The Dark Path

by Kevin McManus

  Bukowski nodded to parka—blood pooling around his torso. “What happened?” she asked.

  Morrigan shook his head. “He knows me. Well, knew me. I thought I recognized his face when I walked in.”

  “Who is he?”

  “His name is Arturo. I busted him six years ago for possession. He just looks shittier and more drugged out than the last time I saw him.”

  Bukowski shook her head. “Some fucking luck.”

  “Yeah,” Morrigan said. “Some fucking luck.” He pointed to the bag. “He had his squeeze fuck up the hard drives when I walked in. He knew I was a cop.”

  “Must have been some kind of protocol that Klein gave them.”

  A nod. “Most likely.”

  Bukowski threw up her hands. “Well,” she said. “That’s just fucking peachy. There’s no way we’re going to find out what’s on those drives. And once someone gets wind that these guys are dead, how long until it blows back on us?”

  Morrigan lingered in the corner. “We have one more play to make.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I met with Klein. He wants me to do a job for him.”

  “What kind of job?”

  Morrigan cocked his head. “A hit…”

  Bukowski took a gasp. “Jesus, John.”

  “I’m not going to do it.”

  “Good.”

  “But that doesn’t mean I won’t go through the motions.”

  “Okay, but what does that look like?”

  “I’m supposed to get a call soon,” Morrigan said. “Guy is going to give me a location. I’m going to meet someone there and get further instructions. You should tail me.”

  “Naturally,” Bukowski said before looking around the room. “What about these guys?”

  Morrigan took one last look at the dead people on the floor, shrugged, and said: “What about ’em? Fuck ’em.”

  Bukowski was taken aback by her colleague’s response. “John, we can’t just leave these bodies here.”

  Morrigan got close to Bukowski. “What do you think is happening here? We’re already off the reservation. You think if we call this in it’s going to do us any good?”

  “We’ve got four dead bodies for Christ’s sakes, have you forgotten that we are cops—”

  “I know the score, Bukowski. But we did them in with unregistered rounds. It won’t blow back on us, unless you’re going to lose sleep over dropping four criminals.”

  Bukowski shook her head, still unsure. “No… I guess not.”

  “Good. Because between Dyer and this shit that just played out, we’re already running the risk of being blown with Klein. We need to keep moving.”

  Bukowski huffed, trying to think of what to say and what to do. “Well,” she said, shrugging. “What the hell do we do now?”

  “We wait for Klein to call. Then we make a plan.”

  “When is he supposed to call?”

  Morrigan checked his watch. “Between ten and midnight. It’s 9:45pm now.”

  Bukowski took a glance around the crummy apartment and the dead bodies on the floor. “So,” she said, “what do we do?”

  Morrigan came up with the only plan his Irish brain could conjure—he decided that it was about due time to get a drink.

  Morrigan and Bukowski made their way to a bar two blocks away. Most of the dozen patrons were fixated on a game on the TV at the end of the narrow bar.

  “Two whiskeys, Irish,” Morrigan told the waitress.

  The waitress said nothing as she went about fetching their drinks.

  Bukowski exhaled, rubbing her temples and feeling the adrenaline wearing off from the events back at the apartment. “How the hell did that happen?” she said.

  Morrigan shrugged. “I told you—guy knew I was a cop.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I mean this, this whole thing. How the hell could we have gotten so deep into something so fucked up?”

  Morrigan didn’t know how to reply. He didn’t know how to process anything anymore. His sins of the past had come back to collect a bill with an interest rate that would make even the most seasoned of loan sharks say “Damn.”

  “Look,” he said, feeling the weight of having towed Bukowski along with him for so long. “I don’t want you to have to ride this out any longer. You’ve done enough.”

  She laughed. “You really think that walking away is a choice for me now?”

  “Sure it is.”

  “The hell it is. I’m in this just as deep as you are.”

  Morrigan squinted. “Why?”

  “Why, what?”

  “Why are you helping me?”

  Bukowski thought about it—but then she realized that she didn’t have a definitive answer. “Oh, John.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know how to respond to that. I haven’t really stopped to think about it.”

  He smiled. “Maybe you love me.”

  She gave him a sideways look. “It’s not that. Trust me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m in love with someone else.”

  Morrigan felt his heart skip a beat. “What’s his name?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I’m curious.”

  “Michael.”

  “Where’s Michael now?”

  She sighed. “He died.”

  Morrigan hung his head for a moment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  Bukowski held up her hand. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”

  “But you’re still in love with him?”

  “You’re in love with your ex, Helen, aren’t you?”

  A nod. “Well… I dunno.”

  “You don’t just stop loving someone, John. That’s not how it works, at least when that person was good to you, when it was a good relationship. Most of the time, anyway.”

  The waitress returned with their drinks, Morrigan handing over a twenty and telling the woman to keep the change. He then raised his glass in a toast to Bukowski. “To shit circumstances.”

  Bukowski tapped her glass on the table. “Mazel tov.”

  They drank, the euphoria that came with hard liquor hitting them instantly.

  “I’m worried, John,” Bukowski said after a moment.

  “I am, too.”

  “I just… I just feel like this is one of those things that’s just going to keep rolling along until we hit a wall going a hundred miles an hour. I’m worried this is going to be something we won’t walk away from.”

  Morrigan shook his head. “I’m not going to let that happen.”

  “Yeah? You Superman, or something?”

  Morrigan shrugged. “We’ll make it,” he said. “I don’t know how, but we will.”

  Bukowski nodded. “I hope you are right, John.”

  As Morrigan lifted his glass to take another swig the burner phone in his pocket buzzed. He pulled it out and answered, Bukowski watching with an anticipatory glaze in her eye.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  Chatter on the other end of the line.

  Morrigan hung up.

  “We on?” Bukowski asked.

  Morrigan nodded. “We’re on.”

  31

  Manhattan Skyline

  Tommy Morrigan couldn’t help his hands from shaking as he entered Klein’s penthouse on Columbus Avenue on the Upper West Side. When he got the call an hour earlier to meet Klein at his place, he knew that nothing good was in store for him. But he also knew there was fuck-all he could do about it. If Klein said you had to show up—you showed up.

  A tall blond guy in a cheap suit answered the door when Klein knocked. He didn’t recognize the chump’s face, but Tommy had gotten used to new players being thrown into the mix. It didn’t faze him.

  “He’s in the living room,” the guy said as he stood aside and waited for Tommy to enter.

  Tommy took his time walking through the foyer that linked into a sprawling living room with a picturesque view of the Manhattan skyline. For a mome
nt, he wondered what kind of cabbage one had to dish out to afford a place like this. Either way, he knew it was more than he’d ever accumulate in his entire lifetime.

  Klein was mixing a drink off a bar cart when Tommy entered, his back to Tommy and his gaze focused on the drink in front of him. “Thirsty, big man?” Klein asked.

  Tommy shook his head. The hangover from last night’s drinking binge was still lingering to remind him of the evils that came with heavy indulgence. “No,” he said. “I’m cool.”

  Klein sniggered. “Take a seat, Tommy.”

  Tommy shoved his hands into his pockets. “I think I’ll stand.”

  Klein turned around and squinted. “Sit the fuck down,” he said.

  Tommy, taking his time, moved toward the couch and plopped down, unable to help himself from constantly shifting his weight with nervous tension.

  Klein finished stirring the ingredients, sipped and paced near the window. “Talked to your brother earlier,” he said.

  “And?” Tommy asked.

  A shrug. “It looks like he’s on board. Whatever you said to him must have worked.”

  Tommy breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank Christ…”

  A nod. “Yeah. Thank Christ indeed.”

  Klein sipped his drink. A minute passed.

  “So,” Tommy said, pounding a nervous fist on the edge of the couch. “Why am I here?”

  “That’s the question of the hour, isn’t it?”

  “Cut the bullshit, Klein. What do you want?”

  Klein pointed and laughed. “Man. This defiant, Irish bravado must run in the family. You sound just like your brother.”

  “Look, Klein, I’m on your side. I just want to know what you want from me.”

  Klein rubbed the stubble on his face. “I’m having some trouble, Tommy.”

  “With what?”

  Klein paced again. “A lot of things, quite frankly. See, I’ve got your brother on my side. He’s going to play ball.”

  “That’s a good thing. That’s what you wanted.”

  “It is. But the fact still remains that your brother is a hotheaded prick with a penchant for thinking that he still has control over a situation where he is nothing more than a drone.”

  Tommy squinted. “I don’t understand.”

  Klein held up a finger. “John Morrigan is too invaluable to let go. I mean, Connolly and a few of the other guys see him as a liability. I’ve had to stake my reputation on him. I’ve had to offer them guarantees that sometimes I fear I can’t keep.”

  Tommy held his head in his hands. “What the hell are you talking about, Klein? Can you just get to the fucking point.”

  Klein nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “I should just get to the point.” He placed down his drink on a coaster on a coffee table and approached the couch Tommy was seated on. “Your brother is a valuable asset. I’ve stated that. But he’s still volatile. I still have this fear that he’ll try to defy whatever orders I give him down the line.”

  “I talked to him. You said it worked.”

  “And it did. For now. See, John reminds me of something that happened with my mother several years ago. She was a strong lady, stronger than my old man, arguably. When she was sixty, the doctors told her she had an infection in her hip after a surgery. The wound just wouldn’t heal. They tried everything—antibiotics, some other drugs, lots of different things. The problem was that the wound would heal for only a short while, and then it would reject whatever remedies the doctors provided and go right back to rotting.” He pointed to Tommy. “I see your brother like my mother’s hip infection—he can only be controlled for a short while before he rejects his medicine and starts wreaking havoc. So, the doctors eventually had to go nuclear, big and bold, or let her rot.” He smiled. “That situation got me to thinking about John. It got me to thinking that I need to employ a nuclear deterrent in order to keep him in line.”

  Tommy squinted. “I still don’t bloody understand. Can you just cut the crap already?”

  Klein turned and jutted his chin toward one of the adjoining rooms. “Pearse,” he called out. “Would you join us, please?”

  The door to what appeared to be an office opened, and the blond man in the cheap suit who met Tommy at the front door earlier walked into the living room.

  “Who’s this?” Tommy asked.

  “Pearse McNulty, another Irishman, only arrived a few weeks ago from Dublin,” Klein said. “I’d like you to meet Tommy Morrigan.”

  Tommy moved to stand.

  Klein pointed. “Sit down. Now.”

  Tommy sat back down, bracing the sides of the couch as he did.

  Klein gestured to McNulty. “Tommy,” he said, “this is my nuclear deterrent.”

  Tommy shook his head. “I thought you weren’t going to kill John.”

  Klein wagged a finger. “I’m not. But I am going to do something to make sure that I don’t have to do that.” He nodded to McNulty, who walked over to Tommy and cracked his knuckles in preparation—for what, Tommy could only speculate.

  “What the fuck is this?” Tommy said as he backed up into the couch.

  “This,” Klein said, “is the first day of the rest of your life.”

  Moments later, McNulty had Tommy into headlock, and as soon as he had applied enough pressure around his neck to make him pass out, Klein ordered him to fetch the zip ties, duct tape, and camera.

  32

  Primal Scream

  Staten Island Harbor

  “Where’s the location?” Bukowski asked, posted up in the passenger’s side of John Morrigan’s car as she checked her cell for any missed calls.

  “It’s by the docks,” Morrigan said as he turned left. “Place is abandoned. Hasn’t been used in a while.”

  “What’s the layout? We should figure out how we’re going in. They’re only expecting you.”

  Morrigan opened his mouth—but then his burner phone rang. He huffed, answering with one hand and pressing the phone up against his ear. “Yeah?”

  “You sitting down?” Klein asked from the other side.

  “No. I’m driving.”

  “You alone?”

  Morrigan glanced at Bukowski. “Yeah.”

  “You should pull over.”

  “Fuck off, Klein.”

  “Ever the charmer, Morrigan. But I’m serious. You should pull over.”

  Morrigan sighed, hit the turn indicator, and pulled the car to the side of the road. Bukowski squinted and mouthed: “What’s going on?”

  Morrigan held up the “one moment” gesture. “Okay,” he said to Klein. “I’m pulled over.”

  “Good,” Klein said. “I’m about to send you a file. Should only take a moment.”

  Morrigan put the phone on speaker and looked at the display. After a moment, a text file was sent to him with a video clip embedded into the text.

  “Open it,” Klein said.

  Morrigan obliged—then his eyes went wide when he saw Tommy, his brother, bound and gagged and being thrown into the trunk of a car. Bukowski, leaning over to spot what Morrigan was watching, sat back in her seat and closed her eyes from the sheer terror.

  “How’s the video quality?” Klein said. “I was thinking maybe I needed to upgrade to a new phone, but I think you get the gist of what I just sent you.”

  Morrigan took a moment—then he began punching the steering wheel. “You motherfucker!” he howled into the phone.

  “Take it easy, John. Now’s not the time to start getting worked up.”

  “You son of a bitch! I swear to God—”

  “Just shut your mouth and listen. Your brother’s life depends on you co-operating. Think of it as just a little insurance policy for me if anything goes wrong—basically if you fuck up… a life insurance, if you will,” Klein said with a fake and forced laugh.

  Morrigan felt a heaviness settle over his chest and his breathing became erratic. “I did as you said, Klein,” he said. “I told you I would go along with your bullshit.” />
  “You did. But the more I thought on it, the more I felt it just wasn’t good enough.”

  “If you hurt him—”

  “I won’t. But my man will if you deviate from any part of the plan. Tommy is, as I said, my insurance policy, John. He’s here to make sure that you do your job properly.”

  Morrigan rubbed his temples and squeezed his eyelids so tight, the strain turned into a searing pain. “Where is he?”

  “You know I’m not going to tell you that. But I’m having my man take him far away from here. We’re going to hold on to him for a little bit while you work for us.”

  “How long?”

  “As long as I see fit.”

  Morrigan gritted his teeth. “How do I know he’s not dead already.”

  “My word isn’t good enough?”

  “Not at all.”

  A sigh. “Then what will help you sleep at night, John?” Klein asked.

  “I want proof of life. I want updates on his condition.”

  “That’s more than fair. Like I said, John, I don’t plan on hurting Tommy. But I will if I have to. You do your job, you do as I say, no harm will come to him.”

  Morrigan didn’t know what to say. He felt like his mind was slowly becoming numb from all the pressure it was enduring. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because you’re untrustworthy, Morrigan,” Klein said. “And unfortunately, you possess too many advantages. You are a respected detective with the NYPD and you will be very useful to us in the future. I can’t just put a bullet in your head, as much as my colleagues would want me to. Tommy is here to make sure you stay on the straight-and-narrow. You understand?”

  Morrigan said nothing.

  “I need you to say it, John,” Klein said.

  Morrigan cleared his throat. “I understand.”

  “Good. Then make sure you meet my man. It should be soon, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Again—Morrigan said nothing.

  “Take care, John,” Klein said before he hung up the phone.

  The dial tone rang out like a flatline beep as Morrigan gripped the phone so tight it felt like it was on the cusp of breaking. He drew a deep breath, his eyes went wide as he threw the phone at the dash before crying out a primal scream that made Bukowski shudder.