Ken Bruen - Purgatory

“You’re pointing a gun at me because of my taste in books?”

C33 loved this, might even have felt a pang about having to waste the dude. Said,

“Excuse my misquoting Plath, but,

Paused,

“ I kill because it because it makes me thrill

I kill because it fits .”

Laughed.

“Indeed, it does truly make me feel real.”

Dolan tried to get a handle on the complete lunatic in his home, wondered if there was a window to do something, heard,

“No, bad idea. I’d shoot you in the gut, belly shot. The torment of the fucking ferociously damned as the Celts might put it.”

Dolan veered, tried,

“That drink?”

C33 was up, displaying an agility, lightness of foot, that showed a vibrant fitness, said,

“Let me do the honors.”

Did.

Handed the drink to Dolan, the.45 loosely dangling like the ultimate lethal tease, then, too late, C33 was back in the chair, said,

“Here’s the game, fellah.”

And in one swift moment raised the barrel of the gun, put it against the right side of the temple.

And

Pulled the trigger.

Hammer hit on empty, and

C33

Blew

“Phew.”

Dolan’s mind careened from fear through shock to disbelief and he whispered,

“The fuck are you doing?”

C33 smiled, even managed to feign sheepishness, said,

“Thought I might lighten the load and act like you’re not the scum you are.”

Dolan, again speechless, then tried,

“Scum?”

C33 drained the gin, burped, said,

“Whoops, excuse me, where were we? Oh, yeah, you being an arsonist who rents firetraps to those who’ve no choice, I figured you’d enjoy Russian roulette, seeing as you’ve been doing it to your tenants for years so, in the light of fair play, I went first and now it’s your turn.”

Handed over the gun but Dolan, wary, didn’t take it. C33 made a sad face, said,

“Ah, c’mon, here. .”

Spun the chamber.

“Now, you’ve an even better. . shall we say. . shot?”

Dolan lunged for the gun, grasped it in both hands, leveled it at C33, said,

“You psycho bollix, play this.”

Squeezed.

And squeezed.

Nothing

Nada

Zilch.

C33 said,

“I lied.”

Unity,

Thought Stewart.

What is the one unifying factor tying the four C33 killings? Had to be something, if they were random, then fookit. He had converted his living room into, almost, an incident room. And he was thus immersed when Ridge called around. She’d brought old-fashioned lemonade and handmade scones from Griffin’s Bakery. She also brought a hangover and a book.

Handed it to Stewart.

Days and Nights at Garavan’s.

He looked at her face, asked,

“You were on the razz?”

She gave a bleak smile, said,

“If you mean, did I down some vodkas and slim-line tonic, then, yes.”

Then a memory surfaced, she said,

“Oh, and I was talking to the young Garavan heir and he introduced me to Morgan O’Doherty, who wrote said book.”

Stewart wanted to roar.

“And I give a fuck, why?”

Way too close to a Taylor line. She stared at the walls, lined with names, photos, the three victims accusing her from the frame. She said,

“Either you should have been a Guard or this is, like, seriously creepy.”

She swayed, said,

“Shite.”

Sank into a chair, said,

“Forgot to eat.”

He couldn’t help it, spat,

“You were drinking on an empty stomach?”

Heard the prissiness leaking all over it. She said,

“Jesus, Mom, sorry, I did have a bag of Tayto, cheese and onion.”

He offered,

“I’ll make some herbal tea.”

She snarled,

“Christ sake, Stew, grow a pair and get me a cure.”

Fighting all his instincts, he made her a Seven and Seven, seeing as it was all the booze he had, owing to a reference to that drink on an episode of Sons of Tucson .

She took a healthy/unhealthy sip, growled,

“Mother of God.”

Appreciation or horror, he didn’t push. She sat back, said,

“So, what has all this research turned up?”

He forgot his pique, sat opposite her, gushed,

“Had to be a connection, right? And I found it.”

Waited.

Nothing.

Had to ask,

“Well, don’t you have a question?”

She said,

“You wouldn’t have a stray cigarette?”

And before he could lose it, added,

“Kidding. Come on, tell me. The thread?”

He wanted to sulk. He was after all, an Irish male, conceded,

“Westbury.”

Took her a minute, then she asked,

“The lawyer?”

She meant Gerald “Roy” Westbury, the hotshot famous for defending the foregone guilty. A media star. The camera loved him and he was pretty fond of the lens his own self. Stewart took a deep breath, said,

“I know, it sounds insane, but he’s the only one who knew all four. He was their legal counsel and who would better be able to get close to them, know their habits, routines, get right up close?”

Ridge laughed, not any relation to mirth or warmth but something from a time of darkness. She said,

“Well, that’s new, instead of defending them, he offs them. It’s, um. . a killer closer.”

Stewart gathered up a batch of printouts, shoved them at Ridge, said,

“He was brought up in London, excelled at college, could have been King’s Inns but married an Irishwoman, moved over here, set up as the guy who defends the indefensible.”

Ridge’s face had regained its color, albeit a vodka hue-but like a slanted health blush. She was animated, said,

“Sounds like the guy should be running for president, not prime suspect.”

Stewart delivered his coup, said,

“His wife, yeah? He adored her. She was raped and murdered by persons unknown.”

Ridge grimaced, said,

“Jesus, hasn’t the poor bastard suffered enough? Now you want to put him in the frame.”

The wind went out of Stewart. He’d been so sure she would leap at his theory. He tried,

“You have always gone with my instincts before.”

She stood up, said,

“But they were reasoned, possible. This. . this is just. . bollix.”

The harshness hung between them like a truth that should have kept its head down. She headed for the door.

No hug.

Stewart said,

“I’m telling you, I have a gut feeling.”

She nodded, said,

“Me, too. It means I need to throw up.”

Regrets, phew-oh, they are a recurrent killer. I’ve been tormented, tortured, and roasted to rosary degree by my own history. I was heading down to Feeney’s in Quay Street, still that rarity, an unchanged pub with real Irish barmen. Not a Polish guy attempting, Jesus wept. I admire the hell out of the Polish, but shoot me, a pint of Guinness, I want it crafted. A woman in her thirties sashaying along on those crazed Louboutins but, worse, in skinny jeans.

Christ.

Then as if out of the ether, the memory, grounding me to the spot, outside the Four Corners. I had a reasonably good friend, we’d once played hurling together, we shared more than a few pints and that easy camaraderie of long friendship.

Yet I’d recently heard he’d been found dead in his flat, alone and unwanted. He’d been dead eight months. His flat was bang in the center of the city. This to happen in New York, you’d think.

“Yeah, how the shit goes down in large cities.”

But Galway.

I realized,

“This is who I am, the guy who didn’t check on his mate.”