No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(38)

I told him about my life in the Army, tours in Iraq and Afghanistan and other places, leaving out the top secret shit I’d done. He told me about his grandson, a man named Brian McKee who had served as well and had been killed in an IED attack in Basra, Iraq, in 2006. Eventually, the stories wound down, and he said, “I appreciate the visit, but you didn’t come here to talk about British success in Malaysia.”

I said, “No, sir, I didn’t.” And I laid it out for him, camouflaging the true problem by talking about a stolen rental car. Making up a story about how I had misunderstood the insurance requirements and now was trying to find the car instead of being forced to pay for it. I told him about the video tape, then asked why a motorcycle registered in his name would be in Cambridge.

He said, “I have no idea why. My daughter sometimes uses my name for things. Maybe she did something with a motorcycle, but she’s got nothing to do with Cambridge.”

Which was no help. I said, “Would she have loaned it out to someone? Given her bike to a friend?”

He thought a moment, then said, “No, but I could see Seamus pulling some crap like this.”

“Who is he?”

“My other grandson. Brian’s brother, and a waste of good flesh. He’s done nothing with his life. Brian joined the military, proud to serve. Seamus refused, going on about our Irish heritage and hating the British military. When Brian was killed in 2006, he went off the deep end, spouting his hatred of the United States for pulling us into Iraq, then talking about joining the Irish Republican Army and fighting the very country I served. I had nothing more to do with him.”

The conversation was a curveball but held enough to keep my interest. Enough to see where it went.

I said, “Is he—are you—Catholic?”

The old soldier laughed. “No. That’s what’s so stupid about Seamus. We’re Protestant, but he’s convinced he’s been shit on by Whitehall. He’s just crazy.”

I pulled a surveillance photo from the Eagle out of my bag, saying, “Is this Seamus?”

He looked at it and said, “Christ. No. That’s Braden. My other grandson. Seamus’s got his arse in the mix now?”

I heard the words and felt a spark. Rationally, I knew it was nothing. All I’d done was prove that the bike registration was correct, and the guy riding it was connected to the old soldier, but my sixth sense was telling me I had found a vein to mine. And my sixth sense was rarely wrong.

I said, “I don’t know. This is from where the car was taken. It’s all I have. Is Braden like Seamus? I mean, would he steal a car?”

“No. Not the Braden I know. But he always looked up to Seamus. Looked up to Seamus and Brian. He was a follower.”

I said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to open up wounds for your family, but I’d like to talk to Braden. Do you know where I might find him?”

“No. My daughter would, but she’s out of the country for the winter. She won’t be back until the spring, and even then, I don’t know how much she’s kept in touch with them. After Brian died, everything changed. Braden used to visit, but I haven’t seen him in years.”

“What about Seamus?”

He scoffed. “I disowned that bloke years ago. He’s a bad seed, and always was.” He stood and stretched his legs. “I have an old address for Braden. It’s from two or three years ago, but maybe it’ll help.”

“You don’t mind giving it to us?”

“Hell no. I’ve got more in common with you than I do with them. Promise me one thing, though.”

“What?”

“You find out they took your car, break them down and teach them a lesson. Something I failed to do.”

I nodded. “Sir, if they have the car I’m thinking about, I promise they’ll regret taking it.”






25




Kylie felt the cold through the window, someone in the house having cracked it yet again. She held in her urine, wanting to drag out the time. The gust interrupted her warmth as before, but this time it beckoned. Told her the men held no fear of her escaping. She stared at the window, hoping an answer would present itself, hoping some sign would tell her to gather the courage to make the attempt.

She was the only one who could. The only one who had the ability to get free. To contact someone on the outside. She remembered a story about a man who’d held three women for years, conducting unspeakable acts while the neighbors had no idea. It wasn’t until one escaped, running a mere fifty yards out of the house, that they were rescued.

She should have the courage to do the same. She stood on the toilet and cranked the window open, wincing with the noise and glancing reflexively at the door. No knock came. She got it fully open, now worrying that the influx of cold air would alert her captor.

She hoisted herself up, sticking her head through, her hands scratching the gravel six inches below. One pull, one kick, and she would be out, running down the concrete alley.

Do it. Get out. Do it now.

Her arms refused to move. She couldn’t commit. She pulled herself back in and sagged against the toilet, silently crying.

The guard banged on the door, sending a primeval fear through her. He’ll see the window.

Hoping she sounded strong, but hearing terror in her voice, she said, “Almost done.”