Tana French - The Searcher - A Novel

Mart ignores it. He says, “It needed doing. That’s all I was thinking. That’s all there was to think.”

He gives Kojak a slap on the flank to send him back to the fireside. “And that’s what you were thinking when you gave Donie the few skelps, sure. You weren’t thinking, ‘Ah, sure, what harm?’ You were thinking that every now and then there’s a thing that needs doing and there’s not a lot any man can do to change that, so there’s no point in fussing and foostering; you might as well go ahead and get it done. And the pity of it is, you were right.”

“Not sure I’d put it that way,” Cal says.

Mart laughs. “That’s what Theresa Reddy was thinking last night, anyway, when she shot off that rifle. You weren’t raising any objections then.”

“Whichever one of the guys got hit,” Cal says. “How’s he doing?”

“He’ll be grand. He bled like a stuck pig, but there’s no real harm done.” Mart takes another cookie and grins at Cal. “Will you look at all the action we’ve had around here, the last while? I don’t want you getting it in your head that the townland’s always this exciting. You’ll be fierce disappointed when the biggest thrill of the next year is someone’s ewe dropping quadruplets.”

Cal says, “Were you there last night? At my place?”

Mart laughs, his face creasing up. “Ah, God, no. Me? With my joints, I’m not able for the aul’ roola-boola any more.”

Or else he didn’t want to risk Cal recognizing him. “You’re more of an ideas man,” Cal says.

“I wish you well, Sunny Jim,” Mart says. “I always have. Now drink up your tea, go home and tell the child as much of that story as you like, and tell her it’s done now.”

“It’s not about the story,” Cal says. “All’s she needs to know is that he’s dead, and that it was a fight that went wrong; she doesn’t need to know who did it. But she’s gonna want proof.”

“She can’t have everything she wants. She oughta know that by her age.”

“I’m not talking about the kind of proof that could get anyone in any shit. But she’s had too many people feeding her bullshit. She can’t stop unless she gets something solid.”

“What kind of something did you have in mind?”

“Brendan had a watch on him. Used to be his granddaddy’s.”

Mart dips his cookie and watches Cal. He says, “He’s been dead six months.”

“I’m not asking you to get it for me. You tell me where to look, I’ll get it myself.”

“Seen worse on the job, hah?”

Cal says, “I’ve got nothing to do with any job.”

“Not any more, maybe. But old habits die hard.”

“No maybe about it. And I came here to get away from old habits.”

“You’re not making a very good job of it, Sunny Jim,” Mart points out. “No offense meant.”

“Brendan Reddy isn’t my problem,” Cal says. Even though he understands that in many ways it’s the truth, the words don’t come out easily. It frightens him that he can’t tell whether he’s doing the right thing or the wrong one. “I’m not gonna do anything about him. I wish I’d never heard of him. I’m just trying to get a kid some peace of mind, so she can put this down and move on.”

Mart thinks this over, savoring his cookie. He says, “And you think she’ll do that?”

“Yeah. She’s not out for revenge, or justice. All she wants is to leave it.”

“Maybe she does now. What about a few years down the line?”

“The kid’s got her own code,” Cal says. “If she gives her word to let this lie, I believe she’ll stick to it.”

Mart sucks the last soggy crumb off his finger and watches Cal. His eyes might have been blue once, but the color has faded out of them and they have a watery rim. It gives him a dreamy, almost wistful look. He says, “You know what’ll happen, now, if anything comes out of this.”

“Yeah,” Cal says. “I do.”

“And you’re willing to risk it.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, holy God,” Mart says, “we’ll have to get you in on the card game, because you’re some gambler. You’ve more faith in that child than I would, or anyone else round here would. But then, maybe you know her better.”

He pushes back his chair and reaches for the mugs. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do, now. You’re in no fit state to be clambering up mountains; sure, you’d collapse on me halfway, and I’m not carrying you back. You’d squash me flat. You go home and talk to the child. Test the waters. Have a good aul’ think about it. After that, if you’re still up for the risk, you get a few days’ rest, get yourself in fighting form, and then come back to me. And we’ll go out digging.”

He smiles at Cal over his shoulder, as he puts the mugs in the sink. “Go on, now,” he says, the way he’d say it to Kojak. “And get some rest. If you don’t get back up and running soon, Lena might get impatient and find herself another fella.”

While Cal was out, which he feels like he has been for a very long time, Trey gave up on training Nellie. She and Lena have broken out the painting gear and are working on the front-room skirting boards. The iPod is playing the Dixie Chicks, Lena is humming along, Trey is sprawled on her stomach on the floor to get a corner perfect, and Nellie has taken over the armchair. Cal wants to turn around and walk straight out again, taking his knowledge with him.

Trey glances over her shoulder. “Check this,” she says. She sits up and spreads her arms. Lena must have somehow convinced her to take that bath; she’s noticeably cleaner than she was when Cal left, and she’s wearing the new clothes he brought her from town.

“Looking snazzy,” Cal says. The clothes are a size too big. They make her look so little it hurts. “Till you get paint all over yourself.”

“She was restless,” Lena says. “She wanted to be doing something. I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

“I can just about live with it,” Cal says. “The reason those aren’t done yet is ’cause I wasn’t looking forward to getting down on the floor like that.”

“You know what we oughta do,” Trey says.

“What’s that?” Cal says.

“That wall.” She points at the fireplace wall. “In the evenings it goes gold, like, from the sun coming in through that window. Looks good. We oughta paint it that color.”

Cal is startled by something rising up inside his chest that might be a laugh or a sob. Mart was right again: here he is, with a woman bringing ideas into his house. “Sounds good to me,” he says. “I’ll get in a few paint samples, we can pick the one that matches best.”

Trey nods. Something in Cal’s voice has caught her; she gives him a long look. Then she picks up her paintbrush and goes back to the skirting board.

Lena looks at the two of them. “Right, so,” she says. “I’ll be off.”

“Could you maybe hang around a little longer?” Cal asks.

She shakes her head. “I’ve things to do.”

Cal waits while she puts on her big jacket and packs her accoutrements away in its pockets, and snaps her fingers for Nellie. He walks them out. “Thanks,” he says, on the step. “Could you give the kid a ride home, later on?”

Lena nods. “You got things under control,” she says, not really asking a question.

“Yeah,” Cal says. “I did. Or close enough.”

“Right,” Lena says. “Good luck.” She touches Cal’s arm for a second, in something between a pat and a shake. Then she heads off through the rain towards her car, with Nellie lolloping along beside her. It comes to Cal that, while she doesn’t know anything for sure and doesn’t want to, she’s had a pretty fair idea all along.

He closes the door behind them, turns off the Dixie Chicks and goes to Trey. His knee still hurts enough that he has a hard time finding a position he can take up on the floor; he eventually settles for sitting with his leg stretched out at an awkward angle. Trey keeps on painting, but he can feel her stretched taut as a wire, waiting.