by Bob Mayer
“I agree,” Kane said. “That’s why I care. They call themselves the Swords of Saint Patrick.”
“Oh, fuck me to tears,” Caitlyn said. “Saint Patrick never had a sword. If I still believed in the divinity of that poor bastard who got himself nailed to the cross, I’d called that blasphemous at best.”
Kane flinched as Caitlyn reached out, but she persisted and lightly touched the scar on the side of his head with her nail-worn forefinger. “A little the other way and you wouldn’t be sitting here, would you, Kane with a K?”
Kane didn’t respond to the obvious.
“Not much I can tell you,” Caitlyn said, her fingers still touching the scar, “to help about those two men other than they were average size, one a shaggy redhead and the other dark-haired, fair skinned, a strange combination. That’s it, I’m afraid. They came in the front door and left by it. No idea what their mode of conveyance was.”
“More than I had before,” Kane said. “Was one of them wounded?”
“’Wounded’?”
“Nose broken? Arm in a sling?”
“No.” She leaned forward, spreading the rest of her fingers on the side of his head, into his thick hair, her face just a few inches from his.
Kane remained still, feeling her rough, strong fingers holding his head, her green eyes staring into his.
“Are you trying to be a real Jack Duggan?” Caitlyn quietly asked. She removed her hand, slowly, fingers sliding over skin, through hair. “Now, if you’re not going to drink, be off with you. You’re ruining whatever reputation I might possibly have left.”
Kane took the stairs to the elevated subway platform slowly, his hand on the railing. Upon arrival, he glanced in both directions. The platform was dimly lit and held a scattering of people, not unusual for a Monday evening at the end of the line. He was on the center platform, tracks to either side. They both terminated at the northern end of the station as this was the terminus of the #1 subway line. Kane walked to the southern end and away from the other waiting passengers.
In his memory floated a tidbit Brother Benedict had distilled about Jack Kerouac and this station and On The Road, which he thought even Morticia would find interesting, but he didn’t have the energy or focus to write it down in his notebook. In the distance echoed the approaching clatter of steel on steel that New Yorkers were attuned to, but the train wasn’t in sight yet.
The lack of focus allowed the barrel of a gun to be pressed into the base of Kane’s skull.
“Keep your hands away from your sides,” Tucker hissed.
“Where’s Shaw?” Kane asked, doing as ordered, his hands extended away from his body at the elbows.
“Shaw’s got nothing to do with this,” Tucker said.
“Did Damon have something on you?” Kane belatedly realized his oversight at West Point. He should have checked the pictures to see if Tucker’s name was on one of the film cases.
“Fuck you,” Tucker said. “Where’s the money?”
“Burned up.”
The headlights of the inbound train rose above the tracks in the distance.
“You were Damon’s insurance, weren’t you?” Kane asked but he already knew the answer. “The person who knew he was taking me there.” Another piece clicked into place. “Which means you knew about his factory. The fifth chair. There were five chairs in the film room in Damon’s factory. You sat in that fifth chair when he played his films, didn’t you?”
The barrel pressed harder into his skin. “I never sat in there. I never watched any of his films except the one he showed me that he’d made of me. He didn’t offer a seat when he did that.”
Kane’s focus was now razor sharp, not just because of the gun, but the realization of Tucker’s complicity. “You’re a piece of shit, you know that?” The train was rattling closer and Tucker grabbed the back of Kane’s collar with his free hand, pulling him into the darkness of an advertisement stanchion so the motorman in the lead car wouldn’t see them.
“Who the fuck are you?” Tucker demanded. “Some has-been ex-Green Beret working divorce cases. Why did you get involved and fuck everything up? You know too much, Kane. You—”
Kane whirled, ducking, left hand grabbing the gun before Tucker could react. Tucker fired, belatedly, as the train reached the end of the platform, the round ripping harmlessly into the dark night inches above Kane’s head. Kane kept his momentum on the spin, pulling Tucker by the gun hand forward, toward the edge of the platform, before he let go.
The front of the train flashed by, brakes squealing for its final stop.
Tucker turned and swung the gun toward Kane, but the ex-Green Beret’s foot was faster. Kane snap kicked into Tucker’s chest, sending him flying backward. Tucker hit the moving train, bounced off, spinning from the train’s speed, dropping the gun, arms wind milling, trying to regain his balance.
Kane timed his next kick accurately, boot into Tucker’s stomach, doubling him over and sending him exactly into the gap between the second and third cars of the ten-car train as they went by.
Tucker disappeared into the darkness of the tracks, his scream barely audible above the sound of the train coming to a halt and cut off in less than a second. Kane picked up the gun and put it in his pocket.
The doors slid open and a handful of passengers disembarked, emptying the train. Kane stepped inside and sat down, facing the open door. He was the only one in his car. He waited, anxiety building whether anyone had noticed Tucker going onto the tracks. Should he just exit and hit the streets instead of being trapped inside here and—
The door at the end of the car rattled open and the motorman entered, his large key in hand as he switched ends of the train. He didn’t spare Kane a glance as he inserted the key in the cubicle in the front right of the car and disappeared inside.
The doors slid shut. With a lurch, the train reversed direction.
Underneath the elevated subway, a steady drip of blood splatted onto Broadway un-noticed. Just before the train cleared the station, the steel wheels finished slicing through flesh and bone and Tucker’s right hand dropped between crossties and landed on Broadway.
It too was unnoticed in the dark.
Kane relaxed as they cleared the platform. The train didn’t accelerate much, rolling the four blocks to the next station at 238th Street. No one got on Kane’s car. The doors shut and the train picked up speed for the next stop in the Bronx at 231st Street.
Kane glanced right as the door at the end of the car opened.
Caitlyn entered and strode unerringly to Kane, sitting next to him. “Exciting evening, it’s turned out to be, eh?”
Kane couldn’t conjure up a response.
“It seems you still possess your martial skills, Will Kane,” Caitlyn said. “Taking down a man holding a gun on you is no mean feat.”
“He was too close,” Kane said. “Never get within arm’s reach when holding a firearm. Negates the advantage.”
“I’ll keep that in mind if I’m ever unfortunate enough to be in that situation,” Caitlyn said.
An inarticulate, static filled gargle came over the intercom as the conductor taunted the name of the next station as they arrived. The doors opened. No one came in. Doors closed. The train rattled south,
“I lied to you,” Caitlyn said. “It was born of necessity as many lies are.”
“You know more about the Provos than you told me in the bar,” Kane said.
Caitlyn shook her head. “Oh, my friend, they’re not Provos.”
“National Liberation Army,” Kane said.
Caitlyn nodded. “You’ve done your homework. The Provos would be insane to do anything in the United States to generate ill will. But ill will is the goal of these gentlemen.”
Kane waited for Caitlyn to enlighten him.
“I watched the man you helped commit suicide and his partner with Walsh the other night. They had badges. A brief confrontation before they were escorted from the premises. Why was he after you?”
“He was corrupt,” Kane said. “I discovered that among other things.”
“Ah. That makes sense. Many who swear to uphold the law sometimes become seduced by that which they aim to stop. One has to wonder who polices the police?”
The doors opened at 225th Street. They remained the car’s only occupants besides the motorman ensconced in his compartment. The train pulled out and crossed over the Harlem River which separates the Bronx from Manhattan.
“The lie?” Kane prompted.
Caitlyn looked at him. “Your blood is up, is it not?”
Kane frowned.
“After a killing, my husband’s blood would always be boiling. He’d want to have relations which I found disgusting. It’s something primal in our species. When a man faces death, he wants to revel in life and what is more basic than carnal relations?”
“Your late husband,” Kane reminded her.
“That was the lie,” Caitlyn admitted. “He is very much alive. Unfortunately. His name is Kevin Flanagan.”
They approached the last station above ground, Dyckman Street.
Kane turned on the hard plastic toward her. “He’s here in the United States. How many are with him?”
“Five.”
“Where are they?”
“I’ve been trying to ascertain that,” Caitlyn said. “Which is why I’ve been in that tavern.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Kane asked.
“You seem like a man of serious intent,” Caitlyn said. “As you noted, law enforcement is of questionable integrity, but I sense you are a man who possesses it. You seek to stop this attack. As do I, but you have more resources and skills as you recently demonstrated.” She glanced up as the train slowed for a stop, but the windows were covered with graffiti and it was impossible to see what the station was or understand the conductor. When the doors opened, Kane managed to read 168th Street on the tiled wall.
“How long until you get off?” Caitlyn asked.
Kane told her.
She leaned close, resting her head on his shoulder. She smelled of soap and something else that stirred memories. “I will tell you what you need to know, as much as I know, before you depart. Several months ago, Kevin and his boys, men, attempted to kill the head of the Provos. They made a mess of it. An eleven-year-old girl was caught in the crossfire. I’d been done with the Cause a long time before, but being done wasn’t enough after that. I had to stop them. I continued to play the good wife, cooking his meals, washing his dirty, bloody clothes, allowing him his way with me whenever he wanted. I was so quiet and meek I was part of the walls. They forgot I was there.”
Another stop and she paused, then continued as the train moved on. “They’re here to make the Provos look bad and cut off their funding from the States. They’d rather fight fellow Irish than the Brits, and fighting the Brits is futile. However, there would be a secondary gain to pressure your current administration to pressure the Brits to pursue a peace with more alacrity.”
“What’s their plan?” Kane asked, unable to turn his head or his chin would be touching her forehead.
“Kevin isn’t foolish. He kept the details to himself. All I, and the five who signed on, knew was that it was to be in New York City. The day after they left for the States, I followed.”
“To do what?”
“Stop them.”
“How are you going to do that?” Kane asked as the train rattled into another station.
“I’m doing it right now, aren’t I?” She lifted her head slightly. “I knew someone would step up.”
Kane turned to look at her. Her face was just a few inches from his. For the first time he noted there were flecks in her green eyes. The skin on either side of them was etched with deep lines. That all disappeared as the lights went out for a long second, then came back on.
“Your police won’t be able to stop him,” Caitlyn said. “Not without many dying. It’s takes a good man who has walked the dark path to stop a bad man.”
At Times Square/42nd Street several teenagers came in, loud and rowdy. When the doors shut, they turned toward Kane and Caitlyn and swaggered down the middle of the car. When they were close enough, Kane flipped aside his unbuttoned denim shirt, exposing the .45. He noted that Caitlyn hadn’t turned to look.
The gang reversed course, searching for easier prey in the next car.
“I need more,” Kane said. “They could be anywhere and attacking—”
She cut him off. “Kevin hates women.”
“Right and—”
“Think, my friend. He hates women and wants to make a statement all of New York City will see.”
“The Statue of Liberty.”
“It would be in his style.”
“Do you know or are you guessing?”
“When you’re married to a man you know him. He’s making more of a statement than just about the IRA.”
Penn Station didn’t bring anyone into the car.
“Anything else?”
“Kevin will sacrifice the others,” Caitlyn said. “He cares about no one but himself. He won’t be taken alive, though. He’s sworn to die before prison.”
“I’m not a cop,” Kane said. “I don’t arrest people.”
She was just inches away. Her hands slid on either side, cradling his head. Tears were forming. “Do you feel my hands? That’s the way I was holding that young lass’s head. I cradled that child in my hands as she breathed her last. I saw the life leave her eyes as I felt her blood flow over my fingers.” The first tears slid down her sharp cheeks. “She didn’t go to a better life. She went to nothingness. To darkness. Send Kevin there.”
“Where are they hiding?”
“They’d be close to the target.”
“Come with me,” Kane said. “I can protect you.”
“No. I don’t want protecting. I’m guilty too. Of waiting too long.”
“What are you going to do?”
“If you fail, I’ll go public with who they really are and what they plan. If you succeed, I’ll go home.”
“They’ll kill you,” Kane said. “The ones back there.”
“They’ll try. But I’ll stand up and speak out.”
The doors opened and the station was written in black tile on the white: 14th Street.
“My stop. Come with me.”
She nodded and pulled her hands back. “All right.”
They walked side by side to the doors and stepped out.
“Good luck, William Kane, with a K,” Caitlyn said.
The doors began to shut and she slipped back inside.
Kane stood on the 14th Street platform and looked at Caitlyn, through a small clear spot of glass, devoid of graffiti. Her green eyes glittered in the flickering lighting inside the car. The train pulled out. He didn’t move as the train disappeared into the dark tunnel, red lights diminishing and then abruptly disappearing as it rounded a curve.
The sound also faded until he was alone. He slowly walked toward the stairs to the surface.
GREENWICH VILLAGE, MANHATTAN
The tell was in place at the front door and Kane mentally debated whether to check the back, in case Yazzie had returned for a visit; or someone else as he seemed to be accumulating visitors with each passing day.
He unlocked the door without going around back, figuring one attempt on his life was enough for this evening. Terrible logic, he knew, and Charlie Beckwith had probably just sat bolt upright on whatever hard rock he was sleeping on at Fort Bragg, but Kane was too damn tired. He dead-bolted the door.
He did check all the rooms, but that took less than five seconds. His sleeping pad was under the shirts and pants hanging in the closet, a poncho liner haphazardly lying on top of it. Kane glanced at his bed, the top sheet and blanket loose from recent occupation.
“Fuck it,” Kane said. He slipped off the denim shirt, pulled the .45 out of the holster and put it next to the pillow and got into bed.
He’d learned to sleep no matter what th
e circumstances during his deployments. Caitlyn’s words faded and the last thing his conscious mind registered was the smell of Toni imprinted in his pillow.
17
Tuesday Morning to Afternoon,
9 August 1977
GREENWICH VILLAGE, MANHATTAN
Kane gently knocked on the front door, torn between not wanting to wake Pope up, and desiring to find out if his landlord had uncovered anything applicable to the current clusterfuck. The first tinge of dawn was touching the trees behind him and the sun would be up shortly. A cool breeze was blowing in from the west, bringing welcome relief.
There was no answer, but the door was unlocked. Kane opened it and stuck his head in. “Pope?”
No reply. He entered and heard snoring echoing down the short hallway. Pope was in the kitchen, sprawled in the arm chair, mouth agape. His reading glasses were still perched on his nose. The tea cup was upside down in its saucer. The top of the table was a scattering of papers and books and a map of New York City. Kane glanced at it. Pope had used a red marker to circle various buildings; whether he considered them targets or launch sites was difficult to tell and Kane quickly deduced the former reporter was out of his depth trying to do a target analysis.
Kane reached to remove the glasses, but paused, not wanting to wake him. An empty bottle lay on top of the trash bin. On top of other empty bottles. He glanced out back at the wilting plants in the garden Pope had once tended to with a passion verging on obsession, now struggling to survive.
Kane left, locking the door behind him.
MEATPACKING DISTRICT, MANHATTAN
Morticia deposited two meal tickets on Kane’s table along with his coffee and water with two ice cubes. “Popular, aren’t you?”
“I’m a man about town,” Kane said as he unfolded them, revealing Thao’s precise handwriting in five letter groups.
Kane pulled out his notepad and checked the trigraph so he could he decipher them.
