The Dead Yard (32 page)

Kit shakes her head sadly. She takes a knot out of her bob and hunts for a hair clip to keep
the fringe out of her eyes.

"Nah, I don’t think so, I don’t think Touched would let me take you," she says.

"Oh, that’s a shame, well, you could always ask anyway, he can only say no," I suggest.

"Maybe," she says.

"So how often do you guys come up here?"

"Two, three times a year."

I fake a groan and take a sip of the coffee.

"What’s the matter?" Kit asks.

"It’s nothing. My leg hurts a little bit."

"Your good leg or your…" she asks delicately.

"The handcuff around my ankle’s been cutting off the circulation and the cramp has been
killing me. You couldn’t do me a favor, could you, Kit?"

"What? Anything."

I touch her wrist. She shivers.

"Well, I know Touched doesn’t want me going into town for obvious reasons, but you could just
ask him if I could go for a walk, you could come with me and if he wanted to, he could have my
wrists handcuffed for extra security. I’m really sore, I really need a walk to stretch my legs.
It’s pretty painful."

I bite into the croissant, dip it into the maple syrup, and take another mouthful.

"This is very good."

"I’ll tell Sonia you like them."

"And will you ask Touched if I can go for a walk? I’m in total agony."

"When do you want to go?"

"After breakfast."

Kit gets to her feet.

"I’ll see what I can do, we’ll apply moral pressure. All of us think it’s disgraceful the way
he’s treating you."

She leans in and kisses me on the cheek.

"Back in five minutes," she says.

She leaves the room and I hear her go downstairs. There’s a conversation and then she comes
back with Touched. His hair is wet, he’s wrapped in a towel and dressing gown and wearing
flip-flops.

"What’s the matter, Sean? I thought you were ok with me keeping an eye on you for a day or
two," he says.

"I am. I just need a wee walk, you can handcuff me if you want. But I’m dying of cramps here,
I only have one good leg anyway and the circulation is being cut off in the other. Half an hour,
forty-five minutes, just a wee stretch."

Touched shrugs. "Ugh, I don’t see why not. Kit, go get my trousers from downstairs, will
ya?"

Kit leaves.

"So, how’s everything going?" I ask him.

"It’s going well."

"Did you make your call?"

"I did. I told them they had forty-eight hours to release the Newark Three, or the kid
dies."

"What do you think they’ll do?"

"I think they’ll release them. Those boys are not important and the Irish community has been
lobbying Clinton to let them go. Win for everybody. Clinton looks compassionate, the Newark Three
get out, and we establish ourselves overnight as players."

Kit comes back with Touched’s pants. He takes out a set of keys and hands them to her.

"Ok, Kit. Take that cuff off his ankle, let him stretch, pull his pants up, put his shoes on,
and then cuff his hands in front of him. You can take him for a walk. Don’t get out of sight of
the house, and remember he’s under observation, so if he does any funny stuff you give a holler
and we’ll come running."

Touched takes the 9mm from his dressing gown pocket and holds it while Kit uncuffs me and lets
me put my shoes on.

Touched examines the gun for a moment and then begins to unscrew the silencer. I can tell what
he’s thinking. There’s no one for miles. If he has to kill me or Peter, he can do it without fear
of being overheard.

When she’s cuffed me, he checks to see that she’s done a good job.

He gives me a wink.

"You know how it is, mate. When this wee task is over and we get the all clear from over the
water, it’ll be different. We’ll forget the fuckups. I’ll take you for a big session as an
apology. I can tell, Sean, that you are going to be our right-hand man."

He gives me a friendly dig on the shoulder.

"I hope so."

Kit leads me out of the room and helps me downstairs.

The "cabin" is even bigger than I’d thought. It’s a huge edifice, with a large central room,
almost an interior courtyard, and six or seven bedrooms arranged around the inner space on the
second floor. The style is that of a Swiss chalet rather than that of an old Kentucky home. A
large stone fireplace made from irregular local rocks, a kitchen, and the big open-plan living
area and dining room. You’d need to burn half the surrounding forest to heat this place in
winter, but in summer, with the windows open and the breezes off the mountain, it would be quite
temperate.

And they’re not living the simple life either.

A big-screen television, a stereo, and a speaker system that would give Aerosmith’s roadies a
hard time.

Jackie and Sonia are tucking into breakfast at an enormous pine table. Jackie’s hair is also
wet and he’s wearing swim trunks. Maybe they have a pool or there’s a lake nearby.

"Morning, all," I say.

Jackie nods. "You sleep ok, mate?" he asks, noticing me and trying to ignore the handcuffs on
my wrists.

"Slept fine."

"Did Kit bring you breakfast?" Sonia asks.

"Yeah, it was delicious, thanks," I tell her.

"The maple syrup is from here," Sonia adds.

"Yeah, Kit told me, it was fantastic…. Where’s the big guy?"

"He’s still sleeping. He sleeps so well up here," Sonia says and gives me a little grin of
domestic bliss.

Keep that smile, love, it’s going to be a happy fucking tapestry when that poor kid, Peter, is
screaming for his life.

"Gerry design this place himself?" I ask.

"Oh yes, this has been his labor of love," Sonia says.

"And do you own part of the forest, too?" I inquire.

"Twelve acres," she says.

"Must be a big tax bill on that?" I ask.

"I have no idea," Sonia says.

Kit looks at me.

"Well, do you want to gab away, or do you want me to show you outside?" she asks.

"Don’t get out of sight of the house," Touched says, putting his 9mm on the table and tucking
into the rest of his breakfast.

"I know," Kit assures him.

I can see that Jackie has only started his food, so it will be ok to ask him.

"Jack, you wanna come along for a wee walk in the woods?"

"Nah, I’ve just started breaky," he says.

Good.

We walk outside.

The Mercedes, the van, a few outbuildings. The woods beginning thirty feet from the house.

The sky is grayer and it’s a little colder than I’m expecting.

"It’s getting chilly," I say to Kit.

"Yeah, Sonia heard on the radio that there’s a storm front coming down from Canada."

"Funny, I was just thinking it would be tricky heating this place in cold weather," I say.

"Yeah, despite what Sonia said on PI, it could even dip into the forties tonight. Touched said
we might have to chop some wood and get the fire going. But don’t worry. It’ll be fun."

"Will Peter be warm enough?" I ask.

Kit sighs, as if I’ve spoiled a nice conversation by bringing up an awkward subject.

"He’s in the smokehouse, it’s pretty warm there."

I look at the three single-story log structures scattered around the clearing. They are all
inverted V shapes. A steep slope from the ground to the top of the roof. One of these must be the
smokehouse.

"Can we see him?"

"See who?"

"Peter."

Kit shakes her head.

"Touched would definitely not allow that."

"Ok," I say, not wanting to make a big deal out of it.

"So, Sean, what do you want to see first? Do you want to go to the back of the cabin or do you
want to go on the little trail to the pond?"

"The pond sounds fun."

"It’s not really in sight of the house, but, like, what exactly are you supposed to do to me
with handcuffs on?" she says, laughing.

Oh, I’ll do plenty, love.

"I’ll be helpless," I agree.

We walk into the trees and follow a lightly worn trail as it curves downhill away from the
house.

"It’s so peaceful here. Are there any neighbors nearby?" I ask.

"Nah, the nearest is in the next valley and he’s a German and I don’t think he comes here
much," Kit says.

"And Belfast town is ten miles away?"

"As the crow flies, but it’s a little longer by road."

"Fifteen minutes, twenty minutes in the car?"

"Yeah. Something like that. But it is so quiet here, such a contrast to Plum Island on a
weekend when all the dregs of—Ah, here we are at the pond."

The trail stops at a small lake about a hundred yards across that is choked with pond scum,
leaves, tree branches, probably hundreds of drowned animals, and maybe the odd former associate
who got on Touched’s bad side.

"Yeah, I know, it’s not very nice, but Daddy’s going to get it cleaned out and someday we can
go swimming or even kayaking," Kit says.

"I think Jackie already took a dip."

"Did he? Well, he’s braver than me."

"Let’s go over here," I say. I walk to a little rise away from the trail and sit down on a
fallen tree. It’s a good spot. That way I can hear and see anyone coming from the house.

"Sit next to me," I tell her.

There’s only going to be one chance at this and I can’t blow it. She sits, her dress bunching
up over her knees. She moistens her full raspberry lips in anticipation of something
exciting.

"Kit, I want to tell you something and I didn’t want anyone around to hear," I explain quietly
and take her hand.

"What?" she asks a little too eagerly.

"I think you know what I’m going to say."

"No?" she says, a touch of fear in her eyes.

"You do," I insist. "It’s about you; me and you."

Kit’s smile evaporates. Her eyes narrow. She
does
know what I’m going to say. Women
always do when you’re in this subject area.

"I hope you’re not fucking with me," she says, even her surfer/stoner accent disappearing in
the gravity of the moment.

"I am perfectly serious, Kit. I think there’s something between us. Something important.
Something real. I’ve been in love with one person in my life but she was in love with someone
else, so that didn’t work out too well. But I know how I felt then and I know how I feel when I’m
with you now," I begin slowly.

I look at her.

I’m trying to keep the conflict out of my face. The confusion of thoughts and emotions.

It’s an odd sensation. I don’t know if I’m playing her or not. If this is a lie or whether
it’s some part of the truth.

But I’ve begun and the only choice is to continue.

"I’m falling in love with you," I say and pause for a full beat.

"You shouldn’t say that if you don’t mean it," she whispers.

Her eyes close and she holds me tighter.

"I do mean it. And it’s not that we’ve got a lot in common: you surf, I don’t; you’re rich,
I’m not; you’re American, I’m Irish. But none of that matters. It wouldn’t matter what you did,
or where you were from, or what you were like. I think I’ve loved you from the moment I set eyes
on you. In the bar at Revere, when you were waiting tables and wearing your Marine Corps shirt.
It was as if the lightbulb flashed above my head and a voice said, she’s the one, Sean, you had
one false start, but she’s the one. And it wouldn’t have mattered if you’d hadn’t been nice, and
sweet and funny. If you were a bad person or stupid or mean, I still would have fallen for you.
But luckily for me, as I got to know to you, I saw that you were perfect. You are perfect."

She blinks and stares at me in amazement, and when she sees that I’ve finished speaking, she
turns away. She’s been robbed of her voice and she may even be tearing up. We sit in silence for
two minutes, the only sounds the birds on the water, the breeze in the trees.

I’m waiting for her.

It’s her move.

I’m feeling…what exactly?

Yes, that’s it: guilt. Above all, guilt. At the lies within the lies within the lies. And I
still don’t know if that speech was part of them too.

"I’m not sure what to say, Sean," she mutters at last.

"You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted to get that off my chest. To let you know how I
feel. I don’t even need reciprocation. I don’t need you to say that you love me. I don’t need you
to say anything. Now that I’ve told you and you believe me, that’s enough. That’s enough for the
present."

She takes my hand in hers and holds it. And then she kisses it.

"Talk about something else for a while. Let me think," she says.

"We don’t have to talk."

"No, I want you to talk, I like to hear your voice," she insists.

"What about?"

"Anything. You talk and I’ll listen and think. Tell me something I don’t know."

"Ok. Um. Let me see. We’re in Maine. Oh, I know. You probably don’t know this story. But some
people think the Irish were here first, in Maine or Nova Scotia or somewhere around here. Did you
ever hear that? You ever hear the story of Saint Brendan?"

"No. Tell me."

"It’s a bit of a fairy story, but the theory is that Saint Brendan and a bunch of monks sailed
a coracle from Ireland to America. They sailed right across from Ireland and landed somewhere
around these parts. And of course Brendan met the Indians and he proselytized to them and tried
to convert them from their heathen ways. And then the monks traveled around and saw great wonders
and built a church and had lots of adventures, then they came home again. A mad Englishman sailed
a replica of Brendan’s coracle over here sometime in the 1970s."

"What’s a coracle?" she asks.

"I don’t really know, it’s some kind of leather boat, I think."

"When was this?"

"A thousand years before Columbus."

"Do you know the entire story?"

"Bits and pieces," I say.

"Tell me the whole thing."

And I do tell her. Everything I know of Saint Brendan and Saint Patrick and Saint Columba and
all the Irish missionary navigators, and she listens to me and relaxes and laughs and holds my
hand tighter and before I’m done, she turns to face me. She’s nervous. Terrified.