The Dead Yard Read online

  “That’s the murder of a federal employee in the commission of another crime. That’s the fucking death penalty.”

  “Oh please, please, please don’t do it,” the soldier begged.

  “Close your eyes, pal,” Seamus said, his face in the moonlight, resigned, determined.

  I lifted the soldier’s .45.

  “Put the gun down, Seamus,” I said.

  He turned to look at me.

  “You wouldn’t,” he said.

  “Put the gun down,” I insisted.

  “Fucking kill you, Sean. Kill ya both,” he snarled and trained the gun on my chest.

  The .45 banged.

  A huge boom that stopped the cops in their tracks and set the birds a mile up and down the Parker River panicking into the air. Seamus collapsed to his knees, half his head blown apart, the skin on the other half hanging on to the skull by only a few blood vessels and nerve endings.

  I wiped his brains off my arm and face.

  He knelt there, little spurts of blood gurgling from his mouth.

  “Sorry, Seamus,” I found myself saying.

  His left eye blinked, he hovered on his knees for a second, and then slumped forward, stone dead, into the boggy waters of the swamp.

  8: MURDER IN NEWBURY

  Flints in the night sky. Oxidizing blood. Mosquitoes by the swarm and double swarm. A burning smell on the warm, wet trade wind. And, as I stood there, holding the distinctive grip of a smoking Colt .45, covered in filth, bleeding, soaked, a dead man at my feet, another man on his knees in front of me begging for his life, I thought to myself: What else is new?

  I sighed.

  This is exactly what I was talking about when I said that trouble followed me like sharks trailing a slave ship.

  I spat, clearing the bitter taste in my throat.

  “Please, sir, don’t kill me,” the soldier said as the echo from the .45 rolled down the river.

  I thumbed the safety on the army-issue Colt and squatted down onto one knee.

  “Listen,” I began but stopped as a light plane flew above us and somewhere in the distance a freaked-out cop unloaded his Glock into a harmless wading bird.

  The soldier put his hands way up.

  “I’m sorry about the fall. Please don’t shoot me, please, I’m getting married at Christmas. I have, a, uh, a kid from my first marriage, please, oh God, please.”

  “Take it easy, you eejit, I’m an undercover FBI agent. Everything’s going to be all right,” I said.

  His mouth opened in disbelief as he looked at me and then at Seamus’s blood oozing into the Parker River.

  “I don’t believe you, let me see your badge, let me—”

  “Shut up. Now listen to me, we’ve got to buy some time. Help me drag Seamus into the water.”

  The soldier balked and stared at me, petrified.

  “You gotta work with me, mate, come on, I’m not going to kill you, look, I’m putting the gun away,” I said, taking the .45 and slipping it into my trouser pocket. I picked up Seamus by the left leg and nodded for the soldier boy to lift the right. Dazed, confused, now he wanted to be told what to do. He grabbed the leg and we dragged Seamus to the river’s edge. I floated him in and watched him drift down towards the bottom of PI, Ipswich, and the ocean.

  I climbed back up the bank.

  “Please don’t kill me now,” the soldier said.

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-one,” he said hesitantly.

  “Thirty-one. Old enough to know better. Fucking pull it together, mate.”

  “Ok, I’ll—”

  “Be quiet. Follow me, we’re going into the water, quiet now, crouch low. Hurry up, this way.”

  I got the soldier to bend down and I led him upstream for about a quarter of a mile. The peelers obviously had a canine unit because after about ten minutes the dog set up a terrible howling, which could only mean that they’d found what was left of the other half of Seamus’s head. Hopefully the dog would pick up the rest of the dead man’s scent and lead them to the river and then downstream. The wind was blowing off the sea so that would help a little too.

  “What was that?” the soldier asked, spooked.

  “That was a dog, they probably just found Seamus, come on now.”

  We kept going and paused while I adjusted my prosthesis.

  As we got farther upstream the Parker River narrowed, but I kept us going until it was shallow enough so we could easily cross to the other bank.

  “Follow me to the other side, be sharp about it,” I told him.

  He nodded glumly. Seeing Seamus topped like that had certainly gotten his attention and now he was Mister Cooperation. No more slow play, broken legs, or crying out.

  I helped him up the slippery embankment and led him under a tree. It was a pretty good move to lose our scent in the water, but it wouldn’t fool Fido for long and Jackie was right about one thing, sooner or later they would have a chopper. I had to think fast. I sat the character on a big root. He was hyperventilating and afeared. He had to calm down and he had to believe me.

  “First thing, take a big breath,” I told him.

  He breathed deep and exhaled.

  “Second thing. What’s your name and rank?” I asked.

  “My name and rank?”

  “Yeah, you have to tell me. Even if I was the enemy you’d have to tell me.”

  “Specialist David Ryan,” he said, confused but maybe a little less frightened.

  “Ok, David, listen, it’s gonna be ok. I’m going to let you go, but you gotta be cool and do what I tell you. Ok?”

  He nodded.

  “Good,” I said.

  “He was going to kill me. He, he was going to kill you, too,” he muttered, recalling the grisly incident. He began to shiver.

  I couldn’t afford for him to lose it now.

  “Take it easy, mate. You were never in any danger. Not for a second. Neither was I. He had a gun but you’d need fucking kryptonite to take care of me. Now be cool and shut up a minute while I sort this out.”

  I rummaged in my cargo pants pocket and took out the mobile phone that Samantha insisted I always carry for a situation such as this. The question was whether it would work when I needed it. The pocket was soaked and the phone was slathered in wet reeds, petals, and pollen.

  “Just fucking work,” I ordered it and turned it on. It lit up by force of will and I got a dial tone. Thank God.

  I rang Samantha’s number.

  She picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” I said.

  “Mi—? Where are you? Are you on a portable phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hang up now and call me from a landline.”

  “It’s an emergency.”

  “Ok, well then, um, be very careful what you say.”

  “I don’t have time for that shit. Seamus is dead. You’re going to have to send a team of FBI agents to the Massachusetts National Guard base near Rowley on Route 1A. Right now. We broke in, it went wrong, and Seamus is dead. And there’s a witness. They’re going to pick up a soldier, Specialist David Ryan. If you want this operation to succeed you can’t allow him to talk to the cops. The FBI are going to have to convince them this is a federal matter. We can’t trust the cops not to blab. He’ll be waiting there for them. He’ll be prepped.”

  “What on earth is going on? Are you hurt?” she asked.

  “I’ll tell you later. It’s a fuckup. It’s going to be your call on whether it’s a fatal fuckup or not. If you ask me, I think we should abort the whole thing. But like the good trooper that I am, I’m going to square it so we have all the options. Ok?”

  “You have to tell me exactly what’s happened,” she said, an imperative tone overcoming her concern.

  “No time. Listen to me. Write this down. Get the FBI to the National Guard Base on Route 1A, the 101st Engineers. It’s near Rowley and the Parker River. Pick up Specialist David Ryan. You better bloody move it too. I
’ve got to go to PI and make this right. You owe me big time for this. Big time,” I said.

  I turned off the phone and looked at Ryan.

  “Ok, pal, now listen to me, the cops are going to be over here in a few minutes. I’m an undercover FBI agent, I’ve infiltrated a very dangerous cell of terrorists. They are on the verge of blowing tons of shit up. Remember Oklahoma City? Stuff like that. The lives of hundreds of people are at stake. If you tell those cops that I shot Seamus, my cover will be blown and months of preparation are going to go up the fucking spout and I’ll be executed and the terrorists are going to get away. This is bandit country, the cops can’t be trusted. Only the feds. Ok?”

  “I can’t lie to them, I—”

  “Take it easy, mate, you don’t have to lie, not exactly, what you’ll say to the cops is pretty much what happened: three guys broke into the base, they took you with them, you got away, and you heard a shot. That’s it. They’ll take you back to the police station for medical treatment, maybe to a hospital, doesn’t matter. You tell the cops that you got away from us and you ran and you don’t know what happened to us. Ok?”

  He nodded, but he still wasn’t convinced.

  “Don’t feel bad about it. The FBI is going to be talking to you in an hour or so, you can tell them the truth. There’s probably going to be an agent called Harrington. You can tell him everything. But if you tell your buddies or your fiancée or the cops or anyone else that I shot Seamus, I’m fucked. The terrorists will find out what really happened tonight and they’ll kill me. Do you understand?”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because it happens to be true.”

  He blinked rapidly, his eyes wide and inexperienced. The fear was dissipating.

  “Ok, I think, I—”

  “No, no thinking. You’ll either do it or you won’t, tell me which it’s going to be. Hurry up,” I said.

  He thought for a moment, struggled with it, but obviously he wanted to buy the story, either that or he was a hell of an actor.

  “Ok, I’ll do it,” he said.

  “You better not be lying. My life’s at stake. Dozens of lives.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  He looked at the gun butt peeking out of my pocket. I clicked my fingers in front of his face. I needed the locus of his attention on me.

  “Tell me what you have to do. Repeat it back,” I said.

  “I don’t tell the cops shit, but I do tell the FBI.”

  “Very good.”

  I had him, but I had to be a hundred percent certain. I crouched beside him, looked into his eyes.

  “Now listen, Ryan, I’m trusting you with my goddamn life, so you better not fuck up.”

  “I won’t man, I owe you.”

  “One last time. Don’t tell the cops, but tell the FBI.”

  “I understand,” he said seriously. “It’s like when you have to do deep recon.”

  “That’s exactly what it’s like. Good. I like that. Ok, I have to go, give me ten minutes and then you can start screaming for the police. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  I stood.

  The soldier looked at me. He wanted to say something. I waited.

  “Thank you for saving me,” he said. “And good luck.”

  “I’ll need it,” I said.

  I took the .45 out of my pocket, threw it into the Parker River, and ran as fast as I could into the swampy undergrowth.

  I headed north for fifteen minutes until I came to a wood. Here I adjusted the straps on my prosthesis again, caught my breath, got my shit together.

  What now?

  Go back to Gerry’s?

  How?

  Hoof it.

  Plum Island is a long sandy outcrop that runs parallel to the coast of northern Massachusetts. On the maps it’s an island but in fact at low tide the island is effectively joined to the mainland by a marshy spit of land. From where I was, north of the Parker River, it wouldn’t be a difficult trek east across the marsh and up onto the west shore. I could easily make landfall in the Plum Island wildlife reserve, cut across the quarter-mile-wide island to the Atlantic side, and walk up the beach to McCaghan’s house.

  That would take about an hour.

  I thought about it and it seemed feasible, and I was about to get going but then, like the sleekit wee character I was, a new plan began to grow in my mind.

  A better one.

  A much fucking better one.

  What was it that I’d said to her? I saved your operation tonight. That I bloody had and they owed me.

  I stood and instead of going east to Plum Island I went west out of the woods and towards the highway.

  Brambles, an old graveyard, and eventually the trees intersecting with Route 1A again. Perfect. Not far now. I turned north, keeping to the undergrowth by the side of the road. Just before the town of Newbury I stopped at a gas station that I’d noticed several times before.

  It was after nine o’clock, so the gas station was closed for the night. Still, I staked it out in the forest until I was damn sure it was unoccupied. At a break in the traffic I ran across the road.

  The gas station was deserted and the object of my mission, the pay phone outside, was in full working order. I could call Samantha now without a danger of our call being intercepted. I picked up a rock and after a couple of tries I smashed the big light illuminating the gas station’s forecourt.

  I popped in a quarter and dialed Samantha’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “Samantha, it’s me. I want you to pick me up at the gas station south of Newbury on Route 1A. I’ll wait here for fifteen minutes.”

  I hung up before she had a chance to say anything and then retreated into the shadows. Her burgundy Jag appeared a little over ten minutes later. She had pulled a coat on over her nightgown. Her eyes suspicious, her lips thin and furious. She opened the car door.

  “North on 1A,” I said.

  I got in, she turned the car, and we drove for Newburyport.

  “Michael, what do you think you’re—” she began, but I put my hand on her thigh and cut her off.

  “Just listen . . . listen first. This is the whole story. We broke into the National Guard base to steal explosives, there was a soldier on guard duty, Seamus grabbed him, and he alerted the peelers. We ran out into the swamps, Jackie got away, but the soldier fell down and Seamus decided to kill him. . . . I had to shoot Seamus to save the soldier. I told the soldier not to say anything to the cops and to save it for the FBI. I think he’ll do what he’s told.”

  Samantha redigested the information.

  “Who was with you?”

  “Seamus, me, Jackie.”

  She thought for a moment.

  “Are you sure the soldier won’t speak to the local police?”she asked.

  “No, he won’t. I told him to tell the FBI what happened but not the local police. If I were you, I’d get on the blower straight away.”

  “Good. Hold on a minute, darling. This line is secure. Let me take care of it.”

  She picked up her car phone and called someone who told her that the FBI were on their way to Rowley. She asked to be transferred to Stephen Harrington. She filled in Harrington and told him to get Specialist Ryan away from the cops as soon as possible by telling them this was an FBI and ATF matter. When she was done, she hung up and blew me a kiss.

  “You did well, Michael, you saved the day,” she said with a grin; but I wasn’t having any of it. She wasn’t going to butter me up.

  “Damn right I did. In more ways than one. Not just telling the soldier boy what to say. I could have given myself up to the cops and my cover would have been blown and you’d have had to pull me out. Operation over. And the best you could have gotten from the whole thing would be Jackie for an attempted burglary. That would be it. Gerry, Touched, everyone else scot-free and a million times more suspicious. A million times more careful. Oh, and one more time, keep your bloody car away from Gerry’s house.”


  Samantha nodded.

  “I’m sorry, I just drove over there today to make sure that you were installed safely, get the lay of the land around the house. Did someone comment on it?”

  “No one commented on it, but don’t do it again, Touched notices things. And you don’t need to walk up the beach to give me warnings either. I may be a novice at this but I can handle myself. Just stay off Plum Island completely. With me you have to lay back. Give me room to breathe.”

  She nodded. She had been overprotective and she had made a mistake. I was right to put her in her place.

  We reached Newburyport. She drove up State and down Pleasant and pulled round the back of All Things Brit. She parked the car and turned off the lights. I looked at her. She knew I was gunning for something.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You want to talk here or in your flat?”

  “We don’t have to talk.”

  “Oh, I think we do,” I insisted.

  “What do you want me to say, darling? Don’t make me cross. I’ve already told you that you did a jolly good job,” she said.

  “No, no, it’s gone beyond the pat on the back. I saved the operation tonight.”

  She opened her handbag and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offered me one. I declined; she lit one for herself.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “I want a million dollars. Half a million each for the convictions of Touched and Gerry.”

  “You want money?” she asked incredulously.

  “Aye, I want money. The FBI gives me a stipend of about five hundred a week. It’s nothing. I want to be set for life. This is my opportunity.”

  “A million dollars. Don’t be silly, there’s no way Six would ever approve—”

  “Oh, they’ll approve. You were right, Samantha, it’s not just a bunch of dreamers. These guys are serious. Have you heard of a group called the Real IRA?”

  “Yes, dissident republicans, very small, nothing much to worry about—”

  “You think not? Well, I beg to differ. Gerry and Touched are planning to go under their umbrella in the next few months. Their plan is to set up cells and start a bombing cam- paign as soon as possible. By Christmas, they’ll have bombed a lot of commercial targets, got the nod from the Real IRA, and then they’re going to go for targeted assassinations. They are going to be killing people. Ambassadors, businessmen, retired army officers. These boys are bloody serious. And they’re careful and they’re good. And I’m the best chance you’ve got of bringing them down before they get started. We’ll save lives, save treasure, nab the fuckers. It’s the only way. You won’t discourage them by harassment. They’re hard-core. They’re pissed off at the IRA, at the American government, at the Brits, at anyone in their way. Very, very dangerous.”