A reason to kill, p.15
A Reason To Kill, page 15
He leaped from the bed. His open palm smashed her across the face—once, twice, her head rotated back and forth like it was about to swivel off her neck. She was still holding the shard as he shoved her through the door and this time locked it. “If you feel like slicing your throat, bitch, go home and do it. Don’t bloody up my place.” He dropped on the bed. She’d gone screwy on him before, ruined a lot of his things, but never actually threatened to cut him. He didn’t like this add-on one damn bit.
He waited for a moment but couldn’t hear her. Maybe he should check on her—hell with it. She could be waiting outside the door ready to plunge a knife in him. Rolling over on his belly, he covered his head with a pillow. If she was still there in the morning he would explain this nonsense had to stop.
They were just no good for each other. Tonight was their finale.
Chapter 27
New York City, 1981
The circumstances of Tom’s nephew’s unplanned excursion into the darker underbelly of New York City the previous night, had given Megan O’Donnell a reprieve. But this morning brought that to a halt as she argued with her Uncle Dev. She didn’t want to be his ‘his good little girl’. She hit him with a final assertion, “A cub reporter doesn’t just up and ask for two weeks unscheduled vacation.”
“I cleared it with your boss.” Thomas Devlin’s words slapped her back into her proper place. “Come on Meg, I need this favor big time. Murray understands.”
Oh sure, Murray would understand. Besides how important was she, the news would come in just fine without ‘Little Meg’. Her colleagues weren’t beneath showing how little they respected her writing ability. And the copy she turned in was often axed so badly, she couldn’t recognize it. The guys figured she was just their boss’ penitence for some debt he owed. Damn, it infuriated her.
So here she had spent a whole day moving Tom’s family out to Westchester—sharing greasy burgers and fries with the two boys and failing badly on trying to keep them entertained. Even her fascination with Seamus had worn off. Oh, it wasn’t the guy’s fault. She’d only seen him for a few minutes before he passed his kids on to her like she was a paid nanny.
Shit! It was his fault. What right did he have to assume her life was so insignificant? On Tom’s say so, Seamus expected her to take responsibility for his nephews while he handled his important business.
She’d been literally fuming inside and trying to hide it from the kids when a spark of genius hit her. Why not? She might be able to unload this burden on someone else and in the process create a happy man.
So now she was doing just that.
Pat O’Donnell would be the last to admit it but Megan knew he was clearly enjoying his daughter’s surprise. “Loosen up, relax, bring the ball back slowly.” He held the shoulder and gently pushed on Colin’s spine as he continued to instruct.
“Dad, I’m sure the boys have bowled before.”
Oddly, it was the boy who corrected. “Megan, he’s teachin’ me the right way.”
Seamus O’Donnell grinned. “Lads can do with a bit of instruction.”
“My dad can be overbearing. I want the kids to have fun not figure they’re in a money match.”
“But they like the attention. Let’s you and I take a peek at the bar, unless you’d rather play?”
Megan was quickly up out of the bench with a, “No thanks,” and an offered, “Bring back anything, Dad?”
“Beer,” answered the man who having decided the ball was too heavy for Colin, was busy testing others. His fifty-eight years lay easy on Pat O’Donnell. The evenness of the gray lacing his hair gave sheen to the black instead of dulling it. Age added extra fat to fill out a lanky frame and a face that had once been gaunt. An active man, he still had the stance of an athlete. His daughter was proud of him.
Megan grumbled, “My dad should have had a dozen sons.” Then felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment as she realized it was a petty and jealous remark. She forced an immediate laugh to cover it as she slid into the seat across from Seamus at the small table.
“He’s got a liking for them,” O’Donnell said and ginned as if in understanding. “It’s grand for a man to be that way. Now me, I prefer them well-cooked.”
“And I’m supposed to believe that? Sorry, lad, Tom gave you up. He told me how you’ve had the full care of those boys since they were infants.”
“Sure, as if I’d a choice? Number of times I tried drowning ‘em.” Seamus’ grin widened. “Didn’t the wretched little blokes pop back to the surface?”
Their laughter was interrupted as a waitress confronted them with an impatient pout. “Beer, Megan?” He asked, “Or would you be after having something stronger?”
“Beer’s fine. Shouldn’t we bring the others back something first?”
“Forget them, not likely they’ll be missing us.” He waved the waitress off.
“You’re not nice.”
“Me, a nice man? Who’d label me with such a dreadful title—surely not Tom?”
“You’re nuts.” Suddenly her humor fled and she said, “I’m sorry about what happened to Colin.”
“And, sure, you had nothing to do with it.” He quickly changed the subject with, “Your father spoke of a camp. You’ll spend the time with us?”
Her mouth parted in a slight grimace. “Dad wants to take you and the boys. I doubt I’m part of the deal. He hasn’t asked me since I turned fifteen when I ruined his weekend bitching about the dirt and bugs.”
Setting two frosty mugs on the table, the waitress moved off and Seamus curled his large hand around Megan’s much smaller one. He began to play with her fingers, but Meagan barely noticed.
“Poor Dad,” she remembered. “He once drove twenty miles to find me a tooth brush. I’d forgotten mine and wouldn’t go to sleep without brushing.” She wrinkled her nose. “Dad’s camp is antiquated. He can afford better but he won’t fancy it up.”
“I’ll see to a dozen brushes.” Seamus promised. “And gallons of soap. Come with us?”
~~~
It was a long time before Megan recaptured her hand. Longer still that the beer sat untouched while the frost turned to pools of moisture around the bottom of the mugs. They talked about everything and nothing. Megan would never recall the words spoken only the feeling of being very important to this man. The charming sensuous tone of his voice drew her into the depth of his eyes that seem to go on forever. The brashness and cocky attitude, she found in most good-looking guys, didn’t come through, and she wondered if he really wasn’t aware of how attractive he was. How stupid! To think he never looked in a mirror. She sensed the smart thing—run away girl. But he’d fashioned a cocoon for two—him and her and she couldn’t find an exit.
Too soon Colin was at Seamus’ back jabbering excitedly. “I pulled a one forty last game.” Then he demanded, “What happened to our Cokes?”
“Didn’t want to interrupt the game.” Pulling the chair next to him out for Colin, Seamus used his foot to shove another out for Sean as he asked, “How did you do?”
The older boy shrugged and said, “All right.”
Colin admitted, “Sean beat me every game, but he’s bigger.”
Pat O’Donnell had claimed his own chair from another table. “Size has nothing to do with winning.” He motioned the waitress over. “Boys want hot dogs and Cokes. Got a light beer?”
“Matt’s? Miller?”
“Matt’s will do me. You practice,” he corrected the youngster, “you can take on the best. Megan use to be good. Beat her old man a time or two. Then she got lazy.
“Seamus? Been thinking, got some friends on the force. You’re going to be tied up ‘til noon tomorrow. How’s about I take the boys out to the police range in the morning. Wouldn’t do Colin any harm to meet some New York cops socially.”
This brought a squeal of pleasure from the boy. “Can we?”
“Suppose. If O’Donnell wants to put up with you. Sound like fun to you, Sean?”
“Sure,” Sean said, like it didn’t matter.
“What kind of scores you run up?”
“One fifty-better,” Sean’s reply lacked enthusiasm.
“Better is right.” Pat O’Donnell clapped Sean’s shoulder. “He got a two hundred.” Then pressed, “Thought about the camp, Seamus. We could boat up to Canada. Haven’t had the old tub out for a spell, going to need some cleaning up. Boys tell me they’re good sailors.” He threw a mock punch at Colin’s jaw.
Colin giggled. “Sean can’t swim so good.”
Noticing the quick spark of anger in the older boy’s eyes, Megan hoped Colin was a better than average swimmer. “Dad,” she offered. “I could drop you and the boys off in the morning then get the van gassed up and packed for you.”
Seamus interrupted, “You’re going with us?”
“I don’t think so…
“Come on Meg,” Colin begged. “We’ll have a grand time. People will think we’re all related.”
Suddenly the sulky Sean grinned and surprised her. “We’ll need a cook, unless your pa’s better’n Seamus.”
“Thanks loads kid. Just what I want to do—cook.”
“She’s coming,” her father said. “Just likes to be teased.”
Chapter 28
New York City, 1981
Thomas Devlin slumped on the over-size couch. Like everything in the office/den combination, it broadcasted a masculine flair. He licked at the rim of his glass. Central air kept the room comfortable but made the leather cold against his back and he shivered. Between the plane incident and the time of year, he’d anticipated Mike would call him tonight, so this phone call had been no surprise.
Michael O’Neill had been in the pool when Devlin answered his summons and hadn’t bothered to change. The ivory of the terry robe he now wore blended evenly with his skin. O’Neill only swam indoors for he held no fascination for a sun that freckled him unmercifully. Adjusting the leather recliner, he leaned back and the robe parted. He scratched at the sprinkling of auburn hair that adorned his chest. O’Neill appeared to be in a pensive mood. They knew each other so well, that Devlin didn’t deem it necessary to force conversation. As he waited his memory drifted back to the first time he’d been ushered into this inner sanctum.
He’d had two hundred Yankee dollars and a few pound notes in his pocket and he wore a wrinkled new suit that hung too loosely on his teenage body. O’Neill had barked at him, “Still wet behind the ears and yah dress like you were fuckin’ going to a wake. You need ass-wipin’ too?” Devlin had stammered he was sorry; about what he wasn’t sure. He then proceeded to down each drink as it was poured. For three days after he thought he was going to die. Strangely, it was the big man who tended to him: dumping him under cold shows, forcing food down his throat, cleaning the vomit he splattered all over himself.
That first time was bad. Still other times were worse until he confronted the truth that he couldn’t keep up. He’d be falling down drunk before O’Neill reached his roaring stage. Hampered by size, a foggy brain, and pitiful reflexes, too often Devlin ended up using ice for more than his hangover. ‘I’ll not go near the bastard again’, he would promise himself as he gingerly touched a swollen mouth or traced a purple-yellow stain encircling an eye. But then the phone would ring.
With never the slightest apology, O’Neill would order, “Get your ass on over here. Got a job to keep you humping all summer.” And he would go. For a long time he told himself he went because he had no choice and the big man owned him. As he grew older Devlin stopped lying to himself.
O’Neill had finished off two double shots and was working on his third. The whiskey caused the jaw muscles to sag adding a weary expression to the handsome face. “Your family get in okay?”
Devlin shrugged. “Seamus picked a lousy time to visit. I’m up to my ears. John went out on limb in raising donations for the IGA and it’s not making his daddy too happy. Raymond figures any connection with the ‘Irish troubles’ right now could work against John. The accidental killing of their leaders turned an innocent movement into an undercover network.” Devlin groaned. “Figure that one. So we have to distance the Connors’ from them in one big hurry.
“Pat O’Donnell came to the rescue—he took Seamus and the boys up to Canada for few days.”
O’Neill took a deep pull on the whiskey. “With Ann and the kid gone this house is a morgue. I’d kind of like to see Colin’s brother—was just a little fellow when I left Ireland. Drop them here when they get back. Dede’s got plenty of junk that those boys will enjoy.”
O’Neill’s mind seemed to shift gears. “If my kid had been on that plane I’d have blown the whole stinkin’ island ta hell.”
Devlin didn’t question which island. And Annie? He knew the other man would never say that’s what he meant. Men easily admitted emotional concerns for women they were legally bonded to, like a mother, a daughter, a wife—but a girlfriend. He eyeballed his glass that O’Neill was freshening; already he was feeling the effects of the first one. He wondered why he didn’t just tell Mike about the ulcer; why had he never told him. He still didn’t. Mike wanted to see Seamus? That was strange—well maybe not. After all Seamus and Mike’s kid brother Emanon had been close friends.
“Been thinking about it all day. ‘Bout how the kid died. Blown from the rear he never seen it coming.” O’Neill tipped his glass and emptied it.
“It was a lousy time. Catholics still believed the British Army had come to rescue them from the RUC. The Protestants had gone a bit berserk thinking the British government was betraying them. You ever been in a riot, Mike? Everybody’s crazy. No logic just insane panic. Bound to bring on sacrifices because the law’s not immune either.”
“Sacrifice! Shit! It sucks to go that young. Like he never lived.” Noticing Devlin’s nearly full glass, he ordered, “Drink up,” before he refilled his own. “That kid lived.” O’Neill corrected himself. “All the time grinning. Funniest wean I ever saw. Round and fat couldn’t close his legs ‘til he learned to walk. You know I was nearly fourteen before Emanon was born. More like a son than a brother.”
Devlin just shook his head in agreement not mentioning how he’d heard it all before—so many times before. “Fine lad he was. Tended me like a nurse time the law laid the fear of the Almighty on this hide. Never knew a finer lad.”
“Aye, he was that.” O’Neill rubbed the half empty quart across his brow. “Always seeing to others Emanon was.” He snorted and poured. Then in a flash of memory grinned. “Took ‘em fishin’ time or two. First when ‘e was no more than a whelp. All over the bloody boat he was. Got so mad, I threw him in. Damn, when I pulled him out wasn’t he laughing. Don’t ‘e turn round and jump back in. Loved it; fuckin’ swam like a fish.”
“Never knew he could swim.” Seemed important to a man who could not. Devlin added, “Never said he could.”
“Damn! Didn’t I just tell yah? Never a lesson, mind yah, lad knew to do things right. Bloody girl—spend a fortune on lessons. Wish they’d a lesson to train her mouth. You’re a lucky lad Tom Devlin—you got no kids.” O’Neill emphasized by refilling their glasses and toasting.
As if struck by a sudden pain, Tom closed his eyes and whispered, “Shouldn’t a murdered him. Ain’t right to kill a lad like that.” Devlin knew he had crossed the imaginary line he decided on years ago. Why tonight? He drew breathe deeply through his nostrils, swiped at his forehead with the glass-filled hand. His words were slurring now. “Weren’t right. Fuckin’ well killed ‘em for no reason. Sure, now, Mike wished it’d been me instead.”
“Cut that crap! Don’t wanna hear it.”
“Sure, Mike, sorry.” Devlin hunted a hanky in his pants pocket, an old habit, located only his billfold and forgot what he was after while he sucked at his drink. “Pity,” he moaned, “good gotta die young.”
“Damn!” O’Neill bellowed as he leaned forward and grabbed the front of Devlin’s shirt. “Why’d ya say that fuckin’ thing?”
His foggy brain warning him not to struggle, Devlin squealed. “Sorry, Mike, it’s a stupid saying—don’t mean nothing.”
And the big man’s fingers let loose and smoothed the crushed fabric of Devlin’s shirt. “Here, lad, drink up. You’re slow tonight. My pa.” He could never forget. “He said that asshole thing ta me the night the kid died. Called to tell me that. There I was sobbing like a blooming babe and my own daddy, he says to me, stay there—ain’t nothing for you here. I’m sending your nipper to you. I’ve got nothing left to give. Like I’d be askin’ him for somethin’. Me ask him!”
“Sure, but you’d already sent for the lass.”
“Not so. Not that way at all. Wanted the lad with me. Figured if Emanon brought Dede, he’d end up staying himself.” Tears trickled unmolested down his cheeks. “Damnit, Tom, if he’d listen to me—come.”
“No good, Mike, can’t be blamin’ yourself.” Devlin slid down on his side mumbling, “Can’t count ifs.”
O’Neill’s chin drooped on his chest. “Told me tah keep my nipper, he did. And ain’t he been draggin’ her back ever since.” Then he moaned. “Still hunting for pieces. Not a whole friggin’ body’s been found. Not a face a pa could recognize.”
“The way she blew. Forget the damn plane, Mike.” Devlin slipped the rest of his way down on his back. Carefully he propped the nearly full glass on his belly. One way or another, he thought, I always end up on my backside, and he chuckled.
“What the fuck yah laughing at?” O’Neill snorted. “Human beings turned in ta fish food? You’re a sick man, Tom Devlin, a sick man.” He discovered one drink left in his bottle.
“Called Pa today. My kid’s nuts,” he grumbled. “Spends the better part-o-the-year staying as far from me as she can manage, both in the same house. Not gone a couple a days, from an ocean away, she blubbers, ‘Daddy I miss you’. Puts on the act, Dede does, for the old man. All sweetness and light ‘round him. Round you too, bastard.” He attempted to glare at Tom but his muscles couldn’t hold it.
