His head raised instinctively to allow him to peer at the intruder. Already the sense of his home being violated sent an alarm coursing through his system. He looked into the dark, made out the position and attitude of the figure. He felt a small, hard piece of lethal metal pressing between his shoulder blades and he froze. The hard point was traced up along his back to his neck.
Within the space of the two seconds it took this to happen, the picture became chillingly clear. It was when the figure beside Eileen spoke, making its position and intentions plain to his fumbling mind, that he fit the face and build to the dim shape.
“Larry?”
Even as he spoke the man’s first name, he felt a revulsion rather than a fear. Whatever Maguire was after, evil as he was, notorious as the stories about him were, he felt no fear. He had nothing to hide from him. Anyway — the thought ripped into his mind — who the hell was Maguire to come stalking into his house at all hours of the morning? By what right did this criminal thrust himself into his life and home and stand calmly with a gun stuck to his wife’s head, and a barrel rammed into his own neck?
Before the sound of his own voice had died, he wished he had been more aggressive in his tone, had issued a challenge rather than asking a question.
He heard the whispery sneer from Maguire.
“Huh! D’you think I’m here for a chat?”
Doyle knew from Maguire’s tone that he was operating from the conceit of one who was in charge. Quietly enraged, he also knew that Maguire was not one to waste time on futile gestures. He heard his own voice say,
“What do you want?”
There was no reply. He watched Maguire nudge Eileen’s head with the gun and heard him give a quiet command to her.
“Get out.”
His wife moved carefully. He was aware of her fear and felt a surging love for her. She shifted the sheets back deliberately, drew up her knees and lifted her feet slowly to the floor. Good, thought Doyle, she’s in control. He had felt the fear which tore into her limbs, waking him up. That was what had set him alert, interrupting his sleep.
The small metal piece pressed into the back of his neck.
“Stay where you are,” a voice behind him murmured.
He strained his eyes in the dark to watch his wife. He wondered why Maguire had picked her. Maguire handed her the dressing gown which was lying on the chair beside the bed. Eileen did not hurry. With calm control, she put on the gown, pulled it close and tied it. She took a deep draught of air and stood in front of Maguire. Doyle saw Maguire’s arm, bent at the elbow, holding the gun to Eileen’s stomach. He also saw the glint of his eyes; he was looking at him. He would find out very soon what it was about.
“Let him up,” muttered Maguire.
Doyle straightened as the barrel left his neck. He moved with ease, but with care, feeling the tension of the man behind him. He was vaguely aware of a third figure at the door, silhouetted against the weak landing light. It was big, and somehow familiar, but he dismissed it from his mind. He had enough to think about with the two at his bed.
“What is it?” he asked Maguire.
For an answer, Maguire waved the black object in his direction.
“Get some clothes on. You’re coming with us.”
The man who had held the barrel to Doyle’s neck moved back. Following his wife’s lead, Doyle carefully threw back the sheet and swung off the bed with simple and obvious movements. He reached over to the chair beside his bed and pulled on slacks and a shirt over the underwear he wore in bed. As he reached under the bed for his shoes, he asked, “Why? What is it you want? I’ve nothing for you.”
“But your brother-in-law has,” answered Maguire.
Doyle heard the gasp from Eileen. Her whisper was hoarse, high in anxiety.
“What has he done? Why are you here? What has my husband got to do with my brother’s activities?”
Maguire waved the gun in her face.
“Keep your knickers on. Do as I say, the way I say it, and you’ll all be fine.”
His voice had changed, his statement giving more threat to his words than any theatrics.
“Right,” ordered Maguire, pointing to Sean and Eileen Doyle with his gun. “You and you. Out. C’mon, move.”
For a moment they hesitated. Maguire nudged Eileen in the stomach.
“I said move.”
Doyle could hear the irritation in the man’s voice. Maguire wanted a job done and was careless of who had to be pushed along, or out of the way, to get it done. Doyle could identify with it. He had often been the same on his boat. He spoke softly to Eileen, letting urgency find its way into his whisper.
“Eileen, come on.”
He watched her do the inevitable. He was hoping she would not. His stomach turned and a raw shiver flicked his bowels. She faced him and said in whispered outrage,
“What about the children?”
Maguire interrupted.
“Shut up!”
He motioned to the second man.
“Fred, you lead on. Guard these two well.”
He whispered loudly to the big man at the door.
“Seamus! Come in here.”
As the tall figure of Doyle’s crewman entered the room, he avoided Doyle’s look, even though it was dark. Now he knew what was familiar about the third shape. He spoke softly, but with venom.
“Traitor!”
Pritchard kept his head averted as he passed quickly to the children’s room. Eileen gasped with recognition.
“Oh, Jesus! Seamus Pritchard, is that you?”
Her voice was almost at normal level. She turned to her husband.
“Sean, what is this?”
Maguire’s pistol punched her side and she staggered. A low groan escaped her mouth and she bent over, holding the spot where he had hit her. Doyle felt a wave of anger sweep up from his stomach. He was moving involuntarily, leaning across the bed to reach for Maguire. A hard jolt in his ribs stopped him and he fell on the bed.
Maguire spoke quickly.
“Go in there, Seamus. You’re staying with the kids.”
He turned to Doyle.
“OK, that’s it.”
Doyle could see him clearly now: the lips moving, the teeth glimmering in flashes of white between the bearded face. He saw the eyes turn to his accomplice.
“Fred, if he tries anything, anything, shoot her.”
He nodded casually.
“Give ’em a belt.”
The words were hardly out when Doyle felt his body tense. He drew his knees in close, waiting for the punch in the ribs, or the kidney, or the head. Through his squinted eyes, he saw the blur in front of him. As the butt of Boylan’s submachine gun smashed on his forearm, he gasped. He saw the weapon rise again, was aware of the numbness which would soon be pain flashing up his arm. He clenched his jaw, waiting for the second blow that would break bone and tear muscle.
Maguire’s voice cracked viciously.
“No! That’ll do.”
This time when Maguire told him to get up and move, there was no hesitation on his part.
There was a dull pain in his arm now. He shook it in the vague, instinctive belief that it would lessen the blunt ache. His wife moved around the bed to his side.
“What is it? What are they after?
His own fear, anger at Maguire, his cronies and the betrayal of Pritchard, came out in a short answer.
“How the hell do I know? Ask the little runt over there,” he said, contemptuously at Pritchard.
Maguire said quietly,
“I said that’s it. Now come with us and do as you’re told. Your kids will be all right.”
He gave a brief sneer.
“Just worry about your own skin.”
Eileen put her arm through her husband’s as they walked out onto the landing. He could feel her fear. Her step was rigid and uneven.
“Where are we going?”
Her mouth was dry, her words indistinct.
“I’m not sure,�
�� answered Doyle. “But I’ve a strong notion we’ve got your brother to thank for this.”
“Shut up and move!” hissed Maguire.
Boylan gave Doyle a jab in the back with the Uzi, supporting his boss.
“You go first,” said Maguire to Eileen as they reached the top of the stairs. “Fred, stand here. Keep her covered.” He tapped Doyle on the arm. “One more word out of you and she’s dead. So behave yourself.”
Doyle waited until his wife reached the bottom of the stairs.
“OK,” said Maguire. “Fred, get down there. Tell her to open the front door, then you look out and see if there’s anyone around.”
Doyle felt the other man move around him, watched the dark shadow glide quickly down the steps to his wife. He heard the familiar scrape of the bolts. It seemed odd to hear those sounds in the quiet of the early hours. It should be morning. They were sounds of an ordinary day, the beginning of the same routine, the first things he heard from the comfort and safety of his bed when he sleepily woke to another chapter in that happy simple life that now seemed to be part of another world. It was all wrong. The latch twitched on the door below and the two figures of his wife and Boylan stood in dark relief against the feeble light of the night.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Doyle stood watching them, feeling the warm draught and the smell of the fresh night air running into the house. He rubbed his sore arm and shook it at the wrist. The movement helped the circulation. He was rewarded with an irregular throb of pain, less than the constant ache and not so infuriating. He knew he might well have more than that to worry about. So far as he could see, these three fellows knew what they were at and might even have a backup team outside. It was no wonder then that Maguire was held in such high regard by those who know about such things. They had come in without a sound. Maybe, he thought, it was Pritchard. Maybe he had a key. But no, the front bolts had been shut, so even if he had a key, he couldn’t have come through the front door.
His wife and Boylan went lightly across the gravel to the front gate. Doyle and Maguire stood listening, when they had gone out of view.
As if continuing the thoughts that Doyle had, Maguire nudged him with the gun.
“Right, move. Take it easy.”
Doyle could see the quiet command Maguire had over the situation. He had previously misjudged him as a cunning brute. He was worse than that. He was an intelligent force of evil. Doyle gently started down the stairs. He hoped the children would sleep on, that Pritchard had taken some of Maguire’s calm and authority. He forced the thought of the boys from his mind. One thing at a time. He had to use what means he could to preserve the lives of his wife and himself first. He would get to the kids again — and to Pritchard. He approached the end of the stairs, feeling a bit more confident. This was the first thing: keep level, alert. Now he must do what he could to turn the events to his advantage. As he reached the door and felt the warmth and freshness of the night air, he began to feel better. He was being constructive, keeping fear and panic at bay, searching for a plan, looking for weaknesses in the opposition. It was a start. He told himself there was a weakness somewhere. There always was. He’d find it.
He saw the shadows of Boylan and Eileen. They moved through the gate out onto the road. A car started up. A dark silhouette eased into view, no lights on. As he walked out onto the gravel, he heard the front door click shut as Maguire stepped out after him. They joined Boylan and Eileen on the road. The car was beside them, ticking over roughly, the smell of exhaust coming in irregular whiffs.
Eileen looked at him.
“Sean,” was all she said.
It had the note of despair. She knew that he could do nothing. The two of them looked at each other. Now was the time that she needed courage. Just like he needed courage to think and function and do what he could by being ready, keeping the mind alert, the eyes wide and the head clear.
“Do as they say,” he said a bit roughly.
She would be puzzled by his abruptness. No matter. Better to be puzzled and angry rather than scared and desperate.
Maguire walked behind Eileen.
“Sit in front. Fred, get in the other side in the back. Doyle, you get in this side in the back.”
He opened the back door and stepped back, motioning Doyle into the car in front of him. The far door shut behind Boylan and Maguire said,
“Fred! If he tries anything, plug the woman.”
Doyle moved into the back of the car, drawing his long legs up and hunching his big frame to fit. The front seats were back nearly on top of them. Maguire got in swiftly and pushed in beside Doyle. Maguire looked at him.
“Now, old pal, you’re going to talk.”
A stifled sob came from Eileen.
“The children, the boys.”
Maguire spat the words.
“Shut up!”
Eileen gave an involuntary shudder, a sharp inward gasp and cried,
“I can’t! The children!”
Maguire rammed the gun in the back of her seat, pressing the weapon hard so that the pressure penetrated to Eileen’s back. He spoke with quiet vehemence.
“Don’t be so fucking stupid. They’re all right. You’re the one in trouble. Now, if you don’t want orphans, shut your face. Your husband here will tell me what I need to know and you’ll all live happily ever after.”
A snicker came from Boylan.
“Story time,” he sneered.
“Shut up, you,” said Maguire.
Willie turned halfway around and spoke from the corner of his mouth.
“All right to go?”
Maguire grunted and Willie ground the car into first. As he set off, he put on the lights. They wound down from the main road in the village into an old dirt lane between two cottages. The lane was bumpy with potholes and stones on the surface.
For a few minutes they travelled the lumpy road. They arrived at the exit to the coast road. The car trundled slowly out and turned right. As the car picked up speed, Willie shoved through the gears and they drove steadily along, the coastline on their left. The sky was darkening as solid masses of heavy cloud drifted in over the shoreline. The wind was rising and odd gusts whipped the side of the car. Within minutes they were past the rock cliffs and behind the low hills of the burrow. Though it was still dark, they could make out patches of the grey-black mass of the sea in the gaps between the hillocks. About a mile down the road, they came to an opening in the soft ditch to their left.
Willie pulled the car in and halted in front of an old broken gate. The wind was rising and the gate gave an odd creak.
“Right,” said Maguire. “Out. You first.”
He poked the back of Eileen’s seat. In a sudden move, she pushed open the door and got out into the windy darkness. Doyle watched the three men, looking for signs, anything. Carelessness. Nervousness. Fear. Bravado. Anything he could catch on to and use to his advantage.
In quick, easy movements, Maguire was out, hardly seeming to move at all, caught up in the rhythm of the job. The engine stopped and the other men got out. Boylan turned as he did so and pointed the Uzi at Doyle.
“C’mon,” he said and Doyle began to move in the direction of Maguire’s door.
“This side!” shouted Boylan.
Doyle stopped and turned his head, his hand on the door handle farthest from Boylan.
“What?”
Three explosive spurts flamed from the Uzi. The backs of the two front seats shuddered on the impact as the bullets ripped through them. Eileen started to scream, but her voice died as her body swayed and her knees buckled. Doyle carefully moved back from the door. He knew his wife had not been hit, but the next burst could be the end for either of them.
“OK, OK, I’m coming!”
He moved across the back seat, his eyes on the black, barely visible figure of Boylan.
He paused as he reached the door, one foot out on the grassy earth.
“Take it easy,” he said. “I’m doing what you want.”
All he saw was a movement somewhere in the region of Boylan’s arms. He guessed the gunman was motioning him out. He stood up and put his hands out.
“Eileen,” he called, “are you all right?”
He could hear a whimper, then Maguire’s voice addressing her.
“Get up. You’re OK. Come on, move, bitch!”
He heard a dull thud and an anguished cry from his wife. Maguire’s voice was irritated, as if he was irked by the unexpected and unnecessary burst from Boylan’s gun.
“Get up, I said!” There was another cracking thump and Doyle heard his wife scream shortly.
He still faced Boylan, away from the others.
“Leave her alone!” he shouted.
He could hear her moan and guessed it was she who fell against the bonnet of the car.
Maguire spoke as if slightly out of breath, with a hint of nervousness coming into his throat.
“That’s better. Now stay there and don’t move until I tell you.”
He directed his voice towards Doyle.
“Why? What’re you going to fucking well do?” He shouted to Boylan. “One jerk out of him and do his knees. Got it?”
Doyle heard a snigger from the man in front of him.
“No bother. Just an inch, that’s all I want to see.”
“I’m asking you,” Doyle said to Maguire, “leave her alone. Please. She knows nothing of what you’re after.”
He sensed as much as heard Maguire’s slow approach to him.
“Oh now, is that right, Mr. Sean Doyle? Is that right indeed?”
His voice was menacing and evil. Doyle could hear the man’s movement directly behind him.
“And just what is it that I want, Mr. Doyle? Could you tell us that? C’mon now, Mr. Doyle, you’re the man who knows it all, the Big Man in the community.”
His voice continued inches from Doyle’s ear. Doyle felt a shivering chill rise from the hairs on his back and neck.
“C’mon there, old friend. You’re a wise and bright fellow, aren’t you? C’mon, tell us. Tell us what it is we’re after.”
Short Storm Page 15