Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series) (115 page)

He turned and said “Thanks again,” and brought the butt of the gun down hard on the man’s head. The old man crumpled like a rag doll, and Pat stepped over the prone form on his way to the car, hoping to God he wasn’t already too late.

THE DRIVE TO THE BRIDGE SEEMED to take hours, though in reality Pat knew it was only about ten minutes. Ten minutes could mean the difference between life and death, though, as he well knew.

The bridge was only a conduit on a narrow country road and therefore not lit. He was on top of it before he even realized it and had to reverse the car off, cursing to himself for every second that passed.

He turned off the ignition, put the car in neutral, and allowed it to slide down the hill and come to rest under a thick copse of trees. He got out of the car, gun in his right hand, finger cold on the trigger.

There was no light beneath the trees. He moved through the heavy murk, nearly jumping out of his skin when a branch brushed across his face. He needed to get a grip on his nerves before he shot the hell out of a sheep or a fence. He stopped and took a deep breath, willing his hands to be steady. The grass was thick with dew, his pant legs soaked and chill against his skin, his breath a damp cloud reaching out before him. Then, beyond a small cluster of elm trees, he saw a faint movement, and heard the rumble of a voice questioning and another replying sharply. He stooped, checking quickly over his shoulder before proceeding any further. He stopped behind a clump of gorse, slowly leaning left until he had the men in view.

There were two of them milling around, one smoking. He could see the tiny coal of his cigarette wink in and out. The third man wasn’t visible, though he wasn’t likely to be far. The last form was on its knees, forehead propped against a tree trunk. Pat cursed softly under his breath, it was the classic IRA execution position. On your knees, one shot to the back of the head. Still kneeling though, not dead yet. He knew there wasn’t time to think, or hope that angels would swoop down from the clouds and intervene. Still he hesitated, knowing that what he was about to do was irrevocable and would change everything in his life. He’d have to be fast and accurate, there was no room for near misses. Both men were armed and ready, all he had was the element of surprise.

He stepped out and aimed, taking out the one that stood directly behind David first. It was a direct shot to the head and the man dropped like a stone. Pat swivelled before the man finished falling, sighting in on the one with the cigarette as a bullet
zinged
past his left ear. His second shot hit dead center in the smoker’s chest, sending the man sprawling backwards into the narrow stream behind him. The next bullet aimed toward him grazed his left arm, leaving a burning pain in its wake. He sucked in a sharp hiss of air before shooting off another round and hoping his luck held.

It did. The third man staggered a bit and then went to his knees, finally falling forward into the wet grass on his face.

He ran to David, breath heavy in his chest and panic spreading a fine numbness through all his limbs.

“Are ye alright?”

David had toppled forward into the grass, and appeared to be barely conscious. He was also barely recognizable, he’d been so badly beaten.

“Jaysus,” Pat said, but whether in curse or prayer he was not certain. David looked too fragile to be moved, and yet there was no choice in the matter. They had to get out of here, and quickly.

Pat bent, one knee to the ground, and levered David up and over his shoulder as gently as he could manage. The stumble back to the car seemed to take forever.

He put David in the back seat and covered him with a heavy blanket that they kept in the boot for picnics. If he got stopped at any of the checkpoints, God help him, for the soldiers would likely shoot first and ask questions later.

The drive back was an agony, he had to pull over twice to be certain that David was still breathing. Pat wasn’t sure what to do, though he knew the man required immediate medical attention. He could drop him off at a hospital and run, though it seemed a dreadful cowardly thing to do. And yet, given the circumstances, what choice did he have? There was a trail leading back to the bloody field that he could not afford to have traced. But how could he, in all good conscience, leave a man so badly injured? What if David succumbed to these injuries and his last contact on earth was with total strangers?

Without having made a conscious decision, he found himself in front of the Royal Hospital. He pulled David out, wincing at each catch of the man’s breath, and carried him in his arms through the door.

A nurse looked up, startled, her blue eyes weary at the end of a long shift. She blinked when she saw the man swaddled inside the plaid blanket, blood and swelling obliterating his features. Then she looked sharply at Pat.

He realized how they must appear, David a crumpled bloody heap and himself near as bloody, even though the blood was not his own. “Please help him,” he croaked out. The nurse nodded and came around the counter hastily.

She laid her fingers against David’s neck. “Pulse is thready,” she said matter of factly. “Lay him down over here. I’m going to page the doctor.”

The scene quickly became pandemonium, as more nurses came and medical terms were flung about and David was swiftly wheeled off into the bowels of the building. In the melee, it wasn’t hard to slip away unnoticed. Pat was neither ill nor badly injured himself, and so did not warrant a great deal of notice.

Later the nurse would remember only a tall, dark-haired man and nothing more.

And certainly David, under a surgeon’s knife as they fought to keep him alive, was telling no tales.

“HERE,” JAMIE HANDED PAT A LEATHER STRAP, “bite down on this, it’s going to hurt like holy hell when I pour the alcohol.”

Jamie placed a ceramic basin under Pat’s arm, then nodded. Pat obediently bit, stifling a scream. Jamie was right—it did sting like holy hell. He was shaking, beads of sweat gathering on his brow by the time the last of the whiskey evaporated from the furrow in his arm. He had called Jamie in a panic a few blocks from the hospital, not knowing what to do nor where else to go, and unwilling to alarm Sylvie in his current state. Jamie had told him to waste no time and come directly to Kirkpatrick’s Folly.

Jamie had brought him through the back door, then ushered him into the study, gone back out and returned with the whiskey, a basin, a razor blade, and a long length of gauze to bind his arm.

The bullet had taken a neat runnel of flesh from his left shoulder. While it had bled rather copiously, it hadn’t damaged the muscle.

“D’ye think,” Pat asked weakly, “I could have some of that whiskey in a glass? It seems a terrible waste pourin’ it over my arm an’ not a drop of it makin’ its way to my throat.”

Jamie gave him an assessing eye and nodded. “You can have the one, but no more. You’ve had a bad shock, getting drunk won’t improve matters.” First he neatly taped and bound the shoulder, which was already stiff and aching like it had been hit full on with a cannonball.

Jamie then poured out two healthy measures of whiskey in heavy crystal tumblers, handing one to Pat. Pat took two large gulps, the fumes making his eyes water. It settled in his belly and steadied him for what he needed to say.

“I’ve killed three men tonight. I—I suppose I will have to turn myself in to the police.” Pat’s voice wavered slightly, though he sat firm, injured arm clutched to his chest.

“That sounds rather foolhardy,” Jamie said, sitting back on the sofa opposite Pat and taking a swallow from his own glass, “not to mention it would only serve to complicate things.”

“
Complicate things!”
Pat sputtered over his drink, “I’ve killed three men by my count, an’ am facin’ several years of prison if I make it that far, an’ ye say it merely complicates things.”

Jamie raised one gull-winged eyebrow. “Yes, it’s complicated. Had you actually managed to kill all three men out there tonight, it would have been somewhat less complex. However, you didn’t, and that definitely
complicates
things.”

“What?” Pat could feel all the blood in his head start a precipitous rush towards his toes.

“I had someone check the field. Two bodies, and a trail of blood that ended in a patch of tall grass. The owner of said blood, however, was rather conspicuous by his absence.” Jamie sat his glass down on the splay-legged table at his elbow. “Now what I need to know is if anyone saw your face tonight. And I do mean
anyone
.”

“I—no—well there’s the publican an’ his father-in-law, though he said he was blind.” Below Pat’s feet, the lush patterns of the Aubusson rug began to whirl giddily.

“Take a big swallow of your drink,” Jamie said brusquely, “and then take a few deep breaths. It’s not as though this is something that cannot be fixed.”

Pat stared at him incredulously. “Fix it? How the hell do ye suggest I fix this? I’ve killed tonight, an’ short of a miracle there’s no fixin’ that!”

Jamie took a deep breath, elegant nostrils flaring slightly. Pat got the distinct impression the man was beginning to feel rather annoyed. “Patrick, I’m going to tell you something and you need to listen closely.” There was no longer sympathy nor warmth in the man’s tone. “Tonight you had a choice, kill or be killed. Allow those men to take a friend’s life or take theirs. You chose to save David. Now you’re going to have to deal with the consequences.”

Pat leaned forward, sloshing his drink in agitation. “An’ what the hell do ye mean, ye had men out there? How the hell did ye get someone out there? Do ye have a man in every county?”

“Two,” Jamie said, with only a trace of sarcasm, “except for Sligo, there I’ve got a set of triplets.”

Pat blinked, uncertain if the man was in jest or not. “Triplets?” he echoed stupidly.

“Focus man,” Jamie retorted curtly. “There’s now at least two possible witnesses who can testify that they saw you at the Two-Step last night. They’ll need to be dealt with in one manner or another.”

“Are ye suggestin’ that I should just commit murder,” Pat said hoarsely, “an’ then act as though it never happened?”

“What exactly did you plan to do? Turn yourself over to the IRA or the police? Either way you’ll end up in the same spot as those two men tonight.”

“But I—” he stuttered, “David will need me to back him up. He can hardly hide his injuries and the man who called me knew where he’d gone. When his superiors find out there are dead men lying in a field so near there will be questions David cannot answer. I won’t let him take the blame for this; he needs me to tell the truth.”

“What David doesn’t
need
,” Jamie said caustically, “is you martyring yourself on the Ulster pyre. David can take care of himself, and if you think the British powers that be give a good goddamn about a few IRA toughs being killed, think again. They’ll merely consider it a few points for their side. Not to mention that it would be best if no one knew where David was last night. It could go very badly for him; do you understand?”

Pat nodded, swallowing the whiskey which suddenly tasted very bitter. He had the distinct feeling that Jamie was warning him off, that he had crossed over a line tonight that the man was guarding very carefully. That it was more than just David’s wellbeing and future career that was at stake. Much more.

Jamie was sitting back now, green eyes narrowed in speculation, as if he were taking Pat's measure for the first time and wondering if he were made of the proper material to bear through with this. Behind him, dawn had turned to full day, the sun breaking along the horizon like rose and gold watercolors spilled on dull gray paper.

Suddenly, Pat felt one of those odd interior shifts that he recognized as the last piece of a puzzle clicking into place. He buried his face quickly in the fumes of his whiskey glass, knowing Jamie was capable of reading him like an open book.

It was the first time, Pat realized, that he’d actually felt scared of the man.

THE HOUSE HAD NOT BEEN THE SAME to Casey since the boy’s death. He hated being alone in it now, where before he had liked the occasional silences when it was only himself and perhaps the cat. Today though, Pamela, drawn and white, had taken herself off to the city, though for what reason he couldn’t entirely remember. His mind was clouded, and it seemed to him that he couldn’t hear people when they spoke, the sounds no longer recognizable as the language he had known all his life.