Stolen Souls (21 page)

“But it might be something.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.”

Susan took a step away, her face hardening against him. “Look, Jack, I do a lot for you. I’ve never once complained, I’ve never said no unless I couldn’t help it. I’ve helped you raise that wee girl for more than a year now, and all the thanks I ever got were a kiss and a fumble. I did it because I like you, and I like Ellen.”

Lennon reached for her arms again, but she slapped his hands away.

“Now listen to me, Jack. If there’s the slightest possibility that you’ve brought trouble to my door, then you bloody well tell me. If there’s reason for me to fear for the safety of my daughter, then I want to know right now, or you can fuck off.”

He put his hands in his pockets, leaned his back against the wall, and let the air and anger out of his lungs.

“There might be someone out there with a grudge against me,” Lennon said.

“Who?”

“I don’t know his name. I don’t know anything about him. He’s the one who took Ellen and her mother.”

“Christ,” she said, the anger leaving her.

“I was sure he was dead. I thought the fire had got him. Then I got a card this morning. Signed with just one letter: a T. I tore it up and threw it away.”

“Where was it sent from?”

“The postmark said Finglas, but he probably had someone else send it for him. He could be anywhere, abroad most likely, but he must have contacts, people he can send messages through.”

“So he might not even be in Ireland,” Susan said.

Lennon studied the tasteful pattern on her carpet. “I got a phone call from him a few minutes ago. He made some threats, nothing specific, but he mentioned Ellen.”

Susan bit on her fingernail. “You think he’ll come for her?” “No, not now,” Lennon said. “I don’t think so. If he was going to make a move, he’d just make it. He wouldn’t give me advance warning. He just wants to make me squirm. To scare me.”

“Did he succeed?”

Lennon looked through the crack in the door to see Ellen grab a crayon from Lucy’s hand.

“Yes,” he said.

Susan’s fingertips brushed his cheek. Lennon shivered.

“It’s okay to be scared,” she said. “You might be Big Bad Jack to all the scum you lock up, but I know you better than you think.”

She followed his gaze into the living room with her own eyes. “It’s only when you have something of real value that you know what fear really feels like. They’re so fragile. I’ve always got this little ball of terror inside me, that I’m going to lose my Lucy. I don’t think it’ll ever go away.”

She put her palm flat on his chest, over his heart. “Welcome to humanity,” she said. “Now, why don’t you go and say hello to your daughter?”

Lennon did as he was told.

Ellen looked up from her drawing, went to speak, then changed her mind. She turned her attention back to the sheet of paper on the coffee table. Lucy, apparently affronted by the loss of her crayon, had flounced off and was busy pulling toys from the box they’d been tidied into.

“Hiya, sweetheart,” he said.

“Mm,” she said.

“What you doing?” he asked, sitting on the couch opposite her.

“Drawing,” she said. “Where’ve you been?”

“At work,” he said.

“You said you’d be off today,” Ellen said without looking up.

“I know. I’m sorry. But there’s been lots of stuff happening.”

“Are you going back to work?”

Lennon scratched his chin, realized he needed a shave. “Yes,” he said.

Ellen did not reply.

“But I’ll be back tonight,” he said. “Maybe in time to tuck you in. If not, then I’ll be here when you get up in the morning. When you see what Santa’s brought you.”

“Auntie Bernie’s been phoning,” Ellen said.

Lennon brought his hands together, wrapped the fingers of his left hand tight around the fist of his right. “I know,” he said.

“She wants me to go to her house for Christmas.”

He swallowed. “Do you want to go to Auntie Bernie’s? Or do you want to stay here with me and Susan and Lucy?”

Ellen thought about it for a few seconds. “Will you be here for Santa coming?”

“Yes,” Lennon said.

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart,” Lennon said, making two slashes across his chest.

“Say the rest.”

“And hope to die.”

“Okay,” Ellen said. “I’ll stay here.”

“Thank you,” Lennon said.

He slipped off the couch and onto the floor, crawled around the table to Ellen’s side.

“What are you drawing?” he asked.

“My dreams,” Ellen said.

He pointed to the picture of a girl with yellow hair. “Is that you?” he asked.

Ellen shook her head.

He traced the line of reddish-brown footprints across the page. “Did she walk in mud?”

“No,” Ellen said.

The image of the girl stood at one side of the page. At the other stood what looked like an elderly lady with her arms outstretched, as if beckoning the girl to her. Between them stood a dark figure, drawn in mad swirls and jagged angles.

“Who’s he?” Lennon asked.

“Don’t know,” Ellen said. “He smells like milk.”

He looked again at the figure of the girl. For some reason he couldn’t quite grasp, he thought of the passport in his pocket, and the picture of a young woman who looked something like the one he sought.

Before he could question Ellen further, his phone rang. He looked up and saw Susan watching him from the kitchenette. The display said the number was blocked, just as it had before. He pressed the green button, brought the phone to his ear, and said nothing.

After a while, a confused voice said, “Hello?”

“Connolly?” Lennon asked.

“Sir?”

“Sorry, I thought you might be … someone else. You got anything for me?”

“Might have,” Connolly said. “I’ve been through the ViSOR database, like you said.”

“Okay,” Lennon said. The Violent and Sex Offender Register listed all those convicted of a sexual offense for anything from five years to life, and some who were merely suspected of being a risk.

“I didn’t find anyone local,” Connolly said. “Nobody that looked anything like that sketch you sent, and nothing for assaults involving prostitutes. But there was one bloke stood out.”

Lennon smoothed Ellen’s hair, bent down and kissed the crown of her head, and moved out of her hearing. “Go on,” he said.

“A fella called Edwin Paynter, P-A-Y-N-T-E-R, from Salford, Greater Manchester. He was done seven years ago for assault and imprisonment of a street girl, served about eighteen months. Seems he was caught with this woman tied up in the back of his van during a routine traffic stop. God knows what he was going to do with her.”

“Jesus,” Lennon said.

“Anyway, going by the database, he registered in Salford and the local police kept tabs on him for two years, then he decided he was moving to Belfast to live with an aunt of his, make a new start, I suppose.”

Susan handed Lennon a steaming mug of tea. He nodded his thanks and took a sip.

“So he registers over here,” Connolly continued. “But after about a year, he drops off the radar. He’s not been heard of for more than two years now.”

“You got a photo of him? And an address for the aunt?” Lennon asked.

“Yes, but—”

“E-mail all the info to me. I can pick it up on my phone.”

“But I don’t think we’re supposed to send any data from ViSOR outside the network.”

“Just do it,” Lennon said. “I’ll take responsibility.”

As he hung up, Susan asked, “Did something come up?”

“Possibly,” Lennon said. “We’ll see.”

“Do you have time for something to eat? A sandwich?”

“Okay,” he said, taking a seat on the couch. “Thanks.”

She set about gathering the ingredients, layering bread, freshly cooked ham, and salad. His stomach rumbled as he watched her work. To distract himself, he took the envelope from his pocket and studied the sketch. He noted the flow of the pen strokes, the way they cut and slashed the paper until they took the form of a rounded face. His gaze went to the jumbled lines at the center of Ellen’s drawing, the madness of the shape.

An idea edged into his mind, but he swept it away before it could take root.

Susan brought a plate to the coffee table and set it next to his mug of tea.

His phoned chimed as he took the first bite of his sandwich.

46

T
HROUGH HEAVY EYES,
Herkus watched his boss snort up another line from the hotel suite’s glass-topped desk.

“Do you want some?” Arturas asked.

Herkus leaned back in the armchair and let his eyelids drop. “No, I had some already. Let me rest my eyes for a few minutes.”

Arturas kicked his foot, jerking him awake.

“When you track down that whore, then you can sleep.” Arturas paced the room. “I haven’t slept either. You don’t hear me complaining.”

Herkus straightened in the chair. “Of course you haven’t slept. You’ve snorted enough of that stuff to keep an army on its feet. You know, you should—”

“You should remember who pays your wages,” Arturas said, stabbing a finger at him.

Herkus considered countering the argument, but the fog across his mind made it seem like too much effort. Instead, he held his hands up in acquiescence.

“Give me some,” he said, rising from the chair.

Arturas laid out a line, and Herkus leaned over the desk. It blasted the murk from behind his eyes, left a chill at the back of his throat. He coughed.

Herkus recognized addict behavior: encouraging others to join in your weakness. He shouldn’t have indulged, but the weariness had been chipping away at him all day long.

Arturas smiled.

Herkus didn’t know why, but he straightened and returned the gesture anyway.

“I don’t miss Tomas,” Arturas said.

Unsure how to answer, Herkus said, “Oh?”

“I think …”

“You think what?”

“I think I’m glad he’s gone,” Arturas said. His eyes made darting movements, like insects trapped in a jar.

“You don’t mean that,” Herkus said.

“I think I do,” Arturas said. “Tomas was … a problem.”

Herkus took a step away. “Well, he kept things interesting.”

Arturas snorted with laughter. “He was a fucking chain around my neck, choking me.”

“You feeling all right, boss?” Herkus asked.

“No,” Arturas said. “My brother’s dead. How the hell do you think I feel?”

“You said—”

“Shut up.” Arturas pressed the heels of his hands against his temples. “I wasn’t thinking straight. Forget what I said.”

Herkus shrugged. “Okay.”

“Good,” Arturas said. “Now get out of here and do what I asked you. Don’t come back until you’ve found that whore.”

“Fine,” Herkus said. “But lay off that stuff. Get some rest.”

“Just go,” Arturas said.

Herkus stretched, walked to the door, and let himself out without saying good-bye to Arturas. He ground the heels of his hands against his eyes as he made his way to the lifts.

Arturas had been a good boss for a long time, and Herkus had been glad of the work. But lately, maybe the last year or so, the cracks had been appearing. Had the decline coincided with the boss’s advance into Belfast? Herkus believed so. There was something about this place, the gray and the rain and the hate, that got under your skin. Made you resent the very air you breathed.

He hit the elevator’s down button and waited.

What could he do now? Nothing but wait for Gordie Maxwell to phone with some information. Until then, he’d go down to the car and sleep. He stepped into the lift and hit the G button. The doors swished closed. He leaned against the mirrored wall and let his mind drift.

The phone chimed just as his eyelids sagged closed.

47

S
TRAZDAS WATCHED THE
closed door as he listened to his own blood in his ears.

He knew Herkus was right. He’d die before he’d ever admit it out loud, but he knew the hulking mass of knuckle and belly spoke the truth.

“Fucking peasant,” he said, not caring that he was alone. “I gave him everything. If it wasn’t for me, he’d still be rolling around Vilnius, making a pittance from the loan sharks for beating the shit out of any poor bastard that was a day behind.”

He caught the metallic edge to his voice, like a blunt and rusted knife, and bit down on the back of his hand to silence himself. Once the pain had flushed the madness from his head, he returned to pacing.

Could he rely on Herkus to do what was necessary?

Up until a day ago, Strazdas would have thought yes, absolutely. But then everything went to hell and Tomas died. Herkus’s fists could only get him so far. But there was still one other who could help.

Strazdas retrieved his phone from the desk, blew away the white powder that dusted it, and dialed.

“Who is this?” the contact asked.

“Me,” he said in English. “Arturas.”

“Why are you calling me? You don’t call me. I call you. Understand?”

“Have you found the whore I’m looking for?” he asked.

“No,” the contact said. “I’ve got better things to do. But Jack Lennon knows about her, and he’s working on it. If he comes up with anything, and I get wind of it, I’ll let you know.”

“Do I pay you well?”

“What?”

“Do I pay you well?”

“Yes, but I give you good service.”

“Give better service,” Strazdas said. “Find this girl, or you will not be my friend.”

“I’ve never been your friend,” the contact said. “If I hear anything, I’ll pass it on. That’s the best I can do for you. Now fuck off and don’t call me again.”

The phone died. Strazdas dropped it back on the desk, letting it clatter and bounce on the glass, scattering the powder. He pointed at it.

“I will not be your friend,” he said.

48

T
HE THING UPSTAIRS
had been howling for an hour or more when Billy Crawford finally climbed the stairs to quiet it. His preparations were done and he was ready to start, but the incessant crying from above could not be tolerated while he set about his work. No, not at all. So he climbed to its room and opened the door.