Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series) (114 page)

“Where?” Pat asked, fumbling in the dark for a pen and paper.

“Down South Armagh way, a wee pub called the Two-Step. He was wearing civvies but he had his pistol strapped on. Said he was going off base, but I don’t think it was a social occasion if you understand?”

“Aye, I understand,” Pat answered heavily. Two hours was a long time to be overdue for a man as punctual as David. Two hours allowed a lot of lag time for any number of things. Torture and death being among the top contenders.

The Two Step was a hornet’s nest where only truly hard line Republicans went to wet their whistle, amongst other things. If someone in that pub had made David and his cover was blown, he could be dead already. On the other hand, if he wasn’t made and merely had a flat tire somewhere between here and Armagh, Pat could be offering himself up as some sort of sacrifice. He had a sick feeling it was not a flat tire, though.

“How do I know I’m not walking into some sort of trap here?” Pat asked.

“You don’t,” said the voice at the other end, “I called you because David trusts you. I’ve got nothing else to offer you. No one is supposed to know where he’s at, so I can’t call out the cavalry on this one.” There was a slight pause, and then the voice, small with worry asked, “Will you help him, do you think it’s too late?”

“I’ll try,” Pat said and hung up the phone, reaching for pants and shirt even as he did so.

THE DRIVE TO DRUMINTREE SEEMED to last a small eternity. Three times Pat had to pull over and unstick the wiper blades, as they refused to keep up with the deluge that cascaded out of the low black sky. By the time he’d reached his destination the storm had passed over, and the lingering clouds were only spitting the occasional fine spray of rain.

The Two-Step pub was foursquare and snugged into the arms of an elm copse. It was dark as Pat approached, silent except for the remnants of rain pit-pattering from the trees. Low-beamed and solid, it was a pub notorious for its Republican leanings, no small distinction in an area that was legendary for its crack IRA squads. Here a whisper in the wrong place meant death, swift and absolute. The South Armagh Brigade stood apart from the rest of the IRA, bound by generations of communal history and blood ties that made betrayal unthinkable. It was a closed society and strangers were looked upon with a wary, if not hostile eye. Pat knew this, and understood the risk he had undertaken by coming here. However, he also knew that if David had been here in an attempt to cozy up with the locals and extract intelligence, he’d very little time for subtlety and would have to get the information he needed as swiftly as possible. He felt the heavy weight of the Browning against his backbone, like a dark reassurance that he devoutly hoped he would not need.

He gave the door an experimental tug, surprised when it swung out.

“Too late for drinks an’ we don’t serve breakfast,” a voice said from the direction of the back wall. Pat squinted, making out a stocky figure polishing down the bar with hard strokes.

“I know,” Pat replied, stepping into the dimly lit room. The place had been closed for some time from the looks of things. Chairs were upended onto clean tables, the floor was swept and all the glasses were cleared away. “I’m not looking to eat, only for a little information.”

That got the publican’s attention. He was a short, squat man with a bulldog’s neck and the beady glare of an unpleasant hawk. “Ye want information laddie, here’s some—take the same road out that ye came in on.”

Hospitality was obviously not on the menu. However, the man’s surliness was no match for Riordan obstinacy. Pat merely smiled and stood his ground, taking in the surroundings quickly in an attempt to ascertain if anyone might be lurking in corners or backrooms.

After a cursory glance, though, it appeared that there was only an old man drooped over a pint of half-done stout, heavy jowled and sad-eyed. The publican nodded in his direction.

“My father-in-law,” he said curtly, “he’s an old drunk, but he don’t harm nobody.” The tone of the publican’s voice indicated that he might not be as peacefully inclined.

“I’m looking for someone who may have been here last night.”

The publican scrubbed harder at the oak beneath his hand. “Lot of faces come an’ go man, ‘twas a busy night.”

“He’s on the small side, long fair hair, looks like he’d not offend a flea.”

“Unflatterin’ portrait yer paintin’, an no I didn’t see anyone of that description. Now if ye don’t mind, it’s been a long one an’ I’d like to lock the doors and go to bed.”

“Please,” Pat said, desperation leaking into his voice, “it’s a matter of life an’ death.”

The man snorted. “In Armagh there’s little else.”

Pat took a deep breath. “Look, this man likely had no idea what he was wandering into. He’s innocent of anything but bein’ in the wrong place at the wrong time. If someone’s taken him, they’re about to make a terrible mistake.” Out of superstition, he crossed his fingers, hoping the lie was convincing.

The man gave him a hard look, then capitulated with a grunt. “I don’t want it on my conscience, so I’ll tell ye what I know, though it’s little enough an’ if anyone should ask, ye didn’t hear it from me an’ ye were never within a square mile of this pub, ye understand?”

Pat nodded.

“Round ten or so I went out back to get a keg of ale,” the man continued, “an’ there were two lads hangin’ about in the car park, seemed as if they might be waitin’ on somethin’ or somebody. Here, ye see people loiterin’ it don’t pay to get too curious.” He shrugged eloquently, “Could be it was yer friend they were watchin out for. Didn’t waste time lookin’ or askin’, though.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Pat muttered.

The man shook his head, “Whoever he is, he’s not here now, an’ ye’d best leave, man, if ye’ve a notion of what’s good for ye.”

Pat nodded, taking the warning as it was intended. In a county full of hard men, this pub was infamous. It wasn’t wise to be caught asking questions about things that weren’t your business. And unless David was bound and gagged in the washroom, he was no longer here.

He turned and walked out into the night. Behind him, the door slammed and a lock clicked audibly into place. The man was nervy, and there’d been a flicker of fear in his eyes when Pat had described David. Unless his instincts were awry, David
had
been here at some point.

He started to walk back to his car when a dark shape caught the corner of his eye, and he turned toward it, adrenaline starting to pump. He swore under his breath, not happy that he’d been right about the situation.

The wee red Triumph that he recognized as David’s sat at the west end of the car park. Pat’s hand went automatically to the gun at his waist. He approached the vehicle cautiously, gun now tucked firm to his side, finger crooked on the trigger. It looked empty, but he wasn’t taking any chances. The ball of ice in his intestines was now roughly the size of a grapefruit.

Shadows seemed to cluster thickly around the little car, where it sat in the lee of a scraggly looking sapling. Pat cast a quick glance over his shoulder, then closed the gap between himself and the car. The driver’s door was slightly ajar, the shadows deeper on the ground near the vehicle.

Pat grabbed the handle, flung the door open, bringing his right hand up sharply with the hammer pulled back on the trigger. The car was empty. He scouted the back seat, the floors, even the dash for any sign of struggle. Nothing presented itself to his eye. He walked the perimeter of the car, checking the tires, lights, mirrors. The left headlight was cracked, glass slightly concave. It meant little, though, the headlight could have been broken long before tonight.

His eyes were drawn down, noting a deeper patch on the ground. He reached into the thick clot of shadow, praying that it was a trick of the dark and his eyes. His fingers touched wet, chill and cold. He brought the fingers to his face, sniffing them. There was a faint iron tang, but still he couldn’t be certain. He touched a finger to his tongue and cursed at the unmistakable taste. There was blood on the ground and from the little he could see, a fair amount of it.

“Goddamned Englishman,” he muttered to himself. Meddling in things he’d no understanding of. “Damn it, David, where are you?” he asked the world at large, expecting no answer and therefore nearly jumping clear of his skin when he received one.

“Dead by now, I expect.”

Pat whirled about, finger hard against the trigger.

The figure backed off, hands held high. “Whoa there boy, I mean no harm.”

“Who the hell are you?” Pat asked, voice harsh, arm held out straight so the man could not mistake his intentions.

“I was inside,” the man cocked his head back towards the pub.

Pat narrowed his eyes, adjusting his vision. The old man who’d been sitting in the corner, the alcoholic father-in-law.

“What do ye know of the man I’m lookin’ for?”

“What John told ye is true enough, there were two lads waitin’ on someone out here. I came out for a piss ‘bout eleven, an’ I could hear a scuffle up round here, like someone was gettin’ a hiding, there was four different voices. If those boys were waitin’ for yer man, then there was another man joined them, or mebbe he just brought the car that took them all away.”

“Did no one see ye?” Pat asked, wondering how they’d missed the presence of someone who’d stood there long enough to take in all that had happened in those few moments.

“Likely they did see me, but it’d not matter. I’m part blind, wouldn’t make much of a witness, would I? I’m no more threat than a piece of furniture to them, mebbe they don’t know my hearin’ is sharper than their eyes any day.”

“Were you inside when he came in?”

“Aye, there was a bit of a stillness when he walked in, th’only strangers that come in the Two-Step are fools. Ye could sense the trouble right off. I’m surprised he didn’t scarper for it sooner.”

“Was he there the whole evening? What I mean is, did he go out and come back in at all?” Pat asked, wondering if David had planned to meet with someone and had been ambushed instead.

“Aye, came in an’ stayed. Moved about a bit, talkin’ to a few people. Seemed familiar with a few of them. Thought he was with the band at first.”

“With the band?” Pat furrowed his brow, wondering if the old man was entirely clear on the events of the evening.

“Aye, but then the boy opened his mouth.” The man grimaced slightly. “Laddie didn’t have an ear for the singin’,” he sighed, “bit of a pity.”

“Singing?” Pat echoed, wondering at what point he’d tumbled headfirst down the rabbit hole.

“Aye, yer man was up there yowlin’ with the band, sounded like a scalded cat.”

Singing with the band? Had David lost his few wits altogether?

“Sang a couple of Republican ones, band called ‘im up said he’d come the whole way down from Belfast.”

“What made you think he hadn’t?”

“Accent was wrong. Mebbe less sensitive ears wouldn’t have noticed, but his r’s were off. Seemed like they was stuck in his throat. Belfast is a hard accent, an’ his voice was a bit too plummy-like. More Lord Muck gone native, if ye take my meanin’. ‘Twas more noticeable after he’d had a few drinks.”

“How do you know he was drinking?” Pat asked suspiciously.

“He leaned across me lookin’ for an ashtray, said ‘scuse me’ an’ I could smell it on him. Besides it’d look odd as hell if ye werena drinkin’ in there. That’d raise suspicion quickern’ a British uniform. He’d maybe had a wee bit more than was,” the old man paused to spit, “strictly necessary to uphold his disguise.”

Drunk and singing with the band? Pat didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but it was becoming glaringly apparent that David had exercised no caution whatsoever, in a situation that he knew was of life and death seriousness.

“How’d they get him out of here?”

The old man shook his head, looking like a weary St. Bernard in the dim glow of the car park lights. “I don’t think he was conscious anymore when they put him in the car. Sounded like they were throwin’ a bag of potatoes in the boot.”

Unconscious would be a blessing, the alternative didn’t bear thinking about.

“If it’s of comfort to ye lad, he didn’t beg, he’s a real soldier that one.”

“Do you know where they took him?” Pat asked sharply.

The man’s face was suddenly guarded, eyes blank as milk in the moonlight.

‘Don’t hold out on me now, you old bugger,’ Pat thought, fighting to control his panic. “Where?” he repeated, applying emphasis to the question with a sharp prod of the gun.

“I c—can’t b—be certain,” the man stuttered.

Pat let the hammer-click make his point for him. “Make yer best guess.”

The man swallowed audibly, then seemed to make his mind up to the lesser of two evils. “There’s a wee bridge off the Ravensdale road, clump of trees down the left hand bank. That’s my best guess.”

“Thanks for yer cooperation,” Pat said, turning to go.

Behind him, the man cleared his throat. “Ye’d best knock me out before ye go, laddie. Blind I may be, but stupid I’m not.”

Pat sighed heavily, knowing the man was right. Blind, deaf
and
mute wouldn’t stand in your favor if ‘the lads’ thought you’d ratted on them.