“Then that’s settled,” Jamie said. “Now, do the three of you want to stay here until we leave? We have space for whatever mumbo-jumbo you need to do or to rest, which is what I’m going to do.”
“The ‘mumbo-jumbo’ as you call it,” Hanrahan muttered darkly, “may be what saves your life.”
“Maybe so,” Jamie said. “Depending on what I see, you may make a believer out of me yet.”
“As designated driver,” Eileen put in, “my vote is for everyone to stay here. I really don’t want to be out driving tonight any more than necessary.”
The three mystics looked at each other and nodded. “We would appreciate a place to work for a time,” Hanrahan replied, “then a place to rest until we leave.”
“Not us,” Darcelle put in. “I mean, yeah, we’ll stay here, Aunt Eileen, but there’s no way we’re gonna miss New Year’s—especially since it may be the last one we get to ring in.” She jumped up quickly, dodging her sister’s elbow, and sticking out her tongue.
Jamie shook his head and stood, assisted by Eileen. “Okay then, we’re set. Eileen will get me up no later than three a.m.,” he said. “That will give us time to check our gear. Any questions?”
“Yeah,” Daphné replied softly. “Anyone know any good prayers we can say before we go?”
“Saint Jude might be appropriate,” Eileen muttered.
“Hush, woman.” Jamie replied kindly. “This had better not be a lost cause.”
* * * *
Father Anthony O’Connor lumbered down the outer aisle of Saint Brendan’s back to where a solitary figure knelt near the confessional. O’Connor had planned to spend New Year’s Eve in quiet reflection when his telephone rang just after ten p.m. He had reluctantly agreed to this meeting, and now, an hour before the death of the old year and birth of the new, he approached Timothy O’Neill, genuflected before the pew in front of O’Neill, and then slid in, sitting so he could face the police detective.
O’Neill had his head bowed in prayer. Several moments after hearing O’Connor, Timmy raised his head, crossed himself, and then slid back to a sitting position. “Thank you for meeting me, Father.”
“You didn’t appear to be giving me any choice in the matter, Timothy,” O’Connor replied stiffly.
O’Neill chuckled, a hollow and mirthless sound that reverberated gently through the empty church. “True.” His red hair was unkempt and in serious need of washing and combing. There were dark, baggy circles beneath his bloodshot, emerald eyes. His clothes were dirty and rumpled. To O’Connor, it looked as if O’Neill were on an undercover assignment. “Too true. I’ve got two things we needed to meet face-to-face about, Father.”
“Fine. What’s the first?”
“I need to make sure you understand that your days of patronizing prostitutes are over.”
“Timothy,” O’Connor began angrily.
“Don’t ‘Timothy’ me, padre,” O’Neill interrupted. “We both know that your promise to reform is only as good as your strength of will and I don’t place a great deal of faith in your strength of will.”
The two men locked gazes for several moments. Then the priest looked away and sighed raggedly. “Fine. You’re correct—I would not probably last on my own. That’s why I have called my confessor and told him in general terms about my problem. I meet with him tomorrow.” He looked back up at O’Neill.
Timmy thought this over for a moment, and then shrugged. “Okay. You do that, but also know that I’ve put the word out on the street—anyone sees you with a streetwalker, even just a casual conversation, and there are photos and incriminating evidence that will wind up on the bishop’s desk.”
“There’s no need to threaten me,” O’Connor replied sternly. “I am weak, but I am not untruthful. I am going to confess all of my sins and accept whatever punishment I receive. Trust me—while some church authorities have been lax in disciplining wayward priests, our current bishop is not one who turns a blind eye.”
After another long moment of consideration, O’Neill rubbed his eyes, and then nodded. “Okay then, that leads me to my second reason for wanting to see you in person tonight.”
“And that would be?”
“That would be that I need you to hear my confession.” He paused and then sighed. “My full confession, Father. I’m at a dark crossroads, and I can’t move forward until I unburden myself. Will you hear my confession?” O’Neill turned a pleading face to O’Connor.
The priest didn’t hesitate. “Of course I will, Timothy. Let’s step in here,” he gestured at the confessional. Even though the church was empty, force of habit was strong, and the two men automatically took their respective places in the dark wooden box.
It was nearly midnight when they stepped out again.
O’Connor stepped to O’Neill and put a large hand on each of the detective’s shoulders. “Timothy, you’ve taken an incredibly important first step tonight. We are both at a crossroads, my son. We can make this journey together, if you wish.”
O’Neill sighed deeply and shook his head. “I don’t think so, padre. Somehow I suspect the consequences of my actions will be much direr than yours.”
O’Connor shook O’Neill firmly. “Trust in God. Put yourself in His hands and all will be well.” The priest spoke insistently, needing to convince himself as well as his wayward penitent.
O’Neill gently broke free. “I’m not sure I believe it, but I hope you’re right.” He looked at his watch. “Happy New Year, Father.” He extended his right hand.
O’Connor took the hand, engulfed it with his own right hand, and then shook, covering both hands with his left hand. “Happy New Year, Timothy. The new year will be better, for both of us.”
O’Neill nodded, disengaged himself from O’Connor, and then walked slowly out the door to the parking lot. The night was pitch black. The moon and stars eclipsed by heavy, dark clouds threatening more snow. The wind was piercing, and O’Neill raised the lapels of his winter parka to help keep out the wind. He trotted to his Lexus GX, then slipped inside and waited for the heat. The CD player kicked on, and Stevie Ray Vaughan started singing, about living, “Life by the Drop.”
You knew all about being in bad places, SRV, O’Neill thought darkly. Bad places of your own making, no less. I wonder if you would have kept your demons at bay if you hadn’t died so young? Would you have been able to make such incredible music any longer?
O’Neill pulled out of the Saint Brendan’s parking lot and cruised past houses that normally were dark by this hour. Tonight they were lit up like beacons of comfort and warmth. They seemed as remote as the stars. He didn’t see many cars—the drunken exodus would start in about an hour. Like most cops, O’Neill hated New Year’s Eve, and he couldn’t wait to get back to his Back Bay brownstone.
Eyebrows would have been raised at the department if they knew that O’Neill actually owned his brownstone. His official story was that he leased it under a sweetheart deal from a family friend. Even so, O’Neill was still occasionally scrutinized for having such an upscale address on a police detective’s salary. He chuckled softly. IAD would shit a brick if they knew about my Cayman Island accounts. O’Neill’s years of employment with Sedecla had made him a very wealthy man. I could get on a plane tomorrow morning and never look back, he thought as he made his way to the narrow streets that led to his brownstone. I could pick a country with no extradition to the US. O’Neill had several fake identities from which he could choose that would allow him to live anonymously. A short stay at the makeover clinic and I could walk out past my dear departed mother and she wouldn’t recognize me.
As he parked his car in his narrow tuck-under garage and walked upstairs, Timmy knew that he would never go through with his carefully crafted plan. There were no holes in his plan, just a gaping hole in his head, his heart, his soul, that would never allow him to implement the plan.
My damned Catholic conscience should have kicked in before I started down this road to damnation.
Deftly flicking buttons as he walked, the main level of the brownstone was already lit up and welcoming as he entered. Timothy had spared no expense in updating the place. It was outfitted with the best creature comforts money could buy. Shedding his coat and changing into comfortable sweats, O’Neill opened a cold Guinness, made a sandwich, and went into his office, which featured a massive workstation, several different computers and screens, and a large workspace. So why does this feel so empty, so meaningless? he wondered as he ate. A sad smile quirked over O’Neill’s face as Stevie Ray mournfully strummed “Little Wing,” each note piercing O’Neill’s heart. He finished his sandwich and his Guinness. Then he keyed the combination to the safe that sat beneath the credenza. O’Neill slowly removed a number of items—three thick file folders, a portfolio, a canvas sack, and a box of CDs/DVDs.
O’Neill took the empty bottle and dinner plate back to the kitchen. On his way back to the office, he made a quick detour and picked up a heavy crystal glass and his bottle of Jameson’s Rarest Vintage Reserve, then returned to his office. He poured himself three fingers. O’Neill sipped slowly, allowing it to burn in a smoky wave over his tongue and crawl down to his core, but even fine whiskey refused to melt the iciness in his heart.
As Stevie Ray gave way to John Lee (Burning Hell, ironically enough), O’Neill poured himself another three fingers and opened the first file folder. This packet contained numerous documents from the years he had served as Sedecla’s head of the Mazzimah, evidence of his own misdeeds—a seemingly endless litany of crimes. O’Neill flipped absently through this folder, drinking his Jameson’s and listening to John Lee growl. Pouring himself a third drink, O’Neill put aside the first file folder, then opened the second, which documented all the activities of the Mazzimah—names, structure, holdings, who operated what and where. Everything the authorities would need to dismantle the operation. Closing this folder, O’Neill now opened the final folder. In this folder, he had gathered as much information as possible not only connecting Sedecla to the Mazzimah but documenting her other legal and illegal activities.
The black, leather portfolio contained all the documents related to O’Neill’s alternate identities—passports, driver’s licenses, birth certificates, social security card—for the lone American identity, and various identification papers from three other countries. The canvas bag contained an assortment of currency—American, Canadian, and Australian dollars, Euros, yen and Renminbi. There were also gold coins, a small sack of diamonds, and other forms of wealth. Travellin’ money, O’Neill thought wryly.
The CDs and DVDs contained the final documentation of his and Sedecla’s activities—spreadsheets, surveillance footage, photos, org charts, audio recordings—everything he documented over the years. For the longest time, O’Neill had not been sure why he was accumulating these files. He knew it would be suicide for him to try to take down Sedecla. He wasn’t even sure that was what he intended. Sometimes he thought it was insurance against being taken out by Sedecla. Sometimes he thought it was just the distant echo of the Catholic schoolboy conscience he had once possessed, and which, quite possibly along with this soul, he had sold somewhere along the line.
Isn’t it funny? O’Neill thought bitterly, finishing his third drink and starting a fourth. You’d think I would remember something as important as selling my soul to the devil. While the Jameson’s was dulling the edge of the anguish that enmeshed him like concertina wire, O’Neill did not feel drunk. He barely felt buzzed. O’Neill took out a cardboard box he had purchased several weeks ago.
I think it was when the crazy bitch took out Cal and began going after Jamie and his family that I realized I had finally reached my limit. It’s one thing to take out cops—danger is part of the job, but taking out innocents is another story. He stopped loading the box as the hypocrisy of his last thought penetrated the amber haze permeating his brain. Like most of her victims haven’t been just as innocent? I suppose you could say the junkies and the whores weren’t exactly innocent, but her bloody ‘sacrifices’ are guilty of just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. As O’Neill began inserting the three portfolios, CDs, and DVDs into the box, he snorted as bongos began belting out of the sound system, followed by an unmistakable shout from Mick Jagger.
Why the hell should I have Sympathy for the Devil? She never had any sympathy for me—Atop the pile he placed an envelope containing a letter he had previously drafted, pouring out his heart in a secular confession to the one person to whom he felt he owed an explanation. Everyone else can just join me on the ‘Midnight Specia,l’ straight to Hell.
O’Neill finished taping and addressing the box as Mick and the boys were giving out their last “ooh-hoos.” He completed the shipping form with his FedEx account number and inserted it into the plastic sleeve. Looking at his empty glass, O’Neill reached for the bottle, but stopped himself.
Gotta take care of business first, Timmy. It’s a long, long way to Tipperary, and a long, snowy walk down to the Fed Ex drop box. Wouldn’t do to stagger and fall into the street with this parcel unsent, now would it, lad? Taking the package to the kitchen, O’Neill retrieved his parka and bundled up for his walk.
The wind that assaulted him on his exit into the early hours of New Year’s Day seemed intent upon knocking him down or snatching his parcel before he could seal his fate. An act of madness, he thought, trudging down the street to the drop box, located in a twenty-four-hour lobby. Or an act of redemption?
Entering the lobby and standing before the drop box, O’Neill paused. Countless images and memories flashed through his whiskey-tinged thoughts. He held the box gently, almost reverently, recalling his days as an altar boy at Saint Brendan’s—the ritualistic gestures, ringing of bells, beating the breast and barely understood Latin words, much like he allowed himself unthinkingly to take each step down the path to the Hell that he now traversed. The stern, clipped voice of old Monsignor McIlhon, the venerable pastor of Saint Brendan’s of his youth shattered his indecision. Timothy James O’Neill. The voice drenched him like a bucket of cold water. You know right from wrong, don’t you? Timothy nodded his head slowly. Then quit dithering young man and do the right thing. O’Neill nodded again, then reached out and, without hesitation, dropped the box into the container, wincing at the resultant thump, which sounded like the lid of a coffin slamming shut for the final time.
Good man. McIlhon’s voice rang out in his mind one last time. Glad you think so, monsignor, O’Neill thought blearily.
The wind was at his back as O’Neill trudged back to his townhouse in the dark, frigid night. Letting himself back inside, he returned to his office. O’Neill punched the button on the remote to skip over the Johnny Adams song that was playing. Like hell— there is always one more fucking time. Sometimes, Johnny, you just reach the end of the fucking line and have to know when it’s time to get off.
O’Neill poured himself another drink and reprogrammed his playlist to old school blues. After finishing that drink, he filled the whiskey glass to the top. Slowly drinking his final drink, Timothy O’Neill carefully, almost lovingly, placed his service gun, upon the desktop in front of him. One part of him was a twitch away from snatching up the gun. Another part was screaming to leave it behind, take his money and IDs, pack his bags, and get on the first plane out of Logan later this morning. He could fly away, fly anywhere—just escape, just flee, just save his life. Aye, but what about my soul? A gulp of Jameson’s obliterated Monsignor McIlhon’s admonition that suicide is the only unforgivable sin.
Sorry monsignor, O’Neill thought, despite not being the least bit sorry. I think there are other sins equally unforgivable. At least, sins that a man can’t live with. Not a man raised as a pre-Vatican II Catholic, where that old-time religion gets down into your bones like a holy cancer and eats you alive. It never lets you go, not really. Not in your heart of hearts, that place where you can’t lie to yourself, no matter how hard you try.
Picking up the sound system remote agai
n, O’Neill found a Leroy Carr song in his collection and set it to play on a continuous loop. ‘Died with my boots on’, indeed. Timothy James O’Neill picked up his Sig Sauer. I can count on just two hands the number of times I’ve discharged this baby off the practice range, he thought, holding the gun in his right hand and the glass in his left.
He admired the cold, clean lines of the weapon as he finished his whiskey in a large gulp. Well, it ain’t a Smith and Wesson, but it’ll sure as hell blow out my brains. As the last of the whiskey hit his system, O’Neill thumbed off the safety on the Sig. I am indeed tired of living, Leroy, and I also ain’t afraid to die, but it wasn’t ‘my’ woman threw me down—it was ‘a’ woman, and she only helped me throw myself down. I’ve got to own at least that much.
Timothy James O’Neill raised the Sig to his mouth and without hesitation, pulled the trigger. Red haze exploded in his head, and one last thought raced the bullet through his brain before darkness claimed him.
You don’t really ‘eat’ your gun. It eats you.
Chapter Thirty
Jamie lurched down the stairs and walked into the living room, clutching his walking stick. At first, Jamie thought the room was empty, then he noticed Ríordán sitting motionless on the couch, eyes closed, blending into the shadows of the corner of the room. The fili’s breath was deep and rhythmic. Jamie walked quietly to the sectional and sat.
“I’m actually awake, Mister Griffin,” Ríordán said softly, slowly opening his eyes.
“Sweet Jaysus,” Jamie exclaimed. He had noticed that in the past few weeks, he startled more than ever before. I hope to God that doesn’t last. “I thought you were asleep alright. You the only one up?”
“Hanrahan is awake, but also meditating. The witch and the womenfolk are still asleep.”
“Not this womenfolk,” came a voice from the stairs.
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