A reason to kill, p.62
A Reason To Kill, page 62
“Thank you, but no, not even a headache powder.” Sheppard groaned. Then as Martin started for the door he halted him with the plea, “Would it be in good form to ask another favor?”
“Ask?”
“Long as your here, could I make use of the toilet? The other chaps give the impression they’re not beneath drowning me in the bowl.”
“They’ve no love for the English.” Martin said as he made a motion for the man to follow.
Sore and stiff from the long hours of confinement, Sheppard was grateful for the man’s patient wait as he stumbled and righted himself. The simple act of not shoving him was a kindness. Still, as he obediently left the door open, he complained, “Not even a window I can crawl through. It seems bloody obscene to watch a man piss.” For which Martin answered with a sharp laugh but stepped back from the open toilet door.
As the Englishman came out drying his hands, he asked, “What did you have me on? My tongue I could use for a file.”
Ignoring the question, Martin offered, “Think your belly can hold something down?”
“Be only too willing to try.” This wealthy young male was rapidly learning gratitude for simple things; the pleasure in being able to move freely without ducking a blow; to talk with another human. He was desperate to keep this conversation alive. To keep this man talking to him since he was the only one who did. “Like to see a human face.” He grinned pointing to the mask.
“Bet you would. And tag a few names? Forget it and you’ll live longer.”
“Of course, I was joking.” He rubbed at the stubble on his chin as he worried out loud, “It’s hell not knowing what happened to the others. Colleen?” was spoken in a near whisper that grew into the accusation, “Jas and Dee are only youngsters.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Martin answered. “We didn’t touch your lady love. We had you out of there long before the girls returned. The Yank? Hell he’s worth more alive than you are. Park it,” he ordered. He spoke to another without using a name. “Rustle up some nice thick mush. Won’t taste great but it should stick in his gut.”
Chapter 112
London, England, 1984
This morning, the men were enjoying a bit of humor, they were laughing when Rory Hanlon opened the door. David Martin stepped in front of him just as the body came hurling away from the splicing machine. Hot tears of outrage poured from the blue eyes, while the words burst from his throat in a screaming howl. “You lousy, lying, fucking, bastard!” His fists hammered into Martin’s chest. “You fucking fag!” Martin caught the boy’s wrists and thrust his body back but Jason kicked and caught him on the anklebone and he grunted from the pain. “Queer!” Jason continued to screech. “You’re a lousy fucking queer!”
Attempting to halt his own punishment, the man wrenched the boy’s arms behind his back. The sharp pain caused the boy to quiet some and Martin growled, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Rory Hanlon gave the answer. “Been watching himself in the movies.” He pushed the rewind button as he chuckled. “Don’t relish being a star.”
“You left that damn tape lying around?”
And Jason, his violence now contained by the strong grip, screeched, “You and your rotten promises. Did you get a pimp’s fee or were you in on the action?” He struggled helplessly as Martin dragged him before the large screen.
“Hanlon put that damn video back on without sound.” With the screen flickering in color, Jason attempted to turn his head but Martin grabbed his chin and forced his face around. “Watch!” he held the boy giving him no choice. The action now on the larger screen caused Jason to shudder in disgust. As the short play ended Martin shook him roughly, and ordered, “Can the hysterics!” He pulled him to a full-length mirror. “Less than ten actual minutes.” He smacked Jason aside the head as he ordered. “Hanlon, take the kid’s jeans down.”
Though Jason continued to struggle his waistband soon end up around his knees. “Look in the mirror.” Martin jerked the tortured arm. “Hold still!” He brought one hand down then up Jason’s inner thigh and drew it across the boy’s crotch as the man on the screen had done but there was no contact between their flesh. “I made it clear.” Martin growled. “They weren’t to actually touch you. Your precious prick wasn’t violated. Nobody laid a finger on you but me.”
“That’s all there was to it, lad,” Hanlon seconded. “When you got in the game, you knew we weren’t playing nice. Davy put you under so it would be easier on you; then he stayed right with you. Fact, so did I.” The older man grinned.
Jason’s chin fell forward as he mumbled, “I felt odd? weird? Like—”
“No doubt you did.” Martin grunted. “I put that catheter in your prick. Like the drugs, the wounds, and the IV hook up it was all for show. Nobody hurt you. Now!” The threatening tone made Jason glance quickly into the mirror. He yelped in shock as he watched Martin unbuckle his own belt and yank it loose.
Not doubting the man’s intention, Jason squealed, “No! Why?”
“Your filthy mouth. If your daddy tried wailing your ass a bit, maybe you wouldn’t always be getting knocked on it.” He forced Jason belly down over a chair. Wielding the belt with a vengeance, the leather smacked against the flesh beneath the thin fabric. The boy clamped his teeth together refusing to cry out. With his upper body pinned by Martin’s knee only his lower extremities were mobile and he thrashed wildly so several blows missed and marked his naked thighs an angry red.
Hanlon intervened by grabbing Martin’s arm as he ordered, “Leave some hide on him. Lad had a right to be upset.”
Tossing the belt, Martin yanked Jason up demanding, “How did you come to be in here?”
“I—Stew—we talked about drug reaction—”
“The son of a bitch!” Martin exploded as he shoved the boy and took the hall on a run.
While Jason yelled, “No! Wait!”
Hanlon’s quick grab prevented Jason from immediately following and he warned, “You lookin’ ta collect more punishment?”
“He didn’t let me explain. He’ll kill Stew.”
“Not hardly. Blow off some steam maybe? It’s the names you called him really ticked Davy off. Pull your britches up and we’ll have a look see.”
~~~
Stewart Sheppard swung defensively around the rear of his chair as the raging creature burst through the door. He instantly recognized the only one who would talk to him.
But the violent set of Martin’s uncovered features shocked him into silence as the man growled, “You feeling chipper now?” Stewart allowed a quick nodded to suffice and Martin added, “Good,” before his fist smashed the Englishman in the mouth.
The unexpected blow sent Sheppard stumbling back only to be yanked forward. Instinctively he ducked the next punch but took a right cross beside his left ear. Gagging on a rapidly followed stomach punch, he forgot caution and brought his head up under the Irishman’s chin throwing him off balance. Then he blocked a left feint with his shoulder, threw a brutal jab into Martin’s jaw and dropped into a half crouch. Martin recovered quickly. An uppercut staggered his opponent; he blocked a similar punch with his elbow only to catch a hard right on the side of his head.
Their racket had quickly drawn an audience, but no one appeared inclined to interfere. Rough humor swelled into nasty remarks or cheers as the two young males continued to batter one another splintering furniture and splitting skin.
Jason tugged on Hanlon’s sleeve with the plea, “Stop them.”
But Hanlon only cast an affectionate arm across the boy’s shoulders with the chuckled, “They’re havin’ themselves a grand time.”
“Stew’s bleeding.”
“Sure, but I’d wager he’d rather take his blows and give some then soothe Davy’s temper the way you did,” was followed by a vile laugh as he patted Jason’s rump.
“Shit!” Jason snapped. “Funny-real-damn-funny. Dave don’t look so good either.” He unconsciously shivered as Stewart slammed into a wall.
Hanging a second, the Englishman slid down the wall to a sitting position on the floor. His breathing was loud and irregular. Blood dribbled from several cuts and creased the edge of his mouth.
The Irishmen, while still on his feet, was bent chimpanzee style. His left eye was already swelling closed and gore dotted his chin. He held himself upright with the aid of the wall and staggered to his opponent. Looming above him, he admitted, “Had it,” and slumped down beside him.
“Never taken on a taig before.” Sheppard grimaced. “Not be in a hurry to do it again. See the Army’s sense in shooting you bloody Irish from afar.”
Taking no offense, Martin grunted. “For a fuckin’ Limey ass, yah handle yourself all right, lad.”
“Good show.” Hanlon stepped over and clapped them both on their shoulders. “Now, Davy, your hard-on’s down? Listen to what the boy has to say?” Giving his arm for leverage he helped Martin stand.
And Jason rushed with, “Stew didn’t tell me I was drugged. He never let me talk about what went on here, kept telling me it wasn’t safe. Only, Dave, he’s worse than you.” His eyes met Martin’s. “He’s always trying to get me to study, to read. We were discussing drug reactions, I asked him some questions. I guessed the rest.”
Martin’s fingers locked on Jason’s arm. Embarrassed, Jason attempted look away. “Look at me! Damn it!” And as Jason obeyed the man growled, “You still doubt me?”
“No!” was punctuated by the added shake of the youth’s head.
“Good,” was a released breath. “Now help me get to the shower,” came through Martin’s grimace as he threw his arm over Jason’s shoulders
Chapter 113
London, 1984
Prison wards are depressing. Regardless of how modern the facility, the ugly and disturbing atmosphere doesn’t lend itself to the art of healing. Objectionable smells of a regular ward seem to intensify when restraints and guards are added. Annoyance that he had no choice but to keep his young detainees here showed in his tone as Dan Mitchell inquired. “How is she?”
“She’ll survive.” The doctor’s expression was as unpleasant as Mitchell’s own, and his voice rubbed like gravel on bare skin. “Damn nasty scars for a bit of a lass to live with.” The doctor gave the impression he knew more than what was required to treat his patient. This didn’t bode well for a mission that was top secret.
Perhaps the man recognized the girl but how? The fact she was missing and believed kidnapped had been released to the American press. It was unlike any English news would carry it. Since it had never been his intention for Deirdre to come to harm, nor did he feel responsible for something the girl caused herself, Mitchell refused to accept blame. “When can I question her?”
“Now, if you like.” He shrugged. “Don’t think it will do you much good. She’s not unconscious, you know. Rather, she’s quite able to hear. She’s just choosing to ignore you.” A sharp laugh followed the physician through the closing door.
“Ass,” was given as an honest appraisal. Mitchell turned his attention on the girl.
Bandaging hid the wounds, along with the puckered flesh from the suturing required to close them. The relaxed features showed Deirdre wasn’t in pain though her eyes remained shut. “All right Dee, you can cut out the act, open your eyes”.
The girl remained perfectly still without so much as the flutter of an eyelash.
“This isn’t going to work. Sooner or later you are going to have to talk to me. I have a lot of time.” He settled himself in a chair; bending a knee he pulled one leg across to form a lap as he remarked, “Don’t you care about Sean?”
Her eyes snapped open and the purple orbs glared at him.
“That’s better. Sorry I had to use that ploy—Sean’s fine. Now if you would cooperate by answering a few questions.”
“Go screw yourself!”
“Now, that’s the lass, I remember. Your face needs extensive work though I’m sure with your daddy’s money you can afford a whole new body. Give me the information I need and you could look human by Christmas.”
“I look that bad?” The flash of concern turned back into a scowl as she said, “You bastard!”
“Information Deirdre, not opinions. What is significant in the term ‘fourth of July’?”
“Independence Day?”
“More than that. Of what importance could it have had to Franco Beaumont?”
“Don’t know him.”
“That’s a lie. I can place you right in the Baumont home on a number of occasions over the years. Your Uncle Charles’ name shows up on the family as well as the company payrolls. Why was Franco murdered?”
She turned her face away from him snuggling it into a pillow. Frustrated, Mitchell yanked the pillow free and tossed it on the floor. “Now perhaps you can hear me better. Franco Baumont was murdered!”
Her eyes closed and she rolled her head slowly back and forth. “Tell me what the ‘fourth of July’ means?” Again she rolled her head. “You don’t know or you’re not telling?” She repeated the action. “Maybe you’d like to talk about Kevin Henry? I remember when you two were very close. Has anyone told you about Kevin?” The eyes snapped open again. “I didn’t think so. You won’t see him next time you’re in Ulster. Suppose you’d like me to tell you why?” Now the head moved up and down. “No deal. Not till you open your mouth.”
“Okay! So what happened to Kev?”
“That’s better.” If he was reading her expressions correctly, the young lady’s hard surface shell had a soft underbelly when it came to her friends. “Sorry, Dede, but Kevin had a bad accident.”
“He’s dead?”
“No! He had a rough time though, lost both his parents.” He intentionally withheld information that might make her clam up again. He said, “The lad is suffering from a drug overdose. They tell me his brain maybe permanently damaged.”
“Kevin OD’d?” There was a sudden rush of tears.
He pressed on, coloring the truth to suit his needs. “The same people who killed Franco are responsible for what happened to Kevin’s parents, to Kevin himself—” The opening door interrupted him and he barked in anger as he glanced up. “What in hell do you want?”
A grinning Philip Caine stalked towards the bed. “Hi love. Glad to see you alive.” He punctuated his words with a nasty laugh. “Matt really got the hots for you, couldn’t hold him back so I came along.”
“Can it!”
“Why? Dede doesn’t mind. She’s proud of her harem. You keep a scorecard bitch? Where’s Connors?”
This brought an angry Mitchell out of his chair. “I said enough!” He spun Caine around and shoved him towards the door.
“We had a deal!”
“That I was attempting to fulfill before you brought your filthy mouth in here.”
“Only language a bitch like Dede understands.” Caine had turned at the door and was attempting to get by Mitchell. But the inspector blocked him to prevent his re-entering the room.
“Get out!”
“I’m out of here, Danny boy.” Caine threw his hands up as if in self-defense but chuckled as if sharing some unknown joke. “You’ve been upstaged, Inspector,” he said. “Matt’s brother is in London. Wait till you see the charges the British Army has levied against your pets. He’s talking with Matt now.”
~~~
When Colonel Oliver Reed first entered the waiting room, he was pleasantly surprised at the difference in the young man. He hadn’t had much more than an occasional phone conversation with his younger brother in several years. Now that the brash American teenager was gone, he was seeing a young man and he felt they could finally communicate.
“You don’t understand, Matt.” He continued to explain after Matthew had literally driven Philip Caine out. “We are not dragging charges out of thin air, as you put it. It’s taken some hard investigative work, but we can now place Deirdre O’Neill in Monaghan’s only minutes before the first explosion.”
This brought a negative shake of Matthew Reed’s head. “She would have to be a damn fool to cut it that close—or a martyr. Dede’s neither.”
“You know her that well?” Oliver tried to keep the disappointment from his tone. “Normally I’m not in the habit of explaining my actions, except to superiors. But you’re family.” A good two inches shorter, he didn’t step too close so he wouldn’t have to look up at his kid brother. Matthew’s persistent defense of these killers was beginning to wear thin. Disgust touched by anger hardened his features.
“Don’t try to stare me down, big brother, that day is long gone. I’ve taken shit from other experts. You got a hard-on for these two kids? Why? Because they’re Irish?”
Once Oliver would have easily shut the impertinent youth’s mouth with a backhand. Now, he doubted the young adult male would stand still for such treatment. They had never enjoyed being brothers; the age disparity added to their so different rearing, destroyed that relationship. Matthew had enjoyed the momma-papa home life while Oliver, deprived of a mother at birth had not. Nannies overseen by an aged grandfather, and then condemned to boarding schools because of an active military father, composed most of his childhood memories.
He continued in a curt tone. “Matt, please, set aside your opinions and listen to the evidence. Not only was the O’Neill girl seen leaving Monaghan’s; but also the time from when she crossed the border check point until she arrived in Killyleagh, doesn’t add up. Six hours are missing. What did she do in those six hours? A flat tire, her grandfather claims, forcing a layover at Henry’s place—known UDA. Bad roads and all, I can make the trip in under an hour. Dede drives faster. Of course Henry makes a sorry witness for either side—he’s dead.
“Sean O’Donnell was in Belfast that night. We’ve placed him at a number of pubs in city center. He only spent a few minutes in each one and appeared to be looking for someone. Sean was working in Newry. He was in the habit of spending his free time with a little wrench named Molly Brennan. Though he was expected, he never got to her father’s pub that night. He was spotted driving Dede’s car.”
