by K. A. Tucker
“Are you really too stupid to see that you’ve already done that? It’s only a matter of time before someone tries to pick you off again. I won’t let you take the rest of us down with you.”
The door flies open then, and our da storms in as quickly as his limp allows him to. The tears in his eyes are a swift punch to my chest. I’ve never seen Da cry, not even on his worst days of pain. “They couldn’t save his leg. Your brother lost his leg because of you!” Da makes it all the way to the edge of the bed, his face the color of ripe tomatoes, too red for a man with his blood pressure issues. “And if that’s not bad enough, there’s also nerve damage to his other leg. He could be in pain for the rest of his life!”
If anyone understands what that’s like, it’s Da.
Ma sweeps in after him, her face wet from crying. “He’s goin’ to be just fine. Stop worrying, Seamus. You’ll get yourself sick!”
Da’s not even listening to her, though. “What did you do, Aengus!”
“Nothing,” he grumbles like a sullen child who knows he’s guilty but would rather take punishment than admit to it.
I guess the yelling caught the attention of the hospital staff because a nurse and doctor step in behind Ma. “You’ll need to leave while we examine him,” the doctor says, slipping a stethoscope around his neck. “You can come back a little later.”
“I won’t be comin’ back,” Da says, and his tone leaves no room for guesswork. It’s a declaration. Aengus is dead to him. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such a thing happening in Delaney history.
My brother flinches, as if the words slapped him across the face.
With the doctor hovering, there’s nothing left to do but leave.
“When Duffy comes, you tell him everything, Aengus,” I warn him. “Because if I have to do it . . .” I let my words drift, the meaning clear. Going on the stand as a witness against the IRA sometimes doesn’t end well for the witness. “And then that blood’ll be on your hands, too.”
THIRTY
AMBER
I’m guessing all interrogation rooms have a universal quality to them. The one in the Deschutes County station was like this—small, rectangular, with a simple table in the center and two hard chairs flanking either side, and a camera in the corner to record and monitor the interviews. My dad and I ate lunch in it one day, on a “Take Your Kids to Work” day.
I wish my dad were here right now.
I thought about calling him, but decided against it. For now, at least.
Garda Duffy shuts the door quietly behind him as he enters, a tan folder tucked under his arm, much like the one he brought to show me that day when I lied to him about knowing River. “Do you need anything? Water? Toilet break?”
“No.” I clear the nervousness from my voice. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
“Alright, then. Let’s begin. Your rights have been read to you and you’re aware that what you tell me today may be used against you in future.”
“I am.”
“And you’re aware that you are entitled to legal representation.”
“Yes, I’m aware.” Maybe I should be pushing for that now. But I also know that I can ask for a lawyer at any time and that allows me some comfort, though it won’t change the fact that I lied.
“Right. Okay, then.” He goes through all the statements, introducing his full name and rank, identifying the dates and approximate time of the pipe bomb blast, and reading the verbal statements I provided to them. Pretty much a recap of our interactions thus far. He does it in a slow, monotonous voice, almost lulling.
“Three days ago, I visited the residence where you were staying, and I showed you this picture.” He slides out the mug shot of Aengus. Now that I’ve met River’s father, I can see the familial similarities, but I still find it hard to believe that this cold and calculating guy is related to River and Rowen. “You told me that you didn’t recognize him.”
“That’s right.”
He eyes me. “You’re sure?”
I tap the picture. “I’ve never met this man. I’ve never even seen him.”
“Okay.” He slides out River’s picture, and the bubble of panic in my stomach rises. “I also showed you this picture, and you confirmed that you didn’t recognize him.”
“I did say that.”
“Was that true?”
I take a deep breath. “No.”
“So you did recognize this man?”
“Yes.”
“And how did you recognize him?”
“From St. Stephen’s Green, the day of the bomb. He’s the guy who pushed me down. He saved my life.”
“And do you know his name?”
“River Delaney.” It comes out scratchy. I can’t believe I’m naming River like this. I just hope that telling the truth will help him more than the continued lies could hurt him. And I hope he doesn’t hate me for it.
“When did you first meet River?”
“Two days after the bombing in St. Stephen’s Green.”
He frowns, confused. Or maybe doubtful, like he was expecting my answer to be different.
“Everything I told you about that day in St. Stephen’s Green was true. I was just an American tourist at the wrong place at the wrong time. I told you all that I remembered of him. It wasn’t until two days later when I was having lunch that something triggered my memory. A stag on a T-shirt, of all things.” I chuckle, though nothing about being in this cold, sterile room is particularly funny.
“The Delaney crest,” he murmurs, a small smile touching his mouth.
“Exactly.” I go on to explain how I tracked River down to the pub, and everything after that, glossing over the private details. I think he can read between the lines just fine, my crimson cheeks likely enough evidence.
“So, when I showed up on Monday and asked you to identify his mug shot, you knew River Delaney quite well.”
I swallow. “Yes. In some ways, I guess I did. And I panicked. It just didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be the same guy. I didn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it.”
“Lying to a police officer is a serious offense, Amber.”
I snort, the irony of this situation not lost on me. “Trust me, I’m well aware. My father is a retired sheriff.”
That seems to give him pause, but not for too long. “You can be charged and convicted. You can have a criminal record because of it. If that happens, you won’t be allowed back in Ireland again.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, until I’m sure I’ve stalled the tears that threaten to fall. I hear what that threat really means. Never see River again.
Duffy regards me for a moment, chewing the corner of his lip in thought. “So, what happened next?”
“I ran. Avoided River while I processed.”
“Because you were afraid?”
“Because I was angry.” I settle my gaze on him, hoping he can see River through my eyes for just a moment. “He’s made mistakes, but he’s a good person.”
Duffy watches me silently with that same steely look that my dad has, that tells me nothing. “And then?”
I know that I don’t have to answer any of these questions. That giving this information may implicate me further. But they’ll find out eventually. They’ll pull phone records and see all the calls and text messages between us. They could pull Ivy in here and ask her, and I don’t expect her to incriminate herself. In the end, I’ll end up having to tell the truth anyway.
One of Sheriff Welles’s many mantras: “Always cooperate with the police, and things will go a lot smoother for you.” I wonder if those words were cycling through his head when he was helping Jesse cover up evidence of the murder attempt on Alex.
“And then I confronted him, and he told me everything.”
“What is ‘everything’?”
“His criminal record, his family’s history.”
“About his brother, Aengus?”
I nod.
“Did River tell you why he was in St. Stephen’s
Green the morning of the bombing?”
“Yes.” If River isn’t going to help clear their suspicions of him, I will. “He overheard his brother, Aengus, talking about delivering some sort of warning that morning. So he followed him, unnoticed, to the park, and witnessed Aengus set the pipe bomb in the field. He tried to stop him but he couldn’t. Aengus ran and River was about to run himself, and then he saw me heading directly into the path. If not for River, I would have been hurt. Killed, perhaps.”
“And that would have been quite a tragic end,” he murmurs, tapping his pen against the desk in thought, though his gaze is still glued to mine.
I add, with hesitation, “But that’s all hearsay, isn’t it? What he told me, and what I just told you.” I don’t know how many times my dad would scold Bonnie and me for sharing “hearsay”—gossip—at our kitchen table. If we didn’t personally witness it, it would never stand up in court, he’d say, and we shouldn’t repeat it. I think he really just wanted to stop our incessant thirteen-year-old babble.
Duffy smiles gently, then tosses his pen aside, giving his forehead a firm rub with his palms. “I wish you had been honest with me on Monday. Maybe last night could have been avoided.” He looks up in time to see my face fall—the blanket of guilt he just tossed over my shoulders weighing me down instantly—and quickly adds, “But probably not. What you’re telling me only confirms what we already suspected and couldn’t prove about Aengus. We still can’t, beyond your words, which, as you say, are hearsay.”
“So what are you going to do?”
He sighs. “Figure out how to get River to admit to it, and act as a witness. Given that he’s as stubborn as he is proud, I don’t see how I’m going to accomplish that.”
“I can try,” I mutter half-heartedly, because I know the answer already. River is never going to rat out his brother. He’s already said so.
A knock sounds at the door, grabbing Duffy’s attention. “Thank you for telling me the truth, Amber. I’ll be back soon.”
He leaves me alone in that small, cold rectangular room.
I rest my head on the table, wondering what his return will bring.
THIRTY-ONE
RIVER
“Any news on your brother?” Duffy asks, setting a steaming cup of coffee down on the table.
I don’t have to ask which one. He wouldn’t be asking about Aengus unless it was to gauge how long before he could throw cuffs on him. “They removed his spleen, and pulled some shrapnel from his lung and his liver.”
“His leg?”
I grit my teeth. “Gone from below the knee.”
Duffy shakes his head. “Such a tragedy for a young fella.”
I can’t tell if he actually cares or if he says it because it’s the proper thing to say. “It is. He never did anything to deserve it.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Did Aengus?”
We stare at each other from across the table. “Look at us . . . two hard-headed bastards.”
That earns a genuine smile from his end. The answer is right there for him. “If you can begin looking through this stack of photos . . .” He flips open the top of a thick binder, two more waiting next to it.
“A bit archaic, don’t ya think?”
“Sometimes we like to do things the old-fashioned way,” he murmurs.
I didn’t miss the fact that I’m sitting in an interrogation room, instead of at a desk where we can peruse the mug shot database from a computer screen.
“Where’s Amber?”
“A few rooms over. We just had a good, long chat.” He lets his words hang in silence for a moment. “I don’t take her for the criminal type.”
“She’s not. She’s a good bird.”
“I wouldn’t want to see this all turn out badly for her. I don’t think you would, either.”
“You’re right. Which is why I’d like you to get the information that you need.”
“Uh . . . what do you . . .” He falters over his words, surprise splashing across his face. “Go on.”
“I’ll give you the name of the asshole who blew up my family’s pub and I’ll tell you who attacked the Green. But only if you let Amber go with absolutely no repercussions. The only thing she ever did wrong was give the likes of me a fair chance.”
Duffy’s fingers strum across the table, what I’m dangling in front of him too enticing to ignore. The chance to make arrests in two separate Dublin bombings? It’s any officer’s wet dream come true.
If I were bold—and stupid—I’d also tell him where Jimmy’s hiding.
“I know Aengus is responsible for the Green, and that you were there to see it happen. Your girlfriend told me everything.”
Hearing that doesn’t make me angry in the least, I realize. Yes, Amber betrayed my confidence, but I know her well enough to know that she didn’t do it to protect herself; she did it to protect me.
She did it because it’s the right thing to do.
“Then I guess you know I’m useful.”
“Are you saying you’d be a witness on the stand against your own brother?” There’s doubt in Duffy’s voice.
I take a deep breath. Never in a million years did I think these words would ever leave my mouth. “If he doesn’t confess to it himself, then yes, I’m saying exactly that.”
“Aengus, confess to the bombing?” He raises his eyebrows. “How hard did you get knocked in the head?”
“You’re a persuasive bastard. Tell him he has no choice. Paint him a pretty picture about what could happen to me if he doesn’t.”
Duffy purses his lips together and then nods.
Honestly, I have no clue what Aengus is going to admit to. I know him well enough to know that he feels guilty and that he’ll do anything to protect his family, but whether that’s enough for him to do the right thing for once . . . ?
Duffy’s fingers flip a page in the binder, then another. “You came in here to identify the man responsible for the bombing of your bar.”
“Jackie Hanegan.”
His fingers freeze. “You sure?” He quickly searches the pages.
“He’s short and has squinty eyes. Has a tattoo right here.” I draw on my forearm. “Heavy Cork accent.”
Duffy spins the book around, and the familiar eyes stare up at me.
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“You said half his face was covered, though.”
“It’s him.”
“Is he in any danger?”
“You can bet Jimmy’ll be after him once he hears from Aengus.”
“We’ll pick him up, then. There’s bound to be more evidence tied to him.” Suddenly, Duffy is fumbling for his pen, his pad of paper, and his phone. “We’ll need formal statements from you, about last night and the Green bombing.”
“You’ll get them as soon as you let Amber off.”
“I’m not negotiating.”
“Neither am I.”
“Look . . .” He stops and sighs. “Even though she lied to me, and I’m well within my rights to charge Miss Welles, I’m not in the practice of punishing people who don’t truly deserve it.”
“You were already going to let her go?”
“I believe that the information she provided at the site, the day of the bombing, was truthful. Her only real mistake after that was falling in love with the likes of a Delaney.”
I sigh with relief, his words filling my chest with warmth.
“So? Do we have a deal?”
“We do. But go and talk to Aengus first. I’ll be more than happy to wait here and give my statement about the Green when you come back, if it’s still necessary.”
After a moment, he collects his notepad and stands. “I’m glad to say that I was wrong about you, River.”
“Likewise.” I guess maybe Duffy’s not so bad, after all. His hand is on the door handle to leave when I remember. “I have an extortion case for you to look into, too. One of Jimmy’s guys is involved.” Let’s see if Duffy can
get them off of Francis O’Reilly’s back.
He frowns. “You’re just offering this information to me for nothing? Or is there something you want in return?”
“Let’s just say I don’t like seeing undeserving people punished either.”
THIRTY-TWO
AMBER
Duffy holds the door open. And simply stands there.
I stare at him.
“You’re free to go.”
Is this a trick? I admitted to lying to him. I’ve been sitting in this room for hours, waiting for him to march in and tell me what’s going to happen next to me, to River.
When I don’t move right away, he adds, “Unless you prefer these accommodations to your other?”
My chair nearly topples, as quickly as I stand. “What about River?” Does he know that I told Duffy everything? Does he understand why?
Does he hate me now?
A secretive smile curls Duffy’s lips. He finds that amusing somehow. I’m suddenly overcome with the urge to slap him.
“Relax, Amber.” He points down the hallway and I peer past him, along the narrow corridor, to where River leans against the wall, his head tipped back as if resting. No handcuffs, no garda hovering.
What does that mean?
Duffy must see the confusion in my face. “I finally found something important enough to bend that stubborn Irish will of his.”
Something important enough . . .
Me?
He chuckles softly. “Go on, now.”
I don’t wait another second. I tear down the hall and into River’s waiting arms.
“We can still stay at your house tonight, if you’d rather be close to your parents.” I flick the hallway light on. It feels like I haven’t stepped inside here in weeks, even though I left for Cork just yesterday.
River drops the duffel bag of clothes he packed on the floor—he refused to let me carry it in—and struggles to kick his shoes off, his limp worse than it was earlier today. “Who knows what time they’ll be back from the hospital. Besides, Ma would take issue with where you sleep.”
“I don’t mind sleeping on my own.”
“I do.” His chuckle is so weak. “I need my nurse in bed with me.”
