Christopher Golden - The Shadow Men

“Right. After that, probably her parents’ place. Then following on from that-”

“Oh, shit,” Trix said. “Her parents.”

“What?”

“She’s not Unique, Jim. Somewhere in Boston there’s another Jenny.”

“Another Jenny,” he echoed. It set his head spinning, and he felt suddenly sick.

“Maybe her parents don’t live in the same place here,” Trix said. “Didn’t you help them with their mortgage, back in… well, our Boston? So here, maybe they’re still living somewhere else. Maybe outside the city. And maybe Jenny will have gone to the cops, realized things were amiss, and maybe-”

“Too many maybes,” Jim said. He lifted himself from the seat and took the folded envelopes from his back pocket. He checked them both, and then held up the one he now knew applied to where they were right now. “We go here. Yes?”

“Yes,” Trix said, and she sounded relieved. She wanted to go there right away, Jim thought, and perhaps that would have been the safest thing to do. He looked across at the building one more time, at the dark windows that he had stood behind a thousand times in another world, another life. He wondered what was behind those windows here… but just as quickly realized he did not want to know.

“You know O’Brien’s Bar?” Jim asked. “It’s down on… East Broadway.”

“Know it?” the driver said. “Sure I know it.”

“That’s where we need to go,” Jim said. Trix sighed and seemed to settle lower in the seat beside him, and he felt a slight sense of relief at having made a more definite plan. They’d go to find the Oracle of this Irish Boston, give him the letter Veronica had sent through with them, and then tell him their problem. They couldn’t do this on their own.

“Sure,” the driver said softly. “From the second you got in, I knew you needed help.” He turned up his music again, even louder than before, and Jim watched the rain-washed streets flit by.

O’Brien’s Bar was an innocuous pub nestled among a terrace of houses a couple of blocks from Telegraph Hill. Over the tops of the buildings, they could see the white steeple top of the Dorchester Heights Monument, just a block away. In the other direction was a view of downtown Boston. This part of the city, in Jim’s city, had always been Irish, but now the Irish presence was greater than ever. South Boston was truly an old-world Boston neighborhood, mostly residential, with local bars and markets. But in this Boston, where the Irish were the pinnacle of Boston society, Southie was a hell of a lot nicer.

Across the street from the bar was a small park, lit now by streetlights and apparently deserted this late at night. Perhaps shadows moved within the shadows, but Jim could not see, nor did he care. His own safety was not the priority. There were benched tables outside the bar, chained to metal hooks in the pub’s front wall so that they didn’t walk at night, and even at this late hour lights shone inside. They exited the taxi and Trix paid the cabbie-still dollars, thankfully, and Lincoln was no stranger to him-and Jim could tell that the bar was all but empty. There was faint music playing somewhere in the background, but the usual hubbub of voices was absent, and there was a sense that this place was about to go to sleep for the night. It was a strange way to view it, and disconcerting, but he looked up at the facade and saw tired windows reflecting streetlights; the double doors were a closed mouth, and the building gave the sense that it was something with knowledge and wisdom.

The cab drifted along the street, its engine sounds echoing from silent buildings, and then they were alone.

“Is this one going to be as weird as the old woman?” Jim asked.

“Who knows? What’s the name again?”

“Peter O’Brien.” Jim looked at the envelope in his hand, the messy lettering, and something ran a cool finger down his back. The hair on his arms bristled, and his senses suddenly became clear and sharp, flooding him with input: the scent of damp soil from the park and spilled beer from the sidewalk, the night sounds of doors closing and car engines ticking as they cooled, the kiss of fine rain against his skin. As he turned around to look across the street at whatever was watching them, Trix was already doing the same.

“It’s just the darkness,” he said, staring past the street lamps and trying to penetrate the small park. There was a bandstand at its center and a network of pale paths crissing and crossing, and here and there planting beds exploded with the silhouettes of shrubs and small trees.

“No,” she said, “not just the darkness.”

“Bums, then. Lonely lovers. Drunk teens fucking.” But he knew that none of these was true, either. Whoever or whatever watched from over there was more connected to their journey than that. He rubbed the envelope between his fingers and wondered what it contained.

Jim heard the bar door open. He turned away from the dark park and took a step back toward the curb, and the shadow that filled the doorway seemed to swallow the weak light emerging from inside the building.

“Already poured your drinks,” the shadow said, and his voice was higher than Jim had expected, and much more welcoming. “It’s not cold, and the rain’s not too bad. But I’ll welcome you in to take shelter from the night.”

Take shelter from the night. Jim almost asked if he sensed the watcher as well. But that would be no way to greet the Oracle of this Boston. “Peter O’Brien?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“That’s me. And you’ll be from out of town.”

Trix actually laughed, an unconscious reaction to such a mundane observation. “You could say that!” she said.

“Hope you like good beer,” O’Brien said. He moved back from the doorway to let them in, and in doing so allowed them to make him out properly for the first time. As Trix stepped into the pub, Jim held back and sized the man up. Smartly dressed in black trousers and shined shoes, a white shirt and black suede waistcoat, he was a barrel of a man, well over two hundred pounds, but he carried the weight well. He was tall and broad, and even before he’d turned a little to fat, Jim knew that he’d been a powerful presence. Yet there was a lightness about him that quelled any unease Jim might normally feel in the company of such a huge stranger. He moved back like a dancer to let them in, graceful and gentle, and his smile lit up his face. His hair was long and tied in a ponytail, and a scruff of graying stubble softened his features more.

“Jim Banks,” Jim said, extending his hand as he entered. For a second he saw a flicker of something on O’Brien’s face-fear? Discomfort? The smile flexed a little, but it returned just as fresh and welcoming as before. He took Jim’s hand and pumped it twice, firm but not too hard. In that touch, Jim felt the warmth of hope.

“Pleased to meet you, Jim.”

“And you. I hope you can help me.”

“Well, I’ll say to you what I say to anyone coming to my bar seeking more than a drink and a pie and a place to rest their feet. I can only do my best.” He closed the door behind them but did not lock it. Jim thought perhaps this bar was open every hour of every day, but not always for drinks.

O’Brien showed them to a table in the corner. A candle burned in the mouth of an empty wine bottle, spilling hot wax down the green glass, and three recently pulled pints sat before the chairs. Three chairs. The table was large enough to seat six, at least.

“You knew we were coming,” Trix said.

“Not you specifically,” O’Brien said. “Just someone.”

“We know who you are,” Jim said. “And what. And we were sent here by someone like you.”

O’Brien raised his eyebrows. Then he held up a hand and nodded at their chairs. The three of them sat, and the process felt almost ceremonial to Jim, a thought given more gravity by O’Brien’s nimble manner. He placed both hands flat on the table and seated himself comfortably, spine straight, shoulders loose, before picking up his pint and taking a long draft. He smacked his lips and nodded gently. “Nectar of angels,” he said.