Do Not Go Gentle (47 page)

Jamie traded stares with Hanrahan. “She's right, big man. We go ahead, one way or the other.”

“Are you so eager to commit suicide?” Hanrahan asked, in a sad, soft voice.

“I'm not the
least
bit eager to commit suicide,” Jamie retorted, “but enough is enough. The only question is, will you help us or not?”

At last, the druid nodded, slowly and painfully. “Aye. I cannot let you face the witch alone.”

“This is madness,” Ríordán said.

“Then ye can sit at home and cast runes,” Lucy replied primly. The
fili
glared at her for a moment, then looked away in disgust.

“Alright, we've settled that,” Jamie continued, “I have one last order of business.”

“May the gods help us,” Ríordán muttered.

“Quiet, boyo, or I'll exclude you from what I'm about to say,” Jamie warned. “I know the twins can help me pound Louie into submission. Assuming we are successful, I propose that we split the reward money five ways, with the fifth share going to the three mystics, to divide amongst themselves.”

“Now wait justa minute
—
” Louie began.

“We are
not
doing this for money
—
” Hanrahan said.

Jamie whistled sharply again, holding a hand to his head. “Ow. Don't make me do that again. You,” he said, pointing at Louie, “are outvoted, three to one in the matter, so put a sock in it. And you,” pointing at Hanrahan, “can do this for nothing if you'd like. I said we'll split the money into five shares and the three of you can argue what you're going to do with your share.”

“Hell, why not seven ways?” Louie demanded angrily. “
Those
two each get their own share, why not
these
three?”

“Because they weren't part of the original agreement,” Jamie replied calmly, “but it's not fair to exclude them completely. If they have skin in the game, they need to be compensated.”

The room was again silent for several seconds. Finally, Louie muttered, “
Cornuto
.” Then he shrugged. “Aw shit, we prolly ain't gonna make it through this anyways. What the hell? Fine by me.”

“Then that's settled,” Jamie said. “Now, do the three of you want to stay here until we leave? We have space for whatever mumbo-jumbo you need to do or to rest, which is what I'm going to do.”

“The ‘mumbo-jumbo' as you call it,” Hanrahan muttered darkly, “may be what saves your life.”

“Maybe so,” Jamie said. “Depending on what I see, you may make a believer out of me yet.”

“As designated driver,” Eileen put in, “my vote is for everyone to stay here. I really don't want to be out driving tonight any more than necessary.”

The three mystics looked at each other and nodded. “We would appreciate a place to work for a time,” Hanrahan replied, “then a place to rest until we leave.”

“Not us,” Darcelle put in. “I mean, yeah, we'll stay here, Aunt Eileen, but there's no way we're gonna miss New Year's
—
especially since it may be the last one we get to ring in.” She jumped up quickly, dodging her sister's elbow, and sticking out her tongue.

Jamie shook his head and stood, assisted by Eileen. “Okay then, we're set. Eileen will get me up no later than three a.m.,” he said. “That will give us time to check our gear. Any questions?”

“Yeah,” Daphné replied softly. “Anyone know any good prayers we can say before we go?”

“Saint Jude might be appropriate,” Eileen muttered.

“Hush, woman.” Jamie replied kindly. “This had
better
not be a lost cause.”

* * * *

Father Anthony O'Connor lumbered down the outer aisle of Saint Brendan's back to where a solitary figure knelt near the confessional. O'Connor had planned to spend New Year's Eve in quiet reflection when his telephone rang just after ten p.m. He had reluctantly agreed to this meeting, and now, an hour before the death of the old year and birth of the new, he approached Timothy O'Neill, genuflected before the pew in front of O'Neill, and then slid in, sitting so he could face the police detective.

O'Neill had his head bowed in prayer. Several moments after hearing O'Connor, Timmy raised his head, crossed himself, and then slid back to a sitting position. “Thank you for meeting me, Father.”

“You didn't appear to be giving me any choice in the matter, Timothy,” O'Connor replied stiffly.

O'Neill chuckled, a hollow and mirthless sound that reverberated gently through the empty church. “True.” His red hair was unkempt and in serious need of washing and combing. There were dark, baggy circles beneath his bloodshot, emerald eyes. His clothes were dirty and rumpled. To O'Connor, it looked as if O'Neill were on an undercover assignment. “Too true. I've got two things we needed to meet face-to-face about, Father.”

“Fine. What's the first?”

“I need to make sure you understand that your days of patronizing prostitutes are over.”

“Timothy,” O'Connor began angrily.

“Don't ‘Timothy' me, padre,” O'Neill interrupted. “We both know that your promise to reform is only as good as your strength of will and I don't place a great deal of faith in your strength of will.”

The two men locked gazes for several moments. Then the priest looked away and sighed raggedly. “Fine. You're correct
—
I would not probably last on my own. That's why I have called my confessor and told him in general terms about my problem. I meet with him tomorrow.” He looked back up at O'Neill.

Timmy thought this over for a moment, and then shrugged. “Okay. You do that, but also know that I've put the word out on the street
—
anyone sees you with a streetwalker, even just a casual conversation, and there are photos and incriminating evidence that will wind up on the bishop's desk.”

“There's no need to threaten me,” O'Connor replied sternly. “I am weak, but I am not untruthful. I am going to confess all of my sins and accept whatever punishment I receive. Trust me
—
while some church authorities have been lax in disciplining wayward priests, our current bishop is not one who turns a blind eye.”

After another long moment of consideration, O'Neill rubbed his eyes, and then nodded. “Okay then, that leads me to my second reason for wanting to see you in person tonight.”

“And that would be?”

“That would be that I need you to hear my confession.” He paused and then sighed. “My
full
confession, Father. I'm at a dark crossroads, and I can't move forward until I unburden myself. Will you hear my confession?” O'Neill turned a pleading face to O'Connor.

The priest didn't hesitate. “Of course I will, Timothy. Let's step in here,” he gestured at the confessional. Even though the church was empty, force of habit was strong, and the two men automatically took their respective places in the dark wooden box.

It was nearly midnight when they stepped out again.

O'Connor stepped to O'Neill and put a large hand on each of the detective's shoulders. “Timothy, you've taken an incredibly important first step tonight. We are both at a crossroads, my son. We can make this journey together, if you wish.”

O'Neill sighed deeply and shook his head. “I don't think so, padre. Somehow I suspect the consequences of my actions will be much direr than yours.”

O'Connor shook O'Neill firmly. “Trust in God. Put yourself in His hands and all will be well.” The priest spoke insistently, needing to convince himself as well as his wayward penitent.

O'Neill gently broke free. “I'm not sure I believe it, but I hope you're right.” He looked at his watch. “Happy New Year, Father.” He extended his right hand.

O'Connor took the hand, engulfed it with his own right hand, and then shook, covering both hands with his left hand. “Happy New Year, Timothy. The new year will be better, for both of us.”

O'Neill nodded, disengaged himself from O'Connor, and then walked slowly out the door to the parking lot. The night was pitch black. The moon and stars eclipsed by heavy, dark clouds threatening more snow. The wind was piercing, and O'Neill raised the lapels of his winter parka to help keep out the wind. He trotted to his Lexus GX, then slipped inside and waited for the heat. The CD player kicked on, and Stevie Ray Vaughan started singing, about living, “Life by the Drop.”

You knew all about being in bad places, SRV,
O'Neill thought darkly.
Bad places of your own making, no less. I wonder if you would have kept your demons at bay if you hadn't died so young? Would you have been able to make such incredible music any longer?

O'Neill pulled out of the Saint Brendan's parking lot and cruised past houses that normally were dark by this hour. Tonight they were lit up like beacons of comfort and warmth. They seemed as remote as the stars. He didn't see many cars
—
the drunken exodus would start in about an hour. Like most cops, O'Neill hated New Year's Eve, and he couldn't wait to get back to his Back Bay brownstone.

Eyebrows would have been raised at the department if they knew that O'Neill actually
owned
his brownstone. His official story was that he leased it under a sweetheart deal from a family friend. Even so, O'Neill was still occasionally scrutinized for having such an upscale address on a police detective's salary. He chuckled softly.
IAD would shit a brick if they knew about my Cayman Island accounts.
O'Neill's years of employment with Sedecla had made him a very wealthy man.
I could get on a plane tomorrow morning and never look back,
he thought as he made his way to the narrow streets that led to his brownstone.
I could pick a country with no extradition to the US.
O'Neill had several fake identities from which he could choose that would allow him to live anonymously.
A short stay at the makeover clinic and I could walk out past my dear departed mother and she wouldn't recognize me.

As he parked his car in his narrow tuck-under garage and walked upstairs, Timmy knew that he would never go through with his carefully crafted plan. There were no holes in his plan, just a gaping hole in his head, his heart, his soul, that would never allow him to implement the plan.

My damned Catholic conscience should have kicked in before I started down this road to damnation.

Deftly flicking buttons as he walked, the main level of the brownstone was already lit up and welcoming as he entered. Timothy had spared no expense in updating the place. It was outfitted with the best creature comforts money could buy. Shedding his coat and changing into comfortable sweats, O'Neill opened a cold Guinness, made a sandwich, and went into his office, which featured a massive workstation, several different computers and screens, and a large workspace.
So why does this feel so empty, so meaningless?
he wondered as he ate. A sad smile quirked over O'Neill's face as Stevie Ray mournfully strummed “Little Wing,” each note piercing O'Neill's heart. He finished his sandwich and his Guinness. Then he keyed the combination to the safe that sat beneath the credenza. O'Neill slowly removed a number of items
—
three thick file folders, a portfolio, a canvas sack, and a box of CDs/DVDs.

O'Neill took the empty bottle and dinner plate back to the kitchen. On his way back to the office, he made a quick detour and picked up a heavy crystal glass and his bottle of Jameson's Rarest Vintage Reserve, then returned to his office. He poured himself three fingers. O'Neill sipped slowly, allowing it to burn in a smoky wave over his tongue and crawl down to his core, but even fine whiskey refused to melt the iciness in his heart.

As Stevie Ray gave way to John Lee (
Burning Hell, ironically enough)
, O'Neill poured himself another three fingers and opened the first file folder. This packet contained numerous documents from the years he had served as Sedecla's head of the Mazzimah, evidence of his own misdeeds
—
a seemingly endless litany of crimes. O'Neill flipped absently through this folder, drinking his Jameson's and listening to John Lee growl. Pouring himself a third drink, O'Neill put aside the first file folder, then opened the second, which documented all the activities of the Mazzimah
—
names, structure, holdings, who operated what and where. Everything the authorities would need to dismantle the operation. Closing this folder, O'Neill now opened the final folder. In this folder, he had gathered as much information as possible not only connecting Sedecla to the Mazzimah but documenting her other legal and illegal activities.

The black, leather portfolio contained all the documents related to O'Neill's alternate identities
—
passports, driver's licenses, birth certificates, social security card
—
for the lone American identity, and various identification papers from three other countries. The canvas bag contained an assortment of currency
—
American, Canadian, and Australian dollars, Euros, yen and Renminbi. There were also gold coins, a small sack of diamonds, and other forms of wealth.
Travellin' money
, O'Neill thought wryly.