“He’s one of you. That could be an advantage. He’ll trust you.”
“Not me. Eamon and I aren’t friends.” For all I knew, Eamon had taken part in Styles’s killing spree before becoming a victim himself.
Pusser reached into his pocket for his toothpick cylinder. “Well, he sure as hell doesn’t like me.” He slid a fresh toothpick between his teeth and tipped his head toward the hall. “Come on.”
“You don’t want me in there, Pusser. I . . . I . . .” What if I found out Eamon had killed Sheila? Was involved is getting Meg nearly killed? What was it Pusser had said? I’d gutted Styles. The coroner needed an extra bag to transport his guts. “I might lose it in there.”
He leaned down, his toothpick bobbing just inches from my eyeballs. “I think you underestimate yourself, Callahan. Let’s go.”
* * *
Pusser was right. Eamon didn’t even acknowledge the sheriff; instead, he focused his wary eyes on me. “Meg. Is she . . . ?”
“She’s okay. No thanks to you. You could have gotten my cousin killed.”
Pusser had stepped back, faded into the background. It was just Eamon and me talking.
I continued. “She loved you.”
“Still does love me. We’re getting married.”
“Doubtful. She never would have been with you if she’d known what you were doing. You’re a drug dealer.”
He pressed his lips together and looked away. I could feel Pusser staring at me from behind.
“You’re nothing but scum, Eamon.”
He didn’t respond.
Pusser spoke up from across the room. “The feds tracked down the other drug runner, and he’s cutting a deal. He’s already talking. Claims you and Styles were in on it together. You did the cooking. Styles made the connection with the Mexican gang. They were piping your stuff all the way down to Texas.”
Eamon kept his mouth shut. He looked pale and pathetic, lying uncovered in the flimsy gown and socks the hospital provided. A white bandage covered his shoulder and part of his chest. The doctors said the wound wasn’t serious. The bullet had lodged just under his left clavicle. Still, it must’ve hurt like hell, and he’d lost a lot of blood.
Pusser shifted his weight and stepped forward. “We’ve got the Mexican’s testimony, and I’m betting your prints and DNA are all over that drug shack. You’ll get prison time for the drugs. But if you cooperate . . .”
“You lie, musker. You cops never give us a break.”
Pusser backed off again. I stepped up and tried another angle. “Why did Styles kill my mother?”
Eamon looked my way. “I don’t know that he did.” I believed him. I doubted he knew anything about the first murder—it was more personal than business. I thought he knew something about Sheila’s death, though.
“She was killed with the same gun as Sheila Costello. The same gun that was at the shack. I saw Styles put it in your hand when you were passed out on the floor of the shack. He was framing you.”
Eamon blinked but didn’t look my way.
“Did he kill Sheila too? Or was that you?”
His head snapped my way. “I didn’t kill nobody.”
Maybe, maybe not. Styles was dead. There was no one left to refute whatever story he came up with.
“How’d you get the ring?”
“Found it at the vet clinic. On the floor. I figured one of those rich McCreary ladies lost it. They’re out at the clinic all the time with their yappy purse dogs. Didn’t know it belonged to Sheila ’til the cops told me about it.”
“Sheila, huh?” Pusser spoke up. “Were you and Sheila sleeping together?”
Eamon shifted and looked at Pusser. His eyes were filled with hate. “I’m with Meg. We Pavees aren’t like that. We’re loyal.” He looked my way. “Except you. You working with the cops now?”
I ignored the question. Pusser eyed him closely. “Dublin Costello thinks you were banging his wife.”
“Dub Costello’s a crazy son of a bitch.”
I glanced at Pusser, but we both stayed quiet. Eamon went on. “He made her do all sorts of sick things. When she refused, he beat her. Enjoyed it too. Sick bastard. You know what he did?”
Eamon looked at me. I lifted my shoulders, inviting him to continue.
“He killed her cat. The one I gave her. Right in front of her. Slit its throat.” I squeezed my eyes shut. The bloodstain Doogan found on the carpet. The image of Dublin killing a small kitten in front of his terrified wife turned my stomach.
Eamon was still talking. “He did it to scare her. Told her that’s what he’d do to her if she didn’t do the things he wanted. She was terrified out of her mind.”
Pusser spoke up. “And what were you? Her hero?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you come to her rescue?”
“No.”
“Maybe you tried, but she didn’t want you. Is that what happened? She was scared and you knew just how to make her feel better. How to comfort her. What? Was she not into you? Is that how it went down, Eamon? She didn’t want your comfort? Maybe you tried to force her? Things got out of hand?”
Eamon recoiled. “What? No! That’s not what happened.”
Pusser kept up. “Maybe you didn’t mean it. It just happened.”
“No!”
“Bet you hated the guy.” Pusser leaned in closer. “He hurt your girlfriend and killed her cat. That’d be enough to push any guy over the edge.”
Eamon’s eyes rounded. “What?”
Pusser went on. “Dub Costello’s missing. Maybe you had something to do with that.”
Eamon clamped his lips together. He wouldn’t look at me. He was shutting down. I shot Pusser a look, but he kept pushing.
“We’ve got you for the drugs already,” he said. “You’re going to prison. For how long, I don’t know. But if you cooperate with us, it might work in your favor.”
“All you coppers are liars. You’re not going to do jack for me. I want a lawyer.”
Pusser took that as his cue. “Sure, if that’s what you want. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say . . .”
The words were lost to the roar of rage in my head. My jaw tightened. Maybe Eamon didn’t know anything about my mother, or Dublin, but he knew something about Sheila’s murder. I wanted answers. Doogan deserved answers. And I knew how to get the truth out of him. And I would. That’s why Pusser had wanted me in here. I could do things he couldn’t and get by with it.
I was one of them. A gypsy.
He was a cop. The law.
“Why did Styles kill Sheila?” I bit the words out through clenched teeth. Pusser turned away and let me take the lead again. He faded even further into the background this time. I heard the faint clicking noise and turned to see him leaning against the hospital door, his arms crossed over his chest. No one was coming into this room. Or going out.
Eamon’s eyes darted between Pusser at the locked door and me. Sweat broke out on his top lip, but he didn’t talk.
My mind snapped. Enough! I ripped Eamon’s sock from his foot and crammed it halfway down his throat. He gagged. His eyes bulged. He thrashed from side to side, unable to raise his bandaged arm at all, grabbing me with his other hand, but I held it there. “You don’t get a lawyer, Eamon. That’s not how this is going to work.” I was just inches from his face. Spit spewed from my lips as I spoke. “We’re settling this by clan rules.” I raised my other fist and brought it down hard on his shoulder. Muffled cries of agony filled the room. I raised my fist again.
He held up his hand. His eyes pleaded for mercy.
I unclenched my fist and removed the sock. “Tell me what happed to Sheila Doogan.”
Pusser was back next to the bed, listening as the words tumbled from Eamon’s mouth. “Styles shot her. I was there. I saw it.” He clenched his stomach and rolled to the side. I grabbed a pink, kidney-shaped bowl from the side table and held it under his mouth while he puked.
After he’d emptie
d his stomach, he sat back, gulped air, and talked again. “We were friends. Sheila and me. That’s all. I found her one night, badly beaten by that asshole husband. She was in pain. I gave her some K, just enough to get her through the night. But she liked it. She came back for more. I didn’t know how to say no.” He licked his lips and pointed to his water bottle.
I shook my head. “Keep talking.”
“She came by one night when Styles was there. We’d just gotten a shipment of ketamine. We were loading it to take out to the cabin.”
“In the ATV?” I asked.
“Yeah. Styles had a rule. No local sales. I carried the stuff during travel season to contacts down south. Then he cut a deal with the Mexicans. They’d been having trouble meeting their supply demands, with stricter border security . . .” He coughed again. “He was making good money. Enough that he was going to leave and go to some island in the tropics.”
I filled in the blank. “But Sheila threatened his plan.”
“Yeah. So he shot her. And buried her body out in the woods.”
“And he transported her there in the ATV.” I already knew the answer. Wilco had picked up on human remains inside that ATV. But Eamon didn’t respond. “Or you did.” He shifted his eyes away.
My fists clenched. Eamon was just as guilty as Styles. “Maybe you didn’t kill my mother, or Dublin, but you helped kill Sheila Costello. First with the drugs you gave her. Then by standing by while Styles killed her. And then helping to hide her body.” My body quivered with rage. I raised my fist again, but Pusser caught my wrist. I looked back at him.
A slight smile hinted at the corners of his mouth. “We got everything we need.”
I looked at my fist, back at Eamon’s face, at my fist again. My head swam. The vomit smell. My exhaustion. It was all too much. I bolted.
Pusser caught up to me out in the hall. “Hey. Good job in there.”
I wheeled. “Good job? I coerced his confession.”
“Yeah. So? He needed a little persuasion. It’s not like he’s going to rat you out. Gypsy loyalty, right?”
I hated how, once more, he’d thrown the clan’s principles in my face. He was right. Eamon wouldn’t tell anyone what I’d just done to him. Clan justice wasn’t something you talked about—it just happened. And once the clan knew he’d had anything to do with drugs, let alone with a clan woman’s death, my sucker punch to his shoulder would look like a love kiss. Yet even with that depth of retribution for our own wrongdoers, the clan would never help law enforcement even when it was on their side. Where did loyalty and truth intersect?
I stared hard at Pusser’s face. His eyes were dark, deep set, almost hidden under his fat, pockmarked cheeks. They regarded me with respect. Not disdain. Not prejudice. Just respect. I realized that all Pusser had cared about this whole time was the truth. And he was maybe the one person who had been completely honest with me throughout this whole ordeal.
Tears stung my eyes. “You used me.”
“You could look at it that way. Or you could say that we make a damn fine team.” He reached into his pocket and took out a hanky. A cloth one.
“Here.” He handed it to me. “You’d best get to the motel for work, if you can call it that. Still think you’re wasting your talents. You’re a cop, Callahan. You’ve got the training. More important, you’ve got the instincts too. You should come work for me. I could use you on my team.”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Instead, I brought the handkerchief to my face and turned toward the exit. It smelled like cinnamon.
I found the smell comforting.
CHAPTER 19
I pulled in front of Gran’s trailer, expecting to see a crowd of people or at least family lingering to take advantage of leftover food and liquor from my mother’s wake. Instead, the front curtains were drawn, and the only one other vehicle parked outside besides Gran’s Buick was Colm’s pickup truck.
Something was wrong.
I’d called to check on Gran a few hours earlier, when I’d arrived at my job. She seemed tired. The funeral, my brush with death, Meg’s hospitalization, and the news of Eamon—it’d all taken a toll on her, but she was healthy. Perhaps it’d been too much for Gramps? That must’ve been it. He’d taken a sudden turn for the worse. So much that they’d called for the priest?
I stepped out of my car, tipped my head back, and whispered skyward, “How much more can we take?”
Wilco greeted me just inside the door. I paused to give him a quick pat before heading back toward the kitchen. The place was nice and tidy. The smell of spicy fried cabbage and sausage, one of my favorite meals, hit my nose and got my stomach juices flowing. I was starving. But Gran wasn’t in the kitchen. I backtracked and headed toward Gramps’ room, stopping short when I heard Gran’s voice coming from her bedroom.
I headed that way, then, through the crack in the door, I saw Colm. He was sitting in the green upholstered chair that Gran usually kept in the corner, stacked with mending and clothes that needed ironing. He’d pulled the chair close to the bed and was leaning forward, a beautiful gold-trimmed purple stole hanging from his neck as he whispered something. Across from him, I saw Gran sitting on the edge of the bed, her feet planted firmly on the floor and her hands folded in prayer. My heart sank. What happened? Gramps? Was I too late?
I reached out, ready to push the door open the rest of the way, when I heard her say, “Father, forgive me, I’ve sinned against you.”
I jerked back. Confession. Colm was hearing Gran’s confession. I turned and tiptoed from the doorway. But her next words permeated the air like a sword through flesh. “I killed him.” Her voice, blunt and hard at first, turned to gasping, then a flood of cries, her heart-wrenching sobs interspersed with pleas for mercy.
I kept walking, faster, fleeing back down the hallway. No! I turned toward Gramps’ door. Gran? Murder? Had it been too much for her? Gramps’ illness, my mother’s death, the financial stress, the press . . . what did she do? Those scratches! She’d tried to cover them, explain them away, but I knew. Gramps had done that. He’d become more agitated, abusive even. Self-defense. That’s what it was. Self-defense. No one could blame Gran for defending herself. Just like I’d defended myself against Styles . . .
The odor hit me as soon as I stepped inside his room. The stench of death. My hand flew to my face, covered my nose and mouth. Oh Gran! We should have called in hospice. Or paid for a nurse. I should have helped more. My fault. My fault.
The sound of Gramps’ oxygen converter hissed in the air. He turned his head. “Anne?” His features darkened. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Gramps?”
“What do you want? Where’s your grandmother?”
I stepped closer. “You’re okay.”
“Okay? Like hell. I’m hungry.”
His chin worked back and forth, gray whiskers protruding like quills on a porcupine. He needed a shave. A bath. I caught another whiff of something foul, stepped back, and gagged a little. I cleared my throat. “Gramps, you need to change your clothes. Can I help you?”
“Your grandmother takes care of that. Don’t touch me.”
“Okay. Do you want me to bring you some supper?”
“You’ll spit in it.”
“Gramps, I would never—”
“Where’s Anne? Where is she?” His fist clenched at his side. “Is she with that man again?”
“Father Colm?”
He continued. Louder now. He was getting worked up. “Not the priest. Him. The outsider. I heard them talking, making plans to go away—”
“Fergus.” It was Gran. She walked in and placed her hand on his. “I’m right here, Fergus. Right here.” She turned red, swollen eyes my way. She startled for an instant at the sight of my battered face, then went on, “It’s been a difficult day. I’m afraid he’s very confused.”
I swallowed. “He’s hungry,” I told her. “But he doesn’t want me to get him a plate.”
“I’ll heat him some leftovers.”
She held up her hand. “I’ll tend to it. Father Colm’s come to see you. He’s in the front room.”
I reached out. Touched her cheek. “Gran. Is there something going on? Something I should know about?” She eyed me sharply, wary. I withered. “I’m just worried about you.”
Her posture relaxed. She clasped her hand around mine, pulling me toward the door and out into the hallway. “There’s no reason to worry, child. Not anymore. I’ve seen to everything.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Her words rang with so much finality. So much earnest emotion.
I killed him. I killed him.
And other things she’d said. All just words, none of them meaning much at the time they were spoken. But now, now they flew back through my mind: I went looking for you last night . . . I wasn’t strong for you back then . . . I’ve seen to everything.
“Gran,” I could hardly get the words out. “The other night. When Dub Costello’s place burned down . . .”
“I don’t want to discuss it.”
“But Gran. I have to know what happened.”
“Why? Why do you have to know everything, Brynn? Can’t you just let some things go?”
“No. No, Gran. I can’t.” My lip trembled. “Dub Costello. Is he dead?”
She folded her arms across her chest.
“Gran?”
Something seemed to flicker in her eyes, a thought, a resolution, and then it came out. “The other night, the night of the fire . . . your grandfather. Well, you know how he’d been so agitated that day. Remember? We had to give him the pills.”
The pills. I’d seen their instant calm descend on Gramps. How the tension drained from his body. My body ached with tension now, begging for a release . . . I squeezed my eyes shut, opened them again, and stared into Gran’s pale face. “Go on.”
“He was so upset about Mary. He got confused. He thought you were Mary. Then he told me something, something I’d never known. Something you’d kept from me.”
I looked in her eyes, and she held my stare. “I haven’t kept anything from you, Gran. Never.”
She reached out, clasped my arms. “Yes, you have. And you could have told me. You should have told me.” Her voice thinned, her eyes bored into mine. “What he did to you. You should have told me what he did to you.”
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