Blood From A Shadow (2012) Read online

  “I overheard Miss Conroy mention Ulster,” she said. “I believe that’s where she may be going now. And I suspect that she will lead us to others, higher up the food chain.”

  Ulster County, upstate New York, our oasis in the Hudson Valley, where the McErlane’s took a house in the summer to keep Ferdy away from the temptations of the city streets. That was our paradise then, a huckleberry-pickers shack, the last of the Mohicans, creating our own world of play and imagination. Those really were the best days of my life. And we kept the attachment even when we were older, used to go back when Gallogly had boosted another hot automobile and we needed a destination. Ulster County made a lot of sense, if Ferdy had made the arrangements.

  “I need you, both of you, to assist me. That is why you are with me now,” Cora said.

  Still no expression on that beautiful face. She had just blown a guy’s head open, then wiped her shoes on him. Would she have let the Brit fillet me if she hadn’t thought I would be useful? Maybe. And maybe the Brit had to go because he did know too much. She really didn’t have to kill him, she had him cold. She still had that fucking Beretta under her coat. I reached back for the Heckler & Koch, smeared my bloody prints over it, cradled it in my lap, business end casually pointing her way.

  “We must stop to have your wound attended to,” she said.

  I played around with the gun, she started to get uneasy.

  “I’m fine Cora,” I said. “Just fine like this as it is.”

  I leant across so the barrel nudged her ribs, used my left hand to feel inside her jacket, took her Beretta, moved back to my own side.

  “That really is unnecessary, sir,” she said.

  “Sir” again. She knew I would cut her in half at this range.

  “We’ll see, Cora, we’ll see,” I said.

  We were on the Lincoln Highway now, Gallogly flashed the patrol car, they dropped off, we were on our own. Cora’s mask didn’t flinch, she was silent, but I guessed she was working on something in there.

  “The ‘Faugh a Ballagh’ thing,” she said, after a while. “I had a pretty miserable childhood. My grandfather used to say that to lift me when I was on a downer. My mom, too. He would say it to her when she just thought she couldn’t go on, you know?”

  I couldn’t imagine her being a miserable child. She had that self-confidence, the looks, an aura. How could somebody like her have had a crap childhood? And her mom must have been just as privileged. People like that don’t know what miserable means.

  “I never knew my father, he took off before I was born,” she said. “Just me and mom, and my grandfather, he looked after us. I was only ten years old when he died, and he was an old man then, but he was the most important man in my life.”

  I watched her face closely, she looked like a different person now, but which was the real Cora?

  “He served with your regiment, you know, lost a foot and an arm to a Japanese mortar in Saipan, 1944,” she said. “He was from the Bronx too, moved down to Alabama after the war. He was in pain every day of his life, but he never complained. He always told me he had no regrets, he made a sacrifice so that children like me could have a better chance in life than he did. I understand that now, I guess that’s why I am here, I owe it to him. That’s why Faugh a Ballagh means something to me. What about you, Con, what does it mean to you?”

  I didn’t answer, she was way smarter than me, might have been messing with my head, no point in making it easy for her. And she already understood what it meant to me, just the same as it must have meant to her crippled grandfather, if he even existed, so she didn’t need my answer. But I did think I saw her mask fade, slightly, just for a moment, and a real emotion escape, maybe hurt or sadness or nostalgia or self pity, I couldn’t tell. I withdrew the Heckler & Koch, set it on the floor at my feet. She looked vulnerable now, like she needed a substitute shoulder to lean on, like she might cry. She moved close to me, wiped the blood from my wound, knew I wouldn’t resist.

  “We’re going back to Ulster County, Jack,” I told Gallogly. “Back to the Shawangunks, back to the Mohonk. I should have known that’s where they were.”

  No way she was a messenger. That old man would have been proud of her, if he ever existed. I kept a tight grip on the Beretta, like my life depended on it.

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO

  Starting from the Bronx, Ulster County is about 80 miles up the Hudson Valley along Interstate 87. Gallogly would rocket us up there in little more than an hour, to the end of the line, so I guess I should have rehearsed all the possible scenarios in my head, dream sequenced through the infinite chaos of cause and effect, braced myself for action. But it was just easier now to blank it all out, drift along until we hit trouble, then see what would happen. Cora pretended to sleep on my shoulder, Gallogly played Norah Jones, Little Broken Hearts. We rolled through the Bronx and Yonkers, the I-87 swung east over the Hudson. I closed my eyes, saw Ryan behind the bar in Grogan’s, the old guy Dimitri kissing Didar’s hand, Kaffa laughing on the way into Istanbul, Eddie pouring coffee in Blind Mary’s. Lou lying in his pooled blood back there in the car park. Nothing I could do about any of them now. Shit happens.

  Rose’s grandfather flashed through my mind. Just her grandfather, not Rose. Mount Kisco was over in the opposite direction, maybe that reminded me of him. I was the only one with time for his stories from the old days. He always talked a lot about death, then about nothing else, near the end. All the casualties he couldn’t reach, smoked to death, burnt to a cinder, reduced to dust and ash. But mostly he talked about his own death, and worried. Had he earned salvation already? Did he have to keep trying, or could he never do enough? I didn’t even know then what salvation was, but I guessed there would be no one to indulge me when the time came. I used to panic about that, about finding myself all alone, but now it didn’t matter, because I knew I could endure whatever anybody cared to throw at me. Fuck all of them, I was free of all that shit now, could slide along without fear that I might freak out at the very end, when it was too late. And I didn’t need Conroy’s breathing practice anymore, I was sailing along with Cora on my arm, maybe to the end, and I really didn’t care.

  I must have relaxed into sleep, or was caught up in my daydreams, because, all of a sudden, I realised the Beretta was gone, and Cora had moved back to the other window, could have plugged me if she had wanted to. Careless of me, time to get a grip again, get into the zone. I looked ahead, there was the sign for New Paltz, we used to cruise around here in Gallogly’s stolen automobiles, saw Floyd Patterson on Huguenot Street one day, he waved to us, that was one of our best days.

  “Where to, Con?” Gallogly asked. “Over to their old place?”

  The McErlane’s used to hire a house on the fringes of the pines below Sam’s Point, the rock that looks down over the rest of the Shawangunk Ridge. I knew the McErlanes had a disagreement with the family who owned the house, and heard later that it was burnt down, years ago, but I figured Ferdy would have picked out somewhere close by. I really hoped it would be as easy as pulling up and taking Rose and young Con back home, but I knew Cora wasn’t just tagging along for the ride, she had her own business to conduct. Gallogly cut across the Mohonk Preserve, through the forest, brought back all those good memories. Like one time Ferdy and I unearthed a Timber Rattlesnake, when we were kids. We duelled with it all day, throwing rocks, setting fire to the grass around it, then getting too close with a branch of a tree. Later, when we were invincible teens, Gallogy shot a rattler, then skinned it. We goofed about with it for a while, then he threw the skin away when it was time to take the stolen auto to his dealer. Good memories, wild and free, though I would be ashamed if my son knew what we were like back then. A different world, different times. Through Ellenville, Cragsmoor was ahead, not far now. Cora was alert, back at work, checked the Beretta.

  We idled past the old place, on Sam’s Point Road. Nothing there now, just a space where a house had been, reclaimed by the creeping forest. They were around here
somewhere, Cora could have roused the local cops, but we didn’t need their questions. We drove along slowly, the craggy outcrop of the conservation preserve rising above us, the road etched through the rocky base.

  “Any idea where they might be?” Cora asked.

  Gallogly shrugged, I coughed, like something was stuck in my throat. I bent forward and coughed and spluttered, then spat out the window. The cold mountain air washed my face, and I got the taste, the real, tangible taste of aniseed, like I had just swilled a mouthful of that moonshine Raki shit.

  “Stop!” I said.

  Gallogly pulled in, looked over his shoulder at me, just the pine forest on one side, the bare cliffs on the other. Cora scanned all around.

  “There’s nothing here, Con,” Gallogly said.

  I stepped out, walked ahead, stood in the middle of the road, my eyes closed, my face to the gray sky. The taste was fading, I concentrated, tried to hold it, but it melted away in the mountain breeze. I lent over the barrier, looking down through the forest below. Another scent now, her strong cheap, musky perfume, fanning my nostrils, like the pine trees were oozing her scent as sap across the mountain. I stepped over the barrier and pushed into the green gloom of the winter forest. Damp and cold here, snow lying further up. Her scent was strong now, I coughed, tasted the aniseed again, kept moving through the sleeping undergrowth. There, down below, a house deep in the forest, almost invisible from this road, could just see the gray roof tiles and the empty chimney stack. Gallogly was out of the SUV now, calling my name into the trees. I stumbled back up, shut him up.

  “That’s it, they are down there,” I said.

  Cora peered into the shadows, couldn’t see from here, had the gun ready. Gallogly shrugged, climbed back behind the wheel, shuffled the SUV around, I made Cora get in first, we headed back down the road. We were almost back at Cragsmoor when Gallogly spotted a gate across a narrow track. A new chain and padlock, tire marks in the dirt, Gallogly nested the SUV below the trees, I had the H&K UMP and the 45, Gallogly the Bullpup shotgun, we went over the fence, followed the track, winding back up the mountain. Ten minutes through the jungle and there was a clearing ahead. We hunkered behind a fallen tree, could see two vehicles parked on a rough gravel pathway, then a two story house, white wood, fish scale shingles. Complete silence, just our own breathing, then a rasping cry, like a startled child. We tensed, ducked below the log, then three more shrieks echoed through the forest, too loud to be ignored by anyone in the house.

  “What is that?” Gallogly whispered. “It sounds like a baby, but it can’t be, can it?”

  I edged up to look again, an emerald green flag rippled in the stillness, a thousand floating golden eyes shimmered through the green. The cry tore through the dark forest.

  “What the fuck is that noise?” Gallogly barked.

  It was a peacock, Didar’s peacock angel, a good omen, or maybe a warning.

  “Forget it,” I said. “It’s just a dumb bird, let’s go.”

  Shit happens, but I turned my head away so that Gallogly wouldn’t see my face crumple, smeared my tears across my cheeks before they found me out. But Cora noticed, she saw it in my eyes, patted my shoulder, mumbled some comfort. The words didn’t come easy for her either.

  “Just remember my wife and son are in there,” I said. “That’s why we are here, to get them to safety. Right, Cora?”

  She nodded, Gallogly led the way, I kept her in front of me. The house had no windows on the north facing side, we worked our way through the trees until we were no more than twenty feet away, then flitted across the open ground, one at a time. No reaction from inside. I pressed my ear to the wall, nothing. We moved around to the back, there was a small porch, with windows on either side. I craned my head to see through the first window, too dark, couldn’t be sure. Cora stole forward to the porch, her fluid movement honed by repetitive training drills, knew what she was doing. She lent her body away from the doorframe, reached her left hand to try the door, it opened, slowly, quietly. She was inside, went low, to the left. I followed, scanned the corners, behind the door. Still no sound inside. Gallogly followed me in. The three of us waited, I held my breath and listened, heard the blood pumping through my temples.

  Then a noise, like someone dragging a chair across a wooden floor. Someone coughing, a woman? To the front of the house, downstairs. Opened the kitchen door a fraction, could see across the hallway to the living room, a shadow behind the door. Cora went first, the door opened, Conroy sitting beside a bed, Ferdia McErlane hitched up to a plasma drip and a monitor screen. We filed around the bed, like it was visiting time, Ferdy was white and motionless.

  “I hope you are proud of yourself, Maknazpy,” Conroy said. “How many times has this guy saved your life? And now he lies here, hoping organ failure doesn’t kill him.”

  I took Ferdy’s hand, it was cold, as if he was already dead. Gallogly was at the other side of the bed. I had been in a hospital with Ferdy up here a long time ago, when he fell out of a tree and we took him to Ellenville. Gallogly was already making the call on his cell phone as I started up the stairs to get Rose and young Con.

  “They aren’t here!” Conroy called after me. “Ferdia was here on his own when I arrived, there is no one else here right now.”

  I ran up the bare wooden stairs, two bedrooms and a bathroom on the first landing, kicked the first door open, empty, the second, a bed neatly made up, but someone had been sleeping here. The bathroom had towels, shower gels, toothbrushes. Up the next flight of stairs, two bedrooms. First one, no one here, but two beds, clothes folded. They had been here, these were Rose’s clothes, and young Con’s. The last bedroom, no one here, but someone had been using it, a photograph of young Con beside the bed.

  I thundered down the stairs, turned on the landing, started down to the ground floor, but stopped, noticed it, unmistakeable. Acqua di Parma Colonia Essenza. Artie’s cultured sophistication. I stepped back up to the landing, he was here somewhere, the scent was real, not my imagination. I pulled out Gallogly’s cellphone, ran thru the numbers from McErlane’s contact list. First two unavailable, punched in the third number, screen said it was ringing, couple of seconds later, the muffled ringtone of Artie Shaw’s “Nightmare”, coming from the bathroom, knocked off quickly. I eased into the bathroom, a small cupboard behind the door, yanked the cupboard door open, Artie rolled up inside it like a firehose. I grabbed his hair and dragged him out, he floundered at my feet, I kicked his ass and he tumbled across the floor. I was on top of him, pressed my knee down on his chest, stuck the H&K into his mouth.

  “Where are they, you lying bastard!” I screamed in his face.

  He shook his head to escape the barrel, cracked his teeth, blood leaked from his lips. I punched him round the head, set the gun down, clamped both hands around his throat. Artie’s eyes bulged red, he groped at my wrists, his tongue squeezed out like toothpaste, held him like that for seven seconds, long enough for him to think he would die.

  “Where are they!” screamed again, let go of his throat, punched him in the mouth.

  “They aren’t here, son,” he cried. “They are safe, we would never hurt them.”

  I drew back to piledrive his face again.

  “They are with Sarah, she is looking after them,” he said. “Your own mother is looking after them, they are safe with her.”

  That rocked me back. She was here, Sarah McErlane, my phantom mother was here? He wriggled on his side, squirmed to get away from my fists. I slumped back against the bathroom door, he was going nowhere.

  “Talk to me, Artie,” I said. “Why me? Why did you all do this to me?”

  Artie held a tissue to his mouth, his chest pumped to fill his lungs.

  “Nobody did anything to you,” Artie said. “And I did talk to you, Con. I told you everything. It’s not about you, it’s about the right thing to do, it’s about doing our duty, doing what’s right. Didn’t I tell you all that from the start?”

  All he had ever told
me was a pile of crap about having faith in my friends, about my duty, about being the last of the Crusaders. Childish shit, like me and Ferdy imagining we were the last of the Mohicans up in those hills.

  “You just told me lies, Artie,” I said. “Lies from the start.”

  He pulled himself up, sat on the edge of the toilet.

  “It wasn’t like that, son, everything was for your own good,” he said. “But you couldn’t have coped with the bare truth, it was just too much for you, we had to protect you.”

  “That night with Swansea in Armagh,” I said. “He told me you thought you were above the law, you and that whore of yours. Your whore, that’s Conroy, right?”

  Artie grimaced.

  “Swansea my arse!” he said. “Forget that black hearted bastard, we have our own people to think of now. You and young Ferdia down those stairs. And we are nearly there, Con, despite your misguided efforts to wreck everything, nearly there. Wait until it all gets rolling next week, the liberals will have to shake out of it, we have done it, thank God!”

  I almost felt sorry for him.

  “It’s all over, Artie,” I said. “Listen to the news, there’s no big panic. The NYPD foiled a terrorist attack, end of story. No panic. No 9/11. Your friends are running for cover. It’s over, time for you to get with the real world.”

  Artie belched a mouthful of laughter and blood.

  “The real world, Cornelius?” he said. “That’s your trouble, son, you can’t function in the real world, you daydream your life away in some wee world you have created in your own head. That’s what’s wrong with this country, the real world is too difficult for most people, that’s why we have let the heathens take over.”

  He had that excited light in his eyes, like the night Swansea was butchered in front of me.

  “Ok, Artie, so I’m thick,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me, in nice simple language, what the fuck am I doing here?”