Authors: Ken Bruen
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Thrillers, #Suspense, #Crime
Purgatory (26 page)
In my days in the Guards, even we’d believed
. . .
don’t ever fuck with Special Branch.
First, the woman was sniffy until I flashed the ID.
The change was heartening. She didn’t pale but definitely faltered. Said,
“I’ll have to get Dr. James.”
I stared at her, said nothing, and she echoed,
“Right . . . um, I’ll do that so.”
Did some jigging with the switchboard, then,
“Dr. James will be here forthwith.”
Forthwith.
Who the fuck talked like that?
But indeed, forthwith or not, he was there in jig time. A big man, in his fifties, even his beard was big, no white coat for this chappie. Tweeds ruled the day and the man.
He boomed,
“Let’s take it over here.”
Meaning the lobby, beside a bay window. We sat, he commanded,
“Papers.”
This in command tone, the guy was used to staff and hopping staff. He peered at my ID and I knew I had to act, asked,
“You have a problem with the Branch?”
Letting insinuation, accusation, suspicion run riot over the words. He almost flinched, tried to regroup, asked,
“What do you want?”
I gave the hard-arse smile, said,
“My ID first.”
Get some ground rules down.
He said,
“We don’t usually have this sort of . . . scrutiny.”
I stared at him, asked,
“How often do you have someone of Mr. Reardon’s power, and
resources,
need your . . .
help
?”
His eyes flinched and I had the money shot. Pushed,
“Rehab and security, the only two growth resources in these dark days, place like this, cost a mighty load of euros to run and a sponsor, of . . . unlimited assets.”
I stood up, said,
“I’d like to see her . . . now.”
He stood and, almost smoothly, backed away from me, physical distance in lieu of eroding authority. He said,
“You must understand . . .”
I put up my hand, enjoying it a bit, said,
“Whoa, Doc, drop the imperatives, okay?”
He did, said,
“We’ve had to administer some therapy.”
I laughed, said,
“The old electric shock treatment?”
Shook his head, said,
“Oh, no, we don’t do that, we have MST.”
Like a car warranty. He waited, then,
“It’s memory suppressor therapy.”
I asked,
“You still apply the voltage?”
“Well, yes . . .”
I said,
“Same shite, different label.”
He was about to protest. I cut through, said,
“I want to see her now.”
He considered many options, none of them ridding him of me, which is what he most desired, said,
“Very well, but I must caution you, she isn’t yet very responsive.”
Led me to an upstairs room, did the gig with many keys, and opened the door. I grabbed his arm, said,
“Go get yourself some coffee.”
I moved in, pulled the door behind me. Kelly was seated by the large window, looking out on a deserted garden. Dressed in a white tracksuit, she was absolutely still. The room resembled a luxurious hotel, save for the locks on the outside. I said,
“Hi, babe.”
No response.
I grabbed the desk chair, pulled it over, sat right next to her face. Her face was completely devoid of expression. I said,
“I was in your apartment.”
Nothing.
Continued,
“Found some very impressive volumes of Wilde, and guess what?”
Her eyes flickered, barely, but something going on, or inward, rather. I said,
“One volume really caught my interest. It was signed by your father.”
A faint stir in the eyes and a tiny movement in her shoulders. I sat back, as if seeing the book, said,
“Tell you, Kell, it was a beautiful piece of work.”
Let her hear that
past tense
, waited a beat, said,
“And fuck, the way that sucker burned.”
She spat in my face, her hands going for my eyes. I slapped her back, said,
“Whoa, that’s some miraculous recovery.”
Then as if a light went out, she slumped in her chair, even let her mouth sag, but couldn’t quite prevent a sly smile from racing across the corners of her mouth. I stood, said,
“I’m going to give you a countdown, when you eventually walk, and Reardon has covered your arse in all the ways that matter. A certain number of days, you’ll turn around and I’ll be there, give you the same chance you gave my friend Stewart.”
I headed for the door, banged on it, and, as it opened, heard,
“How many . . . days?”
I gave her my winning smile, said,
“33.”
The boy had the granite slab finely balanced, beads of perspiration burst on his forehead from exertion and high excitement. He looked up the road and nearly crapped himself. A light blue car was coming.
Ridge, uncertain as to whether to turn for home now or make the turn after the bridge. On pure whim, she said,
“Let’s see what you got.”
Her foot pushed down on the accelerator, she felt a burst of joy as the car hurled toward the bridge. It was the first break in the blanket of grief that had enshrouded her.
The boy focused, shouted,
“Blue rules.”
Crows perched on a lone tree near the motorway, startled by the grinding crash of metal and exploding glass, hurled into the air like tiny stealth bombers, above the bridge, their glass eyes registering only what might be deemed scavengings. Their harsh cawing like a screech heard behind a confession gone rogue.
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