Renegades

by Hutson, Shaun;

  Questions whirled in her head, her mind spinning almost as violently as her stomach.

  Callahan?

  He had known Channing’s reluctance to let the window leave Machecoul.

  But even if it had been Callahan, why would he destroy Channing’s body in such a way? Why leave it for her or anyone else to find?

  She shook her head again, her eyes drawn to the mutilated, twisted remains of her former colleague. His appearance made her feel sick. She thought she was going to faint and made for the chancel door, leaning against it until the feeling passed. She could feel the perspiration on her forehead and back, despite the chill in the air.

  As Cath stepped back she noticed that blood from the door was now on her hand. She pulled a tissue from the pocket of her jeans and scrubbed the crimson liquid away, scraping frenziedly, as if she feared she would be marked with it forever. Slowly she turned to look at Channing once more, wondering what she should do.

  Call the police?

  Call Callahan?

  She swallowed hard, her stomach churning less violently now, her composure returning slowly. She sucked in a long, deep breath, tinged as it was with the scent of death, held it for a moment and released it slowly. Her mind began to clear.

  She wished that dangling eye would stop staring at her.

  She knew she had to think.

  What was she going to do?

  Come on, get a grip.

  A thought occurred to her. Struck her like a hammer blow.

  What if Channing’s killer was still in the church?

  The thought sent her heart racing, thudding so hard against her ribs she feared it would burst. She listened for any sounds from the nave. From the belfry above her. Perhaps she should leave the church, go now, pretend she’d never been here, just get out, leave the country. Anything to be away from this place, this carnage that lay around like the work of some careless butcher.

  The killer would have no need to stay around, she reasoned, her heart slowing its frantic pace a little.

  What should she do?

  She looked at the body once more.

  Something was glinting just inside the pocket of Channing’s jacket.

  Cath moved towards him, trying not to inhale too deeply, attempting to minimize the vile stench.

  She reached for the glinting object and pulled the car keys from his pocket, holding them tightly in her fist.

  The car. Someone would find his car eventually.

  She stepped back again, glancing at the window, at the slicks of blood which covered it. Pulling another tissue from her pocket she fastidiously wiped the crimson liquid from the glass where it covered the figure of the child.

  What would happen to the window if Channing’s murder was discovered?

  The church would be closed, the window lost to her forever.

  The secret would be taken.

  She looked at the car keys and gripped them tightly in her hand.

  The secret.

  She turned back to face the window, to wipe away the blood that had covered the mouth of the largest demon.

  It was gone.

  Not a trace of the sticky fluid remained on the glass.

  Cath stared into the blazing red eyes of the creature, then turned back to look at Channing, his own blank eyes fixing her in that blind stare.

  She felt the car keys cold against the warm flesh of her palm.

  And she knew what she must do.

  Sixty-One

  ‘Channing’s dead.’

  Catherine Roberts didn’t wait to be either formally greeted or welcomed into the hotel room of the Callahan. She told David Callahan as soon as he opened the door and stepped past him into the room. Laura was sitting on the bed dressed only in a thin robe, unconcerned that her breasts and also the dark triangle of her pubic hair were visible through the diaphanous material. She looked at Cath indifferently.

  Catherine Roberts was angry. The drive from Machecoul to St. Philbert had not served to calm that fury. She had found the hotel where the Callahan were staying without any trouble, asked which room they were in and rode the lift to the appropriate floor while the concierge was still attempting to alert the guests of her presence.

  Now she stood in the room, looking calm, wiping a stray hair from her forehead, but seething inside.

  Callahan’s attitude to her announcement further irritated her. She may as well have announced that smoking could cause lung disease for all the reaction she elicited from the man. He merely looked at her and shrugged.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ she snapped. ‘I said Mark Channing is dead. Murdered.’

  ‘How do you know he was murdered?’ asked Callahan.

  ‘Because I saw his body,’ she said. ‘Believe me, it wasn’t suicide.’

  Callahan offered her a drink and she accepted.

  ‘What happened?’ he wanted to know.

  She told him the story as briefly as possible. She even mentioned her nightmare. When she arrived at the part about reaching the church she paused and sipped at her drink. Laura was watching her intently.

  ‘His body was ...’ Catherine struggled for the words. ‘He was mutilated. Very badly.’

  ‘How?’ Laura wanted to know.

  ‘I told you, I don’t know.’

  ‘I mean, what kind of injuries?’ asked Laura quietly.

  ‘He was cut very badly,’ Cath said wearily, the recollection of the sight she’d seen making her feel queasy once again. She sipped her drink. ‘I don’t know how to describe it without sounding stupid.’ She looked at each of them in rum. ‘He’d been tom to pieces. His body was smashed, broken.’ She lowered her gaze, content to look into the bottom of her glass.

  ‘What did the police say?’ Callahan asked.

  ‘They don’t know,’ Cath told him. ‘No one knows. No one will know.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’ he wanted to know.

  She downed the remainder of the drink and put down the glass a little too heavily.

  ‘Because I took his body out of the church.’ She looked at Callahan. ‘I dragged it out to his car and put it in the boot. Then I drove the car into the woods nearby and covered it up. It’ll be ages before anyone finds it.’ She sighed. ‘After that I walked back to the church and cleaned it up inside as best I could. Then I drove back to the inn, washed, changed, packed and came here.’

  ‘You did well,’ said Callahan, smiling.

  ‘I didn’t come here for bloody praise,’ Cath said. ‘I want to know if you killed him.’

  Callahan shook his head.

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘He said he was going to destroy the window,’ Cath reminded him.

  ‘Where’s the window now?’ Callahan asked.

  ‘Still inside the church.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’ve arranged for it to be picked up tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Some men will come and pick it up in a truck. Colleagues of mine will fly it back to Ireland in a private plane. I’ll be there to meet it, then it’ll be taken back to my estate. You can carry on your work on it there.’ He smiled. ‘Laura and I are flying back today. I thought you might stay on and supervise the loading. You can travel back in the plane with the window. To keep an eye on it.’ He smiled that condescending grin again.

  ‘How do we know you didn’t kill Channing?’ Laura asked. ‘You’ve accused us. You had as much reason.’

  ‘You didn’t want the window destroyed any more than we did,’ Callahan reminded her.

  ‘I didn’t kill him,’ Cath snapped.

  ‘Why did you hide his body?’ Callahan enquired.

  Cath swallowed hard.

  ‘I knew that if the police were involved there was no chance of getting the window out of the church. Their enquiries would have held up my work for too long.’

  Callahan smiled.

  ‘You’re as obsessed with it as I am,’ he said flatly.

  She had no answer.

  ‘Who do you think killed him?’ Laura aske
d.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Cath told her. ‘It was the way he was killed that was so bizarre.’ She shook her head, the images coming once more into her mind. Images of the blood, of the body twisted at the waist, the severed limbs. That eye dangling, staring blindly. She put her hands to her face and exhaled deeply. Callahan smiled.

  ‘You realize that what you did makes you an accessory?’ he said.

  ‘What the hell are you saying, Callahan?’ she said.

  ‘Just telling you what I’m thinking,’ he answered. ‘It’s a good job you are leaving France soon. You’ll be safe on my estate.’

  ‘You make it sound as if Interpol are after me,’ said Cath sardonically.

  ‘Could someone have found out about the window?’ Laura mused aloud. ‘That it was going to be removed, I mean. Perhaps someone who didn’t want it taken away killed Channing.’

  Callahan shrugged.

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ he added. ‘That may be true. If it is then whoever killed Channing is going to be after us, too.’

  PART THREE

  ‘You know you’d have gone insane if you saw what I saw.’

  – Iron Maiden

  ‘He clings firmly out of defiance to a cause which he has seen through – but he calls it “loyalty”.’

  – Nietzsche

  Sixty-Two

  DUNDALK: THE REPUBLIC OF IRELAND:

  Doyle woke early, glanced at his watch and tried to sleep again, but the more he tried to relax the more impossible he found it. It was just after six a.m.

  He rubbed both hands over his face and exhaled.

  Georgie was asleep with her head resting on his chest. As he lay there he watched the rhythmic rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathed. He could feel the softness of her hair against his skin. For a moment he found himself stroking the silky blonde locks, but then he withdrew his hand hastily, as if he’d touched something hot. Instead, he propped both arms behind his head, supporting himself against the headboard. Only a sheet covered them; Doyle could see the outline of Georgie’s body beneath the thin material. He followed it with his eyes.

  It had been she who had pulled the sheet over them after their love-making the previous night.

  The ferocity of their passion, the intensity of their coupling had exhausted them both. Perhaps it was their way of releasing the tension of the past few days, Doyle thought.

  Or perhaps it was because there was something deeper than just physical attraction between them.

  Doyle pushed the thought angrily from his mind and decided it was time he got up. He eased himself free of Georgie, slipping out of bed, trying not to disturb her. She murmured something in her sleep but then rolled onto her stomach and was quiet again.

  Doyle walked to the bathroom and filled the sink with cold water. He splashed his face, finally lowering it into the water, scooping more up over the back of his neck. He stood up, moisture coursing down his features, rivulets of water running over his torso. He regarded his reflection in the mirror, touching the scar on the left side of his face, tracing its length with one index finger. He ran a hand through his hair, dried himself and wandered back into the bedroom with just a towel wrapped around him.

  He crossed to the wardrobe and took out the small case. He set it on top of the dressing table and flipped it open.

  He laid the MP5K on the floor beside the bed, lifted the CZ and the .44 from their holsters and put them beside the sub-gun. Then he sat down, cross-legged, his back against the bed, looking at the weapons. Using a piece of rag he’d also taken from the case he began cleaning the .44.

  He and Georgie had crossed the border into the Republic late the previous evening. They’d stopped at a small hotel on the outskirts of Dundalk, booking in under the names of Taylor and Blake, ignoring the knowing glances the proprietor gave them as he told them where their room was. Doyle had stopped him when he’d offered to carry their small cases.

  They had undressed together and climbed into bed together. It had all seemed so natural, as if sex between them was part of the job. Doyle glanced down, as he cleaned the gun, at the scars which Criss-crossed his body.

  Emotional scars run deeper.

  He snapped the cylinder back into the .44 and laid it on one side.

  As he reached for the CZ he heard murmurings from behind him and movement. Georgie yawned and stretched, then slid across the bed and kissed Doyle’s shoulder.

  ‘Good morning,’ she whispered sleepily. ‘How long have you been up?’

  ‘Not long. I tried not to disturb you.’

  ‘You’re very thoughtful,’ she told him and began stroking his back with her fingertips, feeling the indentations of his scars.

  Doyle, his back to her, closed his eyes tightly and finally edged away from her. Away from her touch.

  He continued cleaning the automatic.

  Georgie regarded him silently, then crossed her arms and rested her chin on them.

  ‘You didn’t move away from me last night,’ she said.

  ‘That was last night,’ he said sharply, working the rag around the inside of the barrel.

  ‘What are you afraid of, Sean?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Scared that the mask is going to drop?’

  Doyle pulled back the slide and continued cleaning.

  ‘You’re like Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde,’ she persisted. ‘Sometimes you’re warm and caring, other times you’re cold. It’s like being with two different people.’

  Doyle pressed the slide release and the metallic crack reverberated around the room.

  ‘I thought we’d been through all this shit before,’ he said.

  ‘I had your home-spun philosophy about life and death, if that’s what you mean,’ she said acidly.

  ‘What more do you want from me, Georgie?’ he asked. ‘We’re here to find and kill some men, not start up a big fucking romance.’

  ‘We sleep together. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Doesn’t it make us closer?’

  ‘Do you want it to?’

  She sighed.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘I know how you feel about ...’

  He cut her short.

  ‘You don’t know how I feel about anything,’ he told her, his tone a little too vehement.

  ‘I’m not asking you to fall in love with me, for Christ’s sake,’ she said angrily. ‘I just want to know what frightens you about people getting close to you? Why does it matter so much? Why won’t you let anyone get close?’

  ‘Because the closer they get the more painful it is when you lose them.’

  She was silent for a moment, her eyes never leaving his broad back.

  ‘You’re always so sure you’re going to lose them,’ she said softly.

  ‘Nothing’s permanent. You should know that. Ask the families of the people killed at Windsor Park. Think about your own brother. Did you ever think it’d be him who got killed? No. It was always going to be some other poor sod, wasn’t it? Well, death makes no exceptions, Georgie, and today or tomorrow it could be you or me they load into a fucking body bag.’ He put down the CZ. ‘Like the song says, Live for today, tomorrow never comes.’ He turned to face her, kissing her lightly on the lips. ‘That’s the only way I can live.’ He touched her cheek with his hand, feeling how smooth her skin was.

  She lay there for a moment longer then swung herself out of bed, naked.

  Doyle ran one hand up the inside of her thigh as she stood before him and she sucked in a quivering breath, smiling as his fingers brushed against her pubic hair.

  ‘I’d better get dressed,’ she said softly, smiling down at him.

  He nodded, watching as she padded off into the bathroom.

  Doyle held the CZ before him, satisfied at its condition, then reached for the sub-machine gun and began cleaning that.

  From behind him he heard the sound of splashing water as Georgie washed.

  He gripped the MP5K in one fist, his
thoughts turning to Maguire and his men.

  He squeezed the trigger of the machine pistol, the hammer slamming down on an empty chamber.

  Soon.

  Very soon.

  He knew the time was coming.

  Sixty-Three

  ‘I don’t like graveyards.’

  Damien Flynn looked around him at the uneven rows of stone crosses and headstones as he picked his way carefully over the wet grass.

  ‘Remind you that you’ll end up in one yourself one day, eh, Damien?’ James Maguire said, careful to step over a freshly-laid bouquet.

  ‘I’ve been to too many bloody funerals,’ Flynn observed, glancing over his shoulder towards the path that cut through the cemetery.

  Billy Dolan was guiding the dark blue Ford van up the narrow path, its wheels crunching gravel. He saw Flynn looking at him and waved happily, his infectious grin lighting up his face. Flynn stepped on a plot, apologising quietly to its inhabitant as he did so.

  The cemetery was about two miles south of the town of Navan, on the Boyne river, the resting place of so many inhabitants of that small community. It was on a slight rise; in clear weather, the ruins of Bective Abbey could be seen further to the south. However, Maguire and his men weren’t on a sight-seeing trip and Flynn’s preoccupation with where he put his feet prevented him taking all but the most perfunctory interest in his surroundings.

  Ahead, the church was built on a slight incline, its bell-tower thrusting up towards the overcast sky, a weather vane turning gently in the breeze. To their left were more graves; much smaller plots, these. The resting places of those who chose to be cremated.

  To their right was the mausoleum.

  It was about twelve feet in height, its stonework weather-beaten, scarred by time. Cracks in the outer walls had been infested with moss, which filled the rents like gangrene in septic wounds. Weeds grew high up the walls, some clinging to the stonework so thickly they looked as though they would pull the edifice over. Flynn noticed the remains of a bird’s nest on the top of the mausoleum.

  More weeds grew thickly around the door, which was secured by a padlock. It was brand new and looked incongruous against the aging stonework.