The Ghosts of Galway (Jack Taylor)(30)

She sat forward, the dog gave a low rumble. She said,

“Why I have this lovable beast.”

I said,

“Keep him close, you’ll need him.”

She giggled.

“Threats. I love it. How very alpha of you.”

I went to the bedroom, rummaged in the closet, and heard her shout, “You must be the only person in Ireland going into the closet.”

Found the gun, racked the slide, and heard her mutter,

“We know that sound and it tolls for us.”

She was right.

I came back, aimed the weapon, said,

“Get that damn monster out of here now or I will shoot him.”

Sounding not unlike Liam Neeson in Taken.

She scoffed.

“You’d never hurt a dog.”

I racked the slide and she was on her feet, going,

“Jesus, all right already. You need to cut back on the caffeine, fellah. I really came to help you.”

I kept the gun trained on the dog who watched me with what can only be called malevolent interest. My pup was whimpering quietly beneath the chair. I asked, “Help?”

“The shooter? Woody? But you need to track him fast. He has a plan.”

“What plan?”

She gave a smile of such malign slyness, said,

“To blow the living shit out of Galway Cathedral.”

Fuck.

I asked,

“Why?”

She headed for the door, dragging a reluctant Satan, said,

“Because it’s there.”



“Marilyn’s brain was consumed with other thoughts.

Of murder. If and when, and where and how,

and with what.”

(John Sandford, Extreme Prey)





Terry Wood was on a high from his murderous acts. Muttered, “I offed two cops, count ’em, two.”

He was in a small apartment on Merchants Road. Owned by the Ghosts, it had been purchased in the far too brief days when it seemed like their organization might actually amount to something. Jeremy Cooper had been on a high as money and contributions Were flowing in.

For a shining moment they believed they could be a contender. Then the gradual dissolution. Cooper had no real policy or plan. He wanted power and, apart from shock value and bullshit, he had nothing.

An Irish Farage, if you will.

Oh, notions.

He had a ton of those.

There was a bookcase along the wall and some bright spark had decided to procure books with ghost in the title. Never mind if they had absolutely no relevance to the actual ghosts aspiring to be a force.

Like this:

The Long Shadow of Small Ghosts,

Laura Tillman.

A Head Full of Ghosts,

Paul Tremblay.

The Ghost in the Machine,

Arthur Koestler.

Thirteen Ghosts.

The last title hit the meanest shade of irony, in that the actual remaining membership of the Ghosts no longer even amounted to that.

Terry Wood, he said his name aloud,

Then

The abbreviation:

“Woody.”

He stared at the gun on the table and knew the smart thing would be to ditch it.

And was he going to do that?

Was he fuck!

He hadn’t yet been in touch with the boss, Jeremy Cooper. But he would be pleased?

Wouldn’t he?

Mmmm?

He was antsy, adrenaline from the shootings still coursing through him, said aloud, “Gotta move, gotta boogie.”

A knock on the door.

WTF?

Or rather, who the fuck?

Snatched up the gun, pushed it in the back of his jeans, like he’d seen in the movies.

Opened the door, cautiously.

Saw a monster of a dog. And a girl, dressed like some punk wannabe. She did a neat spin, asked, “Goth or emo?”

He asked,

“Emily?”

Got the wicked smile, and,

“Thelma,” and

Indicated the dog.

“Louise.”

He spluttered.

“That’s not a bitch.”

Mean chuckle with

“Boy, you is looking at the bitch.”

He wondered how she knew where to find him.

She asked,

“You gonna leave all us young ’uns out here in this cold hall?”

He moved aside.

So fucked in the head was he that he didn’t clock her hands. She moved right to the bookcase, the monster dog never taking its dead eyes from Woody. She shrilled, “Boy, where the drinks be at?”

He didn’t know, said,

“I don’t know.”

She said to Satan,

“Stay.”

Began pulling open cupboards, then voiced,

“Voilà.”

Pulled a bottle of Jameson from the shelf.

Grabbed two mugs, asked, holding the bottle up,

“Shall I be mammy?”

Sloshed nigh lethal amounts then handed one to Woody, said in her best Scarlett tone, “We’ll always have Tara.”

He drank fast, thinking,

“She is nuttier than a whole sack of young rats.”

Drowning such rodents had been a childhood passion.

Now she asked,

“Back of your pants fellah, that a weapon or …?”