Adrian McKinty - The Dead Yard

“I think I see the river,” I said.

It was a bloody miracle that the mud hadn’t sucked the shoes off my feet and it surely would have if I’d still been wearing Converse high-tops, not these big Stanley work boots. Shoeless, I would have been footless, and fucked.

As we got near the water the fat soldier slowed. He was out of shape and sweating but he wasn’t exhausted just yet. He was planning something. I could sense it in his body language. I kept an eye on him, waiting for him to jump either of us. But he didn’t. Instead, midrun he tripped on a vine and fell. He landed heavily on the ground and grabbed at his leg.

“Get up,” Seamus yelled at him. “Get the fuck up or I’ll shoot you.”

“My leg, I’ve broken my leg,” the man said, writhing in apparent agony.

“Get the fuck up, army boy,” Seamus said.

“I can’t, my leg’s hurt,” the soldier said.

I nodded at Seamus. There was no time to see if it was a lie or not. He had to make a decision.

“We got to leave him now,” I said.

Seamus looked at him, looked at me, listened to the cops coming closer and closer, nodded to himself. He reached into his inside pocket, withdrew his flask, and took another drink. He screwed the top on and raised his gun.

“What are you doing, Seamus?” I asked. “He’s lying, his leg’s fine. Get up, mate. Come on. He’s lying.”

“I know,” Seamus said coldly. “It doesn’t matter, Sean, he’s seen our faces, have to do it, Sean, no other way. I’m on fuck-ing bail already. I can’t go down for this and the shooting at Revere, I’d get twenty years.”

“No, Seamus, wait a minute,” I began, but he cut me off.

“I’m not going to die in prison, Sean. That’s what it comes down to. Now, obey orders and get moving.”

“It’s murder, Seamus,” I said, but he wasn’t listen ing. He raised his.38 revolver and pointed it at the soldier’s head.

“We have to kill him,” he said but only to himself. His mind was made up.

“That’s the murder of a federal employee in the commission of another crime. That’s the fucking death penalty.”

“Oh please, please, please don’t do it,” the soldier begged.

“Close your eyes, pal,” Seamus said, his face in the moonlight, resigned, determined.

I lifted the soldier’s.45.

“Put the gun down, Seamus,” I said.

He turned to look at me.

“You wouldn’t,” he said.

“Put the gun down,” I insisted.

“Fucking kill you, Sean. Kill ya both,” he snarled and trained the gun on my chest.

The.45 banged.

A huge boom that stopped the cops in their tracks and set the birds a mile up and down the Parker River panicking into the air. Seamus collapsed to his knees, half his head blown apart, the skin on the other half hanging on to the skull by only a few blood vessels and nerve endings.

I wiped his brains off my arm and face.

He knelt there, little spurts of blood gurgling from his mouth.

“Sorry, Seamus,” I found myself saying.

His left eye blinked, he hovered on his knees for a second, and then slumped forward, stone dead, into the boggy waters of the swamp.

Flints in the night sky. Oxidizing blood. Mosquitoes by the swarm and double swarm. A burning smell on the warm, wet trade wind. And, as I stood there, holding the distinctive grip of a smoking Colt.45, covered in filth, bleeding, soaked, a dead man at my feet, another man on his knees in front of me begging for his life, I thought to myself: What else is new?

I sighed.

This is exactly what I was talking about when I said that trouble followed me like sharks trailing a slave ship.

I spat, clearing the bitter taste in my throat.

“Please, sir, don’t kill me,” the soldier said as the echo from the.45 rolled down the river.

I thumbed the safety on the army-issue Colt and squatted down onto one knee.

“Listen,” I began but stopped as a light plane flew above us and somewhere in the distance a freaked-out cop unloaded his Glock into a harmless wading bird.

The soldier put his hands way up.

“I’m sorry about the fall. Please don’t shoot me, please, I’m getting married at Christmas. I have, a, uh, a kid from my first marriage, please, oh God, please.”

“Take it easy, you eejit, I’m an undercover FBI agent. Everything’s going to be all right,” I said.

His mouth opened in disbelief as he looked at me and then at Seamus’s blood oozing into the Parker River.

“I don’t believe you, let me see your badge, let me-”

“Shut up. Now listen to me, we’ve got to buy some time. Help me drag Seamus into the water.”

The soldier balked and stared at me, petrified.

“You gotta work with me, mate, come on, I’m not going to kill you, look, I’m putting the gun away,” I said, taking the.45 and slipping it into my trouser pocket. I picked up Seamus by the left leg and nodded for the soldier boy to lift the right. Dazed, confused, now he wanted to be told what to do. He grabbed the leg and we dragged Seamus to the river’s edge. I floated him in and watched him drift down towards the bottom of PI, Ipswich, and the ocean.

I climbed back up the bank.

“Please don’t kill me now,” the soldier said.

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-one,” he said hesitantly.

“Thirty-one. Old enough to know better. Fucking pull it together, mate.”

“Ok, I’ll-”

“Be quiet. Follow me, we’re going into the water, quiet now, crouch low. Hurry up, this way.”

I got the soldier to bend down and I led him upstream for about a quarter of a mile. The peelers obviously had a canine unit because after about ten minutes the dog set up a terrible howling, which could only mean that they’d found what was left of the other half of Seamus’s head. Hopefully the dog would pick up the rest of the dead man’s scent and lead them to the river and then downstream. The wind was blowing off the sea so that would help a little too.

“What was that?” the soldier asked, spooked.

“That was a dog, they probably just found Seamus, come on now.”

We kept going and paused while I adjusted my prosthesis.

As we got farther upstream the Parker River narrowed, but I kept us going until it was shallow enough so we could easily cross to the other bank.

“Follow me to the other side, be sharp about it,” I told him.

He nodded glumly. Seeing Seamus topped like that had certainly gotten his attention and now he was Mister Cooperation. No more slow play, broken legs, or crying out.

I helped him up the slippery embankment and led him under a tree. It was a pretty good move to lose our scent in the water, but it wouldn’t fool Fido for long and Jackie was right about one thing, sooner or later they would have a chopper. I had to think fast. I sat the character on a big root. He was hyperventilating and afeared. He had to calm down and he had to believe me.

“First thing, take a big breath,” I told him.

He breathed deep and exhaled.

“Second thing. What’s your name and rank?” I asked.

“My name and rank?”

“Yeah, you have to tell me. Even if I was the enemy you’d have to tell me.”

“Specialist David Ryan,” he said, confused but maybe a little less frightened.

“Ok, David, listen, it’s gonna be ok. I’m going to let you go, but you gotta be cool and do what I tell you. Ok?”

He nodded.

“Good,” I said.

“He was going to kill me. He, he was going to kill you, too,” he muttered, recalling the grisly incident. He began to shiver.

I couldn’t afford for him to lose it now.

“Take it easy, mate. You were never in any danger. Not for a second. Neither was I. He had a gun but you’d need fucking kryptonite to take care of me. Now be cool and shut up a minute while I sort this out.”