Cross - Ken Bruen [25]
She recalled the flight to Ireland with Aer Lingus, the cabin crew asking if they were going on holiday. There had been flames in the corner of the cabin – couldn't they see them? She'd smiled and said, 'Oh yes, a family outing. We're going to have us a high old time.' She'd waited before adding, 'Our mother is already over there.'
The crew had thought it was refreshing to meet such a close-knit family and had promised, 'You'll love Ireland.'
She'd pulled her eyes away from the inferno she could glimpse along the wings of the plane and replied, 'And Ireland is going to love us.'
13
There is no pain like the loss of a child.
I could have caught a cab to the hospital, but I wanted to delay the news that I dreaded I was going to hear.
Cody had come to me asking to be my partner in investigation, and he was a mix of naivety, pseudo-American swagger, irritation and aggravation.
Then the amazing thing had happened. I hate to go New Era but we . . . fuck it, we bonded. I began to love the kid. He was annoying as hell, but would suddenly do something that tore at my heart, like buy me a very expensive leather jacket. I was wearing it when he was shot, his blood all over the front. I burned it.
We'd had one memorable day when we went to a hurling match, bought the team's scarf, shouted like banshees, had a huge slap-up meal after and near hugged at the end of a perfect day.
I was something then that I, oh, so rarely have ever been – I was happy.
But mo croi briste . . . me heart is broken.
Let me put it this way: those whom the Irish gods would destroy, first they give a shard of joy to. Least it's how they fuck with me and often.
A few people had asked then if he was my son. I was delighted and was beginning to see him as such. A chance of family, the dream I'd never even allowed me own self to entertain.
When the sniper shot those holes in him, the shots burned a wound in my soul that would never close.
I'd been round and round with speculation as to who had done the shooting. The stalker I'd dealt with for Ridge had a solid alibi; Cathy Bellingham, wife of my best friend Jeff, sure had cause – I'd been responsible for the death of her three-year-old daughter – but she'd disappeared and I was in no hurry to find her. The third possibility was Kate Clare, sister of Michael who might have beheaded a Father Joyce and whom I'd pursued to the gates of hell. Among the more awful aspects of this was that I actually liked Michael Clare, and, Christ, as a victim of clerical molestation he'd already suffered the torment of the damned before he killed himself. Kate, it transpired, had flown off to the Far East and her whereabouts were currently unknown.
Truth is, I didn't care who had done the shooting. All I wanted was for Cody to be returned to me and then I'd deal with the shooter, whoever the fuck it was. And deal biblically.
I got to the hospital, my heart in me mouth, went up to the ward and met a nurse. She knew me from my daily visits, even used my first name.
She went, 'Oh Jack, I'm so sorry.'
Dizziness hit me, but before I could even catch my breath, a couple approached and the nurse said, 'It's Cody's parents.'
They had the look. That horrendous expression of sheer disbelief.
The man, in his late sixties, wearing a good suit, his face a mask of rage, snarled, 'You're Taylor?'
I nodded, still reeling from the implication of the nurse's opening line.
He spat in my face.
'You got our son killed, you bastard.'
His wife pulled him away and as she dragged him down the corridor, he shouted, 'I hope you burn in hell.'
There was literally a beat of silence – one of those moments of pure quiet when a terrible curse has been laid on a human being. All present froze in a tableau of pure shock.
My legs began to tremble. I don't mean a slight shake, I mean the full-on tremor that signals a major collapse.
The next hour or so is hazy. I think I asked if I might see Cody, but I'm not sure. For some bizarre reason, I found myself in the café downstairs, a cup of coffee before me and devastation all around me.