‘This is the life you chose, Máire Farren.’
The old woman shrugged. ‘We all serve somebody. I chose my God. You chose yours.’
Anjelica pointed at Michael. ‘Yours has a gun.’
‘Sometimes it is necessary to protect your own.’
‘The men can take care of themselves.’
‘Really?’ Máire asked. ‘Like my Desmond?’
‘He killed my Catriona.’
‘He did not.’
‘He was seen with her.’
‘How do you know this?’ Máire asked.
‘A mother knows.’
‘Yes,’ the old woman said. ‘A mother does.’
‘What do you know of it?’
‘I know the pain of loss. When my Desmond was shot down like a dog in the street, and thrown into the river, my husband was already in the ground. Danny and Patrick wanted to take a match to the entire Pocket, but I said no.’
‘And why is that?’ Anjelica asked. ‘Because you knew what Desmond had done?’
‘Because we live in each other’s shelter, do we not? Where do you think the police would have come if Devil’s Pocket ran red with Irish blood? Your house? No. Mine.’
Anjelica waved a dismissive hand. ‘You Farrens are a cancer. It all ends here and now. You’ve lived these many years, and your life ends in shame.’
‘I’m not dead yet.’
‘No, not yet,’ Anjelica said. ‘That will come in a cold jail cell. Just like your husband. An old woman in a stone coffin. Fitting.’
Jessica wanted to enter this conversation–it seemed to be escalating. She looked to the side window, next to the fireplace. Although she could not be sure, she thought she saw a thin cable rise into the lower-right corner, just below the bottom slat of the venetian blinds. If she was right, this would be an endoscope camera deployed by SWAT.
She glanced at Michael Farren. He had not seen it.
‘Or maybe it will all end here, in this room,’ Anjelica said. She gestured to the window. ‘The police are everywhere. Do you think you will just rise from that chair and walk away? You may think yourself the sídhe, but you are delusional. You always were.’
The old woman smiled, but did not respond. Instead she reached into her bag on the floor, pulled out a white linen handkerchief. She spread it on the table in front of her. Then she took out a small cruet, deep amber in color, took off the top, tilted it to a finger and made a line on the handkerchief, all the while singing softly.
My God, Jessica thought. She is writing the last line in blood.
Before long, Máire Farren put the cruet away, left the handkerchief on the table to dry. She had written:
ROTAS.
The phone rang again. No one moved.
‘They’re going to come storming in here if I don’t answer,’ Jessica said.
‘No they won’t,’ Michael said.
After ten rings it stopped.
The old woman pointed at Anjelica, then looked at Jessica. ‘She is the only one left. The Farren curse will be lifted tonight. You can’t harm us.’
‘It doesn’t matter what you do to me,’ Anjelica said. ‘Your place in hell has been reserved for years.’
Michael Farren crossed the room, put the barrel of the Makarov to Anjelica Leary’s head. Anjelica closed her eyes.
‘Not one more word from you, woman,’ Farren said. ‘Not one.’
49
Byrne watched the shadows move on the sheer curtains. He turned around to see the two SWAT marksmen on the roof of the building across the street.
He walked to the tech van, stepped inside.
The endoscope camera on the west side of the row house showed two walls. Jessica, Anjelica Leary and an old woman with long white hair. It was Máire Farren.
Byrne could see part of the wall that led from the front door to the kitchen. Farren had pinned the photographs to the wall next to the door. He needed to look at them to know who was whom.
While Byrne was watching, he saw Michael Farren cross the room, turn off the television.
He got on the radio to the two SWAT officers.
They did not have a shot.
Byrne found Maria Caruso in the crowd. He caught her eye, beckoned her over. When he told her what he wanted her to do, she only hesitated a split second. Moments later she was in a patrol car with a uniformed officer. They left the scene code two, no lights, no siren.
The three media vans were parked just beyond the police cordon at the corner of 23rd and Bainbridge. In addition to the reporters who were waiting to do their stand-ups, and the camera personnel, a crowd of more than a hundred people had gathered.
Byrne searched the crowd, found a face he recognized, a veteran field reporter for the local CBS affiliate named Howard Kelly. Although Byrne didn’t often deal with the media–the brass preferred to leave those things to the media relations officer–he had been cleared to give an interview a few years earlier after the resolution of a string of gruesome murders in the Badlands. To whatever degree a law enforcement officer could have a professional relationship with a member of the media, Byrne felt he had a foundation for asking what he was going to ask.
He ducked under the tape, approached Kelly.
‘Detective,’ Kelly said, extending a hand.
‘Good to see you, Howard.’
They shook.
‘It doesn’t look like you’re getting ready to give a statement,’ Kelly said.
‘Not just yet,’ Byrne said. ‘But I need to ask a favor.’
Rare was the depth and breadth of the silence that followed a statement like that from a police officer to a member of the broadcast media.
‘I’m all ears,’ Kelly said.
‘This has to be off the record for now.’
‘Understood.’
‘Do you have a cameraman you can trust?’
Kelly pointed at a man leaning against a van. At his feet was a hand-held HD camera with the station’s logo on the side. ‘I trust that man with my life,’ Kelly said. ‘Literally. We work North Philly.’
Byrne laid out his plan. Kelly listened, rapt.
‘Is this something you can do?’ Byrne asked.
‘It is.’
‘And to answer your next question, yes, when this is all over, I will give you an exclusive.’
Kelly smiled. ‘Hadn’t crossed my mind.’
The two men shook again.
‘What do you want to do first?’ Kelly asked.
‘Your tie,’ Byrne said.
‘What about it?’
‘Is it blue or black?’
Five minutes later, Maria Caruso returned. She had with her the item Byrne had requested. He returned to the tech van, put on a headset, called Anjelica Leary’s landline again. After five rings, it was answered. No one said anything.
‘This is Kevin. I’m with the police department. Who am I speaking to?’
A pause. Then: ‘This is Billy.’
‘Good. Billy. Is everything all right in there?’
‘Everything is fine.’
Byrne had twice visited Quantico, had twice attended a seminar that addressed hostage negotiation techniques. He knew the five steps: active listening, empathy, rapport, influence and behavioral change.
Right now, he couldn’t remember a thing. He knew that a highly trained agent was en route from the FBI’s Philadelphia field office, but he was not there yet. And Jessica was inside.
‘How do we make this better?’ he asked.
‘There is only one way.’
‘Okay. I’m listening. What can I do?’
‘You can pack up your guns and your badges and go home.’
‘Well, that will be a tough sell to my boss, I’m afraid. Is there another way?’
‘There is not.’
Byrne had to think. He reached into his pocket. He had no choice.
‘I have something for you,’ he said.
A long pause. ‘What do you have?’
‘It’s kind o
f hard to describe,’ Byrne said. ‘I can send it to your cell phone. Do you have one?’
‘No.’
‘Okay,’ Byrne said. ‘Tell you what. Jessica has an iPhone. Have her give it to you, and I’ll send it over.’
Byrne closed his eyes, waiting for it all to fall apart.
‘Send it,’ Farren said.
50
Billy could feel it. He was close. He had been so long a time in the shadows that he had all but forgotten there was light.
But now that he and Sean and Gran had drawn four lines of the square, it felt as if a great weight had lifted from his shoulders, his heart.
One more line and there would be sun.
He looked down.
It was Emily. Her beautiful face was gazing right at him.
‘Michael. It’s me.’
‘You’re here.’
‘I’m so confused and sad. They say that you’ve done some very bad things, but I don’t believe it to be true. It can’t be true. They say that if you put down your gun, and put your hands in the air, nothing bad will happen to you.’
Billy just listened. Emily was right there. His heart soared.
‘You might think I’m just saying these things because they’re making me say them,’ she said. ‘But it isn’t so. I believe them when they say you won’t be harmed. This is what I want too.’
Billy looked at his grandmother.
‘This is Emily,’ he said. ‘The girl I told you about.’
‘It’s a trick,’ his gran said.
‘No,’ Billy said. ‘You don’t understand. She’s going to come with me. To France.’
Movement now, just outside the windows. A slice of light, then it was gone.
Billy looked at the iPhone again. Emily was gone too.
Had she really been there?
He glanced around the shadowed room. It was a roomful of strangers. All women.
None of them were Emily.
‘Billy,’ the old woman said. She wore a white dress.
Billy turned to the wall behind him. First picture, bottom row. It was his grandmother.
‘Take this,’ she said. ‘It is time.’
Billy crossed the room. His grandmother picked up the straight razor, opened it. The blade winked blue in the light streaming through the windows.
Billy put down the iPhone, picked up the telephone. The man was still on the other end.
‘Can Emily come in here?’ Billy asked.
‘I don’t think we should do that,’ the man said.
‘Why?’
‘What if something went wrong? There are people with guns all over the place. You wouldn’t want something bad to accidentally happen to Emily, would you?’
‘No.’
‘But she does have something for you.’
‘She does?’
‘Yes,’ the man said. ‘I could bring it inside.’
Billy looked at the door. He had to think.
‘Billy?’
51
The phone was silent for a full thirty seconds.
‘You can bring it in,’ Farren said.
Byrne felt a cool wave of relief wash over him. It was instantly replaced by a warm wave of fear.
‘Maybe when I get in there, we can talk about letting Jessica go. She’s not part of this. She has a son and a daughter.’
Byrne waited.
‘One lie. One trick. All their blood will be on your hands,’ Farren said.
‘No tricks. You have my word.’
‘You’ll have to come soon. We have to go to Midnight Mass.’
52
It was Christmas Eve dinner. Billy could smell the spiced beef, the colcannon, the plum pudding. They were gathered in the small parlor above The Stone. The Christmas lights flashed outside on the avenue.
His mother was there and she wasn’t sick. She looked robust and healthy. There was high color in her cheeks. She wore a white pullover with a blue blouse beneath.
‘Where’s Sean?’ Billy asked.
‘Don’t listen to these people,’ his grandmother said.
Billy turned to the voice. Something was wrong with Gran. She looked so old. It was just today when her hair was black. Black Irish, she would say with a wink, but he and Sean had seen the coloring in the trash. The Clairol. They never let on they knew.
Now it was cloud white.
‘It’s a trick,’ his gran said.
Billy looked at his mother. The woman was not Deena Farren. Billy checked the pictures on the wall. The photo where his mother should be was blank.
This woman was younger. He had never seen her before.
Billy looked at the window, at the flashing lights.
They were expecting Uncle Pat and his father. Later that night they were going out for some last-minute shopping. Then it was off to Midnight Mass at St Patrick’s.
The doorbell rang.
‘Don’t,’ his gran said.
‘It’s okay.’
‘Michael.’
Michael Anthony Farren.
Billy crossed the room and opened the door.
53
When Byrne stepped inside the front door, with his hands over his head, Jessica saw him take in the room, the layout, the entrances and exits, the players.
In his right hand he had a yellow rose. He placed it on the entry table.
‘Close the door and lock it,’ Michael Farren said.
Byrne did as he was told.
Farren gave Byrne a thorough pat-down, gestured for him to cross the room, where Anjelica Leary was seated, the opposite side from the front door and the wall of photographs.
Before doing so, Byrne took off his suit jacket, laid it across the arm of the couch. As he did so, he glanced at Jessica, then at his jacket. She followed his gaze and saw what he wanted her to see.
She then looked at his hands, which were shielded from Michael Farren. He had three fingers extended on each hand.
And Jessica knew.
Byrne turned, walked to the other side of the room. He stood next to the television.
Máire Farren rose slowly to her feet, crossed to the fireplace, opened the flue, struck one of the long kitchen matches there and lit the fire. As she did this, she began to make a keening sound.
Jessica looked at Michael Farren. He gave no indication that he knew he’d met Byrne at the row house on Reed Street.
‘You can let my partner go,’ Byrne said. ‘You have me.’
Michael Farren said nothing for a moment. ‘You said she has a family?’
‘Yes. A son and a daughter.’
‘You’re trying to protect them.’
‘Yes.’ Byrne turned on the television. ‘Just like I’m trying to protect you now.’
Michael looked over at the TV, back. ‘You?’
The old woman continued to sing softly, seemingly oblivious to the conversation happening around her. One by one she put the birth certificates into the fire. With each piece of paper she changed her song.
‘Let me help you,’ Byrne said.
Farren looked back at him. ‘Why? Why do you want to help me?’
Byrne slowly began to drop his hands to his sides. ‘Don’t you know me, Michael?’
The old woman stopped her wailing. She had one birth certificate left. It was Anjelica Leary’s. ‘Don’t listen to him,’ she said.
Michael Farren looked between his grandmother and Byrne. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I can help,’ Byrne said. ‘I can take you back. Back before the accident.’
‘Stop it!’ the old woman screamed.
‘Back to The Stone?’ Michael asked.
‘Back to The Stone,’ Byrne said. He gestured to the street. ‘Back to before all this.’
‘Shut up,’ Máire Farren said.
‘Don’t you know me?’ Byrne repeated. ‘I’m your father.’
Michael just stared.
‘I’m your father,’ Byrne repeated.
Michael Farren turned around, looked at the w
all. There, on the bottom row, on the right, was where his father’s picture was pinned. Daniel Farren. He wore a white shirt, a blue necktie. He was wearing exactly what the man in front of him was wearing.
He was the man in front of him.
‘Da.’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t listen,’ Máire said. ‘It’s a trick. He’s using the glamour.’
‘Look at the picture, Michael.’
‘That’s not my name.’
‘It is your name. Billy’s not real.’
‘Don’t listen to him,’ the old woman hissed.
‘Your name is Michael Anthony Farren,’ Byrne said. He pointed at the TV. ‘You are my son.’
Jessica saw that the TV was not showing a news break-in at all. The AV unit had attached a cable to the house, running to a disc player in the tech van. Byrne had recorded the plea in the news van. The appeal was on a continuous loop. The photograph on the wall was the one Jessica had removed from Byrne’s suit jacket and pinned there. It was the photo she had taken of Byrne.
‘That’s me,’ Byrne repeated. ‘You’re my boy.’
Michael looked at the TV, then at the photo, then at Byrne. Jessica could see the struggle. He really couldn’t recognize anyone.
‘All you have to do is put the gun down and we’ll get you some help,’ Byrne said. ‘I’ll get you some help.’
‘He’s lying.’
Jessica saw Máire Farren struggling to keep her balance. She couldn’t. Her skin was starting to turn ashen; her breathing was shallow.
Michael Farren took a step toward Byrne. ‘Will you take me shooting? Me and Sean?’
‘Of course,’ Byrne said. ‘Anywhere you want to go.’
Michael Farren began to unscrew the suppressor from his weapon.
‘Can we go to that place in the woods?’ he asked. ‘I know the way.’
‘We’ll go right now. All you have to do is put the gun down.’
Michael Farren dropped the suppressor. ‘I’m a better shot than Sean. Always was.’
‘I can’t take sides on that one,’ Byrne said.
‘I can shoot the deer, and Sean can skin them. He’s always been better with the knife.’
‘That’s what we’ll do then.’
Shutter Man Page 30
