Cruel Mercy

by David Mark

  In his rehabilitation, Ayres showed the same fighting spirit that had made him a contender. And when he got himself fit enough to stand, he decided to use his skills. Though unable to fight, he knew he had something that he could pass on to others. He started training other traveler boys and girls. Before long, gypsy families on the mainland were sending their children to Ayres for monthlong training camps. Remarkably, non-travelers started to seek Ayres out. At the age of twenty-six, Ayres bought the boxing gym where he used to train. Within a year, he was coaching champions. A decade on, Ayres was one of the best-known faces in Galway and had become an advocate of travelers’ rights. He was liked and admired in his own community and beyond. There were many who called for him to be made head coach of the Irish Amateur Boxing Association and solely responsible for the Olympic team. Whether Brishen ever sought the job was open to speculation, but when a Sunday tabloid printed the details of his many criminal convictions as a younger man, it was obvious he was never going to get the nod. Instead, he concentrated on identifying potential professional fighters.

  In Shay Helden, he found one. The traveler boy did not take up boxing until he was fifteen, when his exasperated father contacted Brishen and begged for help in controlling his wayward son. Brishen put him in the ring and instructed three of his best prospects to go a round with him. Helden put them down in moments. Brishen had identified somebody with a right hand that could buckle a car bonnet. Brishen started to train him in earnest and within a year, Helden was catching the eye. The kid was good. He could win medals. But Helden sought a different kind of gold. He wanted to go straight into the professional ranks and there was no shortage of promoters and managers who whispered in his ear. In a bid to keep Helden on the right path, Brishen agreed to act as his manager. He arranged his fights, helped his reputation grow, and nurtured him like a son. Two weeks ago, he brought Helden to America to meet with a boxing coach whose name was synonymous with the best of the best. Dezzie Estrada was willing to have a look at Helden with a view to taking him into his stable of fighters. And Brishen was not going to stand in his way. They flew to America in the hope of making both of their dreams come true.

  Three days later, their bodies were found in a shallow grave in a patch of woodland off Silver Spur Road, two miles outside the tiny town of Cairo in upstate New York. Helden had been shot in the back and then stabbed through the base of his skull. Ayres had been shot in the head from point-blank range. Both men had been mutilated. The two rural police officers who found the bodies were already in a state of shock over their grisly discovery when Brishen Ayres coughed up a mouthful of dirt and began clawing his way through the earth. The local papers called him the Miracle Man. He has been in a medically induced coma at the brain injury specialist unit at the Wade-Christie Presbyterian Hospital ever since.

  “You have a list of their known movements?” asks McAvoy, noticing, with a touch of satisfaction, that the homeless man across the street has brought the mug back to the bar and that the barman is fixing him another hot chocolate, free of charge.

  “It’s all in the file,” says Alto, nodding at the documents. “I can walk you through it. Let’s just say there are a lot of bars on there. Those Irish boys know how to drink.”

  McAvoy nods. A lot of the information was sent on via e-mail when his boss, Trish Pharaoh, started pulling the strings that would allow him to the periphery of the investigation. Pharaoh is the only one who knows what failure will cost him and his family. Were he to try and tell Alto the truth, he doubts he would have the vocabulary to make the detective understand just what is at stake.

  “This family connection of yours,” says Alto, scratching at the hair by his ear. “This suspect we seem to have missed. What can you tell me?”

  McAvoy pauses, gathering himself. “Valentine Teague,” he says, forcing himself to meet Alto’s eyes. “Twenty years old. Flew into JFK the following day. Also from Dublin Airport.”

  “And?” asks Alto, sitting forward a little.

  “Valentine Teague’s family is a rival to Shay Helden’s family,” says McAvoy, with a hint of a sigh. “I don’t know how much you know about the traveler community but rivalries go back decades. If two clans are at war, there’s no limits to what they’ll do to one another. The Heldens and the Teagues have been fighting for years. Once in a while, a member of one family will call out a member of the other one. A ‘straightener,’ they call it. It’s a matter of honor. Valentine called out Shay Helden just when Shay was starting to get noticed. Valentine’s a tough little brute but Helden flattened him. The video’s on YouTube. Brishen was furious that Shay had fought a bare-knuckle bout. Said it risked his chances of getting licensed. Told him if he fought outside the ring again he would cut all ties with him. Shay respected that. Brishen ordered the two families to bury the hatchet, and because of the esteem he was held in, they called a truce. Seriously, in traveler terms, it was like an armistice. Valentine had shown enough skills to attract Brishen’s interest and Brishen started training him, too. He’s a prospect. Could go all the way.”

  Alto looks down at his empty glass and signals to the bartender, who is busy untangling Christmas lights at the far end of the bar. He orders a large Canadian Club. McAvoy decides he has earned a treat and asks for a Baileys. He waits until they both have their drinks before continuing, giving a moment’s concern to the notion of who’s buying. He hasn’t had a chance to get any dollars yet.

  “So this Valentine kid flew out a day later?” prompts Alto. “That’s news to me.”

  “There were problems with his passport,” explains McAvoy. “Neither he nor Helden had one and they needed them in a rush. Neither of them had the documents of identity or address and Valentine’s record was making the trip look impossible. There were endless questions bouncing back and forth with the authorities. Shay’s came through on time and he and Brishen flew out together. It took a letter from the bishop of Galway to get Valentine’s approved.”

  “The bishop of Galway? Friends in high places.”

  “There’s a priest in the parish of Oughtermore who’s a big supporter of what Brishen is trying to do for the traveler lads, apparently. He called in a favor with the bishop, who wrote a letter explaining that Brishen’s trip was of the utmost value to his community and that Valentine was a crucial part of his team. The paperwork came through a day later and Valentine flew out alone.”

  Alto clinks the ice cubes in his glass. McAvoy can see him putting the pieces together.

  “And two days later, his old rival is found dead on Silver Spur Road—the ass end of nowhere on the road to Cairo.”

  McAvoy takes a swig of his sticky drink. Savors the flavor. Wishes he had a bar of chocolate to dunk in it. “The Heldens want blood,” he says. “As far as they’re concerned, Valentine did this.”

  “And you?” asks Alto, cocking his head.

  “I don’t know what to think,” says McAvoy, realizing he means it. “Valentine is a bad-tempered little so-and-so but he’s all about his fists. I can’t see him using a gun, and even for a resourceful lad, I can’t imagine he could just walk into a bar and buy one from the first rough-looking fellow he saw. And besides, he idolized Brishen.”

  “The wounds are unusual,” says Alto, and as he shifts on his bar stool his knees touch McAvoy’s. Neither man seems to notice. Their energies are all in their heads. They are two detectives: questioning, querying, ruminating; untangling the riddles of an ugly death.

  “Tell me,” says McAvoy.

  “Shay Helden was shot with a Ruger .38 semiautomatic handgun. The bullet traveled an estimated distance of thirty yards. The wounds to his lower legs suggest he fell while running. A short, sharp blade was then inserted into the base of his skull. He’d been given a good beating.”

  McAvoy swallows his drink. It tastes of nothing.

  “And Brishen?”

  “Shot in the head while kneeling. The bullet en
tered his head just behind his left ear. It traveled beneath the skin, shaving a trench in the bones of the skull, and exited behind his right ear, taking with it a chunk of earlobe.”

  “It curved?” asks McAvoy.

  “Our ballistics guy says he’s only ever seen it once before. It’s dumb luck. Brishen must have been turning his head as the gun fired. Chance in a billion, though that’s not an expert estimation, just mine. Different gun than the one used to shoot Shay.”

  “And the other wound?” asks McAvoy, rubbing at his beard and pulling a face. “And does that mean Valentine bought two guns? Why would he?”

  Alto shrugs. “Brishen’s nose was cut off and put in his shirt pocket. Different knife than the one used to finish off Shay.”

  McAvoy digests the information, nodding to himself as if in agreement with a contention.

  “Two guns. Two knives. Two killers,” says McAvoy. “At least. Shay tries to run and Brishen turns to watch him go. Brishen is shot in the head and Shay makes a run for it. Or Shay runs and Brishen turns to watch him go and that’s how the bullet missed the best of his brain. Either way, it’s a lot of work for one man—least of all Valentine Teague.”

  “You think?” asks Alto, looking wistfully at his empty glass.

  McAvoy screws up his face. “It’s possible,” he says. “What about the car they were traveling in?”

  “It was stolen from outside a bar on Mulberry. Expertly hot-wired. Wherever they were going, they were going there in a hurry.”

  “Running to something or away from something?” muses McAvoy. “It was found at the scene, yes?”

  “Yes. The only prints are theirs and the owners. From the position of the seats and the placement of the prints, it’s clear Brishen Ayres was driving. Nobody in the back so far as we can tell.”

  “Would that road lead anywhere significant?”

  “The road where they left the car is a dead end. If they were going to Cairo they should have stayed on the main road. The road where they died goes nowhere.”

  “So perhaps they were diverted down there by whoever did this,” says McAvoy.

  “We’ve worked on pretty much that same scenario,” says Alto, in a way that suggests he does not want to rain on McAvoy’s parade. “The trouble is, it snowed the night of the attack so it’s damn near impossible to get boot prints or make sense of how many people were there. All we know is that for whatever reason, their vehicle left the interstate at a little before midnight. We don’t know why, or where they were going. Their vehicle came to a halt and they got out of it. The following morning, a hiker found Helden’s body. Called the officer in charge at Cairo. A couple of uniforms came to the scene. It didn’t take them long to find Brishen. His body was slumped in a trench, half covered in dirt and snow. The temperature was well below zero and that’s what saved him. That burst of adrenaline that kicked in when they moved him—that’s as much of a miracle as his survival. He died in the helicopter but the paramedics brought him back. Hasn’t woken up since.”

  McAvoy looks longingly at the last dregs of his Baileys. Wonders if it would be frowned upon to run his finger around the glass and suck it like a lollipop.

  “The nose,” he says, frowning. “This is a lot more your area than mine, but doesn’t that have some sort of Mafia connection?”

  Alto laughs. “Everything has a Mafia connection,” he says. “The Mob these days—it gets its ideas from movies about the Mob. If you’re thinking that having his nose sliced off was a message that he had been sticking it in where it wasn’t welcome, then tell me—where had he been sticking it? He’d been in New York not much over two days. He and Shay spent most of that in bars, at the gym, or at church. I’m sure they’re fast workers, but you can’t piss off the Mob sufficiently to get whacked in that time.”

  McAvoy sucks on his cheek again. “They went to church?”

  “Saint Colman’s,” says Alto. “It’s all in the timeline in your folder.”

  “Thank you,” says McAvoy, draining his Baileys. He’s suddenly tired to his bones.

  “You’ve gone a funny color,” says Alto, taking off his glasses. “How long since you slept?”

  McAvoy manages a smile. “Couple of days. I’ll get a few hours as soon as I get back to the hotel. I’ll be okay.”

  “And your plans tomorrow?” asks Alto cautiously.

  “I’ll know better once I’ve familiarized myself with their movements. I may talk to a couple of people, if that isn’t treading on your toes.”

  Alto shakes his head. “Don’t make waves and don’t pretend you’ve got more authority than you have and you’ll be fine. It’s not illegal for a man on vacation to ask questions.”

  “Thank you,” McAvoy says again, and he means it. He slides off his stool and stretches. His hands are in the air as Alto settles their bar tab, and he is momentarily afraid that it looks as though he is trying to keep his fingers as far away from his pockets as possible.

  “Have a great night,” says the barman as they head for the exit, and McAvoy feels oddly warm at the ease with which the words slip from the young man’s mouth. At home, McAvoy considers himself to have enjoyed good customer service if nobody tells him to go fuck himself.

  McAvoy and Alto part at the corner of Ludlow and Rivington. Alto offers another handshake. As their hands touch, Alto asks his question, taking McAvoy by surprise.

  “Your family connection,” he says, looking up, half smiling. “You never elaborated.”

  McAvoy refuses to look away or let any embarrassment color his cheeks.

  “My wife,” he says. “Before she was a McAvoy, she was a Teague.”

  “Her brother,” says Alto, raising his eyebrows. “So you’re out here to prove him innocent and stop the family back home going to war? Christ.”

  “I’m not trying to find him innocent,” says McAvoy earnestly. “I’m just trying to find him.”

  “And you think he’s either a killer or a corpse?”

  McAvoy takes his hand back. Rubs it over his face and marvels for a moment at the sheer absurdity of his presence here. Though he hates to be so inarticulate, he shrugs. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing here or what he hopes to find. He wants his family and his own bed. Wants Trish Pharaoh to tell him what to do. He’s alone, in a strange country, where cops step over the homeless like bags of rubbish. He feels friendless, homesick, and lost.

  “I wouldn’t want to be you,” says Alto, not unkindly.

  “No,” says McAvoy, turning away. “Nor would I.”

  FOUR

  McAvoy kicks the dirt and snow off his boots, hoofing the brick frontage of the Comfort Inn with sufficient force to risk an avalanche. He pulls open the glass double doors and nods a weary hello to the smiling Asian twenty-something who mans the front desk. His name tag says he is called Tiz and McAvoy is too tired to ask what peculiar name he has shortened in order to make his name more amenable to tourists.

  “Back so soon?” asks Tiz. He has a paperback splayed open, pages down, on the desk in front of him. The cover shows lurid red text on a black background, and three monochrome faces stare up menacingly.

  “Mafia’s greatest hits,” explains Tiz, following McAvoy’s gaze. “Bit of a break from college work.”

  “You’re a student?” asks McAvoy, making an effort at conversation. Tiz was only too happy to give McAvoy the same room that Brishen Ayres and Shay Helden had been staying in before they were shot and left for dead. McAvoy also asked to see their luggage but that had long since been taken to the Seventh. It proved nothing more illuminating than the fact that the duo traveled light.

  “Macroeconomics,” says Tiz brightly. “I wanted to do photography but there’s not much money in that.”

  “You don’t have to decide what you want to be at your age,” says McAvoy, trying to dispense something vaguely useful to the younger man. “Do wha
t matters to you.”

  “Money matters to all of us,” says Tiz solemnly, in a way that suggests he thinks he’s said something profound. “Everything okay with your room?”

  “Great, thanks,” says McAvoy, though in truth he barely took in its features while dumping his bag an hour ago. “Nice big bed.”

  Tiz coughs and glances down, and McAvoy suddenly suffers the horrifying thought that Tiz might think he has been propositioned. “My wife would love it here,” he adds, coloring. “She’s never been here before. Can’t wait to bring her. My kids, too.”

  “Well, you be sure to give them my best wishes,” says Tiz in the guileless, good-natured way McAvoy finds so endearing. “Have yourself a great night.”

  McAvoy splutters out a thank-you, then decides he will spend the rest of the night worrying about it if he doesn’t salvage something from the conversation. Looking around for inspiration, his gaze falls back on the young man’s book.

  “You’re really into all that?” he asks, trying to sound encouraging. “I try and turn away from this stuff, if I can. I’ve seen films and read books, of course, but when it’s real it just makes me shudder.”

  “This is macroeconomics at work,” Tiz says, brandishing the book. “You want to see how to stay ahead in a changing marketplace, ask the Mob. They’re lessons in longevity and diversification. I was going to write a thesis on it until Dad told me not to.”

  McAvoy looks confused and Tiz leans on the desk, warming to his subject.