In the Teeth of the Wind (21 page)

bad thing his only son did as a personal affront. It didn't help that he was on duty the night Jamie was

arrested on a boat the Coast Guard had been watching."

"Nolan's father was ex-Navy, wasn't he?" asked Boucharde.

"Yeah," Sullivan agreed.

"All five branches of the service were represented by you men," Boucharde marveled. "It's eerie, but I

don't see how it connects with the kidnappings and the attempts to turn you all into drug addicts."

"There is no connection between the fathers," Rhianna said, frowning, "except that they were once

military policemen."

"And that they were all bastards." Sullivan chuckled. "They never worked together on a case, if that's

what you mean. Hell, Coni's father was stationed at Great Lakes for most of his tour, but Coni stayed

with his mom in Boston most of the time. Kevin Cullen was in Florida the whole time. The rest of us went

from base to base like gypsies until getting sent to Alabama. Even then, our families went wherever the

whim of the military sent them."

"There has got to be a connection between the sons, then," Rhianna stressed.

"And it had to have started at the academy," Boucharde put in.

Rhianna snorted. "That goes without saying, Franc." She bit her bottom lip for a moment, then sat

forward. "While you were being held, did you see the woman at all?"

"Not after she put in the IV," he said, shaking his head.

"Did they say anything to you while they had you, Mickey?" Rhianna asked, her voice tense. "Call you

anything?"

"Other than
pig?"
He shook his head. "Not that I recall, but most of the time I wasn't too cognizant of

what was happening. The Spanish guy liked to slap me every time he called me pig. I damned sure

remember him doing that."

"What about Felicity?" she pressed. "Did she call you anything special?"

He grimaced. "She called me her Celtic warrior," he grunted. "God, how that bolstered the old ego!"

Rhianna's entire body became rigid. Her eyes bored into Sullivan's. "What does that mean to you,

Mickey?"

"What? Celtic warrior?" He shrugged. "I'm Irish. I'm a Boston Celtic fan. It didn't mean much of

anything."

"You're all Irish," Rhianna said, quietly. "You. Nolan. Cullen. Keane and Collins. You're all the sons of

ex-military policemen." She held his attention. "All Warhawks from Nellis Briggs Military Academy in

Alabama." Her voice lowered. "The name has got to mean something because she made a point of calling

you and Irish the same thing. We didn't ask Jamie, but I'd be willing to bet she called him that, too.

Maybe even Danny's lover used that nickname for him."

Boucharde was watching her. He sat back on the sofa, content to let her carry the ball. It was her

court and she was going in for the dunk.

"Were you called that at the academy?"

"A lot of wise asses called us Micks at NBMA," Michael Sullivan answered, frowning. "It wasn't

meant as a compliment, believe me. The five of us were kind of stuck on ourselves, I'm afraid."

"But was there someone there at NBMA with you five Irishmen who might have been crazy enough to

wait all this time to exact some kind of revenge he felt he had to have? Someone who wanted to be one

of you or be better than you? Someone who would have taken great delight in making derisive remarks

about Irishmen or Celtic warriors in general? Who you guys might have hurt? Embarrassed? Shunned?"

"Quinterras," Sullivan said, his eyes flaring.

Rhianna stilled, listening to Boucharde's quick intake of breath.

Michael Sullivan looked up slowly. "His name was Luis Quinterras." Something evil passed over the

handsome face of the best nose guard to ever play at Nellis Briggs Military Academy. "Not Spanish," he

said through clenched teeth. "South American. Luis Quinterras was from Bogota, Columbia."

Eight*

"He hated Coni," Michael Sullivan said. They were sitting on his deck, looking across Lake Ontario.

"God, how that boy hated Coni."

"Why?" Rhianna asked.

"Because Coni was the man," Sullivan answered. "He was the 'stalwart oak set firmly in the teeth of

the wind.'"

"Beg pardon?" Boucharde wanted clarification.

Sullivan laughed. "Danny was the poet of our little clique. Tim-Pat was the comic relief, I was the

muscle and Cullen was the Father Confessor."

"I have a friend like that," Rhianna said, thinking of Triplett.

"Danny called Conor 'the oak in the teeth of the wind.' Everything revolved around him. Like the

detritus from a storm, you know? Coni just stood there and like that stalwart oak took it, never bending,

never crashing. Just taking it. Everybody looked up to Coni. Everybody liked him."

"They still do."

"Yes, well, that's the kind of man Liam Nolan didn't raise, thank the Lord." He frowned. "Looks like

Coni's right back being in the teeth of the wind, huh?"

"You said Quinterras was from Columbia. How did he wind up in a military school in Alabama, of all

places?"

"The rumor was he had gotten into some kind of trouble at his boarding school and had been asked to

leave. His father, who from all accounts seemed to be a decent guy, started looking around for another

place to send Luis."

"But Alabama?"

Sullivan grinned. "His mother had seen an ad in _Southern Living_ magazine while she was up in the

States shopping. She thought the cadet in the picture looked like her son. The cadet was Coni." Sullivan

chuckled. He sipped on his beer, smacked his lips, and leaned back in his chair until the front legs were

off the deck planking. "I have to admit there was a resemblance between the two of them."

"What year was this?"

"The spring term of our junior year. I remember the day General Quinterras brought Luis down there."

He chuckled again. "This big white limo pulls up and out steps this black chauffeur dressed like in the

movies. It was about ten o'clock on a Saturday afternoon and the five of us were just coming back from

jogging. We stopped when we saw the car turn in and just stood there watching as the chauffeur opened

the doors. Tim-Pat made some comment about the limo being smaller than his father's and we started

laughing, like we always did when he'd make ridiculous statements like that."

"I take it Tim-Pat's father didn't have a limo," said Rhianna.

"His father was the First Shirt of an Air Force Security Police squadron." Sullivan snorted. "Anyway,

out steps this very imposing man in khaki uniform with medals plastered all over his chest." He swirled his

beer, then rested the can on his knee. "You have to understand that we were all military brats. We knew

authority when we saw it and General Quinterras exuded the stuff. We were impressed. Especially when

he glanced our way and nodded politely. Officers of his rank don't usually acknowledge the peons, but

he made it a point to do so. I remember Jamie saying the man had so many oak leaf clusters on his Good

Conduct medal, it was a wonder he could stand up straight." He sighed. "That's when Tim-Pat made the

comment that his father had fruit salad on both sides of his chest."

"Fruit salad?" Rhianna questioned.

"Medals and decorations. We laughed. Unfortunately, Luis had just stepped out of the limo before

Collins made his stupid statement so he thought we were laughing at him. He turned around and snarled,

flipping us the bird."

"Not an auspicious beginning," Boucharde said.

"No and having his father reprimand him in front of us didn't help, either."

"So things went down hill from there," Rhianna put in.

"Like an avalanche. Luis had come to that little 'backwater pisspot' as he so endearingly called it,

thinking he was going to breeze through the program, win all the awards, be the lead actor in the school

play." He chuckled. "It was _Oliver Twist_ that year and Coni won the audition. Luis wasn't happy about

that because it was his favorite book. And he also thought he'd fill all the team captain slots - like he had

in boarding school - and put these 'imperialist Yankee dogs' in their place. He really thought he could

come in there and just take over. He had this grand scheme to graduate Valedictorian and go on to West

Point; go back to his country and kick butt."

"But that didn't happen."

"No, it did not!" Sullivan said emphatically. "Everybody hated that snotty little twerp from day one. He

was always slacking off, getting the rest of us into trouble. His uniforms looked like he had slept in them

most of the time. He never shined his shoes unless he was forced. He'd goof off during PT and we'd wind

up having to do extra pushups because of him." He drained his beer, then crushed the can in his fist. "We

stood it as long as we could until the day Coni had to do extra laps in the rain because of that dirty little

bastard."

"What happened?"

"Coni had given Luis an order, which Luis ignored. They got into a shouting contest. Coni shoved Luis

- nothing out of the ordinary - but Luis shoved him back. You don't do that to a superior officer and Coni

put him on report. Luis was furious because that meant he had to pull guard duty all weekend long and he

had made plans to sneak into town to meet some girl. So somehow, two packs of Marlboros just

appeared in Coni's locker during inspection the next day."

"Did Irish know who put the cigarettes in his locker?"

Sullivan gave her a long look, then smiled. "He knew who was responsible if not the exact party who'd

put them there."

"What did he do?"

"Coni?" Sullivan laughed. "Nothing. He didn't have to."

"What do you mean?"

"Let me guess," Boucharde laughed. "Somebody gave Quinterras a little blanket party."

At Rhianna's puzzled frown, Sullivan nudged her with his foot. "Never heard of a blanket party, little

one? It's where a bunch of guys gang up on some slacker, some guy who's causing trouble in the unit,

and cover him with a blanket so he can't recognize you, then beat the crap out of him."

Rhianna cocked her head to one side. "Wouldn't you say that's a fair analogy of what your kidnappers

did to you, Mickey?"

Sullivan's left brow cocked. "Not only pretty, but sharp as a tack, too. Yeah, I'd say it was a damned

good analogy."

"How did Quinterras react to the beating?" Boucharde asked.

"Oh, he was very cool about it," Sullivan recalled. "Not one word out of his mouth. He could barely

walk when we got through with him. He knew damned well who had beaten him, believe me, but he went

out of his way to keep out of Coni's way. Thinking back on it, he probably thought Coni had ordered the

beating, which he didn't, by the way.

"Things got worse after that. Every time he turned around, Coni was besting him at something. Coni

was winning the awards at the end of the year; Coni had the higher GPA; Coni took the top medals

during Field Practice." Sullivan paused a moment, staring off across the cloudy surface of Lake Ontario.

"Then just before the fall semester began, Coni's dad died."

"He went home?"

"Yeah and came back with the same chip on his shoulder he'd had when he first arrived." Sullivan

rocked the chair forward so that all four legs set solidly on the deck. "Lord, that boy was a mess. I don't

know what happened while he was home for the funeral, but whatever his mother and sister did, it took

its toll on Coni Nolan. He came back meaner than a junk yard dog with twice the bite."

"That might have been about the same time he learned about Bridget's death," Rhianna said softly.

Michael Sullivan turned his attention from the Lake and looked at Rhianna. "I'd forgotten about that,"

he replied. "But, yeah, you may be right because he was Jamie's roommate and Jamie said he heard him

crying at night when he thought Jamie was asleep. At the time, I wondered how he could be crying over

his father."

"Her death must have devastated him," Rhianna replied.

"How close are you to him, little one?" Sullivan asked.

"Not as close as I'd like to be," she answered truthfully, "but we'll get there."

"Good," he said and returned his gaze to the Lake. "There's been a marked lack of people to love him

in Coni's life."

"I take it things got even worse between him and this Quinterras after he went back down there?"

Boucharde asked.

"Worse is an inadequate word, Mr. Fibber Man," Sullivan sighed. "Try dangerous." He leaned

forward in the chair and braced his elbows on his knees, then clasped his hands and rested his chin on his

fists. "That was when Quinterras hired someone to kill Coni."

Nine*

Luis Quinterras sat in isolated luxury in the back seat of the car staring at the rows of lights in the

windows of the Midwest Clinic. In the front seat, his old friend and constant companion, Victor Busbee,

hummed softly. The black man's deep bass voice was soothing - as it had been since Luis was a boy -

and the melody of the Negro spiritual he hummed brought back pleasant memories.

"They know by now," Luis said, looking into the rear view mirror where Victor's gaze met his own.

"They probably do, but does it matter? They can't know what it is you plan."

"We only have three weeks, Victor."

"There is plenty of time,
Padrino,"
Victor replied affectionately. "Do not worry."

"I hate him, Victor."

"_Si, Padrino,_ I know."

"I want him dead!"