Do Not Go Gentle

by James W. Jorgensen

  He sat heavily in the office chair and sighed. Jamie heard rapid clicking behind him and turned to see the dog trotting up the last steps and across the room.

  “Hey, boy,” Jamie called, scratching the dog’s ears when he reached Jamie’s chair. After a moment, Jamie stopped and pointed, “Alright—go lay down now.” Jamie pointed to a dog bed. The terrier obediently walked to the bed, turned around several times, turning back and forth in both directions, trying to find just the right position, then flopped down with a sigh of his own, and curled up into a tight ball.

  Jamie went online to check into the department intranet. While no longer a member of the force, Jamie could still access the police intranet via a username and password he obtained several years ago from one of the I.T. geeks who had owed him a favor. The I.T. department had deactivated Jamie’s real account the day he was dismissed from the force, but he was still able to keep tabs on everything with his rogue account. Jamie half-heartedly looked at Len Hamilton’s notes and then signed out. He also roamed to a Notre Dame fan website, gave the posts a cursory glance, and then put the computer back into sleep mode.

  After rubbing his face and neck several times with his hands, Jamie rolled to a short, locked file cabinet. Jamie snagged the key from its recessed compartment beneath the desk, then unlocked and opened the bottom drawer of the cabinet. Jamie reached down and lifted out a black steel box, about a foot square and half a foot tall, with a twelve-digit keypad on the front. He set the box atop the small cabinet and closed the bottom drawer. After punching in the combination, Jamie opened the front door of the box. Nestled in the cushioned floor of the gun vault was Jamie’s personal handgun, a 9mm Sig Sauer P229 Scorpion TB. While Jamie had to surrender his gun when he turned in his badge, he still had his personal weapon, for which he had a concealed carry permit. The back of the vault contained several clips of ammunition.

  Jamie gently picked up the unloaded weapon and turned it over several times in his hands. He looked back at the ammo clips, then back to the gun in his hand. His mind was a dark, roiled admixture of anger, sadness, and grief. Jamie reached back into the gun vault, withdrew one of the ammo clips, and then smoothly loaded it into the handgun. Force of habit and training made Jamie ensure that the safety was on after he loaded the gun. Jamie then put his hands, cradling the gun, in his lap and looked out the small window by his office space and contemplated the cold dark ending that was rapidly overtaking the dreary day. Jamie thumbed off the safety.

  Really, wouldn’t everyone be better off without me? Images of Eileen and the girls flashed by in a mad kaleidoscope. He knew in his heart that they would grieve if he took his own life.

  Grief passes, Jamie thought bitterly. This damned illness does not seem likely to pass. If it never does, then what good am I to them? What kind of life can I provide them? How can I face them every day as we lose everything we have? Tears brimming in his eyes, Jamie turned the gun over in his hand so that the barrel was pointing in his direction, and then silently said a brief prayer.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Jamie sat in a dark corner of Ceoil Scoil, just outside Eileen’s office. “I don’t blame you for not believing me,” he said softly.

  Eileen huffed and looked up from her computer. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, my love,” she replied. “It’s just that you’ve said this before, and you’ve slid back each time.” She shook her head. “I want to believe that you’ve turned some kind of corner.” Eileen looked at Jamie closely. “At least you’ve showered and shaved.”

  Jamie smiled sadly. “Indeed. I understand that I have to prove this to you, and to the girls.”

  “Aye. They are sorely upset with you as well.” Eileen looked back at her computer. “Let me finish this and we’ll go to dinner at The Banshee.” The Banshee was an Irish pub a few blocks away.

  Jamie thought back to a few hours ago, when he held his Sig in his hand and contemplated suicide. At that moment, debating the one unforgiveable sin—a thought bubbled up and exploded into Jamie’s mind, blasting light into the darkest corners of his thoughts. Just before coming upstairs, Jamie had re-watched one of his all-time favorite movies, The Shawshank Redemption. While not a fan of Stephen King, the story of Andy Dufresne’s struggle to survive in prison for a crime he did not commit and his eventual escape to freedom, touched Jamie on several levels. Now, a line from that movie reached out and grabbed Jamie by the throat, forcing him to listen and to consider the action he was contemplating.

  At a particularly dark moment, Andy sits by his friend Red and says, “I guess it comes down to a simple choice, really—get busy living or get busy dying.” The line had curled around the depression in Jamie’s mind like a boa constrictor and squeezed tightly. It crushed the darkness and made Jamie realize what a fool he was. This isn’t the answer, Jamie had thought bitterly, thumbing the safety back on, then unloading his gun. Another line from the movie chimed in, again from Andy Dufresne—“Remember, Red—hope is a good thing. Maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.” This is not the answer—I don’t know the answer, but I can’t do this to Eileen and the girls. He then cleaned up and took the T to Ceoil Scoil.

  Something in the corner of his eye broke Jamie’s contemplation and caught his attention. Jamie saw a dark form crouch down in front the of shop door, pause, then stand and walk away. Every nerve in Jamie’s body jangled as he got out of the chair and quickly walked to the front door, hating the way he thumped.

  “What are you doing?” Eileen called, standing at the door to her office, putting on her coat.

  “Hang on,” Jamie replied. He bent down to look through the front glass and saw the red glow of a digital timer, which read 4:05. “Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph.” Jamie exclaimed, standing abruptly. “It’s another feckin’ bomb.” He turned and began galloping to the back. Using his walking stick was now a habit, even when using it made him feel more awkward. “Out the back door. Now,” he shouted.

  Eileen did not hesitate—she turned and unlocked the back door to Ceoil Scoil. The shop opened up into a small alleyway with parking spots reserved for tenants. Most people had no idea there was a back entrance. As Jamie approached, Eileen asked, “Can’t you disarm it? It’s going to destroy the store.”

  “No time, no time,” Jamie shouted as he reached her. “I can’t open the front door without bumping the bomb, which would probably set it off.” He grabbed Eileen by the shoulder. “Run.”

  Jamie slammed the back door shut, and then scrambled to follow his wife down the rickety wooden steps that led to the parking spaces. Eileen started to run to the Honda, but Jamie grabbed her arm. “We’ll never get far enough away before the bomb goes off. We have to take cover.”

  A small stand of trees and a concrete retaining wall carved out the parking space from the yards of the houses that butted up against the back of the building, which housed Ceoil Scoil and the other shops. “Get down behind the wall, in front of the Honda.”

  Eileen complied, and moments after Jamie had crouched down beside her, they heard a loud blast and felt the ground shake. Jamie forced his wife’s head down and leaned over the top of her, putting his head down into her back and covering them both with his winter coat. Seconds later, he felt debris from the store raining about them like fiery hailstones, setting off car alarms as larger pieces thumped down onto nearby vehicles. When it had subsided, Jamie stood, shaking debris from his coat and checking Eileen. Nothing substantial hit them, and while there were flaming bits scattered about them like demonic snowflakes, neither of them were afire.

  Eileen stood beside her husband, and they both looked back toward the building. A blaze of fire engulfed it, and they could see that not only had Ceoil Scoil been destroyed, but so had stores on either side of Eileen’s shop. “My store,” Eileen moaned. “Oh, Lord, it’s gone.”

  “Aye, it’s blown to hell,” Jamie said, hugging his wife fiercely to him, “but we made it out, darlin’ and that’s what counts. We can always rebuild
the store, but at least we’re safe.”

  Eileen nodded, but sobbing, she turned to bury her face in Jamie’s chest. Jamie could hear the sound of patrons from the bar shouting as they poured into the street. He comforted Eileen and felt a steely resolve begin to form within his chest.

  * * * *

  It was mid-afternoon on the last day of school before the holiday break. With Christmas only two days away, Riona Griffin and her classmates were all restless and hyper-active with anticipation. As she walked out of school into the cold, cloudy day with Peter Franklin and Kelly O’Toole, Riona was running through all of the tasks she had left to do before Christmas.

  “We still going shopping tonight?” Kelly asked.

  “Yah,” Riona replied. “I told my mom that I absolutely have to go to South Bay tonight.” South Bay Shopping Center was located at the very north end of Dorchester, almost into South Boston, but it was only a couple of blocks from a T station.

  “Me too,” Kelly replied. “I think the only reason I got the green light was it’s the start of break.”

  “Yup.” Riona turned to Peter. “You all set for Christmas, Petey?”

  “I have been for nearly three weeks, Ri-Ri.” Peter Franklin grinned wickedly at Riona’s discomfort at the use of her nickname. “I don’t get why girls always stretch the shopping process to such painful lengths.”

  “Maybe because we don’t just buy the first thing we see,” retorted Riona.

  “Whatever. At least I’m already done with my shopping.” Peter looked at the throng of cars lining up in front of the school. “Well, there’s my mom. Gotta run—you girls have a great Christmas break.”

  “You too,” both girls replied, then looked at each other, and said, “Jinx.” Peter rolled his eyes and waved at the girls as he left to meet his mother.

  “You getting a ride?” Kelly asked.

  “Yeah—whenever Caitlin decides to get her butt here,” Riona replied with exasperation. “That girl drives so slow that Amish people yell at her as they fly by in their wagons.”

  Kelly laughed. “I gotta run—I’m doing the bus thing today.”

  “’K—see ya at South Bay at seven.”

  Riona scanned the flood of traffic, but did not see Caitlin or the Honda yet. After a few moments, however, she did notice Sylvia Turner waving to her, making a “come here” motion with her raised right hand.

  “Oh great—just shoot me now,” Riona muttered, knowing she had no choice but to see what the woman wanted. Riona kept her face neutral as she walked slowly to where Ms. Turner was standing, beside a white panel van.

  “Riona,” Sylvia Turner said, reaching out and putting her right arm around Riona’s shoulders. “I’m so glad you happened by. Do you have plans for the holiday break?”

  Thinking furiously, Riona replied, “Yeah, my folks have me tied up most of my break. We’ve got lots of family events.”

  “That’s okay,” Sylvia Turner replied, looking about her as she turned toward the side of the van, bringing Riona along with her. “I wouldn’t dream of interfering with family activities.”

  “Great,” Riona replied. The horde of kids had dwindled to just a handful, most of whom were also standing beside cars, talking to people or getting inside to head home. “Are you looking for someone else?” Riona finally asked.

  “No,” Sylvia Turner replied harshly, whipping her left hand out of her coat pocket. “Watching out for anyone else.”

  The side door of the van flew open. As Riona turned in reaction to the door opening, she felt a cloth slapped against her face, covering her nose and mouth. Before she could get out a word, a large man dressed in black reached out from inside the van and grabbed her by the legs, pulling her in while Sylvia Turner followed, arms under Riona’s, keeping the cloth pressed to Riona’s face, and blocking the girl from view. The cloth smelled sickly sweet. Riona gagged and thrashed furiously. The van door closed loudly behind her and she felt it pull away from the school. Then Riona’s struggles slowed as the chloroform forced her inexorably into unconsciousness.

  * * * *

  Jamie and Eileen sat at the dining room table. They had both slept in late, leaving a note for the girls to get themselves ready for school and that they would explain everything tonight at dinner. Brigid had spent the night at Sarah O’Riley’s house. Sarah, the eldest daughter of Jamie’s friend Ruarc O’Riley, had been Brigid’s closest friend growing up. Consequently, the only one to greet them when they had gotten up was Finn MacCool.

  After the explosion, Jamie and Eileen had gotten into the Honda and driven around to the front of the remains of her shop, where he parked it perpendicularly in the street, close to Columbia Road. Even though he was now a former detective, Jamie considered himself a first responder, and, per department guidelines, he established a three-hundred foot perimeter around the blast site.

  He identified one of the patrons from the Irish bar who didn’t appear to be legally intoxicated. Jamie told the man to block the other end of Stoughton Street. When that was done, Jamie moved toward the stores while on the phone with 911. He was surprised to learn that he was the first to call in the explosion. With the scene secure and emergency teams from the fire and police department en route, Jamie told Eileen to stay put in the Honda and stay warm. Jamie reached the remains of the stores that had been next to Ceoil Scoil, and tried to determine if anyone had been in those shops when the bomb exploded.

  While he knew this was unlikely given the normal operating hours of those businesses, Jamie still felt compelled to find anyone who might have been in danger from the flames. After trying several times to get as close as he could to the blistering remains of the shops, Jamie gave up. No one left inside could have survived.

  A Dorchester patrol unit had come screeching up to the scene from Columbia Road. Jamie grinned humorlessly as Frank Thompson and Suzie Boyle jumped out of the unit and jogged to him.

  Thompson was a big man, six four and two-forty. He was also nearing fifty and was out of breath as he reached Jamie. “Griffin,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Yeah,” Suzie Boyle chimed in, not the least bit winded and eyeing Jamie angrily. Suzie was much younger—about thirty and in great shape—five-feet-seven inches and one-twenty five. “You’re not a cop anymore.” By and large the patrol officers had not been sympathetic with Jamie’s condition.

  “Maybe not, Suzie-Q,” Jamie replied with a grim smile, using her hated nickname, “but my wife and I were the targets of this,” he said, pointing back to the blast.

  “Oh, really?” Boyle asked sarcastically.

  “Yeah, really,” Jamie replied evenly. “My wife was finishing up some paperwork before we were going to eat. As I was waiting for her, I saw someone at the front door to her shop. When I went to investigate, I saw the timer on the bomb. We barely got out ahead of the blast.”

  “Wow,” Thompson said. “Someone was seriously pissed at you two.”

  “Or someone else—maybe they weren’t the actual targets.”

  “Suzie-Q,” Jamie growled, trying to keep his anger in check, “whatever you may think of me and my illness, try to stay professional, okay? I know it’s hard for you, but I’ve got faith that you can do it.”

  Before Boyle could respond, Thompson put a meaty hand in front of both Suzie and Jamie. “Enough, both of you. It’s not up to us to decide what happened here. That’s gonna be up to the bomb squad and the detectives that get assigned to the case.”

  “It should be Len Hamilton,” Jamie said.

  “Hamilton?” Boyle snickered. “He’s almost as useless as you.”

  “This is connected to the Raisin Killer case,” Jamie replied calmly, locking eyes with Boyle, who looked away after several seconds.

  “Well, like I said, it’s not up to us.” Thompson emphasized each word as he spoke, as well as raising the volume of his voice slightly with each word. Then he looked over their shoulders toward Columbia Road and nodded, “but it looks like you got
your wish, Griffin.” They turned and saw Len Hamilton getting out of an unmarked car. Sully got out of the driver’s side.

  “You’re like a bad penny, Griffin,” Hamilton groused as he approached. “You keep turning up where you shouldn’t.”

  “Pipe down, Len,” Sully ordered and walked up to Jamie and Eileen, now standing by her husband. “Are you two alright?” Genuine concern showed on Sully’s face. If he thought Jamie was malingering, he had never showed it. He was always polite and friendly to Jamie, but firm when drawing the line about Jamie’s involvement in police work.

  “We’re fine, Sully,” Eileen replied, reaching out and patting his arm. “Shaken up, but fine.”

  “What the hell happened here?” Sully asked.

  Jamie repeated the story he had told Thompson and Boyle. Standing to one side facing Jamie, Suzie rolled her eyes, but said nothing.

  “Thompson, Boyle, you two head to either end of the street and keep the crowd back,” Sullivan ordered. Sullivan then walked to the burning building, which was now being doused by firefighters. Hamilton followed along deferentially.

  Jamie had then sat back against the hood of the Honda and Eileen had snuggled beneath his arm. Jamie rubbed her shoulder. “It will be alright, my love, truly it will.” Eileen had said nothing. She had just watched the burning building in disbelief.

  Now, after a troubled night’s sleep, they had mechanically gone about their morning routine. They had spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon on the telephone—Jamie on the house phone, Eileen on her cell phone. Jamie had handled the police and the insurance company, while Eileen had called her students and staff. They squeezed lunch in between and around their calls. Now, it was drawing close to mid-afternoon and they were both tired, more from the emotional than the physical impact of the previous night’s events—but tired nonetheless.