She closed her eyes and prayed silently. “Please Daddy, please let him be safe. I don’t know if Casey can survive it if he isn’t. I know I can’t.”
She opened her eyes to the sight of a three-storied hotel, sagging about its edges, paint peeling and the odd window stuffed with rags. The sort of place people went when they needed anonymity.
“Why here?” she asked, a choking fear suddenly gripping her throat.
“Because if the boy is in trouble it’ll be because of Morris Jones. This is one place he brings boys,” Casey said flatly.
“How do you know that?”
“Because I asked around until someone told me.”
It was a small hotel, with filthy threadbare carpets in the lobby and a sleeping attendant behind the desk. Casey leaned over the desk and grabbed the man by his dirty collar and yanked him halfway across the desk. “D’ye have a lad upstairs—about fifteen, tall, skinny an’ ginger-haired?”
“Ye can’t feckin’ come in here an’—” whatever protest the goggle-eyed man had been about to make was swiftly cut off by the simple expedient of Casey twisting his collar until the man resembled a blowfish on the verge of explosion.
“Just answer the focking question.”
The man twisted his head far enough to look in Casey’s face. Something there made him gulp, his adam’s apple bobbing like a cork above the torn blue collar. “Room number four, on the right at the end of the hall.”
Casey threw him back and ran up the stairs two at a time. Pamela followed in his wake, nausea clawing its way up her throat. She saw him stop at the door, and then raise a leg to kick it in with a force that made the floor shake all the way down the hall.
“Wait out here,” he said to her grimly.
For a long time there was only a dreadful silence from the room, a weight like wet sand clogging up the atmosphere, making it hard to breathe. She put a hand to the door and it must have made some small noise of protest, for Casey spoke then.
“Don’t come in,” his voice was hoarse, each syllable limned in fear and something else that made her step back involuntarily. She knew very suddenly that to look beyond the door was to change her perception of the world. And yet there was no way back from this edge place and so she stepped through the doorway.
The scene before her eyes was laid out starkly, grimy sheets that had once been white, arrayed with large crimson blooms. The wallpaper was a nasty shade of brown, peeling at its seams. She noted these things, mind staving off what it was not ready to see. For on the bed, amid crimson-blossoming sheets, lay the nude body of a thin boy, barely into adolescence. The ginger hair was pale against the red that spiralled out from under his head. She opened her mouth but couldn’t find sound, couldn’t find breath.
His ankles, milk-blue with the absence of life, lay askew, veins already retreating from the surface. There were bruises on the back of the pale thighs. She forced herself to look higher, though she could smell the evidence of what had taken place in this room. The air reeked of it, as well as a colder scent that she knew as the perfume of recent death.
Casey knelt by the bed, hands fisted in front of him. Slowly he uncurled them and she saw how badly they shook. “Pamela, there’s a blanket on the chair, pass it to me.”
“We can’t cover him,” she whispered, “we could destroy evidence.”
He turned, eyes ablaze with fury. “Fock evidence. I don’t need a policeman to tell me who did this. Give me the blanket so I can cover the boy.”
She retrieved the blanket. The smell of cigarette smoke filled the air as Casey shook it out and laid it gently over Lawrence. He drew it up to the boy’s neck, tucking it about him as though he were merely asleep on his own narrow bed at home, and not dead with the smell of sex ripe on the air about him.
Casey brushed a large hand across Lawrence’s head, moving the cowlick that had hung over his eyes away. And then the hand, callused and powerful, lay there trembling.
“I have failed him. I have put him here,” Casey said, a terrible hollow at the heart of his words that reverberated in her own chest.
“No you didn’t—we couldn’t have...” the words died away in her throat though, for she had known and had foolishly believed Lawrence’s ties to that old world had been severed.
“Aye I did and yes, we should have,” Casey said. “Because I promised him he would be safe, but he never really was. And he knew it. And so he kept trying to make things right an’ this is where it put him.”
The hand on Lawrence’s head stilled, and a chill planted itself firmly at the base of her spine, sending quicksilver shots up through her nerves. Though Casey did not speak, she had the strong feeling that he was laying some sort of oath upon the boy, for his eyes were closed and his face wore an inward look that was both a sealed book and a revelation to the core of the man. She knew suddenly that he was swearing vengeance, promising a letting of blood in payment for this murder. His face was touched with a cold fire that simmered like black ice beneath his skin. The chill in her spine was dread—dread that this night had unlocked a door within Casey that had never been properly shut. He was so still, like a stone figure that had weathered through a thousand years overlooking a barren plain. The constraints of civilization had always ridden uneasily upon his shoulders. She feared the ropes of it had been cut away completely this day.
Casey opened his eyes and stood, and seemed once again only a man. “I must go for the police,” he said.
She nodded and then reached out to touch her hand to his face, before turning from her husband and lying down on the bed beside Lawrence. She felt oddly weightless, as though she were a feather, blown about in the winds of chance, resting here in this cold place for a moment before the next gale tore her away.
“Pamela,” Casey said hoarsely, “what are ye doin’?”
“I’ll not have him alone right now,” she said fiercely.
Casey nodded slowly, his face blankly smooth, like the stone man he resembled. But she could see already the rivers of grief that ran beneath, and how they would over-swell their channels and crack the foundation of his humanity.
She turned away and clutched Lawrence tighter, the scent of his hair smoky, but with an under note of Polo mints. She closed her eyes, a spasm of pain flashing down her center that made her want to curl up in the dark for all eternity.
“Go get the police,” she said, “I’ll stay with him.”
She heard the scrape of Casey’s shoes against the filthy carpet, and a thump as he stumbled into the doorway on his way out. But she did not look round. Some small thing inside warned her to be very still, that somehow if she didn’t move she could stop the planet flying off its very axis here in this grubby room. Because she knew once the police came, once they removed Lawrence, it would be real and the core of pain would crack wide in her and then there would be no way to stop the headlong plunge into the frozen abyss of space.
Like all children, he had come into the world trusting in a mother’s love, but that mother had gone so long ago that love was not even a memory upon his skin, nor a trace within his blood. And so he had abandoned faith in the world of adults, until he had been pulled toward the warmth and light of she and Casey’s home, the intangible one that was not built of stone and wood, but rather of love and trust.
She thought they had brought him within that shelter, but saw now that they had not. That though he had drawn near the windows of family, aglow with the promise of warmth and security; he had somehow found those windows barred and himself unable to enter. Though she thought he had tried over and over, despite the understanding that he could not breach the entry.
Maybe every child abandoned to the cruelties of the world, every child left, abused, neglected, was somehow frozen in that place where first they had known the pain the world could inflict on the young, the fragile, the deserted. And if they could not find shelter soon enough, perhaps they were stranded on the shores of Neverland forever, where the Captain Hooks and the crocodiles w
ere all too real.
She laid her cheek against the chill silk of his hair, arm tight around his long, gawky height and began to store him in the mine of her memory. The milk-white skin, the laughter that always cracked into a higher register—Christ his voice hadn’t even done breaking yet—the clumsy grace of him, his devotion to Finbar—oh God, the thought of the dog put a hairline fissure in the core. She took a deep breath; time was short, the police would be here soon and she had something she would say to the boy first.
“It’s alright now,” she whispered. “Don’t stop—don’t let anything stop you, you’re free to fly now Lawrence. There’s nothing to stop you. Just remember,” she took his young slender hand in her own, curling its cold resistance to the living warmth of her fingers, “it’s the second star from the right and straight on to morning.”
And then she simply lay silent, holding a dead child in her arms, knowing that some lost boys could never be found.
Chapter Seventy-eight
Englishman
AT FIRST PAT THOUGHT CHURCH BELLS were ringing, and wondered how he’d slept in so long. Then he realized that it was the phone ringing, and knew it had been ringing on for some time. He stumbled from the bed, cursing as his foot wound up in the sheet and caused him to stumble.
“Are ye alright?” Sylvie murmured.
“Aye,” he said, making his way out to the kitchen where the phone sat, still blaring its clarion noise out into the night.
“Hello,” he said, peering through the half-light to the clock that hung on the wall above the table. Two o’clock in the morning. Christ, it couldn’t be good news at this hour.
“Is this Pat Riordan?” asked a whisper on the other end.
“Aye,” he said, the voice sending an odd shiver down his spine and waking him up.
“I’m calling from the barracks. It’s about David Kendall.”
“I’m listening,” Pat said tersely.
There was a deep breath at the other end of the phone and then the voice rushed on. “He was due back here about two hours ago, he’s never late. I wouldn’t normally worry but this is David and—and—”
“He’s never late,” Pat finished for him, understanding now what had the caller so frightened.
“No, but it’s more where he went tonight.”
“Where?” Pat asked, fumbling in the dark for a pen and paper.
“Down South Armagh way, a wee pub called the Two-Step. He was wearing civvies but he had his pistol strapped on. Said he was going off base, but I don’t think it was a social occasion if you understand?”
“Aye, I understand,” Pat answered heavily. Two hours was a long time to be overdue for a man as punctual as David. Two hours allowed a lot of lag time for any number of things. Torture and death being among the top contenders.
The Two Step was a hornet’s nest where only truly hard line Republicans went to wet their whistle, amongst other things. If someone in that pub had made David and his cover was blown, he could be dead already. On the other hand, if he wasn’t made and merely had a flat tire somewhere between here and Armagh, Pat could be offering himself up as some sort of sacrifice. He had a sick feeling it was not a flat tire, though.
“How do I know I’m not walking into some sort of trap here?” Pat asked.
“You don’t,” said the voice at the other end, “I called you because David trusts you. I’ve got nothing else to offer you. No one is supposed to know where he’s at, so I can’t call out the cavalry on this one.” There was a slight pause, and then the voice, small with worry asked, “Will you help him, do you think it’s too late?”
“I’ll try,” Pat said and hung up the phone, reaching for pants and shirt even as he did so.
THE DRIVE TO DRUMINTREE SEEMED to last a small eternity. Three times Pat had to pull over and unstick the wiper blades, as they refused to keep up with the deluge that cascaded out of the low black sky. By the time he’d reached his destination the storm had passed over, and the lingering clouds were only spitting the occasional fine spray of rain.
The Two-Step pub was foursquare and snugged into the arms of an elm copse. It was dark as Pat approached, silent except for the remnants of rain pit-pattering from the trees. Low-beamed and solid, it was a pub notorious for its Republican leanings, no small distinction in an area that was legendary for its crack IRA squads. Here a whisper in the wrong place meant death, swift and absolute. The South Armagh Brigade stood apart from the rest of the IRA, bound by generations of communal history and blood ties that made betrayal unthinkable. It was a closed society and strangers were looked upon with a wary, if not hostile eye. Pat knew this, and understood the risk he had undertaken by coming here. However, he also knew that if David had been here in an attempt to cozy up with the locals and extract intelligence, he’d very little time for subtlety and would have to get the information he needed as swiftly as possible. He felt the heavy weight of the Browning against his backbone, like a dark reassurance that he devoutly hoped he would not need.
He gave the door an experimental tug, surprised when it swung out.
“Too late for drinks an’ we don’t serve breakfast,” a voice said from the direction of the back wall. Pat squinted, making out a stocky figure polishing down the bar with hard strokes.
“I know,” Pat replied, stepping into the dimly lit room. The place had been closed for some time from the looks of things. Chairs were upended onto clean tables, the floor was swept and all the glasses were cleared away. “I’m not looking to eat, only for a little information.”
That got the publican’s attention. He was a short, squat man with a bulldog’s neck and the beady glare of an unpleasant hawk. “Ye want information laddie, here’s some—take the same road out that ye came in on.”
Hospitality was obviously not on the menu. However, the man’s surliness was no match for Riordan obstinacy. Pat merely smiled and stood his ground, taking in the surroundings quickly in an attempt to ascertain if anyone might be lurking in corners or backrooms.
After a cursory glance, though, it appeared that there was only an old man drooped over a pint of half-done stout, heavy jowled and sad-eyed. The publican nodded in his direction.
“My father-in-law,” he said curtly, “he’s an old drunk, but he don’t harm nobody.” The tone of the publican’s voice indicated that he might not be as peacefully inclined.
“I’m looking for someone who may have been here last night.”
The publican scrubbed harder at the oak beneath his hand. “Lot of faces come an’ go man, ‘twas a busy night.”
“He’s on the small side, long fair hair, looks like he’d not offend a flea.”
“Unflatterin’ portrait yer paintin’, an no I didn’t see anyone of that description. Now if ye don’t mind, it’s been a long one an’ I’d like to lock the doors and go to bed.”
“Please,” Pat said, desperation leaking into his voice, “it’s a matter of life an’ death.”
The man snorted. “In Armagh there’s little else.”
Pat took a deep breath. “Look, this man likely had no idea what he was wandering into. He’s innocent of anything but bein’ in the wrong place at the wrong time. If someone’s taken him, they’re about to make a terrible mistake.” Out of superstition, he crossed his fingers, hoping the lie was convincing.
The man gave him a hard look, then capitulated with a grunt. “I don’t want it on my conscience, so I’ll tell ye what I know, though it’s little enough an’ if anyone should ask, ye didn’t hear it from me an’ ye were never within a square mile of this pub, ye understand?”
Pat nodded.
“Round ten or so I went out back to get a keg of ale,” the man continued, “an’ there were two lads hangin’ about in the car park, seemed as if they might be waitin’ on somethin’ or somebody. Here, ye see people loiterin’ it don’t pay to get too curious.” He shrugged eloquently, “Could be it was yer friend they were watchin out for. Didn’t waste time lookin’ or askin’, though.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Pat muttered.
The man shook his head, “Whoever he is, he’s not here now, an’ ye’d best leave, man, if ye’ve a notion of what’s good for ye.”
Pat nodded, taking the warning as it was intended. In a county full of hard men, this pub was infamous. It wasn’t wise to be caught asking questions about things that weren’t your business. And unless David was bound and gagged in the washroom, he was no longer here.
He turned and walked out into the night. Behind him, the door slammed and a lock clicked audibly into place. The man was nervy, and there’d been a flicker of fear in his eyes when Pat had described David. Unless his instincts were awry, David had been here at some point.
He started to walk back to his car when a dark shape caught the corner of his eye, and he turned toward it, adrenaline starting to pump. He swore under his breath, not happy that he’d been right about the situation.
The wee red Triumph that he recognized as David’s sat at the west end of the car park. Pat’s hand went automatically to the gun at his waist. He approached the vehicle cautiously, gun now tucked firm to his side, finger crooked on the trigger. It looked empty, but he wasn’t taking any chances. The ball of ice in his intestines was now roughly the size of a grapefruit.
Shadows seemed to cluster thickly around the little car, where it sat in the lee of a scraggly looking sapling. Pat cast a quick glance over his shoulder, then closed the gap between himself and the car. The driver’s door was slightly ajar, the shadows deeper on the ground near the vehicle.
Pat grabbed the handle, flung the door open, bringing his right hand up sharply with the hammer pulled back on the trigger. The car was empty. He scouted the back seat, the floors, even the dash for any sign of struggle. Nothing presented itself to his eye. He walked the perimeter of the car, checking the tires, lights, mirrors. The left headlight was cracked, glass slightly concave. It meant little, though, the headlight could have been broken long before tonight.
Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series Book 2) Page 87