by Mike Faricy
Chapter Fifty-Four
I was in Karla’s office giving her an update as to the whereabouts of her pimped out Lincoln town car.
“So, it will eventually be released from the BCA lab in another seventeen days. I didn’t realize they actually held them for a month. The good news is the thing’s tucked away all safe and sound. The bad news is you can’t get it for another two and a half weeks,” I said.
“Not like I want to be seen driving that thing around town,” she said. “I don’t know, this whole sorry scenario just seems like such a waste. Poor Desi, she was telling the truth all along and no one believed her.”
“You did.”
“Me? No, to be honest I chalked her up as a really nice woman who made a really dumb mistake and was going to do everything she could to correct it. But to tell you the truth, I wasn’t completely convinced she was without sin.”
“Maybe more a case of naïve accomplice?” I said.
“Maybe. All I know is she didn’t deserve any of this, and she sure as hell didn’t deserve to die.”
“I’m not sure she deserved much of anything that happened to her in the last ten years, including me turning her down when she needed help,” I said.
“Still beating yourself up on that one? I’d say you’ve made some pretty decent restitution. Come on, Dev, you were almost killed.”
I just looked at her for a long moment before I spoke. “Well, at least they got Dawn Miller before she fled the country.”
Karla nodded in agreement. “And Gaston Driscoll? They still figure he’s hiding somewhere down in the British Virgin Islands?”
“It’s almost a sure bet he hid his share of that Federal Reserve heist down there in some offshore account. I’m sure he’s all lawyered up by now and just sitting pretty for the rest of his life.”
“I can’t see him keeping a low profile down there. He’s bound to turn up sooner or later.”
“And then what? It’s not like they’ll ever be able to extradite him. With that kind of money he’ll be able to fight any attempt to bring him back here to face charges. As a matter of fact, if he has any brains, he’s kept his accounts down there, but he’s out partying somewhere else in the world we’ll never think of, South America, Singapore, the Greek Isles. We may not like it, but it looks like the son-of-a-bitch pulled it off. Rich crooks somehow manage to do that,” I said.
“Behind every fortune, there’s usually a crime,” Karla said, then shook her head and stared off into the distance.
After a long moment I followed her stare, then said, “There is one other thing I’d maybe like to do.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
I stretched as I waited, bending at the waist to touch my toes a number of times after sitting for so long. Most of the people in line looked a lot older than me. The few who weren’t were holding small children, barely awake at this hour. Eventually, I made my way to the front of the line. I got the signal to approach the glass booth from the woman seated there. She seemed to study me as I walked toward her.
“Anything to declare?” she asked, scanning my passport.
“No, ma’am.”
“First time here?” She smiled, paging through looking at the various stamps on the different pages.
“I was here once before, but we weren’t allowed off the plane.”
She glanced up with a quizzical look.
“U.S. Army, coming home from Iraq. We stopped to refuel. I guess there were demonstrations.”
She gave a slight nod, but I couldn’t read her reaction.
“How long do you plan to visit?”
“Just three days. I’m heading back on the twenty-fifth.”
“Enjoy your stay,” she said, then stamped my passport somewhere on a middle page and signaled for the next person in line.
I grabbed my suitcase from baggage claim, changed dollars to Euros, then followed the directions to the car rental. I was driving out of the Dublin airport thirty minutes later and heading west. I had Desi’s map of Ireland opened on the passenger seat next to me. The little village her grandparents had emigrated from was still circled in pencil, and next to that was the heart she’d drawn with red marker around the town of Boyle where Gaston Driscoll’s family hailed from.
Three hours later, I was out in the west of Ireland, driving through the village of Ballyfarnon, in County Roscommon just a few minutes from the village in Sligo where Desi’s grandparents left after the Second World War. I traveled along for a bit more as a large mountain hillside rolled along on my right. As I drove across a small stone bridge, I had to slow for a little blonde girl who seemed to be just staring at the water. Then into the village turning right as soon as I saw the sign for St. Joseph’s church.
There was a low wall, not even three feet high, surrounding the churchyard. The church was a pale yellow stucco affair, simple, yet graceful in its own way. The small graveyard was located in the rear. Probably no different than hundreds of other churches scattered across this part of the country, except for the one thing that brought me here.
It was a little after two in the afternoon, Irish time. I was starting to feel the effect of the time change and happy to pull over. I grabbed what I needed from the back seat, then made my way around the rear of the church and into the small cemetery. It took me a few minutes, but I found them. There they were under a large stone Celtic Cross, Desi’s grandparents, the Quinns. Their names carved into the stone, Emmett and Elizabeth, born in 1922 and 1926. A number of Quinn headstones were scattered around, some of them so old and weathered they were next to impossible to read, the final resting place for a number of the generations that came before Desi.
At this time in the afternoon, I was pretty sure I was the only one around, but I checked just to be sure. I didn’t see anyone, so I opened the box of polished wood with the inlaid design pattern running along the edge…Desi’s ashes.
“Sorry, Desi, but I guess this is the best I can do. At least you finally made it here, I’m…I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” I pleaded, waiting for the answer that I knew could never come. Then I just sort of drew a blank and stood there feeling awfully stupid and probably sleep deprived. I didn’t know if my tears were for Desi or for me. I stood there for the longest time and watched as the breeze picked up her ashes and gradually scattered them on the Irish wind. I fished the gold chain out of my pocket, her Claddagh. I hung it on the edge of that Celtic cross. “I’m sorry.”
I wasn’t just tired, I was exhausted and in no condition to drive back to Dublin. So I drove the short distance to the town of Boyle where I got a hotel room and crashed until close to eleven that night. I dreamt of Desi, although I can’t recall more than that, just that I woke with a strange sense of her presence. I figured it was just the emotion from the graveyard earlier that afternoon.
I was ravenous and completely screwed up with the time change. I dressed and went out to look for something to eat. Where’s a McDonald’s when you really need one?
After finding nothing, I ended up going to a pub next to my hotel, called the Glass Slipper. It seemed like a quiet little place and looked like it could have stood next to the hotel for the past hundred years. All it lacked was a thatched roof. Well, and a kitchen that served food. I’d always had a fondness for Guinness, so I thought I would grab a pint and, God forbid, mingle with some locals. Serendipity is a funny thing. By definition I guess it’s supposed to be a surprise.
The entrance to the pub was actually two doors, one off the street, then the second door maybe three steps inside a small entry. You had to make a sharp left to enter the barroom itself.
I heard the voice the moment I stepped in off the street. Deep and booming out the door, a command voice. I paused and cautiously peeked inside.
He was seated at the bar, holding court in a Midwest American accent, enthralling
a young, red-haired woman who looked to have stars in her eyes. He was laughing and standing just a little too close to her to be casual. I was sure it was him. I’d never forgotten the upper cut he’d delivered to me in his kitchen when my hands had been tied. Though his hair was dyed midnight black and the beard was gone, it was still him, Gaston Driscoll.
In a weird way it made all the sense in the world. Here he was, hiding in plain sight. While everyone expected him to be down in the British Virgin Islands, here he was, apparently free to come and go as he damn well pleased. I backed out of the doorway and ran to my rental car. Two minutes later I was parked out on the street, hoping there wasn’t a back door to the Glass Slipper.
I’d waited the better part of an hour before the redheaded woman came out all smiles and walked down the street. Fifteen minutes later Driscoll exited and walked in the opposite direction. He slipped behind the wheel of a Jaguar parked a few doors down. I watched him in my rear view mirror as he made a U-turn on the quiet street, then drove past a moment later, not giving me a second look.
I followed him out of town at a distance, painfully aware we were the only two cars on the narrow country road this late on a weeknight. He drove over a slight rise and his tail lights disappeared. I gambled and turned off my head lights, then caught sight of his vehicle just as I made the rise. He was maybe a half-mile ahead and I continued to follow with my lights off. A few minutes later he pulled into a farm yard and parked. I pulled over and waited.
A moment later a light came on in a house, and a bit after that two more lights from second floor windows. I turned my headlights back on and drove past the house at a normal speed. I stopped around a bend some distance past and shut off my engine, not exactly sure what to do. I knew one thing. I didn’t intend to lose him this time.
Chapter Fifty-Six
I walked along the edge of the paved lane. Although there was no shoulder to speak of, I didn’t want the sound of footsteps on gravel to carry through the quiet night. This side of the house seemed dark, so I could only hope Driscoll wasn’t watching me through a night vision scope or a laser sight.
As I approached, the house appeared to be two stories of dressed stone painted white with a tile roof, pretty typical for the area based on what I’d seen earlier in the day. There was a stone wall across the front of the property, with a driveway leading into the yard. There was also the standard white metal box hanging just under the eaves with a blinking blue light indicating an alarm system had been activated. Driscoll’s Jaguar was parked directly in front of the door.
I held back in the dark. The last thing I wanted to do was alert him. I studied the place for a long time, adrenaline still coursing through my system, keeping me alert. Eventually, I walked back to my car and drove on, not wanting to return past Driscoll’s house.
I thought I’d be able to sleep in the next morning, but I was wide awake just after eight. I checked out of the hotel by nine, paying with cash, then found a sport and camping store in town, along with a hardware store that would fit my needs. I kept a low profile for the remainder of the day, attempting to advertise my American accent as little as possible.
Dusk in the Irish summer arrived a lot later than in Minnesota. I approached Driscoll’s farmhouse a little after ten-thirty that night. His Jaguar was parked in front, exactly where I’d last seen it. As far as I could tell, it hadn’t been moved since the night before.
I approached cautiously. No lights seemed to be on in the front of the house, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t watching. I was closer to the house than last night. I stopped to study the place, but couldn’t see anything that looked like cameras or motion detectors, and the light on the alarm system box wasn’t blinking.
I thought about just knocking on the door, waiting for Driscoll to answer, then returning the favor of that uppercut the moment he opened the door. But what if he didn’t answer? What if I missed? What if he just beat me to death? There seemed to be too many options, none of them going my way, so I decided to just stick with my basic plan and quietly drew alongside his car and slit the rear tire.
About two hours later the light on the security system began blinking and a moment after that a light upstairs flashed on. A second light I took to be from a bathroom came on a few seconds after that. Ten minutes later and the place went dark. I guessed Gaston Driscoll was tucked in for the night. I hunkered down in the shadows along the side of the house and waited.
It was damn near daylight at four-thirty the following morning. I wasn’t as worried about Driscoll spotting me along the side of his house as I was some neighbor driving past and reporting me or simply pulling in to ask what the hell I was up to. Fortunately, no one drove past and a little before eleven Driscoll stepped out of the house. I must have dozed off, but the front door opening snapped me awake.
“God damn it,” he shouted from the front stoop. Then paused and looked around, scanning the area out to the road and back. He was dressed in what looked like a blue silk bathrobe with little gold crowns all over the thing. His hair appeared wet, like he’d just stepped out of the shower, and even from this distance his face appeared freshly shaven.
I was crouched and remained pressed against the corner of the stone house. He waited a moment, then walked to the back of his car, dangling car keys and wearing a pair of flip flops. He gave another cautious look around before he unlocked the trunk, then lifted the lid and began to rummage around.
It was barely twenty feet and seemed to take half-a-day as I charged across the open yard to grab him before he had the chance to reach for a tire iron or worse, a gun. I caught him completely unprepared just as he heard my footsteps and instinctively looked up. I slammed into him full force with a body check. The thump I heard was the sound of his skull bouncing off the edge of the raised car trunk. I was up and caught him as he fell, throwing him to the ground before his eyes had a chance to cross. I slammed my fist into his face three or four times before I realized he wasn’t offering any resistance.
Based on the blood running down and around his mouth I figured I must have broken his nose. The left side of his mouth was bleeding and already beginning to swell. I quickly got to my feet and grabbed him under the shoulders, dragging him back into the house where I laid him out on the stone floor of the front entry.
I took lengths of rope out of my pocket, tied his wrists, tied his feet, then sat down on the staircase and waited. He blew the occasional bubble of blood out his left nostril as he gradually came around.
“Well, Gaston Driscoll. Gee, who would have thought?” I said.
His left eye was puffy and already beginning to discolor, but that didn’t hide the shock that washed over his face as he recognized me.
“You?”
“Yeah, too bad. I guess sometimes things just have a habit of not going your way.”
“What…what…who are you? What do you…”
“Shut up, you stupid bastard,” I said and slapped him hard, twice.
“I have no idea…”
I raised my fist, ready to hit him again.
“Don’t, Haskell, don’t. All right, okay. What do you want?”
“What do I want? I want your head on a platter. I’m calling the cops, Driscoll. You’re finished.”
“Hold on, son, hold on! I wonder if we can’t work something out here. I can make this worth your while, hang on. Take a moment and think about it. Think…you’ll never have to work again. You like the sound of that, don’t you? I can tell. Doesn’t that sound nice? You can take it easy, never have to worry about another cent, ever.”
“Yeah, I’m sure I can trust you, not a problem. No, you know what I’d like?”
“Name it, Haskell, you just name it.”
“I want to see that DVD of Daphne Cole having sex with you.”
“Daphne Cole?”
“Don’t, pleas
e, don’t tempt me. I’d really enjoy causing you pain, Driscoll. Now, I’m tired, crabby and let’s just use this as a test to see if we can get along. What do you say?”
“Well, little Daphne…so she’s your hot button is she? I had you figured wrong all along, Haskell.”
I nodded.
“Just untie me here and let me get the disc for you.”
“I got a better idea. Why don’t you tell me where it is and I’ll get it.”
“That’s not going to…”
“Trust, Driscoll, this is all about being able to trust you.”
“All right, all right, upstairs,” he said. “In the spare bedroom, the red room, there’s a rack full of CDs. They’re all stored in the cases at the bottom marked holiday music.”
“One chance, that’s all you get. So you’re sure?” I said.
He nodded.
I hurried up the wide staircase, taking the steps two at a time, then down a hallway. I almost passed the door to the small red room as I heard Driscoll calling from down below.
“I don’t blame you, Haskell. They were all fun. We might get together, maybe make a good team. You certainly seem intelligent enough.”
The CD rack stood next to a small, carved antique desk and appeared just as Driscoll had described, with at least a dozen CD cases labeled ‘Holiday Music’ arranged at the bottom. I pulled one out and opened the case. The DVD disk was labeled ‘Helen’ in blue indelible marker. I opened the next case, and saw a name I didn’t recognize. I’d gone through six or seven before I came across one labeled ‘Daphne’. Two cases after that I found the one labeled ‘Desi’.
It was suddenly quiet and I realized I hadn’t heard Driscoll shouting for a moment or two. I grabbed a crystal candle stick off the desk and went back into the hallway. Driscoll was just creeping up the staircase, unwinding the last of the rope for around his wrists as he reached the top.
