Great Kills

by Kevin Fox

  …When I opened my eyes, I was somewhere dark and damp—the only light coming in from my left… a windshield. The dim light framed a silhouette of a dead man, the pilot. I was in the plane. I could smell the coppery scent of blood and hear the rain on the aluminum skin, the loudest sound in the night until I heard her moan in pain.

  “Focáil leat,” she said, struggling for breath. I turned to see Morrigan struggling to get out from under a body and the wreckage. I went to help her and put my hand in something warm and sticky, and I gasped. It was blood.

  I might have run out on her then, but there was another sound outside. Leaves rusting, branches snapping and a rhythm of movement. That’s when I saw the flashlights, coming for both of us…

  “Someone’s coming. We need to go,” said Morrigan, pulling herself up from under the debris.

  “Maybe they’re here to help,” I reassured her, trying to move, only to find that my leg was pinned under something cold and metallic that still dripped with the blood of the body it had impaled. “I can’t move anyway…”

  The flashlights were just outside now, and as the cargo door opened, one of them lit Rigan up, and I heard Big Jim Collins.

  “We got one. She’s alive…”

  “…He’s alive.” I heard as sounds gradually started to come back. A radio crackled and wet leaves moved with shuffling feet. Finally, a voice reached me as if from a great distance.

  “Demetrius. You got a dead lieutenant here—maybe a detective too,” the voice said as I felt his breath on my face and his cold fingers on my neck, feeling for a pulse. “Goddammit. This one’s still breathing. It’s Kill Collins…”

  …And then it all started to fade again…

  Chapter

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I was laid up in the hospital for three days, to have shrapnel from the shotgun wound in my shoulder and chest removed. Kat was one floor down with five broken ribs, a broken nose, and cuts on her hands and arms. I heard later that she had tried to see me, but security escorted her back to her own room since she wasn’t a relative. Soon after, Kat signed herself out because she had heard Demetrius was looking for her. She was afraid that he might charge her with negligent homicide in the deaths of Pete and the Russian.

  It was never going to happen.

  Things were too complicated for Demetrius. He had the Feds haranguing him about Josef Markov, the dead son of the oligarch Alik Markov; Burke, a dead NYPD lieutenant; three other bodies whose deaths were hard to explain; and the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy. Yes, Demetrius had bigger problems than Kat. In the end, he explained the way the whole situation was going to be resolved as I lay in my hospital bed, hopped up on Percocet.

  “Your friend Pete and the Russians were looting the yacht in the aftermath of the hurricane, you understand?” he said, leaning in close and whispering, as if the nurses might be working for Internal Affairs.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Burke was tracking them down, helping recover Markov’s stolen goods. He was shot and killed by the thieves, as was Markov, while trying to recover them.”

  I glanced over at Demetrius, who was keeping a straight face as he told me the official story. “Really? This is a nice fairy tale. How does it end?” I asked, worried that his story wouldn’t stick and that somehow I’d end up indicted for something—like lying under oath.

  “You shot the guy that killed Markov and Burke… Please, Killer, don’t give me any shit. I’m doing you a solid.”

  “And the two killed by the BMW? What about them?”

  “That’s an unrelated traffic accident,” he said, as if that was obvious.

  I smiled. The story wasn’t half bad.

  “What about the missing girls?” I asked, trying to eliminate holes in this story that could trip us up later.

  “What missing girls? If they ever existed, the misguided Morrigan Kelly probably took them somewhere safe. We’ll discuss it with her when we find her, if Markov’s father doesn’t find her first.”

  “And the plane crash? The cash that went missing?”

  “A myth. That case was closed back in eighty-five.”

  I nodded. Demetrius was right. It was better off closed. Never found. If Alik Markov or anyone else knew the cash was still available, Rigan would be hunted down. She’d taken enough risks going up against the Russians, and didn’t need the Feds, the NYPD, and Markov’s father looking for her. Rigan would be better off if she were never found.

  “Great. Since I’m apparently the hero of this fable, do I get my gun and shield back?” I asked. Immediately, I saw the hesitation in Demetrius’s eyes.

  “Yeah, well… about that. The brass is a little uncomfortable with this and Internal Affairs might be poking around. I was told to inform you that if you put in your papers for the gunshot, maybe even ‘psychological disability’—or whatever the hell else you can think of—no one would stand in your way.”

  “They want me out?”

  “It’s easier than investigating and finding out that your lead detective in human trafficking was involved in trafficking kids and working for a Russian mobster. Think about it, Kill—you can get three-quarters pay the rest of your life. You just won the lottery.”

  “And if I don’t put in my papers?” I asked.

  Demetrius shrugged, his body language implying that the question was an indication of mental incompetence. “Maybe you get your badge back, maybe you don’t. As of now you’re suspended indefinitely. There are too many dead people and too many missing girls. You get that, right?”

  I did. It was about the optics. The NYPD didn’t want to look too closely at this, afraid of what they might find. To tell the truth, neither did I.

  As soon as I was able to sign myself out, I went directly to Rigan’s house. The crime scene tape still surrounding it was in tatters, blowing in the wind.

  I went in the front door, still swollen with the moisture, smelling the musty dampness that had settled over the unheated old home. The floors creaked in the stillness as I wandered through, wondering what her days here must have been like, knowing that I lived less than five miles away, never remembering who she was.

  The bedroom was where I found the photo album, full of old newspaper clippings and pictures—

  They were all of me. She’d kept articles from the Staten Island Advance about my wins as a pitcher in Little League, my high school graduation, and even my appointment to the police department. In the back were other photos, stolen from a distance, pictures she or someone else had taken of me doing extraordinarily ordinary things: playing handball at I.S. 72 when I was in middle school; drinking beer with friends at Wolfe’s Pond Park; working on my first car in front of my parents’ house; at a barbeque; sitting on my front steps… Rigan had captured all of it.

  There were even two photos that we were in together. In one, Rigan was seated right behind me on a set of bleachers. We could have been together, or maybe she just photo-bombed me… But the second one was on the Staten Island ferry, with the Manhattan skyline in the background at night, a few drops of rain on the camera lens... We both appeared to be in our early twenties and my arm was around her. We were both smiling. Happy…

  I had no memory of it.

  Maybe we were drunk, or maybe it was just one of my lost nights. One of the encounters that could have changed my life if I was ever able to hang on to them…

  I took the album and paged through it as I lay on her bed, the smell of her still on the sheets. Eventually, I drifted off to sleep, and when I woke, the house felt different, a slight draft pulling the air down the stairs and outside…

  I’d missed her.

  I knew it as soon as I opened my eyes, but by the time I got downstairs, the only thing left of her was a single sheet of paper just inside the door. I picked it up carefully, seeing her handwritten letter:

  Killian,

  I am safe, as are Dariya and Alina. I wanted to thank you for all you did to protect them, and me. I’m sorry about all o
f this. Maybe I should have tried to reach out to you sooner, but people were watching. I wish I could explain more fully. Perhaps later, when you remember more. I know you think this is all just because I am a post-traumatic stress-induced survivor—and I am—but I have also loved you for as long as I can remember. Please, think of that when you think of me, think of what you gave me on our one night together, and know that I will always keep the memory of you safe.

  Love, always,

  Your Morrigan

  I’d just finished reading the letter when I heard a car engine start somewhere out on Sharrotts Road. I ran out to the street, into the rain, to try to catch her.

  I was too late. All I could see were the red taillights of her car as it took the corner and accelerated into the night. I didn’t bother to chase after it. She was already too far gone…

  Two hours later, I walked into my parents’ sunroom and confronted my father, who was thankfully with us. I asked him the big question—a tactic some detectives like to call the nuclear option in an interrogation—putting it all out there just to get a baseline reaction.

  “Is Joe Corrigan dead, Dad? I asked without preamble, watching his eyes for any tells.

  “What kinda stupid question is that?” he demanded. His voice never wavered, eyes never moved, and he gave no other sign of deception.

  “There are no stupid questions, and you didn’t answer me,” I pressed him.

  “I was at his funeral, wasn’t I?”

  “Still not answering. Did you see him dead?” I asked, and got that heavy sigh he always used to buy himself some time. I was on the right track.

  “He was shot in the head. The casket was closed, so no. I never saw Joe Corrigan dead,” he answered, again in a way that made perfect sense unless you knew what an evasive fucker my father could be.

  “Did you ever see him alive after October 23, 1985?”

  “Joe Corrigan? No,” he muttered, knowing that he himself had taught me how to spot conditional language in an answer. He’d added the words “Joe Corrigan” to that answer when he didn’t need to.

  “How about anyone who once went by the name ‘Joe Corrigan’?” I asked, making it more specific so that he’d have to answer.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Killian, can’t you leave anything alone—ever?”

  “So. That’s a yes, considering you can’t just say no.”

  My father looked away, out the windows at the fog and the hovering mist. He sighed and went on, never looking at me directly.

  “Hypothetically, you relentless little shit, there was someone corrupt on the squad who’d killed Tompkins and Germanario—and now we had a dead KGB operative and people who were hunting down kids who were witnesses. Joe, if he’d lived, would’ve been a marked man.”

  “So that’s who I’ve been seeing.”

  “You know who it is,” he mumbled.

  “I want to hear you say it.”

  “Fine, you stubborn little shit. It was him. Okay?”

  “Aidan knew?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  “Some of the other Corrigans, too,” my father admitted reluctantly. “They had connections in Ireland. Joe went there for a while, but couldn’t leave it alone. Had to know who did this to him… The bullet in his head fucked him up like it did to you. I thought we’d seen the last of him, and then he showed up a few years back, working for the Feds on international smuggling and trafficking. He’d been in deep cover—real deep shit, new identity, the works. He’d also become obsessed with the Markovs and whoever was dirty on our squad.”

  “And Rigan?” I asked.

  My father looked up at me with something like compassion in his eyes. Maybe even regret.

  “Joe asked if I knew where she was. I didn’t. He thought she might remember enough to lure out whoever set him up… I guess he found her.”

  “Was the part about the psych ward true?” I asked.

  “True enough. That girl was crazed. Wouldn’t speak. After a few weeks we thought she was getting better and we were going to adopt her as well. Then one night she just bolted off the psych floor. We never saw her again until the other day.”

  “So all of this, it’s been a lie? Joe’s not dead, it wasn’t a car accident, Rigan was always out there… My life is a lie?”

  “Fuck off with the drama, Killian. If your life’s a lie, it’s a damn good one. It kept you safe, and you’ve become a good man. You fight the good fight, protect the weak, defend the defenseless. What more could you hope to be? What more could I ask for in a son?”

  “What about who I could have been if I knew the truth? What about who I was?” Don’t I deserve to know that? I asked.

  “No. That’s exactly my point. That’s who you were.” My father looked away again, voice drifting off as he stared at his own reflection in the window. “It’s not who you are. Life isn’t about chasing the past, Kill. It’s about loving the people in your life—and you have people who love you. That’s more than most have. You’ve got me and your mother and a beautiful friend who loves you in all the ways a woman should love a man. When are you ever going to wake up and know that it’s enough?”

  “Are you talking about Kat?”

  “My God, you really are half-a-retard, aren’t you,” he said, then finally looked at me and took my hand. “I’m gonna say this once, in case I never remember to say it again—’cause we both know that you and me have shit for brains when it comes to remembering things. I’ve come to accept that there are very few things worth remembering, Kill. This is one of them—you are my son and I love you. Even when I’ve lost every last marble, I will know that in my heart.”

  I nodded. It’s all I could do. There was no way that I could speak, since I was choking back tears.

  I knew who I was, right now.

  I could hang onto that. I could remember that much.

  It was misting again by the time I got back to the site of the plane crash, the one connection I had to my life before the accident. I’d left my father at his place and promised my mother I’d go straight home, but I’d lied. I had to come back one last time.

  I watched the skies as I walked out into the woods, since another nor’easter was predicted, but they were temporarily placid. Neither the cold nor the gentle rain bothered me. The weather suited my mood, as did the quiet rhythm of the raindrops.

  A damp, mossy tree lay where it had been uprooted in some long-ago storm, or even in the plane crash, and offered a convenient seat. I rested there, letting the heavy mist envelop me. I’m not sure how long I sat there before I felt a slight warmth on my face and saw the sun trying to break through the solid gray sky, sending twisted rainbows of light glancing off the droplets of water that fell from the branches of the dormant oaks. I closed my eyes to enjoy the slight warmth and didn’t turn as I heard footsteps so light that the leaves barely made a sound under them. I thought it was my imagination—and then the dead tree I sat on settled closer to the ground. She sat right next to me, so close that I could feel her body warmth without opening my eyes.

  “She’s gone, you know that, right?” Kat asked, her voice barely louder than the whispering leaves. She knew me too well, knew that in spite of all my history, she would find me here waiting in the rain for a woman who would never come.

  “I know…” I admitted. Rigan was gone. I knew that, and I knew that Kat deserved better than finding me out here in the rain waiting for another woman. In all the time I’d known Kat, she’d been there whenever I needed someone. I’d never stepped foot outside in the rain for her, and yet here I was in the rain, in the woods where my worst nightmares became memories, waiting for Rigan.

  “You know it’s raining?” she asked, gently brushing the droplets off my hair.

  “It’s misting,” I corrected.

  “It’s still wet. I’m beginning to worry about your sanity. Sitting out in the rain is not like you.”

  “Not like me? I don’t even know who I am. I can’t remember who I was, or people I’ve known that
were important to me.”

  “Oh, fuck, here comes the melodramatic crap. Who cares about that shit? You’re who you’ve always been, Kill. A prince among men, a white knight. Killian Collins. You know what that name means?”

  “Please, Kat. Not now.”

  “Yes, now. It means ‘little church’ in Irish, but in ancient Gaelic a Cill wasn’t really a church. It was a locked gate, a cell—or even a graveyard, full of the dead and gone. Isn’t that right?” Kat asked, moving so that I couldn’t avoid looking at her face, wet with the rain, makeup free, fierce and perfect…

  “It’s just a name.”

  “You’re a locked cell, Kill. That head of yours is a graveyard, full of the dead and gone. Time to open up. If not to me, then to someone.”

  “I don’t need to hear this.”

  “Yes, you do. You know what ‘Collins’ means? Literally ‘young dog.’ The kind they use to track prey and hunt, or to protect their homes—you’re a hunter and a fighter. Act like one. Get up off your ass and track that bitch down if she’s what you want. Sail the seven seas to find her like your crazy friend Sean.” Kat took my hands in hers, trying to catch my eye. She was the last person I wanted to talk to about Rigan and all of this.

  “I’m not sure I want to.”

  “Then you’re being a pussy—or—you don’t really want to. Lie to me, but not yourself, Kill. Do you want this woman, or is it just the fairy tale bullshit of long-lost little girls that’s got you hooked?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I told her.

  “No? You’re a dreamer, Kill. You think you’re a white knight. Tell me that as soon as you have time to think about it, you’re not going to get obsessed with where those other kids that survived the plane wreck went and rush off to save them too.”