Plugged - Eoin Colfer [60]
Mike makes a big show of looking around. ‘Nope. No shit-covered mystery guy. You’re in the dock for this, counsellor.’
‘But he was there. You have to believe me. I’m telling you the truth.’
Mike sighs. ‘This is a whole lotta hoopla for not much there-there.’
I suppose if you’re as powerful as Mike, what you say doesn’t always have to make complete sense, though the hoopla there-there phrase has a ring to it.
‘Open the barrel, lads.’
Two of Mike’s men yank on the lid until one of the teeth gives; the rest relinquish their grip and the barrel yawns open like a lazy crocodile. They pat around in the surface pills for a while until Mike grows impatient for his big moment.
‘Tip it,’ he commands.
‘Don’t. Please.’ Faber is begging. Maybe that should give me some satisfaction, but it doesn’t. Staying alive is all I want out of this.
Mike’s boys put their shoulders into the barrel and it teeters past the point of no return, bouncing and skittering across the floor, spilling out a fan of pills and the corpse of Macey Barrett. He comes to rest at Madden’s feet, pools of blue pills in his eye sockets and mouth.
Faber screams and screams like he’s seeing his own death, which of course he is.
‘Oh, please,’ says Irish Mike in disgust, and suddenly there is a gun in his fist.
Faber holds up his hand to ward off the bullets, but Mike has already pulled the trigger. The bullet takes off Faber’s pointing finger, then continues, barely deflected, into the attorney’s heart.
Faber clutches his chest, a final scream leaking out of him, takes a step backwards on to the spread of pills. His final act is an ignominious pratfall, then he’s dead on the floor.
Mike kneels beside Macey Barrett and is about to touch him, when one of his guys coughs gently.
‘Uh, boss. Trace.’
Mike pulls back his fingers. ‘Yeah. Good. Thanks, Calvin. Always looking out for me.’
He pockets his gun, then gives the room a quick scan, looking for cameras, I’m guessing. I draw back from the freezer porthole and squat under the glass, just breathing and waiting. Deacon is coming around now, muttering to herself, mostly stuff about me, most of it bad.
I peek through the porthole again and the only people in that room are corpses.
I see dead people, jokes Zeb.
Yep. Me too. Far too often.
You had Mike Madden out there and you never asked him about me.
There’s a time and place, Zeb. And that wasn’t it.
I feel a sense of victory that I’m not proud of. My plan was full of holes, but nobody fell into them. Two birds with one bullet. Faber has paid the price for murdering Connie and Irish Mike is no longer on the hunt for Barrett’s killer. Home free.
That’s really great. I’m happy for you.
One thing at a time, Zeb. I still got problems.
One of my problems groans and attempts to sit up. I wedge my forearm under her head and try for a tender smile.
‘Hey, Ronnie. How you doing?’
‘Who the fuck are you? Joey Tribbiani? And what’s that weird look you’re giving me?’
I drop the tender smile. ‘Let’s get you off that trolley, Detective. The bust of your career is outside that door.’
Deacon flaps her palm against the freezer.
‘What? The locked steel door?’
I sit her upright, pulling my jacket tight around her shoulders.
‘Have a little faith, Deacon. It’s a freezer, not Fort Knox.’
There’s a seal around the porthole, which peels off easily once I get a nail underneath it. Most modern freezers have a safety latch on the inside in case anyone gets trapped, but just as Faber said there’s a plate welded over this one.
Still, it’s just a door with a basic lock. A lot less complicated than your average automobile door.
I reach down inside my pants.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
I pull out the slim jim taped to my leg. ‘For your information, I’m gonna jimmy-jang the lock. Thinking ahead, Ronnie. That’s the secret.’
‘Yeah, you’re a regular Nostradamus-seeing-into-the-future-motherfucker.’
This might not be the time to ask for a second date. I think I preferred Detective Ronelle