Adrian McKinty - The Bloomsday Dead

The water was licking around my boots.

Jesus Christ. Well, I’d shoot myself before I let the sea drown me. Awful way to go. Especially on a night like this.

But wait a minute.

McFerrin wasn’t that clever. And not with a gun pointed at his head. And offhand, who would even know the high-tide tables except fishermen and lobstermen?

“Nah, you couldn’t have thought of a plan like that, could you, mate?” I said to the walls. McFerrin’s hell-bound grin faded, like the cat from the book.

But where the hell was everybody? I suddenly remembered there was a clock on my cell phone. I took it out, hit the back light. 4:59, it said. It was a second-rate phone and still locked in on Peru time.

And, oh boy, South America, that seemed like a million miles away. The mere thought of the journey and all that had happened in between made me yawn. God Almighty, I hadn’t slept for more than a couple of hours in the last two days. As soon as the adrenaline stopped pumping, I’d be in for a serious crash.

I looked at the phone. Worked out the time zones. Aye. Nearly twelve o’clock British Summer Time. I blinked down the fuzziness in my head, the flashes before my eyes, dialed Bridget’s number and got no answer. Of course, they told her to leave her phone.

I pulled out a sodden piece of paper and dialed the other number. Earlier on top of the mountain, I couldn’t get a signal, but now, of course, despite being a troglodyte deep within a cave system, the phone worked just fine.

Moran answered.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Forsythe.”

“What do you want?”

“Did they call her?”

“Yeah, they did, gave her instructions; we were on her tail to the bridge but then we lost her.”

“You followed her?”

“Yeah, tried to.”

“What happened?”

“He had her drive down a road that we thought was a dead-end street. It wasn’t. It was a fake sign, so we waited at the end of the street for her to come out and of course she didn’t. We waited and waited and then we went down there and her car was empty and she was gone.”

“What do you think happened?”

“I think they had another car waiting down there. Norris thought he saw a Ford Escort drive off, but we had to hang back, so we couldn’t really tell,” Moran said bitterly.

“Was she in the Ford?” I asked.

“We couldn’t tell. Smart that they had her change vehicles in case we’d bugged her car. Which, of course, we had.”

“So what does that mean?” I asked.

“It means we’ve fucking lost her.”

“The cops lost her too?”

“Bridget told the cops not to tail her, she told me, too, but I couldn’t resist. In any case, we’re both out of the picture now. I’m sorry to say it, but she’s on her own.”

“Shite.”

“What have you come up with?” Moran asked.

“I might have a good lead.”

“Where are you?”

“Islandmagee.”

“Where the fuck is that?”

“North of Belfast, it’s a peninsula, not an island but-”

“You’re in County Antrim?” Moran asked, surprised.

“That’s right.”

“She went over the Lagan Bridge into County Down. We lost her over there. You’re not even in the right fucking county.”

Dead air. We both knew what it meant.

“It looks like my informant lied to me,” I said with resignation.

“Well, Forsythe, you can’t say you haven’t had fair warning.”

“I know.”

“Goodbye.”

Click and the dial tone.

I put my head in my hands. Laughed. Well, he was right about one thing, I’d been warned. Couldn’t fault him on that score. And on the surface he seemed like a decent enough bloke. Still, it bugged me. It was amazing that he’d let her go on alone. I would never have done that, no matter what the kidnappers said. Maybe he was half hoping it would all fuck up and Bridget would take a hit. This whole thing had already made her look weak. If Siobhan died or Bridget got hurt, perhaps it would be Moran’s turn to step up to the plate. He was no instigator. He didn’t have the bottle for that. But he’d certainly be there to pick up the pieces. Step into her shoes. First order of business, kill me.

The time on the phone said five o’clock now.

Midnight in the Emerald Isle. The time for the exchange. And here I was in a deserted cave, miles from the action, miles from anywhere.

At least I’d been vague. I’d told Moran I was on Islandmagee, but that’s all I’d told him. He’d be hard pressed to find me. The morning papers would let me know what happened with Bridget and her daughter, and I’d take a ferry to Scotland and maybe a flight from Glasgow to New York. Dan would let me back in the WPP. He was a good guy too. They were all goddamn good guys.

I was tired.

Stupid.

Wet.

I stood up. Stretched. At least you couldn’t say I hadn’t given it my best shot. One bloody Bloomsday I wouldn’t bloody forget in a hurry.

I walked back to the cave mouth.

And then I heard it.

A voice.

No.

Voices.

Closer.

I got down.

“She’s late.”

“Aye, well, she’ll be coming.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“She will.”

Something familiar about that second voice. It was barely more than a croak, it sounded like someone who had terminal throat cancer or had just sung a marathon rock show or had worked in a powdered- glass factory for fifty years. I knew no one with a voice like that. And yet there was something in it that I did know. A shiver went down my spine. I couldn’t place it, but I felt it, and it wasn’t right. No. It was all fucking wrong.

I lay down on the cave floor, nudged myself forward, crawling over the barnacle-covered rocks and the retreating tide.

There were four figures in the mouth sheltering from the rain. They’d only just arrived. Three men and a girl. The girl had a hood up over most of her head, but you could tell it was her. Siobhan. Bridget’s girl. She was tiny. Wearing blue jeans and a clear plastic coat.

She turned her head slightly. Red golden hair dangling over wet cheeks. But the Polaroid I had didn’t do her justice. Her face had an odd, faraway loveliness-stolen child, elf child, but more than that. Yes. In a box somewhere I’ve got a sepia picture of my grandmother at a similar age. The resemblance was uncanny. Unmistakable, in fact.

And then I knew the whole story.

And then I knew the stakes were much higher than before.

The three men were in black Bear jackets, carrying flashlights and huge Pecheneg machine guns.

“Ten million, boss, be a nice wee bonus,” one of them said.

“This isn’t about the money,” the boss croaked.

He could barely speak at all, you could tell that every word was painful and his accent was all over the place. Sometimes it sounded Spanish, sometimes American, sometimes Irish. But I recognized a part of it. I’d talked to this man before. Years ago. I knew him. If only I could- “What about the wean?” one of the men asked.

“You know fucking full well. You know what we have to fucking do. Don’t mention it again,” the boss said ominously.

The girl didn’t move. Didn’t react. What had they done to her?

“Where’s your fags?” the boss asked.

They handed him a cigarette. He lit it and smoked it. So if the cancer theory was correct, it certainly wasn’t deterring the bastard.

“How long do we wait here?” an underling asked.

“Go on out and check. Harry should be seeing her real soon,” the boss said.

One of the men put his hood up and stepped outside the cave.

The boss drew in the tobacco smoke with relish. A cheap brand, an American brand, I could smell it from here. What did that tell me? It told me something. I recognized his tobacco.