Do Not Go Gentle (48 page)

The CDs and DVDs contained the final documentation of his and Sedecla's activities
—
spreadsheets, surveillance footage, photos, org charts, audio recordings
—
everything he documented over the years. For the longest time, O'Neill had not been sure why he was accumulating these files. He knew it would be suicide for him to try to take down Sedecla. He wasn't even sure that was what he intended. Sometimes he thought it was insurance against being taken out by Sedecla. Sometimes he thought it was just the distant echo of the Catholic schoolboy conscience he had once possessed, and which, quite possibly along with this soul, he had sold somewhere along the line.

Isn't it funny?
O'Neill thought bitterly, finishing his third drink and starting a fourth.
You'd think I would remember something as important as selling my soul to the devil.
While the Jameson's was dulling the edge of the anguish that enmeshed him like concertina wire, O'Neill did not feel drunk. He barely felt buzzed. O'Neill took out a cardboard box he had purchased several weeks ago.

I think it was when the crazy bitch took out Cal and began going after Jamie and his family that I realized I had finally reached my limit. It's one thing to take out cops—danger is part of the job, but taking out innocents is another story.
He stopped loading the box as the hypocrisy of his last thought penetrated the amber haze permeating his brain.
Like most of her victims haven't been just as innocent? I suppose you could say the junkies and the whores weren't exactly innocent, but her bloody ‘sacrifices' are guilty of just being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
As O'Neill began inserting the three portfolios, CDs, and DVDs into the box, he snorted as bongos began belting out of the sound system, followed by an unmistakable shout from Mick Jagger.

Why the hell should I have Sympathy for the Devil? She never had any sympathy for me—
Atop the pile he placed an envelope containing a letter he had previously drafted, pouring out his heart in a secular confession to the one person to whom he felt he owed an explanation.
Everyone else can just join me on the ‘Midnight Specia,l' straight to Hell.

O'Neill finished taping and addressing the box as Mick and the boys were giving out their last “ooh-hoos.” He completed the shipping form with his FedEx account number and inserted it into the plastic sleeve. Looking at his empty glass, O'Neill reached for the bottle, but stopped himself.

Gotta take care of business first, Timmy. It's a long, long way to Tipperary, and a long, snowy walk down to the Fed Ex drop box. Wouldn't do to stagger and fall into the street with
this
parcel unsent, now would it, lad?
Taking the package to the kitchen, O'Neill retrieved his parka and bundled up for his walk.

The wind that assaulted him on his exit into the early hours of New Year's Day seemed intent upon knocking him down or snatching his parcel before he could seal his fate.
An act of madness,
he thought, trudging down the street to the drop box, located in a twenty-four-hour lobby.
Or an act of redemption?

Entering the lobby and standing before the drop box, O'Neill paused. Countless images and memories flashed through his whiskey-tinged thoughts. He held the box gently, almost reverently, recalling his days as an altar boy at Saint Brendan's
—
the ritualistic gestures, ringing of bells, beating the breast and barely understood Latin words, much like he allowed himself unthinkingly to take each step down the path to the Hell that he now traversed. The stern, clipped voice of old Monsignor McIlhon, the venerable pastor of Saint Brendan's of his youth shattered his indecision.
Timothy James O'Neill.
The voice drenched him like a bucket of cold water.
You know right from wrong, don't you?
Timothy nodded his head slowly.
Then quit dithering young man and do the right thing.
O'Neill nodded again, then reached out and, without hesitation, dropped the box into the container, wincing at the resultant thump, which sounded like the lid of a coffin slamming shut for the final time.

Good man.
McIlhon's voice rang out in his mind one last time.
Glad you think so, monsignor,
O'Neill thought blearily.

The wind was at his back as O'Neill trudged back to his townhouse in the dark, frigid night. Letting himself back inside, he returned to his office. O'Neill punched the button on the remote to skip over the Johnny Adams song that was playing.
Like hell— there is always one more fucking time. Sometimes, Johnny, you just reach the end of the fucking line and have to know when it's time to get off.

O'Neill poured himself another drink and reprogrammed his playlist to old school blues. After finishing that drink, he filled the whiskey glass to the top. Slowly drinking his final drink, Timothy O'Neill carefully, almost lovingly, placed his service gun, upon the desktop in front of him. One part of him was a twitch away from snatching up the gun. Another part was screaming to leave it behind, take his money and IDs, pack his bags, and get on the first plane out of Logan later this morning. He could fly away, fly anywhere
—
just escape, just flee, just save his life.
Aye, but what about my soul?
A gulp of Jameson's obliterated Monsignor McIlhon's admonition that
suicide is the only unforgivable sin.

Sorry monsignor,
O'Neill thought, despite not being the least bit sorry.
I think there are other sins equally unforgivable. At least, sins that a man can't live with. Not a man raised as a pre-Vatican II Catholic, where that old-time religion gets down into your bones like a holy cancer and eats you alive. It never lets you go, not really. Not in your heart of hearts, that place where you can't lie to yourself, no matter how hard you try.

Picking up the sound system remote again, O'Neill found a Leroy Carr song in his collection and set it to play on a continuous loop. ‘
Died with my boots on', indeed.
Timothy James O'Neill picked up his Sig Sauer.
I can count on just two hands the number of times I've discharged this baby off the practice range,
he thought, holding the gun in his right hand and the glass in his left.

He admired the cold, clean lines of the weapon as he finished his whiskey in a large gulp.
Well, it ain't a Smith and Wesson, but it'll sure as hell blow out my brains.
As the last of the whiskey hit his system, O'Neill thumbed off the safety on the Sig.
I am indeed tired of living, Leroy, and I also ain't afraid to die, but it wasn't ‘my' woman threw me down—it was ‘a' woman, and she only helped me throw myself down. I've got to own at least that much.

Timothy James O'Neill raised the Sig to his mouth and without hesitation, pulled the trigger. Red haze exploded in his head, and one last thought raced the bullet through his brain before darkness claimed him.

You don't really ‘eat' your gun. It eats you
.

Jamie lurched down the stairs and walked into the living room, clutching his walking stick. At first, Jamie thought the room was empty, then he noticed Ríordán sitting motionless on the couch, eyes closed, blending into the shadows of the corner of the room. The
fili
's breath was deep and rhythmic. Jamie walked quietly to the sectional and sat.

“I'm actually awake, Mister Griffin,” Ríordán said softly, slowly opening his eyes.

“Sweet Jaysus,” Jamie exclaimed. He had noticed that in the past few weeks, he startled more than ever before.
I hope to God
that
doesn't last.
“I thought you were asleep alright. You the only one up?”

“Hanrahan is awake, but also meditating. The witch and the womenfolk are still asleep.”

“Not
this
womenfolk,” came a voice from the stairs.

Jamie and Ríordán turned to see Eileen enter the living room. “You didn't think you could get up without me knowing did you?” she asked Jamie, sitting down beside him.

“I used to get out of bed before you every morning with barely a grunt,” he replied with a grin.

“Yes,
before
you became ill
—
when you'd go watch your ‘honey' on Headline News,” Eileen agreed. “Now, I hear you when you get up, especially when you're not supposed to be up yet.”

“Hey,” Jamie protested. “I watched HLN for the news, sports, and weather, nothing more. I can't help it if they choose to put someone like Robin in front of the cameras.”

Eileen cuffed him on the shoulder. “Try selling that to someone who's buying, boyo. I knew you'd not sleep well before something like this. You did the same the night before any big operation.”

Jamie smiled. “Was I that transparent?”

“At least to me.” Eileen stood. “I'll make some coffee and something to eat.”

“Indeed. Can't lead an assault on an empty stomach.”

Over the next half hour, everyone trickled into the living room and dining room. The druid and the witch sat at the dining room table. Ríordán joined them and the three were soon in quiet discussion. The twins and Louie were the last to rejoin the group.

No one said anything for several minutes. Each was lost in their own thoughts as they contemplated what lay ahead. Finally, Daphné walked to the front door and opened it. After cracking the storm door and peering outside for a moment, she shivered and shut the doors. “As if the cold wasn't enough, it's started snowing again.”

“How hard is it snowing?” Jamie asked.

Daphné waggled her hand. “Meh. Not enough to cause problems, at least not yet.”

She rejoined the others, and they finished eating in silence. Silence still hung over everyone like one of the black clouds that scudded above the house. When they were finished, they rejoined the others, who had moved into the living room.

Jamie looked at everyone and nodded. “Okay then
—
are we ready to do this?”

“No,” Ríordán said, sadness shading his voice. “No, but I know we're going to do it anyway.”

“Do ye have any other suggestions, laddie?” Lucy asked.

“For the third and final time: no,” the
fili
said, then closed his eyes.

Jamie took a long drink of coffee. “Let's review then. We need two vehicles. Eileen will drive the Honda, with Louie, Hanrahan, Ríordán, and me. The twins will take Lucy in their car.”

“You don't get motion sick, do you?” Daphné asked, earning herself a punch from Darcelle.

“We'll lead,” Jamie continued, without commenting on another interruption. “If we get separated, I plan to head up the 93 and head down Hull Street off Causeway. The streets should be deserted, but we need to drive slow. Just not so slow as to attract the attention of any cops still on the prowl for drunks.”

“So
you're
leading,” Daphné put in, turning her shoulder to avoid another punch from her twin.

“Exactly.” Jamie looked at the druid,
fili
, and
cailleach
. “I know the twins, Louie, and I have been re-checking our weapons and our ammo. What preparations do the three of you have left?”

Hanrahan looked at Ríordán and Lucy, and then nodded as he turned back to Jamie. “Nothing. We have prepared ourselves as much as reasonably possible.”

“Okay then,” Jamie said. “Once we reach Sedecla's block, we'll take a ‘look-see.' If anything seems suspicious, speak up. One cell phone in each car will be on speaker. I would rather call this off and regroup than do anything stupid.”

“Attacking the witch
is
stupid,” Ríordán said, re-opening his eyes.

“Look,” Jamie said, exasperation getting the better of him. “Enough negativity, okay? If you want out, fine
—
you're out. Otherwise, we've all got enough to worry about without listening to a running commentary of bitching and moaning from you.” He stared at the
fili
for several seconds. At length, Ríordán nodded, but said nothing. “Okay then, once we determine that it's a ‘go,' we park as close as we can to Sedecla's townhouse.”

“Which is where I get dumped like unwanted baggage,” Eileen grumbled.

“Which is where you stay, as our back-up,” Jamie corrected. “You have a critical role in this, my love. I want someone at point outside the place to call in reinforcements.”

“Like the sound of gunfire won't bring in the cops?” Louie asked.

“Maybe not,” Jamie replied. “Do you know how easy it is for sound to be muffled, especially in older buildings like that? Or how often people insist gunfire is something else
—
a backfire, for example?”

“Are they likely to mistake automatic weapons for lots of backfires?” Darcelle asked. Louie had insisted upon using a Micro UZI he had retrieved from a storage unit.

Jamie shook his head. “Louie, if you're gonna use that spray gun, you're at the front of the group, not the rear. I'm not standing in front of you if you're using an UZI.”

Louie grunted. “Fine by me. I'm not about to go into a trap like this without enough firepower. I plan to have my pistol too, Mick, but we're going in against a shitload more men than we have, and they probably have automatic weapons.

“There are more ways to neutralize the defenders than firearms,” Hanrahan observed.

“Maybe ways that you trust,” Louie replied, “but Mama Lombardi's boy didn't get to be this old by taking stupid chances.”

“So you're not going along?” Darcelle asked sweetly.

“Enough,” Jamie said, knowing the two would argue non-stop if he didn't step in. “You two are
way
too alike.” They both started to object, but stopped when Jamie held up his hand. “Hush. Back to my original point. Eileen is going to call in back-up once the action starts inside.”

“Why not before?” Lucy asked.

“Because the police can't do anything unless there is an obvious situation.”

“Ye cannot call them before we go in?”

“I could,” Jamie admitted, “but then we'd encounter resistance to our plan to go in. It's not legal, even though we're all convinced it's moral.” He looked around for any more comments and, finding none, continued. “Okay, once inside, everything's going to happen pretty damned fast.” He looked at the others and paused. “Louie may have an understanding of this, but I doubt the rest of you do. When the bullets start flying and whatever else starts happening, it's easy to get overwhelmed, especially if it's your first firefight. The important thing to remember is to stay calm and not freeze.”

“Not freezin' up is the key,” agreed Louie. “You gotta trust your instincts and
act
. No thinkin', no wonderin', no sayin' to yourself, ‘Holy shit, I'm dead.' If you do anything but act, you
will
be dead.”

“And
I'm
being negative?” Ríordán demanded.

“We're not being negative,” Jamie insisted. “We're being pragmatic and as honest as possible. I've seen too many rookie cops wounded or killed because no one sat them down and talked to them this way
before
they got into action. You can't really know what it's like until you've been there. You can only hope to make it through so you have a better idea what to expect next time.”

“This isn't exactly reassuring me, you know darlin,'” Eileen observed.

Jamie reached out and took her hand. “Well, the fact that I've been through this several times over the years and come out relatively unscathed should reassure you.”

“Yeah, but how many firefights you been in since you got sick?” Louie asked.

Jamie shrugged and nodded. “Point taken, but my instincts are still true
—
I'm just going to have to take into account the fact that I can't do everything as quickly or as well as I used to.”

“So then what do we do once we're inside?” Daphné asked.

“You follow the leaders, you keep your eyes and ears open, and you pray you're quick enough and alert enough to stay alive.” Jamie looked at the druid. “Hanrahan, you're in the lead as well as Uzi Louzi and one of the twins. We need you to lead us to Sedecla or her power source.”

“The witch will not be far from her power source,” Hanrahan rumbled. “If she is truly anticipating us, she will be with it at all times.”

“Then our goal is to reach her in once piece.”

“Whadda we do then?”

“We play it by ear,” Jamie replied. “We have to destroy her power source to have any chance of defeating her. Once we find it and destroy it, the odds should be better, correct?”

“Better, but not good,” Hanrahan agreed.

“Don't start,” Jamie warned. “One ‘Negative Nelly' is enough. Lucy and I will follow the first three. Ríordán and the other twin will be the rearguard.”

“How are we going to decide which of us leads and which of us follows?” Darcelle asked.

“
We
don't,” Jamie replied. “That's up to the two of you. Just don't kill each other deciding. There's going to be plenty of action at the front and at the rear.” Jamie looked around the room for any further questions or comments. Seeing none, he looked at his watch. “Okay then, it's 3:30. Everyone be ready to roll by four.”

They broke up into groups then
—
the twins went upstairs for a private moment, the three mystics went to the back porch, and Louie reached into a pocket and pulled out a cigar.

“I thought you were supposed to give those up?” Jamie asked.

“Like
this
is gonna be what kills me tonight?” he demanded, gesturing with the cigar, then he stumped to the front porch to smoke.

Eileen looked at Jamie, her eyes large and unblinking. “I know, my love. I know,” he said, pulling her into an embrace.

“No you don't,” she whispered, choking back a sob. “You've never known. I've always had this icy lump of terror living inside me. It's usually small, but every time you walk out that door to go to work, it begins to grow. If the phone rings while you're gone, it explodes, freezing my entire body. If the doorbell rings, if I see an unmarked car go by, if I hear about something terrible on the radio or read about a firefight online
—
it's like part of me just freezes and smashes into a million pieces.” Eileen pushed away and looked at Jamie. “That same seed of fear has also planted itself in your daughters as they've come to understand the true nature of your work. You
don't
know, Jamie. You
can't
.”

“Not the same way, perhaps,” he disagreed quietly, “but I do know my own fear
—
fear of not coming back to you or coming back maimed. That's a pretty powerful fear as well, lass. Besides, you knew what you were getting into when you said, ‘I do' all those years ago.”

“True,” Eileen said as she stood, “but I don't have to like it. I'll never like it.”

Jamie held onto her hand for a moment longer, and then they got ready to leave.

* * * *

The roads were snow-covered, but the lack of traffic at this hour, on this day, made the drive quicker than Jamie had feared. No one spoke much, except for a couple of quiet observations here and there about the weather or the traffic. The radios were off, and Jamie's cell phone was already on, in speakerphone mode, placed on the center console between Eileen and him.

They exited the 93 and crept from plowed streets onto Hull Street, which might not see a plow until later in the day. The trees, which leaned over the street like eavesdroppers, tipped with ice and wet snow. The grave markers in the cemetery were also snow-covered, making strange silhouettes in the darkness. A handful of pale ghostly beams shone out of Sedecla's upper story windows. The rest of her townhouse was dark.