Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series) (116 page)

He felt as though he were under a spell, brewed of equal parts rage and grief. And that the only thing that would break the spell would be to find the man who had killed Lawrence. Find him and kill him. The act would not expiate his grief, but he felt certain it would take away the rage that was consuming all the better parts of him.

He tidied away the morning breakfast dishes and contemplated going outside to work on the barn; there were boards in the hayloft that needed replacing. He sighed and rubbed his temples. He didn’t give a good damn about the loft, nor the barn, nor any of the hundred and one tasks that had seemed paramount only weeks ago. Still it was either occupy his hands or go mad. He grabbed his work coat off the peg in the boot room, knocking over the canvas bag that had lain untouched on the shoe bench since Lawrence had left it there.

The contents spilled onto the floor and Casey backed away, breath stuck fast in his chest. To see the boy’s belongings, the things he’d toted about with him on a daily basis, might well be more than he could bear right now.

A crumply roll of Polo mints lay beside a half-empty pack of Sweet Aftons. A corduroy jacket, the shade of sapphires, was unrolling from the ball it had been thrust into in the bag. An orange, speckled with the white beginnings of mould, rolled drunkenly into a boot. Casey’s attention was drawn back to the jacket. He knew how it would smell, tobacco and mints with a strong whiff of Finbar. Sure enough when he bent down to pick the jacket up, it was covered in coarse gray hair. He winced, both for the pain the sight of these things had caused him and for the dog, who’d barely eaten or drank in the two weeks since the boy’s death.

He had to grab at the coat twice before he managed to grasp it. Grief had made him clumsy, his hands and feet cold and his limbs uncoordinated with the pain that seemed to weigh heavy in each and every cell of his body.

A flash of white, slipping out of the upended pockets caught his attention. Casey pulled it out and a chill suddenly enveloped him. Lawrence’s slapdash handwriting was sprawled across the white. Casey read the words, his brow furrowing. Then he turned the white object over.

It was a photo with four clear images in it. The tale these four images told was one of blood. Blood both spilled and shared—a part of his own past. A story he knew the words of, though the entire plot had not become clear until now.

He froze in place, his hands cold and mind suddenly clear. The taste of vengeance was in his mouth as bitter and hot as forged iron. What he must do was clear, for the writing of the final chapter in this story was his and his alone.

THE FISH PLANT HAD BEEN CLOSED DOWN for the better part of a year, a sign of the economic ruin that always accompanied violence. Its façade loomed up gray and nasty in the twilight. Fury had carried him this far. This rage had forged something in him that he knew could not be unwrought, for it went to the core of who he was.

There was no one about, the only sound that of water slapping against the rotting wharf. He knew, though, that inside the vast gloom, the man he’d sworn to kill waited for him. He approached the doors with caution, noting they were slightly ajar, as though they had been left so in anticipation of his arrival. He slipped through the gap into utter darkness.

He moved sideways, knowing the day would backlight him and give his opponent more of an advantage than he already possessed. He stood in perfect stillness, giving his breath and heart a moment to calm themselves. He needed a clear and cold head for what lay before him. And then he sensed a slight movement in front of him, some ways off, but closer than he’d anticipated. He narrowed his eyes, flexing his hands, ready to fend off an attack, keeping the wall tight to his back until he could get a better fix on where the man stood.

For a brief moment it seemed he could hear the other man’s heart beating in accord with his own, could feel his pulse from across the space, could claim his blood for his own. Then a light flared briefly in the gloom accompanied by the sulphurous sound of a match striking, and the comforting scent of tobacco burning. There was no comfort to be found, however, in what the match light had so briefly revealed. He only wondered that it had taken him so long to understand what might have—without the cloud of emotion—been terribly obvious.

“Robin,” he said, voice flat with unwelcome knowledge.

“Ye expected someone else?” Robin’s words were like ether scattering in the vast space. Casey’s eyes probed the dark for a glimpse of the red ember of the cigarette. But either Robin had it cupped or behind his back, because he couldn’t see a damn thing.

“More fool I am, I prayed it wasn’t you.”

“Naw,” the answer came back, lightly, “’twas always meant to end this way, man.”

“Christ, Robin, I really didn’t want it to be you.”

“Aye well,” the tone was wry, “I think we’ve both learned that things rarely work out the way a man might like. I’ve been waiting here for ye for a couple of days. Knew ye’d put it together eventually.” Robin’s voice was conversational, as though Casey had come by for a simple visit and they would sit as they had so many times before, would have a drink and a laugh.

“I’ll only ask ye the once. Did ye kill the boy?”

“Aye,” Robin said, “I did.”

Casey had known, he had seen the evidence in the picture that had led to Lawrence’s death. So why did it feel like a knife running the length of his chest to hear it confirmed?

From a great distance, he heard a beast roar in rage and pain and then realized as he rushed toward Robin, that it was he who made the terrible noise.

Robin was ready for him. The man had always been his match physically. Casey had only ever had his size to his advantage. And tonight a rage that threatened to incinerate all that lay in its path, including its possessor.

A light blinded him as he crossed the floor toward Robin. It seared his eyes, and he realized Robin had a torch and was using it to disorient him. He shut his eyes, willing the spots away, moving on relentlessly to where he knew Robin stood waiting.

Robin took the first blow without defending himself, allowing Casey to knock him down to the ground, where his own skills of lightning fast reflexes and a catlike ability to whip himself out of tight corners were to his own advantage. Casey, however, did not care if Robin beat him to a pulp as long as the final blow was his.

The floor was rough against his forearm, which he quickly locked around Robin’s neck in an effort to immobilize him as much as possible. Robin twisted quickly to the side, though, kicking at Casey’s legs and making searing contact with his left ankle. Casey swore and tightened his hold on the man’s neck, pushing a knee into his back in an effort to still him.

Robin reared back and caught him on the temple, causing the world to whirl dizzyingly for a second, and giving Robin the split second he needed to scrabble out from under him.

Casey caught him before Robin could get onto his feet, though, twisting his left arm behind his back in a bone-cracking hold that had Robin gasping in pain.

Using the wall in front of them, which Casey could sense looming in the darkness, Robin fought his way upright, dragging Casey by main force with him. Locked in a thrash of fury and limbs and muscle pushed to burning, screaming limits, they were at a stalemate. Casey would not give, however, they could tumble all the way to hell locked together in endless combat and he wasn’t going to give the man an inch. Robin’s arm, close to cracking, gave suddenly, and Casey fell against him, unprepared for the sudden slack. He ought to have known better.

Robin seized his opportunity and thrust Casey back with all the strength he could muster. Casey caught up hard against a support beam, pain flashing like lightning through his ribs, breath knocked from his body. Robin stood across from him, fighting to keep to his feet. Casey knew he was being assessed for injury. Robin would use any weakness to his gain.

He was panting, breath coming in ragged gasps that seared his throat. The impulse to kill was there in his fingertips, thrumming through muscle and sinew, body taut as a bow ready to release an arrow. Still his mind reeled at the notion that Bobbie had been the one to take Lawrence’s life.

For a long moment they were still, each weighing their advantages and disadvantages. The air about them supercharged as though lightning were about to strike and every air molecule tensed at the expected onslaught. His own flesh had drawn close to the bone, blood surging with reckless abandon.

In the dark, though, the dance had changed. Casey’s body, alert to the last nerve-ending, sensed it. Robin was tiring and would resort to desperate last measures. He could, in his own state, only anticipate so much, but he thought he knew what Robin would do. He’d seen him fight too many times not to know. Yet this was a fight to the finish, and not a bruising that they might hope to recover from. Either way, one of them would not be leaving this building tonight. And the one who did walk out at the end would still leave something behind forever.

Robin came in a rush, a demon in the dark, straight at Casey’s front, knocking him hard in the chest, sending them both in an awkward sprawl onto the conveyer belt Casey had been careful to keep at his back. He went down hard taking the brunt of Robin’s full weight to his shoulder and felt it pop out with a resounding crunch. He bit down on a scream, praying Robin hadn’t heard the shoulder crunch, though even if he hadn’t it wouldn’t take him long to realize that Casey was fighting one-handed. Two-handed he had the greater strength, though Robin had the advantage of moving swift and light. One-handed, he knew he didn’t have a prayer. And if his own memory retained the knowledge of Robin’s patterns, then certainly the same would be true of Robin.

He quickly brought his left hand into play, wedging it between himself and Robin, knowing it was the only chance he had. At first, all he could find was a handful of wet, torn cloth and sweaty flesh that refused purchase. Then he felt the collarbone and hooked his fingers around it, digging in sharply. Robin cursed and responded by shoving a thumb into Casey’s dangling shoulder.

Casey roared in agony and shoved as hard as he could against Robin’s collarbone with the heel of his hand. It gave with a sharp crack and Robin was unbalanced for a moment. Only long enough for Casey to grab a breath, though, and then lithe and cunning as a cat, Robin was back on him, hands unerringly on his throat, so that not a thread of air could pass through his windpipe. Snowstars began to whirl in streams before his eyes, the pressure of Robin’s hands threatening to blow his ears out. Thought no longer mattered, instinct was all the guide he had left. He scrabbled with his good hand, managing to get his palm flat against Robin’s chest. Then inched it up slow until he’d a grip on the other man’s neck that bought him a few extra seconds. He hoped to God he had that long.

Sweat or blood was dripping in a steady stream onto his face, he neither knew nor cared which, part of his brain still spinning with the notion that Robin was choking him to death.

The dark tingling increased rapidly, he knew he was only seconds from passing out and beyond that lay a certain death. His right arm was useless and his left quickly tiring. As soon as the pressure eased even a fraction, he knew Robin would seize his advantage and he’d be finished. Even now the cramping in his hand was agonizing, his grip ready to seizure. Then above him, Robin’s breathing checked and his hands, slick with blood and sweat, slipped. It was what Casey had waited for. He gulped at the air, then brought his good elbow down in a vicious arc onto Robin’s collarbone. Robin grunted and reared back slightly, giving Casey the small bit of space he’d sought. He used the gap to lever his legs out and kicked up, knocking Robin off balance, then grasped the opportunity to slam his head into where he thought Robin’s face should be. A crunch of bone and a spray of blood confirmed the accuracy of his aim. Robin fell to the side like a stone tipped into a pond, with as little noise when he hit bottom.

Casey lay back, breathing heavily, shoulder a blaze of pain and a warmth spreading across his back that told him he was bleeding a good deal. Robin wasn’t moving yet, but was likely only stunned and would soon be up. Casey moved his right arm experimentally, catching his breath at the pain that shot across his back and down his arm to the elbow.

He twisted to the left side, bit down hard on his lip, and shoved himself into a sitting position on the belt. He had to get up before Bobbie did, or he was finished. He managed to find his feet and plant them where he thought the floor should be. Thankfully it was, though he swayed and saw several stars come into view before extinguishing into the turgid air.

In the few seconds that Robin had flashed the torch about earlier, he had taken in what he could of the surrounding area. He staggered to the left, where he thought he’d seen a support beam that would serve his purposes well. If he could just get to it and do what needed doing before Robin came around.

It took a bit of stumbling, good hand out in front of him, seeking for purchase in the dark, but he found the beam a couple of minutes later. He ran his hand over it, looking for any protrusions or sharp edges, but it was broad and smooth and would do nicely.