Death in Dublin - Peter McGarr 16 Page 28
“To bring you back to reality, man. To keep you from making further blunders in regard to the holiest and most noble order ever created. God’s order, which you had the audacity and bad sense to think you could thwart.”
Keeping the chain taut with one hand, Sweeney again reached for the drink with the other. “I don’t forget or forgive. You.”
He fi?nished the drink, which made his eyes water. A single tear tracked onto the pocked surface of his cheek. “You want the truth? Do you?”
McGarr only regarded him.
“The Trinity security guards, Ray-Boy’s hapless father and the other one, something Greene? I had them killed just to get you involved in the case.” A smug smile now exposed Sweeney’s uneven teeth. “For it was you I wanted as much as the money. Oh, yes. I’ve got that too, and all of it.
“Kara very-much-effi?n’ Kennedy, my son Dan’s darlin’ wife? I had her seduce you, just to keep you close.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Hah, if I had known you were this stupid, I’d have had a bullet put in you years ago and not bothered with the fraggin’. Why the fuck do you think, man? For the fuckin’ money, what else?
“Dan and me told her we’d split the pot. Equal shares. It would be like alimony, only big-time. No more academia for her, no more piss-poor pay check But, you know, Kara wasn’t blood, and how could we possibly trust a woman like her, who would bed the likes of you for money?”
He began a low chuckle. “There’s a name for women like her. And her.” With the tip of his shoe, he kicked out at Bannon’s head. “Wake up, you bitch.
Wake up!” Raising the chain to keep the lead to the trigger tight, Sweeney moved up in the chair. “Nobody threatens me, especially not in public.”
“But Dan, your Dan Stewart—he was blood.”
Canting his head, Sweeney looked away, and McGarr’s fi?nger moved back onto the trigger. “After a fashion. I can’t remember, but I think I was actually paying his mother before he was conceived, and the blood tests were inconclusive. He could have been anybody’s bastard, I’d say. She was a right sorry little Scots cunt. We could never have had a future, but Dan, I must say, was pleasant company and useful for a while.
“But enough of this. That one”—Sweeney pointed at Bannon—“she’s check. And this one”—plunging his hand into the gap between the cushion and the chair, he came up with another handgun—“is mate, matie.” Slowly, haltingly, careful of the tether he had to Orla and the gun he had pointed at McGarr, Sweeney rose to his feet.
“I’m not much of a shot, you’ll see.” The handgun exploded and the bullet thwacked into the wall only inches from McGarr’s head. “But you’d best go out before us.” Sweeney placed another shot almost exactly at the same point on the other side of McGarr’s head.
“Out!” Sweeney roared. “Get out! I won’t have you dying in me house. I’m going to me boat, if your wish is to accompany us.” And he began a laugh that ended in a wet hack. Turning his head, Sweeney spat into a mirror on the wall.
With his Glock now raised and pointed at Sweeney’s heart, McGarr stepped to the door.
“Go ahead, pull it, you spineless fuck. Pull it, and we’ll all die.”
McGarr quickly moved down the stairs, trying to gauge where he might position himself for a clean shot at Sweeney. But the doors that he tried were locked, and lights suddenly switched on.
“McGarr? You still with us?”
Outside, McGarr thought, he’d conceal himself behind a car or on the other side of the wall where, when Sweeney climbed over, he could grab his arm and fi?re with the other hand.
No cars. The narrow laneway was empty; crouched on the other side of the harbor wall, McGarr scanned the several decks of the large yacht, which was unlighted. Water was lapping against its hull.
He heard: “Jaysus—wouldn’t you know it, bitch? The motherless fucker’s run out on you. Unless he’s crouched on the other side of the wall. That’s where I’d be, were I brave and true, like Peter McGarr.”
Orla appeared fi?rst at the top of the high wall, but she did not hesitate when she saw McGarr. There— having to wait for Sweeney—they locked eyes.
With both hands, McGarr raised the Glock.
“You’re a cunt! A cowardly cunt, McGarr!” Sweeney roared, as his large head and bulky fi?gure appeared at the top of the wall, silhouetted against the light from the town. “Fucked off on me. And Orla, poor Orla, who’ll die alone with her secrets.”
It was then, with the Glock aimed at Sweeney’s chest, that a chunk of the man’s skull burst from his head in a pink mist that sprayed out over the water. A split second later, the unmistakable report of a high-powered rifl?e echoed around the harbor. A second round caught Sweeney in the neck and nearly severed his head from his body.
Before Sweeney could topple over, McGarr dropped his weapon, lunged for the hand that held the tether, and wrenched Sweeney forward. Throwing himself on top of Sweeney, they skidded down the steep stairs toward Orla and slammed into the side of the yacht.
From his jacket pocket, McGarr pulled out his key ring and severed the line with a pen knife. Only then did he climb off Sweeney, whose body lolled to one side and plunged off the staircase. With a splintering crack, it landed on the rail of a lower deck before spilling into the water.
On the other side of the nearly circular harbor, Ray-Boy Sloane turned to replace the Steyr Aug Bullpup assault rifl?e in its case. While inconspicuous, the short barrel had produced loud reports, and two cars passing in the street behind him had slowed.
A third stopped. “Are you the police?” a woman asked.
“No, I am.” A hand, reaching up, grabbed hold of Ray-Boy’s nose ring and ripped it from his face.
As the rifl?e dropped from Sloane’s hands, a fi?st jacked into his groin, doubling him up into a fl?urry of punches thrown with such precision that—it would be found later—his nose, pharynx, and one eye socket were broken, and his front teeth removed. The fall from his shooting perch broke both elbows.
As Hugh Ward bent to secure the assault rifl?e, shiny black wingtips appeared on the cobblestone footpath before him. Glancing up, Ward caught only a glimpse of something shiny, a hand, three inches of cuff cinched by a gold-and-onyx link, and the arm of a dark pinstriped suit.
The gun roared, and Ray-Boy’s body shuddered as a bullet thwacked into his head.
Ward straightened up. “What was that, Jack— endgame?”
“Speak to McGarr.” Sheard opened his suit coat and slipped the handgun into its holster. “He’ll fi?ll you in.” Turning, he walked toward a Volvo that was stopped in the middle of the street.
More than twelve hours later, McGarr awoke with a start, not knowing where he was. With heavy drapes across tall windows the room was dark, and there was a fi?gure in the bed beside him.
On the telephone, which was positioned on his chest, a red light was blinking.
“I would have answered it, but I suspected it was your daughter, whom I’d like to meet in some other way.”
Orla Bannon rolled over to face him, a smooth thigh slipping between his legs. She had unbraided her long black hair, which was arrayed across her breasts. She pushed it away. “Like what you see? All yours, as promised. But maybe you should make that call fi?rst.”
When he hesitated, she picked up the receiver and dialed in a number. Then, “Nuala, it’s Orla. Orla Ban-non. Yes, he’s right here. Like to speak with him?”
“How do you know my home number?” It was unlisted.
She cocked her head. “As I was saying, I’ve been interested in you for some time now, but just too shy to make a move.”
Which caused McGarr to chuckle. He brought the phone to his ear.
About the Author
A graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, BARTHOLOMEW GILL was the author of sixteen acclaimed Peter McGarr mysteries—among them
The Death of an Irish Sinner, The Death of an Irish Lover, The Death of an Irish Tinker, and the Edgar Awar
d nominee The Death of a Joyce Scholar— and a journalist who wrote as Mark McGarrity for the Newark Star-Ledger. He passed away in the summer of 2002.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
High praise
for BARTHOLOMEW GILL and DEATH IN DUBLIN
“Grade: A . . . Gill has a knack for describing the people and places of Ireland.”
Denver Rocky Mountain News
“Heavily imbued with Irish wit and wonder . . . [Gill] has managed to combine erudition, humor, and intelligence.”
Dallas Morning News
“A masterpiece . . . This is a spectacularly suspenseful book ...a wonderful exploration of Irish culture.” Booklist (*Starred Review*)
“Echoes of Irish writers from Yeats to Joyce to O’Casey, Becket, and Behan sound on almost every page ...If you’ve arrived late at the party, start here.” Chicago Tribune
“Sure, ’thas been said that an Irishman can spin a yarn in a league with no other. Bartholomew Gill has been proving that adage for twenty years . . . The reader is lulled immediately by Gill’s storytelling voice—the tone, the rhythm and dialect, the tongue-in-cheek humor and the affectionate national pride ...[McGarr] is interesting and entertaining, to be sure, and skillful and erudite enough to lead the reader along the trail.”
San Antonio Express-News
“Excellent ...a fi?ne storyteller.”
Arizona Republic
“McGarr is as complex and engaging a character as you can hope to meet in contemporary crime fi?ction . . . and Gill is a marvelous tour guide, showing us [this] troubled country’s charm and warts with style and wit.”
Denver Post
“Gill’s books are both earthy and elegant. The cadence of Dublin life sings in [his] pages, and the wit is ready and true.”
Chicago Sun-Times
“[The] plot proves more devious and its resolution much bloodier than anyone could have predicted ...With Peter McGarr no longer on the force, Ireland stands in need of a new hero to monitor its misbehavior and absolve its collective guilt.”
New York Times Book Review
“Gill is a nimble plotter and fi?ne writer.”
Orlando Sentinel
“It’s hard to decide what Bartholomew Gill does best. Certainly his Irish settings are unequaled, producing an almost irresistible urge to pull on an Aran sweater and drink strong tea in front of a raging peat fi?re. But even his evocative settings pale before his well-developed plots . . . Gill never fails to deliver.”
Kansas City Star
“Gill’s novels . . . are distinguished by the quirky integrity that makes McGarr a vivid individual, by Gill’s ability to render the everyday speech of Dublin as music, and by the passions so keenly felt by his characters on both sides of the law.”
Detroit News
“Splendid . . . Gill shapes wonderful sentences and zestfully evokes the scenery and the spirit of his former homeland. He is also an imaginative portrayer of character.”
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“A superb exposition of Ireland’s religious development and a touching look into McGarr’s heart. The death of Bartholomew Gill deprives the mystery world of one of its most sensitive and talented practitioners.” Kirkus Reviews (*Starred Review*)
Also by Bartholomew Gill
THE DEATH OF AN IRISH SINNEr The Death of an Irish Lover The Death of an Irish Tinker The Death of an Irish Sea Wolf The Death of an Ardent Bibliophile Death on a Cold, Wild River The Death of Love The Death of a Joyce Scholar McGarr and the Legacy of a Woman Scorned McGarr and the Method of Descartes McGarr and the P. M. Belgrave Square McGarr at the Dublin Horse Show
(recently published as The Death of an Irish Tradition)
MCGARR ON THE CLIFFS OF MOHEr (recently published as The Death of an Irish Lass) MCGARR AND THE SIENESE CONSPIRACY (recently published as The Death of an Irish Consul ) MCGARR AND THE POLITICIAN’S WIFE (recently published as The Death of an Irish Politician)
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEATH IN DUBLIN. Copyright © 2003 by Mark McGarrity. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Adobe Acrobat eBook Reader February 2008 ISBN 978-0-06-162981-5
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