felt a lot less protected right now than the elephants were. Where would she be safe from the predators out to get her?
There was absolutely no doubt in her mind that the thug she’d shot in her ho
use earlier that day had been sent by Finn McCrory. But how could she ever hope to prove that? Should she have tried to get him to talk? Leaned a knee into his injured leg and stuck her pistol in his face to torture and scare the truth out of him? Or maybe she should have stayed put and dialled 911? All she’d been able to think of was getting away. Maybe that had been a mistake.
But then Erin thought about the man sitting outside the house in the unfamiliar blue Taurus. Maybe getting away hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.
The question now was what the hell to do next.
Erin took her new phone from her purse, along with the card with Chief O’Rourke’s number on it. She stabbed the number out quickly.
‘Chief O’Rourke?’ she said when his gravelly voice came on the line. ‘It’s Erin Hayes. You said to call if I had to. Well, I had to. Something happened.’ He listened as she breathlessly explained the incident at her house. She told him about the syringe. About the gunshot. Even about the man outside in the blue Ford. ‘I don’t think he saw me. I don’t know if he was involved too. I just know they’re after me and—’
‘Try to stay calm, Miss Hayes,’ O’Rourke said. ‘Where are you right now?’
‘City zoo. But I can’t stay here long. It closes in a few minutes.’
‘I know. Don’t worry, you’re perfectly safe where you are. A patrol car will be right there, okay? Meet the officers at the main gate, by the parking lot. They’ll escort you here.’
‘Please tell them to hurry.’ She thanked him and ended the call.
Erin had started making her way through the crowds towards the main gate when she got that uneasy sixth-sense feeling that someone was watching her. It was an animal instinct. Almost a physical sensation, making her skin crawl and go cold.
She turned in the direction the feeling seemed to be emanating from. There were only crowds. Some kids were laughing. A little girl had ice cream on her face. A seal was honking and splashing about in the background.
Erin walked on. The announcement came over the outdoor public address system to say the zoo would be closing in fifteen minutes. She looked at her watch and walked faster, praying that the patrol car would be at the main gate waiting for her.
But when she got there, there was no sign of the cops. What was keeping them?
There was that feeling again. Erin spun around, and as she did she thought she saw a figure of a man slipping quickly into the crowd. There’d been something furtive about his movement, as if he was ducking out of her line of sight. She was certain he was following her. How long had he been there, furtive, watching? Since she’d got here? Maybe even before that? Who was he? He’d been too quick for her to get a glimpse of his face, but she’d got a look at what he was wearing: a check shirt loose over a red T-shirt.
Another uncomfortable chill came over her, despite the heat. She looked at her watch again. Peered anxiously through the main gate, up and down the road. No police car. Come on. Come on.
She walked through the gate towards the parking lot. The visitors were beginning to leave. In a few more minutes the zoo would be empty. And if the cops didn’t show up in time, she’d be left alone with whoever was following her. She wasn’t imagining things. There really was someone trailing her. Maybe the man in the blue Ford had followed her here. Maybe he’d called in another accomplice. The moment she was alone, they’d strike. It would be as if she’d never escaped at all. It would be all for nothing. They’d take her.
Another long minute passed while all those thoughts were spinning around like pinballs inside her head. Erin stood at the mouth of the entrance, not knowing what to do as people filtered by her, heading for their vehicles. Engines were starting, cars pulling out of parking spaces and filing out the road. Still no sign of the police.
She glanced behind her. Thirty yards back, the man in the loose check shirt ducked out of sight around the corner of a wall. She only caught a fleeting glimpse, but there was no mistaking his intention.
Think, Erin. She was shaking. What was she supposed to do, pull out her pistol and start shooting and cause a mass panic and hope she wasn’t getting it all wrong? Or wait for him to make his move? What if he got the better of her? She’d been lucky first time round, and couldn’t take that chance again. Couldn’t rely on the cops, either. They could still be miles away. There was only one thing for it. Staying here wasn’t an option. She’d have to drive to the police headquarters herself.
Her mind made up, Erin joined the flow of the crowd and walked quickly towards her parked Honda. Glanced back twice, three times and couldn’t see the man but could still feel his eyes on her like a touch. She reached the car. Breathing hard, she locked herself inside, started it up and backed out of her parking space, then turned round and filtered into the procession of traffic leaving the zoo.
She drove past the airport, heading south along the broad highway into the city. After five minutes she checked in her mirror, saw the silver Lincoln behind her and swallowed. She was certain it had followed her from the zoo. She couldn’t take her eyes off the road long enough to get a good look in the mirror, but there seemed to be just a single occupant inside, a man. She could just about make out the red of his T-shirt through the sun’s reflection on his windscreen. Her heart began to thump harder. She turned off at the next junction and took a right towards the Cherokee Expressway, testing to see if he’d stay with her. He did. She took a sudden left turn without signalling, heading due south again down Harvard Avenue. The silver Lincoln was still there in the mirror. If there’d been a shred of doubt in her mind, it was gone now.
She could feel the reassuring hard steel angles of the Springfield in her pocket, pressing into her hip as she drove. Don’t panic, she thought. You have a gun. You’ve made it this far. You’re not defenceless.
So why didn’t she feel so sure?
Chapter Thirty-Six
With one eye on the entrance of the City Hall building across the street and the other on the volume of Elizabeth Stamford’s journal resting on the Patriot’s steering wheel, Ben lit a cigarette, slouched back in his seat and read through a series of entries from the summer of 1847.
He was frustrated and worried about losing sight of what he was even looking for in these journals. He was annoyed that Brennan couldn’t just have told him what was so revealing about them. There’d been no more mention of the mysterious Padraig McCrory. No clues offered as to what Kristen had been hunting for.
And yet, as he kept reading, he couldn’t help but become drawn into the story that had unfolded all those years earlier.
… Having learned from that villain Burrows that a number of the starving tenants on the estate were attempting to feed themselves by shooting one or two rabbit and grouse, my dear husband has forbidden the use or ownership of private arms. I did what I could to impress upon him that by such action he effectively condemns yet more Irish people to the same lingering death that now afflicts every morbid corner of this land. To no avail; his word is final. ‘I will not allow these peasants to roam at will over the countryside with loaded weapons,’ said he. ‘Today it is a rabbit they will shoot. Tomorrow a gentleman, for the pennies in his purse or the meat on his table. We shall not permit anarchy, and there’s an end to it. Nor shall I allow you to meddle in the affairs of the estate.’
Yet meddle I shall, for I cannot simply stand by and do nothing.
… This morning I rode across the blighted fields to the cottages of our three nearest peasant neighbours, the Callaghans, McCormicks and Driscolls. To the Callaghans I gave a share of what little money I have been able to collect and keep hidden, ever fearing that Edgar might find it and discover that I have been secretly selling pieces of the jewellery he gave me. I then crossed the hill to the cottage of the McCormick family, to give them their share of the same in the hope that they might make use of it to provide for themselves. When I entered the cottage, stretched in one corner, scarcely visible from the smoke and the rags that covered them, were the three children h
uddled together, pale and shrivelled. They turned their sunken eyes upon me as I entered, but were too weak from hunger to rise. In another corner, prostrated on a bed of sodden straw, sat a poor creature, barely human in her squalor and evidently close to death. In a piteous croak, the old woman implored me to give her something to eat, but all I could give was the small sum of money I could spare.
Unable to bear the sight any longer, I hurried onwards towards the Driscolls’ thatched hut beyond the wood, to find there a spectacle even more ghastly: the hut in ruins, reduced to burnt wreckage on the blackened ground. This I knew was the work of the house tumblers, unspeakable rogues employed by my own husband to force eviction upon their very countrymen. The family were gone, dead perhaps, buried in the pits now that the carpenters have no more wood for coffins, or else sent to the workhouse. I reined my horse around and wept for bitter shame as I returned to Glenfell House. I am weeping still.
… Yesterday I was attending to my stable when I came upon little Moira O’Brien, one of the servant girls, sobbing forlornly in the hay barn. ‘What sorrows you, my dear?’ I asked her, giving her a handkerchief. ‘Pray dry your tears and confide in me.’ Barely able to speak at first for her grief, she then related a tale so extremely distressing that I have not been able to shake it from my mind. I did not sleep for a single minute last night and my hand trembles as I force myself to write these words:
It is dreadful. Two of Moira’s cousins, Sean and Liam McGrath, and seven other young men of the county are sentenced to death for the crime of armed robbery after gathering up arms and attempting to raid a convoy of food and livestock bound for Wicklow Port. What manner of desperation could have prompted such a foolhardy course? Everyone has seen the long columns of redcoats marching side by side with the wagons, muskets aloft and gleaming in the sun. Yet in their unthinking folly, Sean and Liam and their friends attacked from the wooded high ground as the convoy passed along a narrow road outside Loughrea. It is said the clamour of gunfire and the great clouds of powder smoke could be discerned for miles. How could nine inexperienced farmers have expected to succeed against English soldiers, to say nothing of escaping alive with enough food to feed their hungry families?
The Forgotten Holocaust Page 20