Farren squared himself in front of Byrne.
He held the gun at his side.
54
The dream was over. His father was home and they could start Christmas.
‘What did you bring me, Da?’ he asked.
His father pointed to the table by the door. It was a single yellow rose. Billy picked it up, smelled it. It reminded him of lemons. Someone had once told him this, and it was true.
‘Nollaig Shona Duit,’ he said.
‘Happy Christmas to you, son.’
‘Let’s say a prayer, Da.’
‘Sure,’ his father said. ‘Which one?’
‘“A Familiar Stranger”. We’ll say it together.’
‘Stop,’ his grandmother said.
Michael turned to look at her. It was not his gran. This was an old woman.
‘Michael.’
Michael turned back to his father.
‘The prayer.’
He was Michael. Michael Anthony Farren.
He ejected the magazine from the weapon. One by one he took the bullets from the magazine. He no longer needed them. His father was home.
‘I saw a stranger today,’ he said. ‘I put food for him in the eating place. And drink in the drinking place. And music in the listening place.’
He dropped three bullets to the floor.
‘In the Holy name of the Trinity He blessed myself and my family. And the lark said in her warble: Often, often, often goes Christ in the stranger’s guise.’
He dropped the second last bullet.
‘O, oft and oft and oft goes Christ…’
55
‘… in the stranger’s guise.’
Michael Farren dropped the last bullet on the floor.
Jessica glanced at Máire. She was breathing heavily. Anjelica Leary had not moved, had not spoken a word.
Michael began to cross the room, the gun out front.
‘Just put it down, Michael,’ Byrne said. ‘Just put it on the floor.’
Still he continued across the room. He was going to hand the gun to Byrne.
‘Stop!’ Byrne yelled.
He did not stop.
‘Oft goes Christ…’
He stepped in front of the sheer curtains.
Jessica saw it, the red dot on Michael Farren’s back.
No, she thought. Byrne has him.
Wait.
She looked at her phone. She’d never make it.
‘In a stranger’s guise.’
Michael Farren lifted both hands. His right hand held the Makarov.
Jessica closed her eyes, heard the glass shatter, the sound of the copper-jacketed round tearing through Michael Farren’s chest, slamming into the wall, the dull thud as his body hit the floor.
‘No!’ Byrne screamed. In two strides he was across the living room, and had Jessica on the floor.
As the sound of the gunshot echoed in the room, all Jessica could hear was the labored breathing of Máire Farren, and the fading song of death.
56
Two days after the dark events in Anjelica Leary’s row house, Jessica, Byrne and all the detectives involved in the case met at the office of the district attorney.
The charges against Sean and Michael Farren were still pending, even though they were both deceased.
The possibility of there being confederates with whom the Farrens had worked was likely, and the investigation into the circumstances surrounding the horrible crimes was ongoing.
On the surface, what investigators were all but certain about was that Michael and Sean Farren, most likely at the behest of their grandmother, Máire Glover Farren, had caused the deaths of Robert Kilgore, Angelo, Mark and Laura Rousseau, Edwin Channing, Danielle Spencer and Benjamin Porter. Porter was the man engaged to be married to Danielle Spencer. He worked for Brinks.
The blood evidence discovered in the basement of The Stone matched that of a woman whose body was found floating in the Schuylkill River. She had been shot once in the head. The recovered bullet matched Sean Farren’s M&P. The woman was identified as Megan Haupt, aged twenty-six, late of the Francisville section of the city.
The two bodies discovered next to the tracks in Grays Ferry were twenty-four-year-old Raymond Darden, and Gary Uchitel, twenty-one, both of Olney. The pair were said to have exchanged words with a man who fit Michael Farren’s description. Ballistics tied the recovered spent cartridges to Farren’s Makarov.
Máire Glover Farren was pronounced dead that night at U of Penn. The cause of death was given as congestive heart failure. According to her immigration record, she had been eighty-eight years old.
The cruet of blood found in her pocket did not belong to any of the victims. There was presumptive evidence that the blood was more than seven decades old. There was speculation that it belonged to the woman’s late husband, Liam Farren.
Before anyone involved in the case thought to make the move to seal the old woman’s house, it was ransacked and burned to the ground. The newly rehabbed row houses on either side were mostly spared.
The woman whom Farren assaulted in the house on Reed Street, as well as her infant baby, fully recovered from the ordeal.
After the events leading up to the shooting of Michael Farren had been published in moment-by-moment detail in the Inquirer, the lead reporter on the story got a call from a woman named Carole Stanton, who said she had a new detail to add to the timeline.
Ms Stanton was the owner of City Floral. She said that on the night of the events, she received a visit from a man answering Michael Farren’s description. She said the man ordered flowers–specifically roses; a different variety each time–to be delivered once a week to a woman named Emily Carson at Queen Memorial Library, until the money ran out.
She said the man left a shopping bag on the counter.
Inside was fifteen thousand dollars.
They stood across the street from the ruins that were Máire Farren’s house. Every so often people would walk by, take cell phone pictures and videos.
‘It was a museum,’ Byrne said. ‘I don’t think anything in there was any newer than sixty years old.’
He’d told her of the Sator Square carved into the basement walls, the photographs of the corn stooks.
‘Do you really think the old woman thought she was some kind of mythic creature?’
Byrne didn’t answer right away. ‘I don’t know. But you know as well as I do that when people have a deep belief–any kind of belief–it can be a powerful thing.’
Jessica said nothing.
‘You saved us in that house, partner,’ Byrne said.
Jessica thought back to the moment Byrne had walked in, his hands held high. When he’d put his suit coat on the arm of the couch, he made sure the photograph was sticking out, the photo graph she’d taken of him for Sophie. When he showed her three fingers on each hand, she knew she had to find a way to replace Danny Farren’s photograph on the wall. It was the third picture in the third row. It all came down to the last second.
‘I think it was a team effort,’ she said. ‘And we didn’t save everyone.’
Byrne glanced over at The Stone, back. ‘They couldn’t be saved, Jess.’
At five o’clock that afternoon, the mayor and the police commissioner held a news conference.
Byrne declined to attend.
57
When Byrne pulled up across the street from Anjelica Leary’s house, there were still a few rubberneckers taking photographs. A CSU van was parked a half-block away, wrapping up their processing of the general scene. Because three or four agencies were involved, a multitude of Ts had to be crossed.
The aftermath of an officer-involved shooting, especially in the past few years, warranted a higher level of scrutiny than a shooting that did not involve a law enforcement officer.
As to Anjelica Leary’s house, except for the sheets of plywood that covered the front window, you would never know what had taken place here.
Byrne passed a few words with the CSU techs. They we
re in the process of releasing the shuttered store that was next to the Leary house. Because Farren had entered the store in order to gain access to Anjelica Leary’s house, the building had to be gone over inch by inch.
The bomb-sniffing K-9 had cleared it for explosives. But that didn’t mean there weren’t other dangers deliberately set.
Byrne rang the bell, stepped back off the porch. A few moments later, Anjelica answered the door. Despite the stress of what had happened in her house, she looked younger, more alive than the last time he had seen her.
‘Kevin,’ she said. ‘What a lovely surprise.’
‘I’m not intruding?’
‘Never. Please come in.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Can I get you something?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t yet packed the coffee or tea.’
‘No, I’m fine. Thanks.’
‘I might have a wee dram somewhere.’
‘It’s tempting, but I’m on duty for a few more hours.’
Byrne stepped into the living room. It seemed as if he’d never been there. When he’d walked in the first time, all he could think about was saving the innocent lives in the room, defusing the situation. Now it just looked like the front room of a pleasant older row house. No ghouls or demons. The only remnant was a mover’s tarp over the spot where Michael Farren had fallen.
Along the wall where Farren had pinned his photographs were dozens of mover’s boxes, taped and ready to haul away.
‘The last time I moved away from this area was after Catriona was killed. I was in such a fog. I just knew I could no longer be in a place that held her spirit.’
Byrne had decided on coffee after all. They sat at Anjelica’s small dinette table.
Byrne thought about the little girl, how she’d brightened the place with her gentle manner and quiet ways. He thought about her flowers and her hair ribbons. Time had not diminished her memory for him at all. She would always be a little girl.
‘Why did you move back?’ he asked.
Anjelica gave it a moment. ‘When my second marriage failed, I was at a loose end. I guess one yearns for the familiar.’
‘We do,’ Byrne said. His apartment now was less than a mile from where he was born and grew up. He’d tried buying and rehabilitating a house, but it turned out to hold too many ghosts.
‘Where will you go?’ he asked.
‘I’m going to Ireland, believe it or not.’
‘I’m envious.’
‘My mother was born there. County Clare.’
‘Sounds like a dream.’
‘You’ve never been?’ she asked.
Byrne shook his head. ‘Only in the movies.’
Anjelica smiled. ‘What’s your favorite?’
Good question, Byrne thought. There was no shortage. ‘Odd Man Out is a good one,’ he said. ‘But I’d have to go with The Quiet Man.’
‘You like the old ones, then.’
‘I do.’
‘So do I,’ she said. ‘That Maureen O’Hara was the one, wasn’t she?’
Byrne had often thought that his late mother resembled the actress in some ways. It was one of the reasons he always watched that movie alone. ‘She was.’
He drained his cup. ‘I won’t keep you. I know you have a lot to do. I just wanted to see how you’re getting along.’
‘Sure you won’t stay for another?’
‘No, but thanks. Philly’s misbehaving, and my desk is full.’
‘All right, then,’ she said. ‘It’s nice to have a man looking in on me again.’
She stepped to the sink. The moment she put her hands into the soapy water, the doorbell rang. She glanced at Byrne.
‘Do you want me to get that?’ he asked.
‘Would you mind?’
‘Not at all.’
‘You’re a dear.’
Byrne left the kitchen, walked across the living room. He expected Anjelica’s caller to be someone from the moving company, or perhaps a stray city official with yet another document to sign. It was neither. He opened the door to find a man in his eighties wearing a mismatched navy blue suit and a yellow necktie. His thinning white hair was carefully combed, and even through the screen door Byrne could smell the after-shave, a brand from the seventies. In the man’s hands was a large white cardboard box of the type used for storing legal documents.
‘Well hello,’ Byrne said.
‘Hello to you, sir.’
Byrne propped open the screen door. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m here to see Anjelica Leary. Is she around?’
‘She is indeed,’ Byrne said. ‘May I tell her who’s calling?’
‘Name’s Jack,’ the man said. ‘Jack Permutter.’
Byrne opened the door wide. ‘Please come in, Mr Permutter. I’ll tell her you’re here.’
As Jack tried to negotiate the step over the threshold, Byrne saw that he was struggling a bit.
‘Let me take that.’
‘Much obliged.’
Byrne took the box, put it on the hall table. It was heavy. Anjelica soon came out of the kitchen, drying her hands. She smiled.
‘Two gentleman callers in one day,’ she said. ‘A girl’s head will spin.’
She crossed the room, took Jack in a deep embrace. When they parted, Byrne could see a mist in the man’s eyes. It was clear they had some sort of personal relationship. Byrne suddenly felt as if he should be anywhere but this room.
Perhaps sensing his unease, Anjelica made the introduction.
‘Kevin, this is my dear friend Jack.’
Byrne extended a hand. ‘Pleasure.’
Jack glanced out the window, at the cab waiting at the curb. He looked back at Anjelica, and pointed at the entryway table. ‘I brought over the box you asked me to keep. I didn’t know when you were leaving.’
‘You didn’t have to do that,’ Anjelica said. ‘I could have come for it.’
‘It was no bother,’ Jack said.
Anjelica held him again. ‘I’m going to miss you, you old swab.’
Jack wiped a tear, waved a hand. ‘We’ll see each other again.’ He turned to Byrne. ‘Honored to meet you, young man,’ he said.
‘The honor was mine.’
Byrne watched the man walk slowly toward the waiting cab. As the cab pulled away, a moving truck slid into its place.
Anjelica was silent for a few moments.
‘Jack is ill,’ she said.
She went on to tell Byrne about the man’s prognosis, as well as that of some of her other patients. It was clear she cared about them all.
When the conversation drifted to silence, Byrne pointed at the box Jack had brought. ‘Do you need this in the truck?’ he asked.
‘Oh, don’t trouble yourself. I can do it.’
‘Let me help,’ Byrne said. ‘It’s no trouble at all.’
‘No you don’t have to—’
Before Anjelica could get to the box, Byrne picked it up. When the top slid off, he looked inside. There he saw the cut lengths of pipe, the galvanized-steel end caps, the duct tape, the fuse.
It all came rushing toward him. In an instant he saw it. Forty years distilled into a single moment. How could he have been blind to it?
He turned to face Anjelica. She was looking straight at him. Her eyes told the whole story.
‘You?’ Byrne asked.
Anjelica said nothing. She lowered herself onto the chair near the fireplace.
‘You planted the bomb that night,’ Byrne said. ‘Danny Farren is innocent.’
‘Innocent?’ She laughed, but it was a grave and mirthless sound. ‘Danny Farren and his terrible clan are many things, Kevin Byrne. Innocent isn’t one of them.’
She looked out the window for a moment, back.
‘The building next door was supposed to be empty. I watched it for weeks. Longer. It was boarded up. I didn’t know the woman would be inside. She wasn’t supposed to die. Nobody was supposed to die.’
‘Why, Anjelica?’
Sh
e shrugged. ‘Because the Farrens needed to be stopped. If Danny went away for ten years for the firebombing, I knew he would die in prison, just like his mongrel father.’
Byrne tried to add Anjelica Daugherty into the timeline of horrors. He could not. He asked. ‘How?’
Anjelica worried the dish towel in her hands.
‘It took years,’ she said. ‘I had my looks then, mind you, not like now.’ She smoothed her hair. ‘It was not hard to get Danny Farren into my bed. Over the years he began to talk, to brag. You know how men like that are.’
‘And he talked about the bombs?’
‘Oh my God, yes. And so much more. What he didn’t tell me I learned from the internet. Always at the library. I was very careful.’
‘How did you get him there that night?’ Byrne asked. ‘We have him on surveillance video.’
‘I told him that I had talked some sense into the man who refused to pay him, the man who owned that building. I told him I had his money. I was across the street when Danny came, in shadow. When he drove away, I threw the bomb.’
‘And his fingerprints on the duct tape?’
Anjelica glanced at the roll of tape in the box. ‘Danny Farren touched many things in my house.’
Byrne’s mind was reeling. He knew he hadn’t seen any of this because he wasn’t looking.
‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.
‘Are you recording this?’
‘No.’
‘How do I know that?’
Byrne lifted his shirt, spun in place, tapped his chest.
‘Then I will exercise my right to remain silent,’ she said.
Byrne pointed to the materials in the box. ‘They’re going to tie you to all this. It won’t be difficult.’
‘You don’t have to tell them any of it,’ she said. ‘And why would you? To protect a Farren?’
‘They’ll put it together with or without me.’
‘If it’s what God wants, He will have it.’
‘Jacinta Collins,’ he said. ‘She died in the clinic.’
‘That’s what I hear.’
‘Did you visit that clinic, Anjelica? Did you finish her off to make it a murder charge for Danny Farren?’
Anjelica took a long moment. ‘I did visit the clinic that night, truth be known. I did sign in. I’m sure you have people in your department who will be able to identify my signature, even though it is a name other than my own.’
Shutter Man Page 31
